Pestilence (6 page)

He wished all of his comrades could accept their place in the world, and come out of their self-imposed exiles. None of them had to live away from mortals, yet they all chose to wallow in their self-pity and guilt. He didn’t understand why.

Pestilence’s soft murmuring to Bartholomew brought Death’s attention back to them. Breathing a mental sigh, Death feared his warning might be too late. Emotions were growing between Bartholomew and Pestilence, and Death didn’t think his warning would change that.

Chapter Three

Pest pushed past Lam back into the main area of his hut. Bartholomew continued to convulse in his arms and foam frothed at the corners of his mouth. Thank God he’d remembered to put his gloves on before he’d touched the young man. It would have been much worse if Pest had accidentally made skin-to-skin contact. The disease Bartholomew fought was deadly enough. With his compromised immune system, Bartholomew wouldn’t survive any virus Pest passed on to him.

He shot a look over his shoulder to see Lam standing there, indecision on his face. After laying Bartholomew on the bed, he gestured at Lam. “Don’t just stand there. Come over here and hold him down.”

Lam was by his side in a second. Pest reached into his pack and yanked out a thick piece of leather. Prying open Bartholomew’s jaw, he shoved the leather between the man’s teeth, not wanting Bartholomew to hurt himself.

“How long is this going to last?” Lam leaned across Bartholomew’s body, his hands clasping Bartholomew’s arms and pinning them to the bed.

“I don’t know. Has this happened before?”

It looked like Lam had Bartholomew’s body under control, so Pest moved back in the direction of his workroom.

“No. Hey, where the hell are you going? You’re not going to leave me to take care of him again, are you?”

Pest shook his head. “I’m going to see if I have any flowers of this particular plant I found. It might help with the convulsions, or at least knock him out, so his body can rest. I’m not sure if this is a natural progression of whatever virus he has, or if it’s because he’s been lying on the damp dirt.”

“That wasn’t my fault. I was doing my best to make sure the drug lord’s men didn’t find us. I didn’t know he’d fall out of his chair.”

Pest held up his hand. “I don’t care at the moment, Lam. We can discuss all that later. Right now, I have to focus on keeping him from swallowing his tongue or doing more damage to himself.”

“Fine. Just do what you’re good at.” Lam huffed a sigh.

Resisting the urge to flip Lam off, Pest stalked into his workroom. He whispered a word under his breath and several lamps began to glow. He waited until they were at full power before he searched his shelves for the one bundle of flora he’d stashed away when he’d first discovered it several months ago. He had no real idea what the plant was, but something in its smell and taste told him it had possibilities for medicinal use.

“Where is it?” he muttered, being careful as he moved things, not wanting to crush anything that might be important later.

He didn’t always keep track of where he found certain plants. Having wandered the Amazon Basin for centuries, he’d discovered plants and creatures the outside world would never know about. Yet he never documented them because he didn’t want mortals to destroy them with their inherent arrogance. The belief that everything in the world was created for humans had brought so many species to extinction, and he didn’t want to be the cause of more of the same.

“Ah, here it is.”

Snatching up the dried flowers, he thought about what other plants he could mix into the tea that might help Bartholomew.

“Pest, you might want to hurry up. His convulsions aren’t going away, but he’s losing strength and I’m not sure how much longer his body can take this.”

“Shit!”

He didn’t have time to steep the herbs. He’d have to use the medicine he’d gotten from an acquaintance on his way back from his last mission. Pest didn’t like using modern medicine for illnesses, believing most of them caused more harm than good. Of course, it could be the fact he’d grown up using herbs and natural treatments for diseases. When he had practiced medicine, they hadn’t had all the manufactured pills.

After tossing the bundle on the table next to the stove, he dropped to his knees next to his pack, digging through for the syringes and the small vial of liquid. Pest found them and quickly got the shot ready. He crawled across to the bed and grabbed one of Bartholomew’s flailing arms. Not having time to sterilize Bartholomew’s skin, Pest hoped any bacteria present in the air wouldn’t be strong enough to compete with the strain running rampant in Bartholomew’s body.

He inserted the needle and injected the liquid into Bartholomew. After withdrawing it, he kept his thumb on the spot to keep it from bleeding. He watched as the morphine kicked in, and slowly, inch by inch, Bartholomew’s body relaxed to the point where Lam could climb off him.

Lam dropped to the floor next to Pest, and swiped his arm over his forehead. “What did you give him?”

“Morphine. It’ll knock him out and give his body a chance to rest while I work out what I need to give him to break this fever and infection he has.”

Pest took care of the needle and syringe, putting them in a metal lock box. Even though it wasn’t likely anyone would be visiting him, he didn’t want to take the chance of anyone being stuck with the needle and infected.

“Do you think it’s contagious?” Lam didn’t seem too worried about it.

Shrugging, Pest said, “I don’t know. If we could find the people who were out here with him, we might be able to find that out. There’s so much in the basin the outside world doesn’t know about, it takes a while to figure out if we should worry about it.”

“We don’t have to worry because we can’t catch anything, Pestilence.” Lam slapped him on the shoulder as he stood. “I have to be going. I’ve neglected my duties long enough watching over your pet project. He’s made it this far, so I have high hopes he’ll survive. Maybe not the same as he was before, but being alive isn’t anything to sneeze at.”

“Thank you, Lam. I appreciate what you did for him.” Pest climbed to his feet and held out his hand. “I’m not sure how Death found you, but thanks again.”

“The Pale Horseman always knows where to find a messenger angel, but I don’t appreciate being pulled into these situations. Let him know I might not be so willing to help next time.”

“I’ll make sure he gets the message.”

Pest didn’t watch Lam leave. His mind had already turned to working out what would break the fever and heal Bartholomew. The solution wasn’t going to be easy to find, but Pest had all the time in the world to research and make sure Bartholomew made it back to wherever he was from.

He put the mixture of herbs he used for his own tea into the boiling water to steep while he puttered around his workroom, trying to organize his thoughts. He might have to break down and bring one of the shamans from the closest village to see Bartholomew. They might have seen something like his condition before, and know how to treat it. Unless their solution to the problem was to dump Bartholomew in the jungle and let nature take its course, which wouldn’t surprise him.

A noise from the bed drew him across the room to kneel beside the mattress. An almost overwhelming need to touch Bartholomew swept through him. Of course, he couldn’t because his particular power rested in his hands. Pest stared down at the black leather gloves covering his fingers. God, how many pairs of these had he worn over the centuries?

He rarely took them off, especially when he was out in the world. Death explained that Pestilence passed the bacteria from skin-to-skin contact, but only his hands did, which Pestilence found odd. When he asked how it worked, Death couldn’t tell him. He’d told Pestilence that some knowledge wasn’t even given to Death.

Bartholomew muttered something and Pest leaned forward to try to hear. Bartholomew shouldn’t be moving or whispering. The amount of morphine Pest had given him should have knocked him out for several hours. It seemed like his body was burning through the painkiller faster than Pest had thought he would.

The tea finished brewing while Pest took the time to clean Bartholomew off. His hands shook as he ran the cloth over Bartholomew’s flushed skin. He tried to keep his gaze and touch impersonal, but the smooth expanse of the man’s body tempted him. Bartholomew was unmarred by scars or hair except at his groin. Those curls were a slightly darker red-blond than the strawberry blond on his head.

Bartholomew was slender, built like a runner or swimmer. His hips and waist were narrow while his shoulders were a little wider. Blond-tipped eyelashes rested against high cheekbones, giving Bartholomew a rather angelic appearance. He completed the quick bath and tucked the blankets around Bartholomew.

He strained the tea and poured it into a small bowl, letting it sit and cool for a second while he hunted down some more sugar. He squeezed out the last small amount.

“Have to add that to my grocery list,” he mumbled as he stirred the sweetener in to his drink. He took off his gloves and washed his hands, drying them off on a ragged towel. Pest tossed it into a basket next to the stove. He’d burn it the next time he needed to start the fire. Tugging on the gloves, he decided to go outside and drink his tea.

After picking up the bowl, he checked on a sleeping Bartholomew before strolling outside and sitting down next to the pool. He set his bowl on a flat rock and stripped off his boots, tucking his socks into them before slipping his feet into the cool water. He was glad he kept the stream and pools clear of dangerous creatures. Not that he had to worry about that. Most of the animals and fish in the Amazon avoided him, just like he stayed away from mortals.

The creatures seemed to understand his nature, unlike the humans he came across. Of course, most of the humans he came in contact with out here were drug runners or their enforcers. Neither group was inclined to be afraid of a single crazy man living in the depths of the jungle. They assumed he was on the run from the law like they were.

He sipped the tea, savoring the flavors on his tongue. The birds and monkeys called to each other in the canopy and Pest closed his eyes to absorb the serene peace hanging in the forest. The one thing he loved about the place he chose to live was the solitude.

No sound of voices or traffic intruded. Getting back from one of his missions meant he needed to relax and forget about all the deaths he’d caused.

Even though the village he’d lived in before he became Pestilence had a few more conveniences than the Amazon Basin, there was still a feel of familiarity as well. Without opening his eyes, he tugged out a locket from under his shirt. He held it in his hand, fingers wrapped tightly around it. He didn’t have to open it to see what was in there.

Two locks of hair—one auburn and one black. In the dark of night, he remembered the owners of the hair and lamented the fact he didn’t have pictures, drawings, or anything to remind him of them. He couldn’t even go to an artist for a rendering because he no longer saw their faces in his mind. Too many centuries had passed and their images had faded over time, yet he could remember the sound of their voices and laughter as he teased them.

His wife and son, the only people he’d ever loved and the ones he hadn’t been able to help when the Plague had swept through his village. Guilt danced along his soul and he shook his head. No matter how many times Death tried to tell him he wasn’t to blame for his family’s death, Pest didn’t believe it. He was a trained doctor, and should have been able to save them when the illness had appeared.

Pest understood that at the time, there was nothing anyone could have done for those who caught the disease—just hope they survived, even though very few did. He was lucky he hadn’t died from the plague himself, considering how run down he’d become while treating the people in his village. Yet so many had died, and with each death, a small piece of his soul had withered with them, plus the guilt had piled up until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“You’re dwelling on it again.”

“Fuck! I hate when you do that.” He jumped when Death’s voice entered his mind.

“I’ll stop doing it when you stop your pity party. It’s over with, Pestilence. Nothing’s going to change the past.”

Pest scrubbed his hand over his face and heaved a sigh. “I know, but sometimes it actually makes me feel better to think about them.”

“Understandable.”

“Don’t you miss anyone ever?” Pest stood and grabbed his boots, carrying them along with the empty bowl toward the house.

“I’ve come to grips with my life and purpose in this world, comrade. I have no time to look back. I suggest you listen to me. In addition, my circumstances were different from yours. I never felt guilty for what I did to secure this position in our world.”

Pest slipped back into his hut and secured the screens in the doorway. He set his boots by the bed and stood there, staring down at Bartholomew.

“Fuck.”

He turned to the dresser and opened the bottom drawer, pulling out two blankets. He arranged them on the floor next to the bed.

“You do know you can share the bed with him. It’s not like you’ll catch whatever he has.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the best thing for him to wake up next to a stranger. I’ve slept in worse places.”

Pest checked Bartholomew’s temperature and pulse. When they seemed normal, he stripped and settled down on one blanket while covering up with the other. He closed his eyes and started to drift. During his mortal life, he’d learned how to sleep lightly while treating his patients. He knew he’d wake up if Bartholomew made any noise.

“Get some sleep, Death. You’re not invincible, no matter what you think.”

“And you are no longer human. Stop trying to relive your mortal life. You don’t need to sleep. You just choose to do so because it makes you feel like you’re normal.”

Pest snorted. “I doubt anyone would think we’re normal.”

Death didn’t reply and Pest felt his fellow Horseman break their connection. He rolled over on his side, facing Bartholomew. He could’ve slept on the bed with the other man, but he didn’t think it was right or proper when Bartholomew couldn’t tell him whether it was okay or not.