With that he leaves me and the bourbon and this troubling emotion that I’m pretty sure is regret.

I know I should feel relieved—triumphant even. But, like the Good Book says, though the spirit may be willing, the flesh is, indeed, weak.

Chapter 23

Hangovers are the worst.

The next morning I force down the pancakes I made, hating that I can hardly enjoy them over my nausea.

This is why I don’t drink regularly.

Well, that and the fact that I can only afford moonshine most of the time. You don’t even need to get drunk on that sour piss to get a hangover.

I pet Pestilence’s horse, who spent the night inside and who’s now standing in the kitchen, snuffling the pancakes like he might like a taste.

Abandoning the pancakes, I stand and focus my attention on the horseman’s mount.

I run a hand down the steed’s neck. “You know, beneath your hardened exterior is just a woman who wants love and acceptance,” I say to Trixie.

“My steed is a man.” Pestilence says as he enters the room.

I tense at his voice. This is the first time today the two of us have shared the same space.

He comes up next to me to place a cursory hand on the horse, and damn my body but I am aware of every inch of him.

“Don’t listen to him, Trixie,” I say to the horse, ignoring the man next to me.

“You named him?” Pestilence says incredulously.

He won’t look at me. I mean, I won’t look at him either, but he was the one who walked away from me last night, so …

I’m not looking at him first.

Apparently hangovers make me childish.

I pet Trixie’s white fur. It’s such a pure color, like fallen snow. “He needed a name.”

“‘Tricksy’?” Disapproval drips from Pestilence’s voice. “My steed isn’t tricksy. He’s a noble, loyal beast.”

That … is not the reason I named his pet Trixie.

“You don’t get to judge how I name him,” I say, “when you won’t name him at all.”

The horseman rotates to me, and sweet baby angels, just the feel of his gaze is flipping my stomach.

I finally gather up the courage to look at Pestilence. He’s back in his full regalia, his black clothes whole and unstained once more. His armor is now smooth and unblemished. His bow and quiver are at his back, the latter full of arrows when I was sure that yesterday it was near empty. It’s a neat trick how more than just his body can piece itself back together. Neat—and eerie.

Pestilence’s gaze drops to my outfit—the lime-green top and flowing floral pants make me look like the lovechild of a diva and a gypsy—but then it rises, stopping at my mouth.

Remembering last night.

I can still feel the press of his thumb there, and then that almost-kiss. We have shared all sorts of small intimacies, each one backed by a different emotion, but those that passed between us last night … I feel my cheeks heat a little. Those are going to linger with me.

Pestilence looks regretful, but I have no way of knowing what exactly it is that he regrets.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

I clear my throat. “Yup,” I say, happy to focus on something other than us.

There is no us, Burns.

“I packed up some food as well,” I add.

The saddlebags are stuffed with the goods. I’d also packed up more liquor, despite last night’s little soiree.

“Good, then let’s be on our way.”

We head out of the house and back to the beach, Trixie trotting behind us. I can’t help casting a glance towards the area where I held Pestilence. It’s too far away for me to make out the bits of blood that still surely stain the sand.

I turn to the horseman, his steed at my back. “Should we talk about last night?” I ask.

He jaw clenches, and one second ticks by. Then two, three, four—

“What is there to talk about, human?” he finally says.

Ah. So the lines have been redrawn this morning. In the harsh light of day, I am once more Pestilence’s arch nemesis, and he mine.

I stare at him for a moment, then sigh. I don’t know what I want, but I don’t think it’s this.

I begin to swivel to face Trixie when he grabs my waist. For a minute, my wild imagination takes off. I even feel that damn fluttering in my stomach.

The horseman doesn’t want things to be how we left them either.

But then, rather than pulling me into an embrace, he hoists me onto his steed, joining me seconds later.

Just as quickly as my heart soared, it now plummets.

Why do I care? Fuck him and this soft, weak thing I feel towards him. I can’t believe I had the audacity to feel sorry for him and his wounds yesterday, as if he’d been a victim rather than the instigator.

As usual, Pestilence uses one of his hands to secure me to him, but today it feels all wrong. Impersonal and cold. Even when he hated me, he burned hot with the emotion. Now there’s an indifference to his touch, and I’d rather gouge my eyes out than leave things like this.

The horseman clicks his tongue, and Trixie begins to race down the beach, towards the sea. I barely have time to register that we’re going to be traveling over the ocean again before we make it to the water.

A wave of vertigo passes over me as I stare down at it, watching the way its surface ripples. I keep waiting for the ocean to start obeying the laws of physics and swallow us up, but it remains steadfastly solid.

It’s only once we’re out past the tumbling surf that I realize the vertigo wasn’t all mental.

Oh God, horses and hangovers don’t mix.

The roll of Trixie’s body is sloshing everything in my stomach right, then left, then right again.

Stay down, I silently order the pancakes in my stomach.

I breathe through my nose. This will just pass, this will just …

Noitwon’titwon’tstopstopstop—

I lunge for the side of the horse. The sudden, violent motion throws my body out of balance, and rather than vomiting, I slide off the horse.

“Sara!”

I hit the water with a smack, and the first thing I can think as I gasp in salt water is how blindingly cold the Pacific is. Cruelly cold. Water doesn’t have a right to be this cold. It makes the icy baths I’ve had to take since the world ended seem mild in comparison.

It’s only as I sink into the ocean’s dark depths, paralyzed by the chill that I realize I am sinking, the water no longer obeying whatever supernatural force allowed the horseman to ride over it.

If anything, it feels like the sea is greedy to pull me under, like I’m the tithe it requires for the horseman to cross unscathed.

I kick madly for the surface, my stupid, gaudy clothes dragging me down.

In my panic, I barely notice the arm that winds around my waist, tugging me away from the darkness.

It’s not until I’m dragged back onto shore that I realize the horseman saved me. I don’t have much time to concentrate on that little detail before I turn on my side and start retching up the contents of my stomach along with all the saltwater I sucked in.

Bye pancakes.

I sick myself until there is nothing left in my system. Even then, my body only half believes it, my stomach still contracting.

“You do not get to kill yourself!” Pestilence all but roars, seawater dripping off his hair. He looks mad with anger, and his eyes are so vividly blue.