I’ve gotten used to stealing from the Pestilence’s victims. Every time we squat in someone’s house, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Stealing their beds, stealing their food and water, stealing their homes and—if they’re unfortunate enough to linger—their time. Pestilence might take their lives, but I take everything else.

And I’m starting to be okay with this. Well, as okay as anyone can be in my situation.

I pad into the kitchen the next morning, eyeing the snowshoes and vintage skis hanging on the wall across the way. Outside, rain beats ferociously against the windows and wind shakes the trees.

I rub my arms, grateful for the roaring fire Pestilence started. The weather might be a mess outside, but in here, it’s downright toasty.

The rainstorm nearly drowns out the sound of muffled splashing coming from down the hall. Pretty Boy needs his monster baths.

Icy monster baths, I amend as I head over to the cupboards. The electricity—and thus, the hot water—doesn’t work here.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. One by one I open the cupboards. In sum total, I find two jars of pickles, one can of beans, and a moldy onion.

Yum.

There’s also a refrigerator in the kitchen, but judging from the fact that the electricity is out, I doubt it works. Still, you never know; people have fashioned these things into good ol’ iceboxes.

I open it up and—

“Whoa.”

Moonshine. Rows and rows of moonshine. I stare at them all as a river of what was probably once ice spills onto the ground.

Out of curiosity I grab one of the bottles from the shelf and, unscrewing the lid, sniff the contents.

I make a face. Not just moonshine but bad moonshine.

“And you expect me to willingly drink your beverages.”

I shriek at Pestilence’s voice, the bottle slipping out of my hand. Quick as lightning, the horseman lunges forward and catches the glass container, saving us both from being covered in fermented piss.

“Careful, Sara,” he says as he straightens, setting the drink on a nearby counter.

That smoky, rolling voice of his twists my name into something intimate and exotic. I think I hate how lovely he makes it sound.

His hair is dripping with water, and I find myself staring first at the darkened strands, which are the color of wheat, before my attention moves to his high cheekbones, where a few droplets of that icy water kiss his skin. My gaze dips to his mouth, with his full, sculpted lips.

My cheeks warm at the sight of them.

He moves beyond me, oblivious to my thoughts, checking out the kitchen with mild interest. His bare feet splash into the puddle of melted ice as he peers inside the fridge.

“Not much here, is there?” he says, moving the jars around. As he does so, I catch a glimpse of …

“Oh my God! Pie!”

It’s mostly gone, probably older than my grandpa, and it’s probably breaking at least three different etiquette rules to go for it before noon, but who gives a crap? It’s pie.

I none-to-gently hipcheck Pestilence out of the way and grab it. Closer inspection reveals it’s apple pie (my favorite because duh) and there’s about a fourth of it left. Enough for a single girl to tuck away without too much guilt …

The horseman watches me carefully as I set it out on the kitchen table, leaving it only long enough to rummage around for a fork.

He follows my lead, grabbing a fork from the drawer and heading back to the table.

“What are you doing?” I ask when he sits down across from me, the metal utensil in hand.

Pestilence studies my lips as he answers. “You wanted me to try your human food.”

My eyes move between the pie and his fork. “Are you serious?” I suppose this is his way of smoothing over yesterday’s unpleasantness. My enthusiasm just plummets at the thought.

You’d been ready to share your hot chocolate with him, Sara.

But apple pie is a cut above even hot chocolate.

He’ll just take a bite.

He won’t even like it, he’s just trying to prove a point.

Wordlessly, I push the pie over to his side of the table.

The horseman stares down at the pie for a moment before gingerly scooping out a forkful of it. He brings it to his lips like he’s done this a thousand times before, and after a brief hesitation, he takes a bite of the apple pie.

I watch him with a strange sort of fascination. It takes a helluva lot to distract me from pie, but Pestilence eating food for the first time just happens to be that. His face stays expressionless the entire time.

He doesn’t like it. Praise Jesus, he doesn’t like it.

He sets his fork down and looks at me, his face serious. “You were right.”

I was? About what? My forehead crinkles in confusion.

“Not needing something doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.” With that, he picks his fork back up and scoops out another bite.

“What are you doing?” I’m embarrassed at how alarmed my voice sounds.

“Eating.”

“So … you like it?” I probe.

“Do you want a formal apology?” Pestilence asks me. “Would you like for me to admit I was wrong?”

I’d like for you to not enjoy my stolen pie, thankyouverymuch.

“I thought you mentioned that food was a slippery slope into mortal depravity?” I say, sliding the pie pan back to my side of the table and taking a bite of it.

It’s a bit stale, and I prefer my pie hot, but it is, in a word, heaven.

The horseman drags the pie back to his side of the table. “I mused on the matter.” He scoops another forkful. Another bite just … gone to this beast. “Food in and of itself is not wicked.”

I slide the pan back to me. “Indulgence probably is.”

Now that I know he can eat food, the suspense is over. Just give me back my pie. That’s all I ask.

“Perhaps,” he agrees. It doesn’t stop him from continuing to eat the flaky dessert, and he happens to take the world’s biggest freaking bites.

The pie quickly disappears, most of it going to the man across from me, the man who doesn’t even need to eat.

This is such bullshit.

After he’s finished, Pestilence sits back in his seat, slinging one booted foot over his other knee. There’s something so terribly normal about this situation. A man and a woman sharing breakfast together. It’s easy to imagine the horseman without his golden crown and his armor and weapons. It’s easy to imagine him as just a man.

And that’s very, very dangerous.

“I was wrong,” he says softly, his blue eyes finding mine.

“About what?” I ask distractedly, scraping up the last of the crumbs from the bottom of the tin.

Yeah, I am that pathetic.

“Consumption.”

My eyes rise to his.

His stare is too direct. I don’t know what he wants from me.

I lift a shoulder. “Cool.”

Pestilence’s eyes go to my lips. “You use such strange language sometimes.”

This from a guy who calls the bathroom a latrine.

I break eye contact for no other reason than I’m noticing just how handsome he is when he’s kind.

My gaze drifts to the storm outside. It’s been raging this entire time. I know from experience that if it’s as cold as I think it is outside, the rainwater will burn like ice.

“Please don’t make us travel today.” The request just kind of slips out of me.

“Please?” His eyes alight with fire.

Crap.

He just loves that word.

His chair scrapes back. “Human, I think you just decided our day for us.”