Pestilence (The Four Horsemen, #1)

by Laura Thalassa

Getting angry at one of the horsemen of the apocalypse for bringing about the end of man is like getting angry at ice for being cold.

After I put Pestilence’s crown on my head (motherfucking queen right here),

“It’s my regret that though many things were destroyed by my arrival on earth, guns were not one of them.”

A woman should not be oddly pleasing. She should be a ball-busting, skull-crushing, badass motherfucker who is impossible to forget.

Pestilence continues. “God isn’t a man or a woman. He’s something else entirely.” “Then why do you keep using male pronouns?” I ask. “Because you do.”

Once this is all over, I’m moving to Mexico and sleeping in as long as I want.

It’s this moment, lying in the snow, a gun at my back, where it sinks in. This truly is the End of Days. Because even with all its hardships, in the world I grew up in, we didn’t turn on each other. Not like this.