The good news: this house comes stocked with every food imaginable to man. The bad news: everything apparently expired seven years ago.

That’s what we get for squatting in a hoarder’s home.

At least there’s coffee—and powdered creamer. I greedily drink my cup while sitting in the house’s breakfast nook, the space packed with dirty dishes, mail, and a few more of those empty prescription bottles.

I stare out the window, taking in the yard with its thin dusting of snow, warming my hands on the mug I hold. My gaze drifts from the window to the nearest pile of junk. Resting at the top of it is a flyer with a drawing of Pestilence.

The words are emblazoned in red. Beneath it in smaller print is a paragraph detailing his movements and urging residents to evacuate, preferably for at least a week.

I flip the page over and nearly balk. Staring back at me is my face. It’s not particularly accurate; it has that same look that police sketches have. My face is wider, my cheeks fuller and my chin pointier, but it’s still me.

The paragraph beneath it says that while evidence suggests I’m Pestilence’s prisoner, I’m likely working for the horseman and to keep wide berth.

Lastly, the page has a map of North America, a red line drawn up the East Coast before cutting across Canada, and ending with the tip of the line curved downward, suggesting that the horseman and I are traveling down the West Coast, which seems accurate enough.

Behind me, the door opens, jerking me to attention. I shove the paper away.

Likely working for the horseman. The warning replays itself over and over in my mind, and I feel every inch the turncoat. Because that flyer nailed my situation, hadn’t it?

“Sara!” Pestilence calls, his heavy footfalls making their way to the kitchen.

He grins when his eyes alight on me, the expression so foreign and wonderful that even in the mood I’m in, my heart skips at the sight.

“Knew I’d find you in here,” he says.

I give him a watery smile back.

It only takes him a few moments to see that I’m troubled.

His grin falls away. “What’s wrong?”

We’re supposed to be enemies, but despite everything, I kind of like you. Oh, and the rest of humanity has figured that bit out too.

I shake my head. “Just … tired.”

He comes over to me, clad in all his accoutrements. There’s nothing like seeing Pestilence dressed in his finery to make a girl feel like three-day-old road kill.

He bends down and, studying my face, presses his thumb right beneath my eye.

“You’re getting exhausted,” he notices.

Scratch that—seven-day-old road kill. We’re talking the really fucked-up bits of critters that remain plastered to the asphalt long after they’ve expired.

“All the traveling has taken a toll on me,” I admit.

The stress, the long days stuck in the saddle, my mounting injuries, the relentless winter chill, the unreliable meals—I’ve done my best to muscle my way through it, but it only takes Pestilence’s notice for it all to come crashing back into my awareness.

Exhaustion probably won’t be what kills you, I remind myself.

Pestilence frowns. “Then you shall rest. We’ll linger here for—” he glances out the window, taking in the weak winter sun, “two more days.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him that two more days isn’t going to make much difference. That it hasn’t made much of a difference. We’ve been pausing for days at a time.

It’s never going to get easier with Pestilence. Care though he might, he’s always going to be impervious to the things that will kill me, and so he’ll always push me harder than what I’m capable of.

But I don’t say these things. Instead I nod and give him another weak smile.

His frown deepens. “I don’t like this look,” he says, studying my features. “You lie with your face. Do you need more time? Three days? Four? You shall have it—only remove this sad, defeated look. I cannot stand it.”

I don’t think anyone has ever told me anything so genuinely frank and kind.

On a whim, I pull him to me, hugging the horseman tightly. At first, he’s stiff in my arms, but as the seconds tick by, he hesitantly wraps his own arms around me, and I feel utterly engulfed by him.

“You’re a good man, Pestilence,” I admit.

And therein lies my problem. He’s not a nice man, he’s not a peaceful man, but he’s good man.

I close my eyes and breathe him in. He smells like cheap soap, and beneath that, divinity. (Didn’t even know one could literally smell divine, but there you have it.)

His lips brush my ear. “You forget, I am no man, Sara.”

A laugh escapes me. “Fine. You are a good harbinger of the apocalypse.”

He holds me tighter, his cheek brushing against my temple. “And you are a compassionate woman.” I feel him finger a lock of my hair. “Far too compassionate, if I’m being honest,” he says under his breath.

I take some solace in the fact that whatever this is that I’m beginning to feel, Pestilence is experiencing it as well. And we might each be bulldozing our morals, but at the very least, we’re doing it together.

We end up leaving the house two days later. That’s about all the time I could take in that messy place. I’m no paragon of cleanliness, but that house … even now, kilometers away, my skin crawls at the thought of it.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when I catch sight of a sign in front of us. After we fled Vancouver, we’d traveled through mostly backroads and places off the beaten path, but inevitably, Pestilence had made his way back to the main highways. And now I see something I’d missed.

I suck in my breath.

Seattle 54 mi.

“What is it?” Pestilence asks.

“We’re in America.”

Somewhere between Pestilence getting attacked in Vancouver and my own brush with death a few days ago, I hadn’t even realized that we’d crossed countries.

“Ah, America,” Pestilence says with distaste, dragging me back to the present. “Here they are made particularly mean.”

A ridiculous wave of fear washes through me at that. “Pestilence, we need to get off the main road.”

“Whatever for?” he asks, genuinely curious.

I can still feel the ruin of his head, cradled in my lap. I’m not ready to go through that again.

“There’s a large city coming up,” I say. “Bigger than the last one.” There were dozens of people waiting for Pestilence in Vancouver; how many would there be in Seattle? “Let’s go around it.”

“I will not be driven off my course by the presence of humans.”

That’s the last he says on the subject.

My dread mounts as we close in on the metropolis. Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it the way you can feel a storm coming; the very air is ripe with it.

Like Vancouver, the slide into Seattle is gradual. First we pass through a sleepy satellite city, which gives way to another that’s a little denser. And then another. A wave of déjà vu washes over me as we pass through the same types of communities that we did in Vancouver.

Pestilence’s arm tightens around my waist. Can he feel it too? The promise of violence flavors the very air.

I pull my jacket tighter around me. It’s only going to get worse the farther south we travel. Portland, San Francisco, Los Angeles … The nightmare we encountered in Vancouver will repeat itself over and over again. And even once we’re through with the West Coast, there are entire other countries to cross.

The shadows are just beginning to stretch their spindly fingers across the land when Pestilence leaves the highway, leading Trixie into a neighborhood of tired looking houses that appear as though they’ve settled their old bones in for a long rest.

Pestilence turns Trixie onto the driveway of a darkened house, the horse’s hooves clacking against the cracked concrete. The pale green paint of the place looks timeworn and faded.

We ride right up to the door before Pestilence swings off his mount. Grabbing the doorknob, he twists, breaking the lock and shoving the door open.

I’m just stepping off Trixie Skillz when I notice the hazy glow of an oil-lamp coming from inside, the flame turned way down low. Reclining on the couch next to it is an old woman, her white hair cropped close to her head, her spectacles perched low on her nose. She peers over them at us, the book in her hands entirely forgotten.

We crashed the house of someone’s grandma. Just when I thought we were fresh out of horrors, another one comes.

“We have nothing of any value, I assure you,” she says, her voice surprisingly steady for someone who thinks their home is being invaded.

“I am not here for your things,” Pestilence says. “I am here for your hospitality.”

The woman squints curiously at the horseman. Setting her book aside, she rises to her feet. Age has made her soft and plump, but there’s a certain quiet strength to her.

“Ruth,” a thin, raspy voice calls from another room in the house, “who’s at the door?”

Did he miss the part where we broke into their home?

Ruth’s gaze stays on Pestilence for a long time, moving from his bow and quiver to his crown, before settling on his face. “I believe it’s one of the Four Horsemen, dear.” Her eyes flick to me. “And he’s brought with him a lady friend.”

“What in the—?” Shuffling sounds come from the back room.

Whatever shock came over Ruth moments ago, now dissipates. All at once, she begins to move, hurrying over. “Well, come now, you both must be cold. Come in, come in—and for the love of the Good Lord, shut the door behind you.”

Pestilence looks quizzically from her to the doorknob, which hangs at a funny angle. I push the door closed behind him.

Ruth comes to me and helps remove my coat. Her dry hands brush against mine. “Heavens, girl!” she exclaims, cupping one. “You’re going to catch your death out there. You’re as cold as ice.” Ruth clucks her tongue at Pestilence. “Shame on you for letting her get cold.”

The horseman stares at Ruth in shock, and I try not to smile. It’s clear he’s never encountered a sweet old lady before.

Just then, an elderly man limps out from a hallway branching off to the left. He comes to a stuttering stop.

“Lord Almighty!” He places a hand over his heart. “You weren’t kidding, Ruthie,” he says, staring at Pestilence.

Warily, he steps closer, his eyes drinking in the horseman. “Truly, you are real?”

Pestilence’s chin is lifted at an almost haughty angle, though his expression is more piqued than arrogant.

“Of course I am,” he says calmly.

Out of nowhere, the old man lets out a husky whoop. “Well, I’ll be damned. Come, sit. Mi casa es su casa,” he says.

This has got to be the weirdest situation I’ve ever been in. And considering the last few weeks of my life, that’s saying something.

The two of us follow the elderly couple into their kitchen, Pestilence with far more reluctance than me. He stares at the couple suspiciously, his hand edging towards his bow. He clearly doesn’t know what to make of this hospitality. Truth be told, neither do I.

Ruth bustles over to the stovetop, warming a pot of tea while the man gestures to a worn wooden table. “Please, you must be tired.” He glances out the window. “Bad weather to travel in.”

I nearly cry, taking a grateful seat. It’s been so long since another human being treated me with any kind of genuine care. I’d almost forgotten that people did this.

The old man limps his way to the other side of the kitchen, where Ruth is grabbing mugs.

“Sit, love, let me do this,” he says.

She guffaws. “You’re the one who needs to sit,” she says. “That knee is going to give you trouble tonight.”

“Bah! Everything gives me trouble these days.” He glances my way and winks at me, the gesture causing Pestilence to look between the two of us.

Ruth grabs a spatula and swats at her husband, who’s now attempting to bodily move her. “I’ve got this. Now stop feeling me up in front of our guests and go sit down.”

The man grumbles, saying louder, “I’ll take my affection where I can get it.”

His wife throws him a warm look over her shoulder as he takes a seat across from us.

The horseman watches the entire exchange with the utmost fascination.

“I’m Rob, and that’s Ruth,” the old man says, settling into his chair as he makes introductions.

Pestilence inclines his head. “I am Pestilence, and this is Sara,” he says, gesturing to me.

“Pestilence,” Rob repeats, his eyes bright with awe. Remembering himself, he turns to me and nods. “And Sara. Pleasure to meet you both.”

I glance between everyone, nearly as shaken as the horseman is. We’ve come to expect a certain dialogue between us and our hosts, and this one has veered wildly off script.

“Is it, though?” Pestilence asks, assessing the man. “A pleasure to meet us, that is?”

“Well, of course it is!” Rob says, slapping his palm against the tabletop for emphasis. “How often does one of the Four Horsemen arrive on your doorstep?”

Ruth shuffles over with several steaming cups of tea, setting them down in front of each of us.

“Thank you,” I murmur when she hands me a mug.

Pestilence frowns at his own drink, his nostrils flaring at the smell.

Rob pats Ruth’s side as she takes a seat next to him. “Thank you for the tea.” His gaze lingers on her, and it’s an intimate enough look that I avert my eyes.

Pushing his drink away, Pestilence leans back in his seat, his expression caught somewhere between troubled and hopeful. “Most mortals do not take kindly to my presence.”

“Does it look like I fear death?” Rob asks.

The horseman’s eyes narrow shrewdly.

“I’m old, my body hurts, and my wits are half-gone.” He glances at Ruth. “Our children have grown up and left us, and now their children are nearly full grown. If the end has come, well, I’m happy to be leaving it alongside my wife.”

A wrinkle mars Pestilence’s brow. “It is not a good death,” he admits.

I don’t know why he’s even bothering to make himself look bad. These people want to like him.

“Far better than losing your mind, memory by memory,” Ruth says. She shudders. “That’s how my own mother went. It’s awful enough to lose someone, but to watch death take them piece by piece until there is nothing left but a husk,” She shakes her head. “No, there are far worse ways to go than plague.”

“We mean to stay here for several days,” Pestilence says. “Sara will need a bed, and food, and water.”

Again, Pestilence seems to want to aggravate the elderly couple. His efforts, however, seem to be in vain. When their eyes move to me, their expressions are kind.

“That’s not a problem,” Rob responds. “As I said, mi casa es su casa.”

I take in Pestilence’s glowering profile when it hits me. No one’s ever just liked him before. Not until now. He doesn’t trust Ruth or Rob, because why should he? People hate Pestilence, the spreader of plague.

I grab the horseman’s hand, an action that draws the elderly couple’s eyes to me.

Ignoring them, I lean into Pestilence. “Can I speak to you alone for a moment?”

His eyes flick to our joined hands, then to my face. Without a word, his chair scrapes back and he unfolds all six-plus feet of himself.

Pestilence follows me back into the entryway. When I swivel to face him, he stands close, his clothes brushing against mine.

“What is it, Sara?” he asks, touching a lock of my hair, like he can’t help himself.

“These people are not trying to deceive you, Pestilence. They are genuinely excited you’re here.” Which is batshit crazy if you ask me, but hey, no one is asking, so—

“How do you know this?” he asks, not bothering to deny the fact that he’s skeptical.

I lift my arms helplessly. “I just do.”

He studies me, rubbing his jaw absently as he thinks on it. I try not to dwell on how sexy that small action is.

Finally, he nods. “Alright. I will … work to trust these people because you do.”

I take his hand again and squeeze it. I’m about to let it go when his grip tightens.

“Sara,” he says. His other hand joins the first; he clasps my hand like it’s a gift.

One look at his eyes has me quaking. His gaze is too deep, his face too sincere … whatever he’s about to say, my heart’s not ready for it.

I pull my hand from his and head back into the kitchen, not waiting for him to follow.

Several seconds after I take a seat, I hear his heavy footfalls. His eyes are locked on me as he sits. I can all but sense the words he needs to say, the ones I ran from.

His gaze lingers on me for a short while longer, but eventually his body relaxes, and he drapes an arm casually over my seatback. I swear every inch of me is acutely aware of that arm.

The entire time, Ruth and Rob watch us impassively. It makes my palms sweat, knowing what they might be seeing.

“So, what brings you to our home?” Ruth asks cheerily.

“Sara needs to rest and recuperate,” Pestilence says. I can feel his gaze everywhere. “The long days of travel take their toll on her.”

“Ah,” Ruth says, taking in his words and his demeanor. “And how about you? Will you need a bed?”

Pestilence lounges in his seat, his large legs splayed out. “I am Pestilence the Conqueror, the first of the Four Horsemen come to claim your world. I am eternal, and my task, unwavering. I do not require anything to sustain me.”

Alriiiight then.

Ruth raises her eyebrows pleasantly. “Well there’s an extra bed if you need. Now,” she says, getting comfortable in her chair. “How did you two meet?” She looks between the horseman and me as she takes a sip of her drink.

She’s a sly one, this Ruth. Pretending like she’s not mapping out my strange relationship with Pestilence.

“I attempted to kill the horseman,” I say.

Ruth sets down her tea, her mug clattering against the table, clearly shocked by the answer.

“I shot him with my grandfather’s shotgun,” I continue, “and then I lit his body on fire.”

Both of our hosts are at a loss of words.

Probably didn’t need to go into that much detail …

I guess Pestilence isn’t the only one trying to sabotage this couple’s hospitality.

“She’s my prisoner,” the horseman explains.

I grimace into my mug. The statement rings decidedly untrue to my ears.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you plan on doing with her?” Rob asks the question pleasantly enough, but I can tell he’s ready to throw Pestilence out if given the wrong answer.

I squeeze my cup a little tighter. I hadn’t expected strangers to care about me, especially ones who are actually eager to host a horseman.

“I’m keeping her,” Pestilence says.

Again, that look from the horseman. My stomach bottoms out, and I try to tell myself that it’s dread, but I can’t fool myself.

You’re anticipating what’s to come, Burns.

Neither Ruth nor Rob object to Pestilence’s answer, but I can see that it bothers them. Had I tried to kill a human—well, we have justice systems that deal with those sorts of crimes. But to punish me by keeping me prisoner … that’s just not done.

The horseman pushes his chair back and stands. “I need to attend to my steed. Entertain yourselves in my absence.”

Said like he’s the fucking king of the castle and not what the cat dragged in.

Without another word, he stalks out of the house. In his absence, the kitchen falls very, very silent.

Finally, “Are you okay dear?” Ruth asks.

I rub my thumb over the edge of the mug. “Yeah, I am.” I glance up. “I mean, it’s all relative at this point, but I’m not dead, and that’s more than can be said for everyone else.” My voice breaks. It doesn’t escape me that I’m sitting at a table with two more of Pestilence’s victims.

Ruth leans forward to place one of her hands over mine. She gives it a squeeze. “You’re going to be just fine,” she reassures me.

I didn’t know that I needed to hear those words until I feel my eyes prick. I nod at her, drawing strength from what she said.

Wrong to be taking her kindness and courage when she’s the one who truly needs it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper hoarsely. “About … everything.” I’m apologizing for more than just crashing into Rob and Ruth’s lives alongside Pestilence. I’m apologizing for all those families whose lives we upended. I’m apologizing for failing to finish off the horseman, for now liking the monster. I’m apologizing for every little wrong, fucked up thing that’s happened since God decided it was time for us all to pay the piper.

Rob waves a hand away. “We received evacuation orders. We knew what staying meant,” he says, trying to absolve me of guilt.

“The horseman,” Ruth begins, “he’s not …” she searches for the right words, “forcing you to do anything against your will, is he?”

Rape, she means. She’s worried he’s been raping me.

“No—no,” I rush to say. Pestilence might be brutal, but he’s also gallant, in his own odd way. He’d sooner cut off his own hand than take me against my will. “He doesn’t really think like that,” I admit. “His understanding of human nature is limited to what he’s seen from his travels and from what he’s learned from me.”

But is that really true? There’s so much I still don’t know about him.

“If you don’t mind me speaking bluntly,” Ruth says, “the horseman might say that you’re his prisoner, but he doesn’t treat you like one.”

My breath catches in my throat. I don’t want to hear her next words.

“He treats you like … well, like he’s interested in you.”

My stomach tightens uncomfortably. “I know,” I say quietly. I don’t have the balls to admit that the interest isn’t just one-sided.

Just then, the front door opens, and Pestilence strides back in. His eyes find mine immediately, and there’s such naked longing in them.

When did we go from hating each other to this?

He takes a seat next to me, pulling his chair close to mine. “Are you hungry?” he asks, all his attention focused on me.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not a true answer,” he says.

“It’s the only one you’re getting,” I say tartly.

Of course, that’s all Ruth needs to hear before she bustles away to put together a platter of nuts, fruit, and cheese.

Rob leans forward. “How much can you tell us of your origins?” he asks, changing the subject altogether.

Pestilence’s attention reluctantly moves off of me.

“That question has several answers,” the horseman responds. As he speaks, he removes his bow, then shrugs off his quiver.

“Are you a Christian entity?” Rob presses.

I should’ve anticipated this line of questioning from the cross hanging over the kitchen table.

Pestilence kicks his big-ass boots up on the table, crossing his feet at the ankles. I have no idea whether he knows it’s rude to do so, but he seems comfortable enough. He rests his arm over my chair again.

“Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist—they’re all wrong and they’re all right,” he says. “It’s not the details that are important. It’s the overall message.”

I feel the horseman’s fingers playing with my hair, the sensation making me want to lean into the touch (I’m a sucker for head scratches).

“Morality, and not faith,” he continues, “is what matters to God.”

Rob’s eyes are alight with joy. “Of course,” he says. He gives a startled laugh, like the entire conversation is just so surprising, which, yeah no shit, Burns, it is. “Ah, I never thought this day would come. I am the luckiest man, to be sitting here with proof of His existence. And how much do you know about the Bible?”

“The Bible is a work of man, not God. What use have I for something that is more wrong than right?”

I tense, expecting Ruth or Rob to bristle, but they don’t. I’m pretty sure Pestilence could fart and they’d find it enchanting.

“And what is right?” Ruth asks, coming back with the tray of finger foods, settling herself into her chair.

“That I and my brothers have come to conquer this land, and unless humans change, all will be laid to waste, and your day of judgment will fall swiftly upon you.”

He could really lube us up for entry, rather than just shoving shit at us like that.

Rob leans forward. “How do we change?”

“Your natures are corrupted,” Pestilence says. “Your hearts are hard and your minds are set on a selfish, destructive course. You have killed off countless creatures, you’ve made a mockery of nature, you’ve turned your backs on one another. Unless your ways change, you will be eliminated.”

Rob runs a hand over his close-cropped white hair. “That’s a tall order for our lot,” he says sadly.

“That is why humankind will perish.” Pestilence says this with such certainty that I have to tamp down a shiver.

He doesn’t believe we are capable of changing.

Rob leans forward. “But there is a chance we won’t?”

Pestilence hesitates. “Yes,” he finally says. “There is a chance. Until Death has ridden through the land and deemed it unworthy—until God Himself has called us back—there is a chance.”

I lay awake for a long time that night, my mind slow to turn off. Even once it does, my sleep is fairly light. A peel of laughter or a gruff word from the other end of the house is enough to rouse me.

Pestilence stays up late with the elderly couple, talking about things that I can’t quite make out. Bits and pieces of conversation drift in, and it’s just enough for me to figure out that they’re talking about God and religion. I get the impression that the horseman is far freer with his words around them than he is with me.

Startlingly, I feel a spark of jealousy. I don’t even want to talk to Pestilence about God, so I don’t know why it bothers me.

You want him to share his most private thoughts with you, and you alone.

To think that he’s telling this couple things that he won’t utter in front of me … beneath the jealousy and annoyance is hurt.

You’re his prisoner, something you seem to forget over and over again.

After what feels like an eternity of restless sleep, I hear chairs scrape back, then the shuffle of soft footfalls as Ruth and Rob make their way to the back of their house. I strain to hear anything else, each passing second waking me further, but there’s nothing.

Is Pestilence sitting alone in the darkness?

It’s not until sometime later, when the sound of a chair sliding back wakes me for the five millionth time, that I hear the horseman’s signature footfalls. He heads down the hall, towards my room.

My heart begins to patter as he nears.

Is he coming for me?

The thought that once filled me with revulsion now fills me with excitement.

I hear him pause outside my door, the silence stretching on and on.

What’s he doing?

The doorknob turns and he steps inside. I can barely make him out in the darkness. He’s just one larger shadow amongst the rest of them, his form looking staggering as it fills up the doorway.

He moves to the right of the bed, taking a seat on the floor and resting his back against the wall.

I don’t know what to do with myself—I’m supposed to be asleep, but I’m not, and that feels like such a big lie. Pestilence must realize I’m awake, right? I’m sure I’m breathing too loudly or laying too still.

“Amongst my growing list of flaws is cowardice,” Pestilence says in the darkness. “I come to you now like a thief in the night, for I fear you’ll never listen to me under the light of day,” his voice is whisper soft, “and I must confess all the things in my heart.”

Allllright. This should be interesting. And now I’m fucking wide awake.

“I find you beautiful, dear Sara, so beautiful. But it’s such a sharp, scathing beauty—like the edge of my arrowheads—because I remember you are not like me. One day, you will die, and I am growing anxious of that fact.”

I have to force myself to breathe and to hold back the awkward, choking sound that really wants to escape my lungs. No one has ever spoken to me like this.

“I admit,” he continues, “I have no idea what’s come over me. Never in my long existence have I felt this way. Not until I came to your world in this form could I feel. And before I met you, even that was limited to the vitriol that burned thick in my belly. All I once wanted was to raze civilization to the ground.

“It was not until I met you, hated though you were, that I understood the meaning of God’s words. Of mercy.” He says this as though it’s of paramount importance. “And now I understand why there is hope yet for your kind. Because along with the bad, there is this.”

Okay, I’m pretty sure this dude has no effing clue I’m awake.

“And I cannot figure out what this is,” he continues, “only that I feel it when I see you and when I think of you. When we ride together and I hold you, I feel as though all is right. And when you laugh, I think I might truly die. This is an agonizing sort of pleasure, and it’s ever so perplexing. I don’t understand how pain and affection can coexist alongside one another.”

He sighs, tipping his head up to stare at the ceiling.

“When you ignore me, I burn with restlessness; it feels as though the sun has turned its back on the world. And when you smile at me—when you gaze at me like you can see my soul—I feel … I feel like I am lit on fire, like you have been called by God to raze my world.”

He is breaking me wide open. No one has ever spoken to me like this—no one has ever even thought of me like this—and I have no defense against it.

He rises to his feet then and walks to the door. He pauses there. “For good or for ill,” he says over his shoulder, “I have been indelibly changed by you.”

It’s only once Pestilence’s footfalls have faded away that I release that choked sob.

It’s bad enough that I want his body. If only the attraction ended there. But my heart is giving way to the horseman’s words, and I’m afraid that in the end, it might be just one more of the horseman’s conquests.