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I’m just about out of the room when I pause. “For all your righteousness,” I say over my shoulder, “you really are a heartless bastard.”

Chapter 16

I’ve gotten usedto stealing from the Pestilence’s victims. Every time we squat in someone’s house, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Stealing their beds, stealing their food and water, stealing their homes and—if they’re unfortunate enough to linger—their time. Pestilence might take their lives, but I take everything else.

And I’m starting to be okay with this. Well, as okay as anyone can be in my situation.

I pad into the kitchen the next morning, eyeing the snowshoes and vintage skis hanging on the wall across the way. Outside, rain beats ferociously against the windows and wind shakes the trees.

I rub my arms, grateful for the roaring fire Pestilence started. The weather might be a mess outside, but in here, it’s downright toasty.

The rainstorm nearly drowns out the sound of muffled splashing coming from down the hall. Pretty Boy needs his monster baths.

Icymonster baths, I amend as I head over to the cupboards. The electricity—and thus, the hot water—doesn’t work here.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. One by one I open the cupboards. In sum total, I find two jars of pickles, one can of beans, and a moldy onion.

Yum.

There’s also a refrigerator in the kitchen, but judging from the fact that the electricity is out, I doubt it works. Still, you never know; people have fashioned these things into good ol’ iceboxes.

I open it up and—

“Whoa.”

Moonshine. Rows and rows of moonshine. I stare at them all as a river of what was probably once ice spills onto the ground.

Out of curiosity I grab one of the bottles from the shelf and, unscrewing the lid, sniff the contents.

I make a face. Not just moonshine butbadmoonshine.

“And you expect me to willingly drink your beverages.”

I shriek at Pestilence’s voice, the bottle slipping out of my hand. Quick as lightning, the horseman lunges forward and catches the glass container, saving us both from being covered in fermented piss.

“Careful, Sara,” he says as he straightens, setting the drink on a nearby counter.

That smoky, rolling voice of his twists my name into something intimate and exotic. I think I hate how lovely he makes it sound.

His hair is dripping with water, and I find myself staring first at the darkened strands, which are the color of wheat, before my attention moves to his high cheekbones, where a few droplets of that icy water kiss his skin. My gaze dips to his mouth, with his full, sculpted lips.

My cheeks warm at the sight of them.

He moves beyond me, oblivious to my thoughts, checking out the kitchen with mild interest. His bare feet splash into the puddle of melted ice as he peers inside the fridge.

“Not much here, is there?” he says, moving the jars around. As he does so, I catch a glimpse of …

“Oh my God!Pie!”

It’s mostly gone, probably older than my grandpa, and it’s probably breaking at least three different etiquette rules to go for it before noon, but who gives a crap? It’spie.

I none-to-gently hipcheck Pestilence out of the way and grab it. Closer inspection reveals it’s apple pie (my favorite becauseduh) and there’s about a fourth of it left. Enough for a single girl to tuck away without too much guilt …

The horseman watches me carefully as I set it out on the kitchen table, leaving it only long enough to rummage around for a fork.

He follows my lead, grabbing a fork from the drawer and heading back to the table.

“What are you doing?” I ask when he sits down across from me, the metal utensil in hand.