exploded into a scalding itch. A man in a black suit. Her breath caught in her throat.
Pestilence.
Patrick’s fists shifted under her fingers and he swallowed, jaw still bunched tight. “He told me the Disease shall destroy the Cure and the end shall be begun, just before he killed a kid, an innocent kid, right in front of me.”
She frowned. He had to be mistaken. Pestilence couldn’t transubstantiate from the Realm. Of the Four Horseman, only she could move about the humankind’s world.
It makes sense, Fred. You know Pestilence refers to himself as the Disease often. He considers it a title of importance.
She frowned, her gaze fixed on Patrick’s face. And then gasped. If the Disease was Pestilence, then the Cure was…
Patrick held her stare. “Me.”
She blinked. How did he know what she was thinking?
Does it matter? You’ve just figured out who the key players are. Now you need to work out what the—
“Oh fuck,” she mumbled, the memory of Pestilence’s “offer” of a partnership—made over an eon ago—coming back to her. A partnership in greatness, he’d called it. A proposal to undo the very Fabric.
Incredulous shock rolled through her, leaving her numb. Was the First Horseman actually attempting to fuck with the Order of Actuality? He had to be. What else did “the end” mean? What other interpretation was there? The end of mankind. The end of humankind’s time on earth.
Pestilence was trying to bring about the Apocalypse. On his own.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, staring at Patrick, her skin prickling. How could she have been so stupid? Pestilence had told her his plan an eon ago and she’d laughed at him. Dismissed him like a gnat.
How could she have not connected the dots?
Because the dots didn’t involve an Australian lifeguard, Fred.
A frown knotted her eyebrows. That was right. Why was Pestilence trying to destroy Patrick? Why, exactly, was Patrick Watkins referred to as the Cure?
Why him?
And how did ol’ sick and weedy know?
The words of the random prophesy she’d found in Death and Lust in the Time of Genesis floated through her head. The Cure shall face the Disease on the shifting dunes and the end shall begin and the beginning shall end.
Nothing in that mumbo jumbo told her who would be the victor.
Or whether Patrick would survive the confrontation.
The brother who cannot walk in the sun shall cast a shadow on the shifting grains of glass, and the shadow shall be of blood.
The first Prophesy she’d found in the library, written by the last Fate herself, came back to her and her stomach twisted. Shadow shall be of blood. She looked at Patrick, studying her now with a silent, unreadable gaze.
Whose blood? Why would Steven cast a shadow of blood? Surely the sentence meant Pestilence would fail? Why would Steven cast a shadow of his brother’s blood?
Suppressing a sigh, she ran her hands through her hair and chewed on her bottom lip, giving Patrick a worried look. What did she tell him?
That strange flare danced in his green eyes again and he smiled, the action both lost and accepting. “Hit me with it.”
She studied him, contemplated her next move, and then jumped in with both feet. “The Disease is Pestilence, Patrick. The First Horseman of the Apocalypse. I think he plans to ignore the Order of Actuality, the governing Fabric by which all existence is woven, and bring about the end of humankind before it is meant to occur.”
He didn’t blink. “Fuck.”
She wet her lips one more time, and continued. “Somehow Pestilence has garnered information that must have led him to you. He is the Disease and you are the Cure.” She paused, tracing her fingertips over the back of Patrick’s hands. “I think he believes if he removes you from the picture, the Apocalypse shall begin.”
Patrick looked at her, his face like rock, his expression stony. “So,” he said, after a stretch of silence, “what you’re telling me is this guy believes I’m the only thing that can stop him wiping out mankind?”
“Pestilence is a Horseman, Patrick. A Rider. Not a ‘guy’. But yes.”
“Can he be killed?”
“No. Not even by me. The Horsemen are timeless. We have no beginning and no end.”
“And he’s trying to kill me?”
Not wanting to do so, she nodded. “Yes.”
He fell silent again. He looked past her, out the window again and Fred couldn’t help but wonder if he wished to be out there on the surf, the waves, away from the surreal nightmare he’d found himself in.
Away from her.
A sharp