Weakly I press a hand to his chest, my fingers touching the warm skin at the base of his throat.
I want to tell him I’m alright. To not worry about me, but there’s a wall of pain I need to break through first, and I just can’t seem to.
“Do you care about her?” the stranger’s voice says.
“I love her.”
My fingers flex against his skin.
I need to open my eyes. I need to see the look on his face as he says those words. I need to hear them again while he gazes down at me.
Despite my best efforts, my eyes stay firmly shut.
“You love her?”
“That’s what I just said, human.”
Through my dim awareness I can already tell Pestilence is losing his temper.
“Then I hope it hurts to watch her die.”
A horrible, yawning silence follows.
“So be it,” the horseman says solemnly.
Even through my haze of pain I get chills from his tone.
The stranger—a woman I think—begins to scream. The sound echoes down the corridor, gaining strength. Strength, or … Are those other voices?
Stop. I try to say it, but all that comes out is a moan.
And then the voices are in my head, giving sound to my pain. It builds and builds in my ears and beneath my skin, burning me from the inside out.
I fall into the darkness again, and this time, it’s not so easy to claw my way awake.
I blink my eyes, taking in the muted light. It’s everywhere—above me, below me, to either side of me.
I touch my stomach, but it no longer hurts. I’m no longer hurt; there’s no blood, no broken skin, nothing.
“So this is the mortal my brother has fallen in love with.”
I squint in front of me, at the muted glow of light. From it, a shadow begins to appear, its outline blurry.
“Pestilence?” I call.
“Not quite.”
With each passing second, the shadow deepens, its form sharpening until I can make out the dark shape of a disfigured man.
Wait, not disfigured, I think as I take in the lumps at his back. Winged.
Thanatos.
The Fourth Horseman.
He stares down at me, and that’s the first I realize that I’m lying on the ground—if you can call this insubstantial thing beneath my body ground.
After a moment, the horseman reaches out a hand for me.
“Am I dead?” I ask, ignoring his hand.
“Momentarily.”
I’m … dead.
That should bother me—as should the frightening, winged horseman in front of me—but for whatever odd reason, I don’t mind the situation so much. Maybe it’s this place.
Thanatos’s hand is still extended, and reluctantly, I take it.
“I need to get back,” I say as he pulls me to my feet. “Pestilence needs me.”
“Does he now?” Death cocks his head, his black hair shifting, the waves framing his face like a funeral shroud.
He’s quite handsome, I realize. Just like his brother. Only Pestilence’s beauty is overwhelming; Death has a tragic, cutting face.
He still hasn’t released my hand.
“The last time I saw him, he needed no one.” Thanatos continues to study me. “Seems he’s … succumbed.”
No idea what that means.
“And what about you?” Death asks. “Do you need him?”
Like air to breathe.
“Yes.”
Death’s wings open wide, flapping a little, almost in agitation. “Your body doesn’t want you back, Sara Burns.”
How does he know my name?
Death’s grip tightens, and his wings begin to beat in earnest. Does he mean to carry me off?
“There are other things that await you,” he says.
“I want to go back.” I can’t leave Pestilence. I won’t.
Thanatos’ onyx eyes search mine. “I could stop this now, and yet, I’m so very … piqued.” His wings close. “Alright. So be it—”
He releases my hand, and I fall away from him.
I stare up at mighty Death the whole way down, even as his form shrinks and the muted light darkens.
I fall farther and farther down …
Chapter 47
My chest bows and I take in a sharp, shuddering breath.
Jesus, the pain! Like someone’s holding a flaming torch against my chest.
I force my eyes open, taking in the sparse hospital room around me.
Not dead.
The thought seems preposterous after the gunshot wound I sustained.
My hand moves to my hospital gown. I shift it aside enough to take a look at my bandaged chest. There’s not much to see besides the linen wrappings, but hot damn does the pain make up for it.
I’m most definitely in the land of the living. Being dead couldn’t possibly ache this much, and I doubt the Afterlife smells this God-awful. The air is thick with that chemical smell that all hospitals have—like this is humanity’s last rallying cry against disease. And judging by the scent of death that also stains the air, it’s a weak rallying cry at that.
It’s only then that I realize I have no idea how I came to be in this room, and there’s no one else around to fill in the blanks for me.
I listen for a minute, straining my ears to hear anything beyond my room, but all is quiet. The whole place is just one long, terrible silence.
I begin to kick off my sheets, then let out a hiss.
Christ, this injury hurts worse than being dragged behind Pestilence’s horse. The pain is everywhere and in everything. Now that I’ve awakened it, it seems to surround me. I take several swallows of air, closing my eyes against the violent sting of it. When it finally abates, I begin to move again, this time slowly and stiffly.
I clench my teeth against the pain when I make it to the door. I have to lean against it for several seconds, just catching my breath. I sway on my feet.
Not going to make it very far past this point.
I still grab for the knob. I turn the cool handle and open the door.
The smell hits me first. Like Death dropped his pants and took a shit.
My throat closes up, unwilling to breathe in the fumes. My heart begins to pound madly as I step into the hallway.
That’s when I see them. Dozens of bloated, rotting bodies slump against the walls and or lay sprawled across the floor.
I gag at the sight. If there had been anything at all in my stomach, it would’ve come up.
Why didn’t these people evacuate when they had the chance?
They were unwilling or unable to, Burns.
And so they died.
Clomp, clomp, clomp. Hooves click against linoleum. A moment later, Pestilence rounds the corner, towing Trixie behind him.
I freeze at the sight of him.
Unlike me, who must look like fresh shit (because I certainly feel like it), Pestilence is back to looking angelic—unstained, unsullied, untouchable.
The only thing about him that’s different is the harsh set of his features. I didn’t realize that hardness had been missing from his expression—even when he hated me—until now. But as soon as he sees me, his face softens. Softens completely.
Pestilence releases his horse’s reins and swiftly strides over to me. He cups my face and kisses me, his lips lingering. “You’re awake—awake and alive.” He pulls away, his eyes shining as they search mine.