Pestilence (7 page)

Plus Pest didn’t trust himself lying next to the gorgeous man. Over the years, Pest had come to terms with the fact he was attracted to both sexes. Back when he was mortal, he hadn’t been able to admit to his attraction to men. It would have more than likely gotten him killed, yet his interest in men had never distracted from his love for his wife.

Maybe he’d never met a man worth risking everything for when he was alive. Over the centuries, he’d fallen in love with men and women. Oh, he’d never truly forget the first person he’d ever loved, but his heart found it easy to be open to others.

Something about Bartholomew called to him. Not just because Pest hadn’t spent time with anyone in several months. He’d gone longer without human contact. Also, it wasn’t like he’d spent a ton of time talking to the man either. It was probably just lust driving his interest at the moment. Once Bartholomew was able to stay awake without convulsing from the fever, maybe Pest would discover Bartholomew was an ass.

Slowly Pest’s mind stopped racing, and he slid into a light doze, building his energy for the next round of dealing with Bartholomew.

* * * *

“Hey, you’re back.”

Pest blinked and looked up to see Bartholomew staring at him over the side of the bed. Sitting up, he shoved his hair out of his face and stretched. He checked his watch and nodded. Bartholomew had slept for three hours, and from the hazy gleam in his gaze, Pest could tell the morphine hadn’t quite worn off.

“Yeah. I got back about four hours ago. Don’t you remember me finding you on the floor? How do you feel?”

Bartholomew pursed his lips and seemed to be taking stock of his body. “No. The last thing I remember is Lam leaving me in your back room while he went looking for something. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”

“I’m not surprised you feel that way. Yes, Lam heard men out on the trail, so he hid you while he went to make sure they didn’t find this place. You passed out at some point and when I found you, you went into convulsions.”

Pest stood and Bartholomew’s sharply inhaled breath reminded him he was naked. He grabbed his jeans off the floor and tugged them on.

“Sorry. Forgot about that.”

Bartholomew dropped his gaze, and shrugged. “No problem. Pretty nice scenery.”

Turning toward the stove, Pest felt his cheeks warm. He rolled his eyes at his reaction. Hell, people told him he was good-looking all the time. Why would an off-hand comment from Bartholomew make him blush like a schoolgirl?

He buttoned and zipped up before getting the water boiling again. He wanted to get some liquid into Bartholomew, along with some food if his stomach could handle it.

“You hungry?”

More silence told Pest the man was thinking about it.

“I’m not sure I’m hungry, but I do know I should probably eat something.”

“Good. I’ll fix up some soup for you. Nothing heavy because your stomach won’t take it, and I’d prefer you didn’t throw up. You shouldn’t exert yourself too much.”

He got another pot out and poured some beef broth into it, along with some vegetables to simmer while he fixed up the tea. He brought the tea over to Bartholomew who sat up, leaning back against the pillows. The blankets were pooled around his waist. Pest kept his gaze on Bartholomew’s face, not letting his eyes wander down the smooth chest and small, pink nipples.

“Thanks.” Bartholomew’s hands shook slightly when he took the bowl from Pest.

“Can you handle it yourself?”

Bartholomew nodded and took a sip. He winced at the bitter taste, but kept drinking it.

“I know it doesn’t taste that great, but it works. At least, it works to keep your fever down and it might ease the pain from the convulsions as well. I don’t want to keep giving you morphine. Too easy to get addicted to that. You’re going to have enough problems building your strength back up, once we figure out what’s wrong with you, you don’t need to be kicking a habit either.”

He snatched up his shirt and put that on as well, wandering back to check on the soup. After stirring it, he glanced over his shoulder at Bartholomew.

“Would you like to wash up a little? I can bring in a bucket of water from the pool, heat it up and you can have a quick bath. It’s not the same, but I don’t want you to do too much at the moment, Bartholomew.”

Bartholomew set the tea bowl down on the floor next to the bed and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Please call me Bart. I would love to clean off. I fell into the pool instead of easing into it. Lam did give me some soap and I washed up, but I must have sweated a lot because I feel grimy again.”

Pest grunted. “As much as the cool water probably helped you with the fever, I’m not sure hanging out in there for any length of time would be good for you. It can get cold after being out in the humidity around here. I’ll be right back.”

He grabbed another pail and went out to get the water. Scooping some up, he kept his ears attuned to the noises of the jungle. Lam’s comment about hearing people using the trails didn’t make him happy. The drug mules didn’t know about his clearing and he didn’t want them to discover it. They’d start using it for water breaks and even though Pestilence had cleaned the pool out, he couldn’t guarantee it was completely free of bacteria, which was the reason he continued to boil the water first before he used it.

Nothing sounded out of the ordinary, so he went back inside to put the water on the stove. Bart still sat on the bed, though he’d swung his legs over the edge, but kept a sheet over his groin.

“You probably have to go to the bathroom as well. I can help you out to the latrine.”

Bart flushed and plucked at the sheet. Pest rested his hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I used to be a doctor. Nothing embarrasses me anymore.”

“Used to be? Why aren’t you now?”

Bart’s questions made Pest uncomfortable. He couldn’t really tell Bart anything more about who or what he was. The Horsemen were legends and myths. No one knew they existed, and that was how they wanted it to remain.

“I couldn’t deal with all the problems anymore. It was easier to stop practicing and come live down here.”

Pest held out his hand for Bart to take. Bart hesitated, and Pest noticed him looking at his gloved hands.

“Sorry. I’m a germaphobe, so I tend to wear gloves, which is another reason why I quit practicing medicine.”

“Well, yeah, and since you don’t know what the hell I have, being careful makes sense.” Bart took Pest’s hand and let him pull himself to his feet.

When he swayed, Pest moved closer and encircled Bart’s waist with his arm. He took a breath and under the sweaty musk of Bart’s body, Pest could smell an intriguing sweet scent. It wasn’t one he normally associated with men. He resisted the urge to bury his nose in Bart’s curls. Bart paused at the door and Pest looked at him.

“Shouldn’t I get dressed or something?”

Pest shook his head. “No one’s out there. Trust me, the jungle would be completely silent if someone wandered around. You’ll notice the difference when we go out there.”

Bart shivered, signaling to Pest his strength was draining away. He took a step forward and Bart didn’t protest anymore. Pest led Bart across the clearing to where he’d dug the latrine. He’d built a seat so Bart wouldn’t have to try and balance while he did his business.

Pest left him there and moved away a few feet, giving Bart the semblance of privacy without risking him doing damage to himself. He stared down at his feet. What was he going to tell Bart when the man really started pushing for the real reason why Pest hid out in the jungle? He couldn’t really tell Bart the whole truth.

“I’m done.”

He turned to see Bart braced against a tree and he nodded, offering his arm for support. Bart took it and they went back inside. Instead of putting him back in bed, Pest led Bart to a chair next to the stove. He removed the pail of water from the stove and poured a little bit of cold water into it, evening out the temperature. Digging around the dresser, he found a clean cloth and a towel. He set them on the table beside Bart, along with a bar of soap.

“Here you go.” Pest gestured toward his workroom. “I’ll be in there. Just holler if you need help or when you’re done.”

“Thanks.”

Pest nodded, and left Bart to his own devices for a while. Making an inventory of his supplies would take up his time and keep his mind off Bart rubbing a cloth over his naked body. Pest’s cock stiffened and showed its interest in the image. He shook his head as he pulled out a notebook and pen. Thinking about sex might be normal, but there wasn’t any way he’d try something like that with Bart. First of all, the man wasn’t strong enough for any sort of physical exertion, and second of all, Bart had seen too much of Pest’s true life. He couldn’t risk the man finding out about Pest’s real purpose for existing.

“Fuck,” he whispered in frustration.

It was going to be a long couple of months until Bart got healthy enough for Pest to take him to the nearest big city and send him home. Until then, Pest was going to have to exercise restraint and keep his hands off Bart.

* * * *

In the middle of the night, Pest strolled out into his clearing to stare up at the stars. He clasped his locket in his hand and tried to bring up images of his wife and son, but nothing came. All he remembered now was how Antoinette smelled and the sound of Pietro’s laughter. Oh the sorrow when he realized he’d forgotten what they’d looked like. If he could have, he might have killed himself again, but Horsemen couldn’t die.

The thought grabbed his attention. If they couldn’t die, what had happened to his predecessor and the men who came before his comrades? When he was drafted or chosen to become Pestilence, the Horseman who had taught him about his powers wasn’t the Death he dealt with now. At some point, the old Death had disappeared and the new one had arrived. Where had the current one come from? Why didn’t he seem to have any guilt about his choices before he’d become Death? He was the only one of the four who didn’t, because Pest knew War and Famine, the other two Horsemen, were tormented by their mortal lives.

Pest never had the courage to ask Death what he’d done to become the Pale Horseman. Death came across as determined and unconcerned with emotions, and something told Pest his comrade had been that way as a mortal. He treated Pest’s guilt and questions with annoyance and dismissed them as foolishness.

Returning to the thoughts driving him out into the night, Pest flicked the locket open and stared down at the hair held inside. Antoinette’s hair had been as black as a starless night sky while Pietro’s hair had been auburn like his father’s. Pest wound one lock of his own hair around his finger and drew it before his eyes. Now it was as white as snow to reflect his status as Pestilence, the first of the Four Horsemen. He remembered nights sitting in front of the fire, studying any books he could find while Antoinette had brushed her hair and Pietro had played before going to bed.

He’d been happy with his little family and his small practice in the village of his birth. Then the Black Death had arrived and his entire world had been shattered.

A cough coming from the hut behind him caught his attention and he closed the locket before letting it drop back to rest on his chest. Time to get back to the patient who needed him now, instead of dwelling on the world he couldn’t get back. Maybe he could save Bart and, in some way, atone for the other deaths.

Chapter Four

Pest strolled into the village, ignoring how the people dropped to their knees as he passed. This particular village had started believing he was a god when he’d confronted a large anaconda terrorizing the natives without getting attacked. Snakes avoided him, so it wasn’t any big deal, but to the natives it was like he’d cast a spell over it or something. It had been a century ago, and the legend had passed down to this current generation.

“I need to speak to your shaman,” he told the chief of the tribe.

The small man nodded and raced off toward a hut separate from the others. Pest stood in the middle of the village, not wanting to upset anyone by wandering around. No one liked having a god nosing around their stuff.

He wouldn’t have come if Bart had been getting better, but the fever persisted and Bart had burned off so much weight he was merely skin and bones. Pest had done all he could to combat the virus. Nothing worked for long, and Pest worried that soon Bart wouldn’t wake up. The man’s strength waned, causing Pest to take drastic measures to save him.

A commotion drew Pest’s attention and the shaman stalked toward him. He knew he scared the old man, but the shaman couldn’t show it in front of his people.

“White Devil, why you come bother me?”

Pest coughed, covering his laugh. With one touch, he could bring the shaman to his knees, but Pest didn’t want to be worshiped or feared. He simply needed help.

“I have some questions, wise one.” Bowing, he offered the elderly man respect.

The man frowned. “You are god. Why you need to ask me?”

“I’m a god in the white world, not yours. I don’t have knowledge of your jungle. Your wisdom can help me.”

He kept his tone humble, and could see the shaman’s interest spark in the man’s eyes.

“Fine. Come. We talk in hut.”

“Thank you, elder.”

As he followed the shaman, the stares of the other villagers burned into his back. He rarely made an appearance in any of the villages around his clearing. It suited him to be solitary. Actually all the Horsemen, except for Death, lived in remote places away from mortals. Maybe after doing what they had done for centuries, they couldn’t take the vibrancy of humans.

The native swept back the curtain of vines covering the entrance to his hut and gestured for Pest to go in. Pest ducked down and entered, dropping to sit cross-legged. The shaman joined him after letting the vines swing back into place.

“Ask your questions, White Devil.”

Pest proceeded to explain all of Bart’s symptoms and what he’d been doing to help stop them. The elderly man nodded and grunted at times, but stayed silent until Pest finished.