Pestilence (3 page)

“Are you a vampire?”

His snort of derision caused Bartholomew to duck his head in embarrassment.

“Vampires are wimps compared to what I am.”

He broke all the rules by saying that, but Pest figured Bartholomew wouldn’t remember any of the conversation. The fever slowly consuming his body would wipe out any memory of the past couple of days.

Strolling down one of the many paths he used to travel through the undergrowth, he kept his eyes and ears open for predators or snakes. He might be immortal, but he could get hurt like normal humans. Snake bites sucked big time as well. The poison didn’t kill him, just made him violently ill for days.

He’d wondered if Bartholomew would take up the conversation or just let it die a slow death.

“If you aren’t a vampire, what are you? I’ve never seen a man with eyes like yours.”

“Maybe they’re a special kind of contacts, kind of like sunglasses only without all the frames and stuff.” He paused for a moment, tilting his head to listen as loud crashing caught his attention.

“There’s no such thing as sunglass contacts,” Bartholomew argued. “Plus I can’t see the outline of the contact on your eye.”

“Ah well, you figured it out, didn’t you?” Pest continued walking, the noise that had caught his attention nothing more than a monkey above them in the trees. “I can’t tell you what I am. It’s a big secret and could put you in danger if you were to know the truth.”

Bartholomew laughed, bringing on such a bad coughing spell Pest had to stop and stand the man up to help him breathe again. He patted Bartholomew’s back, but didn’t want to linger. While most of the natives considered Pest a god, the drug runners who used the paths found him to be more of a nuisance. If any were out, Pest had no choice but to let them pass. Bartholomew was in no condition to take care of himself.

“What are you, a secret agent or something? Maybe you’re in the witness protection program. I saw a show about that. You drew a great new life because no one’s going to find you here.” Bartholomew gestured vaguely all around them.

“You did,” Pest pointed out.

Bartholomew sagged and Pest took him in his arms again. “Pure dumb luck, I’ll admit. If I hadn’t been blindly wandering down that path, I wouldn’t have fallen into the clearing and found you. What were you doing there?”

“Having lunch.” Pest shook his head when Bartholomew started to speak again. “No more talking. We’re reaching the difficult part of the climb and I’m going to need all my concentration to make sure you don’t end up at the bottom of the ravine.”

The young man squeaked as he glanced over his shoulder and saw the sharp drop-off falling to the river below. Bartholomew nodded and bit his lip, obviously trying to stay as still as possible. Pest appreciated it because while he’d taken the trail several times on his own, he’d never had to traverse it while carrying another person. It made his balance rather precarious.

“You should have left him in the clearing to die, Pestilence. You can’t help him.”

He closed his eyes for a second and gritted his teeth. When did he start hallucinating about hearing Death’s voice? Maybe he had been spending too much time alone. He’d never imagined Death talking to him before though, no matter how long he’d been sequestered in the wilderness.

He heaved a huge sigh as he left the narrow trail for the wider path. The shivers racking Bartholomew’s body weren’t from fear. The man was burning up. Pest picked up his pace, practically jogging the last couple of feet to where his house stood.

Using his shoulder, he shoved the door open and went directly to his bed where he laid Bartholomew down. He knelt next to the mattress, staring at the American. What the hell was he thinking? Death’s imaginary voice was right. Pestilence couldn’t help Bartholomew. Not anymore.

Maybe before he became Pestilence, he would have had a chance at healing Bartholomew. Now his hands brought the plague to anyone he touched. Pest kept his gloves on while he stripped Bartholomew of his dirty, ripped clothes. He didn’t take advantage of the man being semi-conscious to check him out. Bartholomew looked like he’d missed several meals, and Pest wondered how long he had been in the jungle. Why had he been wandering alone? Bartholomew didn’t strike Pest as the type of guy who ventured into unknown territory, even with friends.

Pushing to his feet, he headed to his workroom. He might bring illness and plague to mortals now, but it didn’t mean he’d stop practicing medicine. Oh, he never treated any of the natives because they had their own shamans and healers. They might worship him and fear him, but they didn’t trust him.

He’d chosen to retreat into the dense rainforest for two reasons. The first reason was because it was rare to run into another human. He’d gone a year without seeing anyone else and it suited him. The second reason was all of the unknown flora growing in the basin. Could something exist in the Amazon that would have cured the plague that had killed all of Pest’s family?

He shook his head with a mental snort. No time to worry about that. He had a real man dying in his bed and he needed to get his mind on what he could do to ease Bartholomew’s pain. Maybe this time he could save someone.

“Your job isn’t to interfere with someone’s death.”

“Get out of my head, Death. I don’t know why you’re talking to me now or why I’m imagining you talking to me,” he muttered as he sorted through leaves and dried plants. “I’ve been living for centuries. Why would my mind be going on me now?”

A thud brought Pest out of his workroom to find Bartholomew on the floor. He’d rolled out of bed during his feverish tossing and turning. Pest returned him to the mattress before turning to head back to the other room.

Death materialized in the doorway, his hands resting on his hips.

“Jesus Christ, Death. What the hell are you doing here?” Pest frowned. “You don’t need me to go somewhere, do you? As you can see, I’m busy here.”

He gestured toward Bartholomew, who mumbled in his sleep. Death didn’t even glance in Bartholomew’s direction. His eyes burned into Pest’s, seeing every emotion and thought Pest had ever had. None of the Horsemen could ever hide anything from Death.

“I’m here to tell you not to waste your time.” Death grimaced as he finally looked at Bartholomew. “He’s to die, Pestilence, because of some illness no human has ever heard of.”

“How do you know that? Were you told his destiny by one of the messenger angels?” Pest tried to catch Death’s gaze.

“I’m not going to say.” Death kept his eyes pinned on Bartholomew.

“You’re so annoying when you do the mouth shut thing,” Pest muttered as he headed over to his stove. He stoked the fire and filled the kettle with water. “You just want to be all mysterious and crap.”

Death snorted and Pest glanced over his shoulder to see Death glaring at him.

“What?”

“Do you think I enjoy this?”

Death waved a hand toward Bartholomew and Pest jumped between them. He wasn’t going to let Death touch the man.

“No. You’re not going to take him, not when I haven’t gotten a chance to even see if I could cure him.” Pest folded his arms over his chest and lifted his chin in determination.

Narrowing his eyes, Death curled his upper lip in a snarl. “I’m not here to take him. You know it’s not my job to escort souls from their bodies. It is rare for me to be involved in a single person’s death. As a Horseman, I’m more into big grandiose massacres or extinctions.”

Pest shrugged. His comrade told the truth. He’d never seen the Pale Rider concern himself with a single death. Being in charge of the four of them, Death tended to orchestrate large-scale deaths, like the French Revolution and the Holocaust.

“If you’re not interested in him, then why are you here?”

“Because I need you to come with me.” Death turned his back on the sick man lying on Pest’s bed. “There’s a problem and it’s time for you to ride.”

“I can’t leave him alone. He’ll die without me.”

Pest knew how long the mission could take him. While his very touch spread plague and disease, it took time for it to spread and take hold in the community to be infected. Bart wouldn’t survive if Pest left for any length of time.

“Pestilence, you have no choice. You are the first wave. The others will be joining us soon.”

“That bad?” He crouched next to the bed and stroked his leather-covered fingers over Bartholomew’s forehead.

“Yes.”

He accepted the single word. Rarely did Death tell him anything about why he was needed. Not knowing was fine with Pest. He thanked God every night he hadn’t ended up being the rider of the pale horse. There wasn’t any way he could do what Death did every day.

“Shit.” Pest shoved his hand through his hair. Even though he accepted what Death said, it didn’t mean he was happy to hear it.

“Take him back out and let the jungle deal with him, and we can go.”

“God, you’re a cold fish.” Pest shook his head with a grimace. “I’m not just going to dump him in a clearing and leave him to die.”

“It’s not my job to concern myself with humans. I do what I was charged with, and if it makes me cold, then I’m freezing. As much as what you do bothers you, do you think I’d stay sane if I allowed being a Horseman to affect me? Tell me this, what makes him different from all the others you’ve made sick over the years?”

Pest didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to tell Death that. “Maybe it’s because I’ve actually looked into his eyes and he talked to me. He’s seen me as a person, not just a spirit or ghost.”

Death seemed confused, and Pest wasn’t sure he could explain in a way his comrade would understand. As a Horseman, Pest had been around far longer than this particular Death, yet Death seemed to have a stronger grip on what they were supposed to accomplish. Pest had asked once where the former Death had gone, but he’d received no real answer. The current Death had simply said his predecessor had fulfilled his duty, so he was allowed to leave. Pest had wanted to know where he had gone, but Death had stayed silent on that as well. Nothing Pest had done could convince Death to explain how they could fulfill whatever duty they’d been given.

Death’s vague explanation about not wanting to unduly influence Pestilence or give him false hope never made sense to Pest, but he’d never been able to force Death to tell him.

“When I go to places like a refugee camp or a village where disease must spread, they don’t see me. I walk amongst them, touch them, and eventually they die. None of them have ever seen me or heard me speak. I don’t connect with them.”

“There’s a reason.” Death pointed at Bartholomew. “If they connect with you, or you with them, you’re less likely to do your job. You will argue and start to say no. We exist for a reason, Pestilence, and you must complete the job you were chosen for. If you don’t, all Hell will break lose.”

Pest rolled his eyes, but damn, if Death wasn’t right. He pushed to his feet and paced, trying to decide what he should do. He really did have to go with Death, yet his training called for him to try to save Bartholomew. Stopping beside the bed, he stared down at the sick human.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Death muttered as he stalked to the door and stepped out of Pest’s hut.

“I’m not going to leave you to die,” he whispered to Bartholomew.

He soaked a cloth in the bucket of cool water he’d drawn earlier. After wringing it out, he wiped Bartholomew’s face, hoping it would ease his fever. Bartholomew started to mumble and Pest leaned down, trying to hear what the man said.

“God forsaken bastard. Should have known he’d dump me.” Bartholomew sounded annoyed. “Said it would be good for my career. Good for Jasper’s career is more like it.”

Well, that gave Pest a slight idea of what Bartholomew was doing in the Amazon. He was probably part of a scientific expedition and had somehow gotten separated from his group. Pest would have to get in touch with his contacts in the Brazilian government and find out which British groups were in the country. Maybe he’d be able to find out who Bartholomew belonged with and get them reunited.

“Here.”

Looking up, he saw Death walk into the hut, followed by a short, silver-haired man. Pest didn’t argue as the man grabbed the cloth from him and began to wipe Bartholomew down.

“What’s Lam doing here?”

It wasn’t often Pestilence saw a Lamb of God in person. Usually only Death dealt with the messenger angels. Lam spent his time making sure mortals didn’t destroy their world, and he used the Horsemen to do it.

“He’s going to watch over your charity case. You know he won’t let him die.” Death waved a hand toward the door. “Come along. We’re on a schedule and we don’t have much time. If we don’t get this started, things will get worse.”

“Worse? I’m going to start an epidemic and people will die, but if I don’t, things will get worse.” Pest shook his head and looked at Lam.

“Go.” Lam didn’t even turn his attention away from Bartholomew. “I’ll take care of him the best I can until you get back.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not doing it for you, or for him.” Lam tossed a nod in Death’s direction. “I’m doing it for this guy. All I have to say is you should be pleased I’m willing to overlook being dragged here against my will.”

“Do you know him?” For some reason the thought of Lam knowing Bartholomew didn’t make Pest happy.

“No, but he doesn’t deserve to die if we can help him. It’s my job to watch over mortals, which is why I do what I do with you.” Lam went to the stove where the water boiled. “What were you going to put in here?”

Pest grabbed the tin he’d set on the counter next to the stove. “Drop three leaves into the water and let them steep for twenty minutes. You can add a little bit of agave syrup to cut the bitterness, but not too much. There’s a green and gold tin in my workroom. After his fever breaks, grind up three of the leaves in the tin with some of the liniment in the clear bottle right next to it.”

“And I assume I’m to rub that on his chest?” Lam took three leaves out and dropped them into the boiling water.

“Not his chest. Put it on the insides of his wrists. It’ll absorb fastest there.”

“Pestilence, it’s time.”