It’s still dark out when Pestilence stops Trixie in front of another house. Just the sight of it has my heart galloping. I don’t want to face another family so soon.

The horseman swings off his steed. “Wait here,” he commands.

He heads over to the darkened house, opening the gate to the side yard before disappearing from view.

I rub Trixie’s neck as I wait for horseman. What could he possibly be up to now?

A minute later the front door opens and Pestilence strides back to me.

“We will stay here tonight,” he says.

I hop off Trixie and warily follow him inside the house. It’s only as I catch a whiff of garbage that’s been sitting out too long that I realize the place is empty. My muscles relax.

I head over to a light switch and flick it on. Above me, the entryway light sputters to life.

Electricity. Score.

Tentatively, I begin to explore the house, flipping on lights here and there as I do so. The place is a shrine to junk; heaps of it are piled everywhere. Old prescription bottles and magazines, weather-damaged paperbacks and moth eaten clothes—all of it is stacked into precarious mounds.

I bet whoever lived here had to practically be pried out of their home when the evacuation orders went out. No one just spends this much time hoarding junk to leave it all behind.

I wrinkle my nose at the ripe smell in the air. It isn’t just old garbage, it’s also the smell of animals. I move into the kitchen, where I spot several aluminum bowls, one filled with water and the rest empty.

Mystery solved.

Owner has a dog or three.

Pestilence rises from where he knelt in front of the hearth, dusting off his hands, a fire taking shape behind him. Backlit by flames, he looks formidable and perhaps a little sinister. He grabs his bow and quiver from where he must’ve set them aside and heads past me.

“Sleep, Sara,” he says over his shoulder. His tone is so brusque that, had he not kissed the life out of me a short while ago, I would’ve said that I’d angered him.

“Where are you going?” I ask, restless at the idea of his leaving.

He pauses, rotating around to face me. “To patrol the area,” he says. “There are always humans who hunt me. They wait in the quiet hours to spring their traps.”

“Is that where you were before, when Nick …”

Pestilence’s face darkens at the reminder. “Unfortunately, this night I missed the danger right in front of me.”

I think that’s his weird way of apologizing.

I bite my inner cheek and nod. “Well, … be careful.” The words sound horribly awkward. Why do I even want my inhuman and undying captor to be careful? What could possibly happen to him?

Pestilence hesitates, his features softening at my words. “I cannot die, Sara,” he says gently.

“You can still get hurt.”

Really, where is all this sentimentality coming from?

The corner of his mouth curves up. “I swear I will do my utmost to not get hurt. Now rest. I know you need it.”

I do. My body feels leaden now that the last of the adrenaline is finally exiting my system.

Once Pestilence leaves, I peer into each of the bedrooms. There are two beds, both which I can use, but there’s just something about them that’s intensely unappealing. Maybe it’s the strong smell of dog coming from them, or the moldering piles of old clothes, broken plates and scraggly dolls that are heaped around them. I don’t particularly want to sleep in either of these rooms.

I grab a few blankets I find folded on the couch and lay down in front of the wood burning stove.

You’d think after the night I had, I’d be lying awake for hours, replaying those fateful minutes in the woods behind Nick’s house. But no sooner have I laid down than I drift off.

I don’t know how long I sleep for, only that I’m awoken by the sound of footsteps.

Going to kill you. He’s going to kill you.

A burst of fear floods my system, and I scramble to sit up, forcing my eyes to focus on the noise.

Pestilence comes over to me, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Be calm,” he says, kneeling at my side. He tucks a strand of my chestnut hair behind my ear. “It’s only me.”

It’s only Pestilence, the one being the rest of the world fears. And the sight of him brings me an embarrassing amount of relief.

I take a deep, stuttering breath. “It’s been a long day.”

The horseman’s wet hair drips between us, and rivulets of water cut down his chest. I feel a rush of heat at the sight of his bare skin. The firelight caresses every dip and curve, and not for the first time, I notice the exquisiteness of his form. His high cheekbones and full lips look all the more extreme as the shadows dance along them. And then there’s the rest of him, which is all so distinctly male, from his sculpted, powerful shoulders to his thick, cut biceps.

My eyes drop to his chest, where his rounded pecs flow into rippling abs. But it’s impossible to look at his torso without noticing the strange, glowing marks that shimmer in the darkness, illuminating the surrounding skin.

I reach out and run my fingers over the letters that curve beneath his collarbones like a necklace. They glow with a golden fire, their form strange and beautiful.

Beneath my touch, Pestilence’s skin jumps. He holds very still, letting me explore his body.

“What are these?” I ask. It’s obvious it’s writing, but it’s a language unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

He stares down at me, his eyes bright. “My purpose, written into flesh.”

The horseman places a hand over mine, effectively trapping it against one of the symbols. Steering my hand with his, he has me trace the marking.

“This one means ‘divinely ordained,’” he explains, releasing his grip.

I raise my eyebrows at him before my attention drops back to his chest. I move my hand over several characters, stopping on one that lays to the left of his heart.

“And this one?” I ask.

“‘Breath of God.’”

I trace the word. Beneath my touch, Pestilence’s skin pebbles.

“What language is this?” I ask.

“A holy one.” His eyes are on me, tracking my movements.

If I had a little more courage, my hand would drop lower, where another band of characters ring his hips, the lowest of the symbols dipping well beneath his towel.

But alas, my courage fails me.

“Can you speak it?” I ask.

His hand presses over mine once more, holding my palm against his heart. “Sara, it is my native tongue.”

I stare at the writing wondrously. I feel a presence here in this dark room. It presses in close. I can see it in the back of the horseman’s steady gaze, and I can feel it in the very beat of his heart.

My gaze lifts to his. “Say something for me.”

His eyes shine. “I cannot,” he says gently. “To speak the holy language is to press divine will upon the world.”

I pull my hand away, removing myself from him. “Isn’t that what you’re already doing?” How else am I supposed to interpret Pestilence riding across the world and spreading his plague?

He leans forward, looking lupine and feral as he comes in close. “What is spoken cannot be unheard. It is not for mortal ears. But … I am not above sharing a word or two with you.”

I forget to breathe as his own breath fans against my cheeks, his lips—and the rest of his nearly unclad body—so very, very close.

Just when I think he’s going to share one of these sacred words, he says, “Go back to sleep. I will watch over you.”

I don’t want to sleep, not when I still feel the press of his supple skin beneath my fingers, marked with figures strange and holy. I’m unbearably lonely, my body aching at the lack of a partner, and damn it all, but the partner it wants is him. I want him. All of him. In me, around me, next to me, filling my mind, my body, my life—and that’s so many different kinds of fucked up, and I’m so over it, so over feeling torn.

Pestilence stands, backing away into the darkened recesses of the house. I nearly call out to him. It would be so easy to coax him towards me, to remove that towel and pull him down and feel his weight settle on me.

To my shame, it isn’t my loyalty to humankind that stops me from calling him back. It’s the deep fear that he’ll refuse my advances.

There’s only so many shitty things a girl can take in a single day.