I sprint for the road, even though my body is in no condition to run.

I’m free. Holy freaking shitballs, I’m free!

Behind me I hear a faint, slick hiss, a sound I mistake for the wind until what feels like a knife slams into my back, just below my right shoulder blade.

I choke against the pain, my feet stumbling as warmth spreads out from the wound.

Blood, my mind puts together. You’re bleeding because there’s an arrowhead embedded in your back.

I should’ve known better, but when I saw that empty bedroom, I couldn’t not act.

Hope is a damnable thing.

And now—Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, the burn of the wound seizes up my windpipe.

I don’t bother to glance behind me as I force my feet to continue moving. I know what I’ll see. Proud Pestilence, bow in hand, sighting me like a hunter.

If I stop now, he’s got me.

I fucking sprint, snow crunching under my boots as I make for the tree line ahead of me. If I make it to the forest, I might still be able to escape him.

With every pump of my arms and sway of my torso, the arrowhead cuts deeper into muscle.

You’ve endured worse, Burns. You’ve walked through fire, felt the flames sear your skin and cook your body. You will live through this.

I will live through it … so long as this arrowhead wasn’t tipped with poison … or plague. I try not to think about that latter one. I try not to imagine what will happen if I get away. How I might escape him only to die of the Fever.

I’m almost to the woods when the next arrow hits me, the tip of it driving into my lower back.

Again I stumble, nearly going to my knees. This one, this one feels like it hit more than just muscle. There’s a sick, tugging sensation that feels wrong every time I move.

Behind me I hear the gallop of hoof beats.

Move! I scream at myself as snow flurries swirl around me.

I stagger to my feet, forcing myself to keep going.

My energy is quickly flagging, and I can feel more blood soaking into my ripped clothes, the fabric quickly turning icy.

It takes the horseman less than a minute to reach me, his mount’s breath steaming in the night air.

I can feel Pestilence’s burning gaze on me, even though I don’t dare look at him. Escape is now futile, but I still won’t force myself to stop.

I hear the heavy clink of his armor as he dismounts, his boots crunching into the snow and dead underbrush.

In two long strides he’s upon me. His hand wraps around an arrow shaft.

“No—”

Mercilessly, he yanks it out. I scream as the blade of it cuts into more muscle and sinew as it’s removed.

He tosses it aside, never saying a word. I feel another sickening pull as he grabs the other arrow lodged into my back.

Please. It’s on the tip of my tongue to beg him, but I have a feeling that is exactly what he wants—for me to plead for my life the way he did his. I grind my teeth together. Damn him, I won’t give him what he wants.

When he yanks the second arrowhead out, the pain has my legs folding out from under me. I can feel rivulets of my blood dripping down my back, the sickening sensation setting my teeth on edge.

“Because you’ve proven yourself to be every bit as conniving as the rest of your brethren,” he says, his tone just as cutting as his weapons, “you will no longer sleep. It’s a luxury you can no longer afford.”

Roughly, he grabs my hands, pulling a rope loose from where it’s been secured at his hip.

I tug against his hands. “What are you doing?” I ask, beginning to panic in earnest.

Not the rope. Not again.

Oh God.

It’s hitting me, that I tried to escape and I failed and now everything is going to be so much worse.

Kneeling in the snow, he begins to bind my wrists, his expression grim and angry.

If I don’t get away now, I am going to die.

I kick out at him, my boot landing heavily against his thigh. He doesn’t so much as sway.

He tightens the knots on my wrist and I cry out at the stabbing pain. His lips thin as he loops the other end through his saddle.

“No.” Please. “No-no-no.” I’m muttering almost senselessly, a couple tears squeezing out of my eyes.

I have two open wounds at my back, and the night air is so cold it rips through my clothing and burns my skin.

“Why are you doing this?” The question is almost a sob.

Pestilence glares at me. “Have you so recently forgotten what you did to me?” He gives a yank on the rope. “Up.”

I don’t get up. I don’t have it in me to get up.

The horseman doesn’t stick around to see whether or not I follow his orders. He mounts his horse and makes another clicking noise.

The steed begins to trot away, and I only have one swift second to get my feet properly under me before I’m forced to move.

And then we’re off again.

Chapter 8

I don’t know how long we travel in the dark, cold night, only that it feels endless. My hands are numb, my legs are stiff with chill, and my back throbs in strange, painful ways that make me think my injuries are more than just flesh wounds.

Still, Pestilence drives us onwards.

At first his horse moves slow, though I don’t think it’s to show me any mercy. Rather, I assume it’s to draw out my agony for as long as possible. Slowly the steed begins to pick up speed, until his trot becomes a canter and then his canter eventually becomes a gallop.

I keep up for a while. That much I can say. Despite everything, I somehow do keep up.

But no one except this dastardly immortal creature can go on forever. The lack of sleep, the thin meals, the cold, my wounds and my exhaustion—it’s all worn me down.

I trip, falling onto the snow-covered road, and I don’t get up. My wrists jerk over my head, the force of it yanking at least one arm out of its socket.

Now I scream. Now I lose it.

My body is on fire and a person could go mad from this sort of pain.

I didn’t even know I could hurt this much and oh God oh God oh God make it stop please make it stop I’m sorry I shot your beloved horseman just make it stop.

But it doesn’t stop. If God has any mercy, it’s not spared on me.

I’m dragged through the snow, and the cold hurts so bad it burns. Whatever protection my clothes afford me, it doesn’t last long. I can feel the icy road against my back, and I don’t know where my agony ends and I begin. All I know is that I haven’t endured worse than this.

I scream until my throat is ragged from use. My arms are going to be ripped from my body. There’s no other way this ends. And I’m in so much pain that I hope they’ll cleave away from me so I can bleed out and die quicker than this.

It doesn’t happen.

There’s pain and pain and pain, so much goddamned pain. I’m burning up with it even though there’s no fire I’m burning up and make it stop, please make it stop, please, please, please—

Chapter 9

I wake briefly to an intense flare of pain in one of my shoulders. I cry out as hands release me and some of the agony abates.

The world around me is out of focus, just swathes of colors, and my body throbs in the most horrible way. Why does everything hurt?

Around me, the colors begin to sharpen enough for me to make out a face. An angel looms over me, his face still somewhat blurry.