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“I’m not going back for that,” he says.

I sway in my seat, my eyelids drifting closed.

I don’t care.I’m not sure whether I think it or say it, only that the horseman’s arm is suddenly the perfect place to rest my head.

I close my eyes, barely noticing how tense Pestilence is.

“Sara?”

“Mm?” I don’t open my eyes.

“Sara.”

Just going to drift off for a bit …

“Sara.” He turns my face towards him. I blink up at him as his gaze scours my features, lingering on my lips.

He begins to look alarmed. “You’re not alright.”

I’m not, am I?

I think I hear him curse under his breath, then he clicks his tongue, tightening his grip on me. Trixie begins to gallop, his hooves spraying icy water against my legs.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Pestilence roars. Or maybe it’s the wind and rain that’s roaring …

“I’m s-supposed to suffer.”

He huffs, and I swear I hear him say, “Not like this.” But that’s ridiculous because I’m supposed to sufferexactlylike this.

At the next turnoff, the horseman tugs on the reins, turning his steed down a muddy dirt path.

I glance up at him, rain and sleet plastering his hair to his face. So much for Pretty Boy’s earlier bath.

“W-where are we going?” I ask. My tongue feels thick and clumsy in my mouth.

“It seems I’ve once again underestimated just how fragile you are.”

It’s the closest thing he gives me to an answer.

Maybe a kilometer or so later, I catch sight of a yellow house that’s seen better days. Pestilence makes a beeline for it, not slowing until we’re nearly at its doorway.

He swings off the horse and gathers me in his arms. In three long strides he’s at the door. His booted foot slams against the wood, kicking the thing inward.

Inside, I hear a flurry of screams.

No, not more people.

“Out of my way!” the horseman bellows.

I catch a brief glimpse of a middle-aged couple and behind them, two curious children.

No.

Pestilence sets me in front of a wood-burning stove, holding me close as I shiver.

I clutch his upper arm and force my eyes to open. “We can’t stay here,” I say, my voice weak.

“I need blankets,” he demands. He’s not even looking at me.