Eternal Rider

Three

Pestilence had always liked Mexico. When he’d been Reseph, he and Limos had partied for days in various towns, from tourist traps to remote villages where the locals had called them brujos, viewing them as magicians of sorts, even though he and his sister never revealed any of their secrets… except for their longevity. Reseph and Limos had been visiting the villages for decades, had known many of the elders when they were toddlers.

Now he stood in the center of one of those mountain villages, watching as the last of the locals, a twenty-something male, writhed at his feet, trying desperately to suck air through his constricted windpipe.

“Nice work.” Pestilence looked over his shoulder at Harvester. The female fallen angel, one of the Horsemen’s two Watchers, studied Pestilence’s handiwork with a critical eye. “How long did it take these people to realize you weren’t here to bring them gifts?”

“Not long.” When Pestilence arrived, the children had come running, expecting candy, and the adults had set about preparing a feast fit for a king. Reseph had never appeared without offerings for the poor farming community, from gifts of livestock and crates of medicine, to books and shoes for the children.

So when he’d shot the first arrow through the first heart, shock had frozen the entire population.

Until he’d grabbed a teenage girl, sunk his fangs into her throat, and injected a demon strain of hemorrhagic fever that spread through the village in a matter of minutes. The guy at his feet was the last one to die, his final, gurgling breath coming as his eyes dissolved in his head.

Harvester knelt next to the body and dragged her fingertip through the mud formed in the dirt by the man’s leaking bodily fluids. “This is what, your fourth plague in Mexico alone?” The fallen angel’s expression was hidden by her long black hair, but Pestilence could read displeasure in the stiff set of Harvester’s shoulders. “All tiny, isolated villages. Just like in Africa, China, Alaska.”

“I’ll hit larger populations soon,” Pestilence said, unable to keep a note of defensiveness out of his voice. “I do have a plan.”

Harvester unfurled to her full six and a half feet, coming eye to eye with Pestilence. “Lies. You’re wiping out everything that reminds you of your old life. Punishing humans for your kindness.” The angel sneered. “Now that your Seal is broken, you need to get your ass in gear while the underworld is swelling with momentum.”

“Aren’t you and Reaver supposed to be impartial?”

She snorted. “Hardly. Each of us is here only to make sure the other plays fair. Reaver wants to stop this Apocalypse, and I want to see it begin. I might not be able to help you directly, but I can work behind the scenes, and I can certainly root you on.” She studied her black-lacquered nails. “I can also get pissed at your dicking around. There’s talk of adding more Watchers to keep an eye on you and your siblings now, and I don’t plan to share my job with anyone, so get moving.”

“I’m working on it. I slaughtered Batarel—”

“Not before she transferred Ares’s agimortus!”

Pestilence fisted Harvester’s tunic and yanked her so close that their breath mingled. “I have my minions hunting Unfallen to the ends of the earth. I’ve slaughtered six in the last two days. Scores have entered Sheoul to escape me. Even if I don’t find Sestiel soon, he won’t have anyone left to transfer the agimortus to.”

It sucked that the agimortus couldn’t be transferred to fallen angels who entered Sheoul and went from a toe-the-line Unfallen to an evil True Fallen. A True Fallen would likely sacrifice his life to break Ares’s Seal.

Harvester’s skin grew mottled, shot through with inky veins, and her green eyes swirled with ruby streaks. Leathery, black wings rose from her back. “Fool,” she spat. “The agimortus can be transferred to a human. If Sestiel grows desperate, he has billions of potential hosts at his disposal.”

“And you didn’t mention this before… why?” he ground out.

“That,” she said, “is not for you to question.” Her wings lifted even higher and spread wide, the effect no doubt calculated to make Pestilence quake in his boots before her awesome evilness. As if.

He wondered how much force it would take to rip a wing off a fallen angel. “I hope he does transfer the agimortus to a human. I can kill a man as easily as a fly.” He tightened his fist, gathering the fabric of Harvester’s tunic and turning it into a noose. “Won’t be as enjoyable as killing a fallen angel, though.”

She hissed. “Of the four of you, you were always my least favorite. I was sure that once your Seal broke and you became Pestilence, you’d stop being a wastrel and would put some effort into making a name for yourself. Clearly, I was wrong.”

Pestilence gnashed his teeth. “I intend to prove myself to the Dark Lord as the worthiest of my siblings. When the Earth and Sheoul become one, I will have first choice of the realms.” Yep, it was written that following the Apocalypse, the demon realm would spill over into the human one, and the whole kit and kaboodle would then be divided into four quadrants, with varying amounts of water, food, land, and populations of humans and demons. The Horseman who proved to be the best would get first pick and turn his region into a paradise of misery and pleasure.

Pestilence would be that Horseman.

Harvester grinned, her fangs glinting wetly. “You can’t truly believe that. Ares will win, just as he wins everything.”

With a roar, Pestilence slammed the fallen angel into the side of one of the shanties. The impact blew a hole through the wood, and they both staggered into the building. “I’m not allowed to kill you,” he snarled, shoving her against a support beam, “but I can make you wish you were dead.”

“The truth hurts, doesn’t it?” She whipped one veiny wing around his back and sank the clawed tip into the back of his neck. Pain shot up his spine and ricocheted around the inside of his skull, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of a sound. “You’ve always been jealous of Ares.”

Not always. It wasn’t until after Reseph’s Seal broke that the great Ares had gotten under his skin. Ares had been a masterful commander as a human. Ares had never lost a battle. Ares was the original of the Greek god of the same name. Blah fucking blah.

It was Pestilence’s turn. He was going to hurt Ares where it mattered—those servants he cared so much about. Hell, yes, Pestilence was going to make a name for himself. He would be the most feared of the Horsemen. Long after the Apocalypse ended, his name would be spoken with reverence. With awe. With fear.

He reached behind his back and caught Harvester’s wingtip. With a twist of his wrist, he snapped the bones in her wing. He cut off her screech by ripping into her throat with his teeth. Blood spilled down her chest, coating him with sticky warmth.

No, he couldn’t kill her. That was against the rules. But he could stop just short of it.

And he could make sure that the initial tales of his reign of terror came from a firsthand account.

Help me.

The voice came to Cara as she floated in a dark, cold room, her body a misty shadow. Below her, a dog howled from inside a cage, its glimmering red eyes watching her every move. She moved closer, unsure how, since she was hanging in the air, but in any case, she was suddenly eye to eye with the canine.

Find me.

She started. The voice had come from the dog. Not an actual voice, but more of a thought inside her head.

“Who are you?”

I am yours. You are mine.

Mine? Yours? This was so weird. She put her face right up to the cage, oddly unafraid of the creature inside. It was clearly a puppy, but something about it radiated lethal power and danger. Its fur was so black it seemed to absorb what little light entered the room from behind closed shutters on a single, tiny window, and its teeth looked as if they should be inside the mouth of a shark rather than that of a dog.

She searched for a lock… heck, a door on the cage… but found nothing except odd symbols etched into the bars. The entire cage sat inside a painted circle on the cement floor. “How do I release you?”

You must find me.

So… this dream dog-thing was a little dimwitted. “I’ve found you.”

In the other world.

He was definitely not right in the head. Says the person talking to the dog.

“Who put you here?”

Sestiel.

Who was Sestiel? She floated up and looked around what appeared to be a basement. The walls had been built with layers of stone, suggesting older construction. She drifted to a set of dusty shelves, which held only a few label-less cans, a broken pencil, and a glass flask half-full of clear liquid. Oddly, the flask wasn’t dusty. She reached for it, only to have her hand pass through the bottle and the shelves.

Maybe this wasn’t a dream. Maybe she was a ghost. But how had she died? Her memory was a black hole.

A distant pounding startled her, and she spun around to the dog. “What was that?”

What was what?

The pounding came again, a dull knock, growing louder, and she felt herself being pulled toward the sound, her body stretching like taffy. Something soft cradled her body, and light flooded her eyes. She blinked, her surroundings coming into sharp focus, and she sat up.

Her living room. She was in her living room, on her couch. The weird dream faded, replaced by real-life confusion. She’d obviously fallen asleep on her couch, but… why was there a glass and an empty bottle of vodka on her coffee table? She didn’t drink, not a drop since the break-in two years ago. She’d learned that life was fragile, full of surprises, and she didn’t want any of her senses—or reflexes—dulled by anything, including medications or alcohol.

Unease rolled down her spine as she ran her hands over her face. Her skin felt tender, and as she dragged her fingers down to her mouth, the unease doubled. Her lips were swollen, inflamed.

As if she’d been kissed.

A sudden image of an impossibly huge man holding her against him popped into her head, and whoa, that had to have been part of a dream, because no one was that big. Or handsome. A vision unfolded in her mind of him lowering his perfectly shaped mouth to hers. She could practically feel his warm tongue stroking her lips, and it was so real that her body flamed hot.

A pleasant flush spread over her skin, but when the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, she suddenly went from oddly aroused to feeling as though someone was watching her. Forgetting her swollen lips and the dream man, she whipped her head around, but there was no one there. Damn, she was sick of this paranoia, but that didn’t stop her from scanning every corner twice.

Satisfied that there was no one in the room, she ignored the lingering sensation that eyes were on her to focus on the TV, which was blaring some breaking news about a deadly malaria outbreak in Siberia. Since Siberia wasn’t exactly a malaria hotspot, the disease was a big deal, made bigger by the fact that experts had never encountered this particular strain.

“The Siberian outbreak is only one of dozens of odd occurrences of highly lethal plagues striking populations all over the globe,” the anchor was saying. “Religious leaders everywhere are citing end-of-the-world prophecies, and scientists are advising people to use common sense. As one researcher at the World Health Organization puts it, ‘People screeched about Armageddon during the last swine flu outbreak. And before that, it was the bird flu. What we’re seeing is nature rebelling against insect control chemicals and antibiotics.’ ” The journalist’s expression was grim as he looked into the camera. “And now we go to the Balkan peninsula, where rising tensions—”

Cara turned off the TV. It seemed like lately the news was all bad, full of disease, war, and growing panic.

She stood, feeling a little wobbly… and what the heck? Her pajamas were filthy, as if she’d rolled around in a barnyard. Two different colors of dirt smeared her pjs, and there were grass stains on her sleeves. And was that… blood… on her top?

Heart pounding wildly, she patted herself down, inspecting for injuries, but other than a kink in her neck she could probably blame on the lumpy couch, she felt fine.

If losing her mind could be considered fine.

The sound of a vehicle engine broke into the cacophony of her jumbled thoughts. Grateful for the distraction, she drew aside the front window’s heavy curtains. The mailman’s Jeep pulled away, which explained the pounding that had woken her up. She went to the door, relieved that all the locks were in place. But still, why was she filthy? Had she sleepwalked? And sleep-slammed a dozen shots of vodka?

Caffeine. She needed caffeine to figure this out. The spiderwebs in her brain seemed to be catching all her thoughts and tangling them up so they couldn’t form a coherent explanation for any of this.

She worked the locks, being careful to check the peephole before unhooking the chain, and then grabbed the box and rubber-banded mail the mailman had left. The letters turned out to be bills. Lots of them, and all of them with yellow or pink slips inside.

Well, electricity and running water were luxuries, weren’t they?

The box, containing her only indulgence—gourmet coffee—she left unopened. She’d have to send it back. Now that she’d been laid off from her part-time job at the library, she could no longer afford even that one small thing, not with bills piling up, no job prospects in the tiny town, and no buyer for the house in sight. Heck, she might have to give up even the generic grocery store grind.

Shuddering at the thought, she tossed the mail onto the little table next to the door, flipped the locks, and shuffled toward the kitchen, hoping the few scoops of coffee she had left could be stretched into a full pot. But as she turned the corner to the hallway, she came to an abrupt halt.

The door to her office was open.

She hadn’t been inside that room since she’d closed down her practice. Oh, God, what had she done in her sleep? A muted sense of anxiety shimmered through her as she crept down the hall to the open door.

She’d done a lot more than drink vodka and roll around in the dirt while sleepwalking.

Boxes of supplies lay scattered on the floor, their contents spilling out. A dark substance that looked suspiciously like dried blood was spattered on the walls and pooled on the tiles, and when she stepped fully inside the room, she got an eyeful of tumbled furniture and smashed cabinets.

What had happened in here, and whose blood was that?

And why, dear God why, did she feel like someone was watching her?

Spying could normally be considered a skill. Unless you were a supernatural being who could hang out in a khote. So yeah, Ares didn’t exactly feel like he was doing anything but being a Peeping Tom, as today’s population called it.

But he couldn’t exactly pop out of thin air and ask Cara what she’d dreamed about last night. Not when she’d just discovered the mess in her veterinary office. She might appear outwardly calm, but the color had drained from her face, and when she backed out of the room, she stumbled.

And Ares nearly stepped out of his khote to catch her.

Idiot. He watched her trudge down the hallway to the kitchen, where she made coffee, poured herself a bowl of generic bran flakes cereal, and ate with mechanical, precise motions. She had to have known that her pajamas were filthy with dirt and dried blood, but it didn’t faze her. Shock. Definitely.

The hardened, battle-edged commander side of him wanted to tell her to snap out of it. To grow a set and get over it, soldier. But another side of him wanted to… what? Comfort her? Fold her into his arms and whisper sweet, mushy things into her ear?

Fucking idiot. He brushed his finger over his throat, and his armor snapped into place. It had been foolish to come here without it.

Ares had been raised to be a warrior—and he’d been a damned good one, had learned the art of war from the human he’d believed to be his father, which honed the instinct he’d been born with, thanks to his demon mother and battle-angel father. But then, when the Seals were doled out according to “best—and worst—fit” for each sibling, he’d also been supplied with a massive dose of insta-expertise.

The desire to fight a good battle had always been there. No blaming that on the stupid prophecy.

Time to kick his own ass and do what needed to be done. The fate of all mankind rested on his shoulders, and if he traumatized one little human female to save the world, so be it.

He was about to let down the khote when Cara grabbed the phone, dialed, and said in a droning voice, “Larena, it’s Cara. I need to know what dreaming about a black dog means. It was howling, in a cage. And if the name Sestiel means anything to you, that would help, too. Thanks.”

Caged? That meant that Sestiel was in possession of the beast and not the other way around. Was he hoping to bond with it? Even though fallen angels belonged to a small handful of beings who could tame hellhounds, now that the beast was bonded to Cara, no one else could control it, tame it, or bond with it. Sestiel must not be aware that his hopes for a hellhound protector, at least from this specific hound, were dashed.

But Ares’s hopes were still alive. The hound could be the one he wanted, and Ares’s blood sang with anticipation that he might finally have his revenge. That Cara would become collateral damage didn’t matter, and Ares had a feeling that even when he took off the armor, the hatred for the beast would far outweigh any prick of conscience he’d have for the consequences to the human.

Cara hung up and ambled into the bedroom, clearly on autopilot. Curious, he followed, and when she began to strip, he decided that popping into the open now might not be a good idea.

He’d been raised during a time in which nudity wasn’t given a second thought, and he rarely batted an eyelash at an unclothed body. Sure, like any red-blooded male, in the heat of the moment he appreciated a naked woman, but it took a hell of a lot more than simple nudity to stir his loins even a little bit.

And yet, as Cara peeled off her pajama top, he definitely found himself stirred.

As if she felt she was being watched, she angled away from him, but too late. Her high, full breasts and dusky rose nipples were already seared into his memory. And he had to admit that the view from behind was just as tantalizing.

Cara’s skin was pale, as though she didn’t spend much time outside, but aside from a few freckles, it was flawless, milky and smooth, and he had an intense urge to touch it, see if it was as supple and warm as it looked. Her toned muscles flexed with every movement—she was stronger than she looked, as his still-tender balls could attest.

Bending over, she shoved down her pajama bottoms and underwear, and Ares, who had always preferred battle over sex, who had grown bored of sex because it offered no challenges, nothing new… nearly swallowed his tongue. He was a breast man, but Cara had one fine ass.

And wasn’t ogling a woman who was still suffering from shock real fucking noble. Not that he’d ever claimed to be noble.

She padded to the bathroom, and again, as if she could sense his presence, she closed the door. And locked it.

Through the flimsy plywood, he heard the shower start, and though he could cast a Harrowgate to get into the bathroom, he had a better idea.

He summoned a gate to take him to his Greek stronghold, changed into khaki cargo pants and a white linen button-down that he left untucked. He wanted to appear casual and nonthreatening, and for half a second he even considered throwing on his leather flip-flops. No male looked like a badass in flip-flops.

But they also weren’t made for saddle stirrups, and he wanted to be prepared to ride, so in the end he shoved his feet into a pair of combat boots, grabbed a wad of American money, and called it good. He figured he had a few minutes to spare before Cara finished showering, so he checked his email, hoping for intel or gossip from his spies and underworld sources. Any information about Pestilence’s location, his activities, movements… anything… could be a major breaththrough.

“There’s a new meningitis outbreak in Uganda and a bubonic plague flare-up in the Philippines.”

Ares rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before shooting an annoyed glance at Reaver. The blond angel loved popping into rooms unannounced. He stood in the doorway to Ares’s office, his arms folded over his broad chest, his sapphire blue eyes glowing with intensity.

Ares scanned CNN’s website. “It hasn’t made the news yet.”

Reaver waggled his brows. “The DBS always scoops everyone else.”

Ares was tempted to argue that the underworld often had its finger on the pulse of bad news before Reaver’s so-called Divine Broadcasting System did, but it wasn’t worth his time. Angels didn’t like to admit that demons ever got one up on them. Then again, Reaver wasn’t your usual halo. The guy had spent some time as a fallen angel, and he’d worked at the demon hospital, Underworld General, for years before he’d earned his wings back. Because of that, he had a unique perspective on demons, and he even remained friendly with some of them.

Weird.

“I’m sure Thanatos is assessing the outbreaks for signs of Reseph’s hand.” Thanatos, as the Horseman who would become Death should his Seal break, was naturally drawn to scenes of mass casualties, just as Ares was drawn to large-scale battles. They often haunted the same scenes.

“And what are you doing?”

Ares leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankles. “You know, you would be a lot more helpful if you maybe—here’s a novel idea—helped.”

“You know the rules.”

Yeah, yeah. “The rules are fucked.”

“That’s what I love about you warrior types,” Reaver drawled. “You’re so articulate.”

“We don’t need to be. Our swords speak louder than words.”

The angel just shook his head. “Have you found the bearer of your agimortus yet?”

“I keep getting brief buzzes through my Seal, but by the time I follow the lead, he’s disappeared again. Do you know where he is?”

“He’s hidden even from me.”

“You wouldn’t tell me if you knew,” Ares growled. “But I have his name. Does Sestiel ring a bell?”

“Sestiel?” Reaver rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “He fell a few hundred years ago. He succumbed to human temptations and neglected his duties one too many times. Last I heard, he was trying to earn his way back into Heaven.”

“Who does he hang with?”

Reaver made a golden ball of light appear in his palm, bouncing it lightly. Ares hated when he did that—one slip of the Heavenly Illum, and the entire island would be engulfed in bright daylight twenty-four-seven.

“You are familiar with Tristelle?”

Ares nodded. The female Unfallen had been around for as long as Ares could remember, seemingly content to walk the line between good and evil.

“Sestiel has been trying to redeem her for decades.” Reaver winked. “And no, this information isn’t helping you, since it’s common knowledge.”

Excellent. Tristelle might be able to provide some clue to Sestiel’s whereabouts.

His scalp prickled, and Harvester took form next to Reaver, who let the light go out as he looked her up and down. “What happened to you?”

“None of your business,” she snapped, and… okaaay. The evil Watcher had always been testy, but her bitchiness was usually couched in sarcasm. But then, in the two thousand years she’d been a Watcher, he’d never seen her so… beat up.

Strike that. Not just beat up, but beaten. Her black wings, too wrecked to fold against their anchors, drooped so low that they dragged on the floor, her head hung as though her neck pained her, and Ares swore that for just a second, her eyes looked haunted. Thing was, angels healed quickly, so whatever she’d tangled with had to have been of equal or greater power—and there were very few beings in either category.

Reaver shot a tight smile at her. “Humiliated that someone finally gave you what you deserve?”

Oddly, Harvester didn’t fire back. Instead, she moved toward the computer screen, still showing CNN’s website. “Human governments are keeping the majority of Pestilence’s handiwork quiet. Have you noticed?”

Ares had noticed. He also noticed how she was favoring her left leg. “Why are you here, anyway?” He glanced at Reaver. “That goes for you, too.”

“Because I can tell you what Pestilence has been up to,” Reaver said. “He’s been sparking miniepidemics all over the world and killing every Unfallen he can find. I think he’s frustrated that he can’t locate Sestiel.”

Maybe, but Reseph had never been a hothead. When Ares, Thanatos, and Limos had been rampage-furious about something, Reseph had always been the one to step in and calm them all down. Maybe turning into Pestilence had changed that, but Ares didn’t think so. No, he was smarter than that. If Ares were in Reseph’s place, he’d cut off Sestiel’s escape routes, not waste time on petty vengeance…

“I know what he’s doing. He’s taking out anyone who could potentially become the agimortus.” Ares cursed. “And he’s using the pockets of epidemics to trap them.”

Harvester’s wings twitched. “How so?”

“The Unfallen are attracted to the suffering,” Reaver mused. “Angels always are, and Unfallen are no exception. They may hope that by comforting the dying, they can earn their way back into Heaven.”

Ares studied the giant world map on the wall. Push-pins marked Pestilence’s known handiwork. The sucker was running out of room. “Pestilence is setting traps. It’s what I’d do.”

The door to the office opened, and Vulgrim, one of Ares’s Ramreel demon servants, entered with a tray of iced tea, which he placed on the desk. After Vulgrim left, Reaver pinned another location on the map. “Let’s just hope that Sestiel doesn’t panic and do something stupid if he runs out of options to transfer.”

“Stupid?”

Harvester snatched a glass off the tray the way she always did; as if she was afraid someone would take it before she got it. “The only other species that can be an agimortus is human.”

Son of a— Ares shoved back from the desk. “Maybe you could have mentioned that earlier? You know, like about two thousand years earlier?” He cursed, not waiting for her or Reaver to say something idiotic like, you know the rules. “Humans are fragile. Easy to kill. If one of them takes on the agimortus—”

“That’s not the main problem,” Reaver said.

“Being easy to kill sounds like a big fucking problem to me. So what else is there?”

“Humans aren’t meant to host it. It’ll kill them. A human would, at most, have forty-eight hours to live.” Harvester smiled, and it was almost a relief to see her back to her sinister self. “And FYI? Pestilence knows. Expect him to step up the killing of Unfallens so Sestiel is forced to use a human. And then watch your world crumble, Horseman.”