My stomach clenches at that.

Nor I you.

I’m debating whether I should state my opinion when Pestilence’s hold tightens on me. I look up to him, but he’s staring ahead of us.

I follow his gaze, and my eyes widen. In the distance, between the boarded up buildings that speckle the sides of the highway, is a sea of people all dressed in white.

As we get closer, I stare in wonder at the hordes of them. They line the street, their bodies bowed in supplication.

Bowed for Pestilence.

They waited for him, willingly giving up their lives for this demonstration.

I glance at the horseman just in time to see his upper lip curl in disgust. “Praying to false idols,” he says. “They deserve the plague that will take them.”

Did I think even a second ago that I was making inroads on his bloodlust? Apologies, I was mistaken.

“The same one I deserve?” I say.

“You were touched by the hand of God,” he responds smoothly.

Four more white-robed people stand in the middle of the road, obstructing our way. One of them is an older man with crazy eyes and ashen hair. Next to him are three youthful, beautiful women.

When we get close enough, the man steps forward, ushering Trixie to a halt. I can feel Pestilence seething at my back, but the horseman doesn’t try to get his mount to move again.

“I, the Prophet Ezekiel, come to you in our hour of darkness,” the man says. “I give unto you, the Conqueror, these three women to have and to hold.”

To have and to hold?

Ick.

Ezekiel looks so magnanimous about his offer too, like you should give him a cookie for the effort he went through to procure these women.

The holy roller comes forward, the women at his heels. Something dark and possessive rises in me at the way the women are looking at Pestilence. They seem a little too eager to be the horseman’s servants.

“What is this?” Pestilence asks, his gaze sweeping over the sea of robed men and women.

“We have long awaited your arrival,” crazy-eyed Ezekiel says.

Behind me, the horseman grunts.

“And them?” Pestilence juts his chin to the women.

“They are yours,” Ezekiel says.

“What am I supposed to do with them?” Pestilence asks, his brows pinching in confusion. Out of the six of us here, he’s clearly the only one who is not understanding the delicate subtext of this situation.

He wants you to take them to Bonetown. Obviously.

But I keep my mouth shut because I really want a now slightly uncomfortable Ezekiel to spell it out himself.

“Whatever it is you please,” the prophet (ha!) says smoothly. His eyes flick to me just as Pestilence tightens his grip on my torso. I see Ezekiel smother a frown.

Awww, was he hoping the horseman would trade up? Too bad Pestilence enjoys his old model just fine.

“If you were me, what would you do with them?” the horseman asks.

“It is not for me to assume,” the prophet says humbly. At least, he thinks he’s being humble and demure, with his eyes turned to the ground and his head bowed.

The women are beginning to fidget. I think all of them imagined this exchange going a little differently.

“And in return?” Pestilence presses. “What do you want in return for these women?”

I tense. The horseman is not seriously considering this, is he?

Ezekiel’s eyes rise. They glint with avarice. “I would hope that you might spare us,” His hand sweeps over the sea of people, “your most loyal followers.”

The horseman’s gaze scrutinizes the crowd. “Hmmm.”

The prophet looks thrilled at Pestilence’s deliberation.

Finally, the horseman’s attention falls once more to Ezekiel. “You presume a great deal, holding me up as you have,” Pestilence says, his voice calm.

Ezekiel’s face flushes.

“As for the barter,” the horseman continues, his voice hardening, “you wish to give me three humans in exchange for hundreds—do you think me a fool?”

For the first time since we happened upon him, the prophet is looking a bit unsure of himself. “N-no—”

“Your women would be nothing more than a hindrance to me,” Pestilence says, talking over him. “As for the rest of your people, you should know by now I cannot save. I can only kill.”

My skin prickles at his words.

“If you believe in a God, which you appear to,” the horseman continues, “I would suggest you pray to Him. He’s the only one who can save you all now.”

Chapter 43

“I understood Ezekiel’s intent,” Pestilence says, once the prophet and his people are far behind us. “There is much about this world that baffles me, but that did not.”

So he did understand that the women were meant as sexual offerings.

And just when the horseman’s gotten a taste for womanflesh …

Ezekiel must’ve heard whispers that Pestilence kept a captive female, one who didn’t succumb to the Fever. He must’ve thought that if he offered up a few more women, he could arrange for his chosen people to live.

Bet he thought he was pretty clever too.

We pass through several successive towns quickly, only stopping once at an outpost so that I can go to the bathroom and Pestilence can swipe a tent and a few other odds and ends.

Guess we’re camping again tonight.

And naturally, as the day comes to a close, the heavens decide to unleash yet another torrential downpour. Because camping isn’t shit-sucking enough.

By nightfall, rain batters outside our tent, and not even the waterproof material is enough to keep it all out. It seeps in from the muddy ground outside and in through the tent’s seems. The flimsy structure shivers and shakes as it gets pummeled.

The horseman and I are twined together in the darkness.

“So, this is fun,” I say.

Pestilence huffs out a laugh. “It isn’t our worst night together.”

No, technically it’s not. What a depressing thought.

I can’t see him in the darkness, but his warmth is everywhere.

“Poor Trixie,” I say.

He’s still out there. Shortly after we dismounted, Pestilence gave the horse a pat on the flank, and the creature trotted away into the woods.

“My steed is undying. I assure you, he is fine.” The horseman’s breath brushes against my cheek. “You still haven’t finished reciting that Edgar Allan Poe poem.”

From this morning? He actually remembers that?

“You weren’t listening.”

“I was, though I’m not sure your macabre poet is the type to pen ‘A-holes’ into his poetry.”

I smile in the darkness, remembering when I went off script to get the horseman’s attention. “Poe has a sassy mouth.”

“Does he?” I can hear the grin in Pestilence’s voice. “What other well-kept secrets of the universe do you know?”

“Hmmm,” I pretend to ponder this. “Wednesday is the most underrated day of the week. Hot baths can take away just about any ailment. Phlegm is the most horrible word in existence—not moist, like my mother insists. The world is worth saving, and I want to call you by something other than Pestilence because, despite what you say, names do matter.”