“Everywhere I go,” he continues, “there’s someone like you. Someone who thinks they can kill me to save their malignant world.”

It’s hard to stare at his face, grotesque as it is. And yet it looks so much better than it did when I left him, back when he was nothing but ash.

Pestilence pulls me in close. “And now you will pay for daring to do so.”

He yanks me up by the throat.

Whatever vestiges of sleep clung to me, they’re now gone. I reach for his hand, yelping when I touch bone and sinew.

How can he possibly use a hand when all that’s left of it is bone and tendon? His grip is like iron, unyielding.

Pestilence drags me out of the tent, throwing me to the ground. My palms and knees sink into the shallow snow.

A moment later, a knee digs into my back. He runs his hands over my torso, feeling me for extra weapons. I shudder at the sensation. He’s touching me with raw bone. He reaches for my pockets, emptying them of my Swiss Army knife and my matchbook.

In the deep blue, pre-dawn glow, the forest has an almost sinister feel to it. It’s silent as the grave, its former inhabitants long gone.

Pestilence pauses after his inspection. “Where is your fight?” he asks derisively when I continue to just lay there. “You were fast to act before. Where is that damnable human fire now?”

I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that the lump of smoldering flesh I walked away from last night has somehow regenerated. And it talks.

“You have nothing to say to that? Hm.” A moment later, he grabs my wrists, binding them together over my head with a rough twine rope I’m pretty sure he nabbed from my things. “Well, it’s probably for the best. Mortal conversation always does leave something to be desired.”

The pressure against my back abates.

“Up,” he commands.

It takes me a second too long to process the order, so he uses the rope to drag me to my feet. Once again I get a good look at him.

He’s even more monstrous than I first thought. His hair is gone, his nose is gone, his ears are gone, his skin is still blackened. Hardly a man at all, and certainly nothing that should be alive.

His golden armor remains in place, looking unblemished even though it should be charred and bullet-riddled. I can’t see much of his arms under the armor, but they must be in bad shape judging by the way the metal rattles loosely around. And his hands … his hands are nothing more than white bone and bits of flesh, as are his feet and ankles.

At his waist, he wears one of my blankets, which he must’ve snatched while I was sleeping. I cringe at the thought.

Pestilence leads me back to the road by my bound wrists. I blanch when I see his white horse waiting patiently for its master, its flank coated with scarlet blood. It paws the snow-covered asphalt, huffing. When it sees me, it anxiously whinnies, sidestepping away.

Heedless of his horse’s mood, Pestilence secures the other end of the rope to the back of his steed’s saddle.

I glance between my tied wrists and his mount. “What are you doing?”

He ignores me, hoisting himself onto his horse.

“You’re not going to kill me?” I finally ask.

He turns around, that mess of a face looking embittered. “Oh no, I’m not letting you die. Too quick. Suffering is made for the living. And oh, how I will make you suffer.”

 

 

Chapter 5

All day Pestilence drives his horse down the highway at a brisk pace, forcing me to run behind him, or else be dragged by my wrists. It’s a small favor that I’m a firefighter and not an office worker; I’m used to hours upon hours of laborious work. Even still, while I might be able to keep up with rider and horse, it’s fucking uncomfortable, and soon, my warm clothes are dripping with sweat.

We pass through Whistler, and my eyes move from one familiar landmark to the next. This is my hometown, where I was born, where I spent winters snowboarding and summers splashing around Cheakamus Lake, where I learned to drive my family’s car, and where I had my first crush and my first kiss and every other milestone that means something to me. I have to blow a kiss goodbye to it all as we leave the town behind.

Hours I run, until my wrists are rubbed bloody and weariness closes in on me.

Can’t keep this up forever.

It doesn’t help that the horseman gives no indication when—or if—he’ll be stopping. Each kilometer feels like an eternity. When he eventually turns off the highway, I want to cry with joy. I don’t give two steaming shits about what horrors he might have in store for me next. So long as it means this run from hell is over, I’ll take them.

We follow a snow-covered road until it tees into a house. And then—praise the good Lord—we come to a stop in front of a house.

Pestilence hasn’t bothered to glance back at me since this morning, and even now as he hops off his steed and ties the reins against a nearby lamppost, I could be invisible for all the attention he gives me. But as soon as he comes back around his mount, it’s clear he hasn’t forgotten about me.

I suck in a breath at the sight of him. The angelic horseman I first laid eyes on is back, the torn up flesh of his face now mostly healed. There are still some red patches and shiny skin where bullet and burn wounds are healing, but he’s got a nose and lips and ears, so all the important bits are back. Even his hair has returned, though the golden waves of it are only just long enough to thread your fingers through.

Now that he’s all put back together, I can’t stop staring at him. I wish it was just horrified wonderment that pulls my gaze to him, but then I’d be lying.

He’s painfully beautiful, with his mournful blue eyes, and his high, proud cheekbones and the deadly set of his jaw. One of my hands twitches as I self-consciously try to tuck a lock of my sweaty brown hair behind my ear.

What is wrong with me?

“Did you enjoy your run?” he asks.

“Fuck you.” I don’t have the energy to put much venom into the oath.

He curls his upper lip anyway as he unties my rope from the saddle.

Like his face, his hands are mostly healed. I see no bone, no cartilage, no veins and arteries or any other manner of innards that several hours ago were outtards. But they do look a little red and scabby.

He turns from me, and I get a good look at the golden bow and quiver at his back.

He’s killed humans with those weapons, and he’ll kill more with them in the future, and the world is fucked to hell because he can’t die, and short of death, he won’t stop the killing.

So much for ending him.

The blanket is still tied around Pestilence’s waist, and that plus his bare feet and legs (also mostly healed) should look comical, but the horseman is a formidable man.

I stare for longer than necessary, and God forgive me, I can’t help but notice that his form is every bit as pleasing as his face. He’s got massive shoulders and narrow hips and I want to stab my eyes out now. There’s got to be some rule against ogling the guy you tried to murder.

Ahead of me, he jerks on the rope. I curse as I trip over myself trying to keep up as he makes his way up to the house.

I take in the two story home. It’s pretty, but fairly unexceptional; stained wood siding, forest green front door, a snow-covered planter box under one of the windows.