The shadows have deepened by the time the first of the bullets makes its way out of Pestilence’s body. It wiggles out of his lower leg for a few seconds, then tumbles harmlessly into the sand.

Several minutes later, the horseman shifts for the first time, a pained breath escaping him.

“I’m right here,” I murmur, continuing to run my fingers through his hair. “I’ve got you.”

Pestilence stills.

“… Sara?” He forces his eyes open. They’re unfocused as he gazes up at me.

“Hi.”

He reaches up, his bloody fingers touching my cheek. “You didn’t run.”

I let out a laugh that’s far too shaky for my liking. “I probably should’ve,” I say.

“Probably,” he agrees.

His hand drops, and he closes his eyes again.

“Pestilence? Pestilence.” But he’s unconscious once more.

Chapter 20

After two more bullets pop out of his flesh, I decide it’s time to move. The sun dipped behind the horizon twenty minutes ago, and I’m freezing my butt off.

I cast a few furtive glances towards the beach house just down the way. I can barely make out the dark structure. The lack of light is probably a good thing, seeing as how I am going to be forcing my way in.

Shimmying out from under Pestilence, I grab his battered breastplate and settle it loosely over my chest. Even without the aid of a mirror, I know I look ridiculous wearing his breastplate. It swamps my torso, giving off the illusion that I’m petite. I’m not; it’s the horseman who’s freaking monster-sized.

I decide to leave the rest of his armor and weapons where they lay in the sand. He’ll have to grab them once he’s recovered.

After I put Pestilence’s crown on my head (motherfucking queen right here), I hook my arms under his shoulders.

I brace myself, taking a few fortifying breaths. “This is probably going to hurt,” I warn him—not that he can hear me.

I begin to move, shuffling us back bit by bit towards the house. Pestilence groans, fighting my hold weakly.

“If you can walk, then be my guest,” I say. “Otherwise, stop moving unless you want me to drop you.”

He does stop moving, but even without him resisting my efforts, it takes damn near an eternity to reach the beach house. My God is he heavy. I trip twice along the way, jarring the horseman awake each time. Behind us, Trixie Skillz plods along like the faithful steed he is.

Once I get to the house, I set Pestilence down and survey the place. There’s no light coming from inside, and pine needles litter the stoop. Whoever owns this place hasn’t been here for a while.

Probably someone’s summer home.

I head over to the decorative door. Four square glass panes offer a glimpse inside. Seems cozy. Too bad it’s going to look like a triple homicide by the time we’re done with it.

I try the knob—I mean, you never know. People in my neck of the woods rarely lock their doors. This one doesn’t budge.

My gaze drops to the glass panes.

Going to have to do this the hard way.

I shrug off my jacket and wrap it around my fist. Here’s to hoping this isn’t tempered glass I’m dealing with. Otherwise this bright idea of mine might not go so well.

With one smooth stroke, I strike the glass.

“Motherfucker!” I shout, shaking out my fist. Even with the jacket as a buffer, my hand throbs from the impact. I glare at the still-intact windowpane.

Freaking tempered glass.

And Goddamn did that hurt.

Behind me, I hear laborious breathing and stumbling footfalls. “Move, Sara.”

I swivel around and take the horseman in with wide eyes. I don’t know whether I feel more shock or relief at the sight of him up and awake.

I step aside as Pestilence drags himself to the door, leaning most of his weight against the wall and leaving a smear of blood against the siding.

He reaches out and grabs the knob. With a swift jerk of his wrist, he breaks the lock and the door swings open.

Annoying how easily he broke it—like it was nothing.

I help him inside, letting him lean his significant weight on me as I maneuver him to a plaid couch. Trixie clomps inside after us.

I lay the horseman out on the couch, then remove the breastplate and crown I wear, letting the items clatter onto the floor next to me. In front me, Pestilence’s eyes slide shut and his breaths even out as fades from consciousness once more.

Hooking my fingers in the damp cloth of his shirt, I rip it open, pushing it off of him as best I can. His torso is still a mottled mess of bruises and bullet holes, the injuries distorting the shimmering markings that ring his pecs. My eyes find the other gunshot wounds that dot his shoulders, chest, neck, arms, legs, and in one case, just above his collarbone. I lightly touch the skin beneath this last one.

At the press of my fingers, Pestilence’s eyes flutter open, focusing on me.

“What are you doing?” he asks. There’s both confusion and suspicion written all over his features.

Aside from poking him?

“I’m taking care of you.”

The moment I speak the words, it really registers. I’m helping the horseman recover. Helping him, when only a short while ago I was the person pulling the trigger. I can hardly believe it.

The shock on his face must mirror my own.

He catches my hand, his eyes burning bright as he looks at me. “I’m fine, Sara.”

He doesn’t want my help. Didn’t see that one coming.

“No, you’re not. You got plugged with a small army’s worth of ammunition.”

He begins to sit up. “I’ve endured worse.”

Yeah, I know. I was there. Being burned alive has got to top the “Shitty Situations of the Year” list.

I head back to Trixie and, after flipping on a switch and watching the overhead light sputter to life, I begin rummaging through the horseman’s saddlebags. As I do so, one of the bullets drops out of his mount’s side, landing on the floor with a heavy clink. Poor horsie.

Eventually my hand wraps around a bottle of Red Label I lifted from one of our stops. It takes a little longer to find the roll of gauze, but once I do, I return to the couch where the horseman is sprawled out.

Pestilence’s eyes drop to the items in my hands.

“Those are yours,” he says pointedly, like he doesn’t want a thing to do with them.

Mayhap Pestilence is more afraid of my kindness than even I am of his.

“Well, tonight I feel like sharing,” I say, unraveling the gauze as I move back to him.

He begins to push himself up, but I don’t let him get very far. Grabbing his shoulder, I force him back down to the couch.

“I will heal on my own,” he insists, scowling first at the gauze, then the liquor that rest on the nearby coffee table.

“Yeah, you will.” I grab a chair from the kitchen and drag it over.

I sit down on the chair in front of him and unscrew the cap of the whiskey, my eyes trained on his wounds.

“I don’t agree with this,” he says, but he’s no longer trying to flee. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that I see curiosity sparkling in Pestilence’s eyes.

No one’s ever tended to him.

“I didn’t ask whether you did,” I say, grabbing the roll of gauze and pouring some of the whiskey onto it.