Dark Destiny (Dark Sentinel #1) - Lexxie Couper Page 0,97

and pain and abject misery consumed him. Tried to possess him. It turned his bones to chalk and his blood to water. It squeezed his heart still and turned his stomach inside out. But before it could render him empty, before it could undo him completely, he purged it from his being.

In a blinding wall of light and warmth.

The dark beach bleached white.

Pestilence squealed. His arms whipped up to protect his face, his feet scurried backward. The flesh on his bones began to flay, as if scoured away by the golden heat pouring from Patrick’s being. His Rider’s form convulsed, twitched. He fell backward, thrashing in the pure light on the wind-whipped sand, eyes bulging, tongue bloating.

That’ll teach the skinny bastard to mess with my brother.

Again, the thought didn’t belong to Patrick. He jerked his stare from the convulsing First Horseman to Ven, expecting to see him sitting up, grinning at him with that same old sarcasm he’d counted on his entire life.

His brother still lay prone on the sand. Lifeless. As still as a corpse.

Aching hollowness exploded in Patrick’s core. The light flooding from his existence guttered and he collapsed to his knees. Drained. Exhausted. Sapped of all energy.

Get up.

He stared at Ven.

Get up.

“As…I suspected.” Pestilence’s hoarse snarl sliced into his desperate sorrow. He jerked his stare from his brother’s body, cold horror twisting around his heart as the First Horseman slowly rose to his feet. “The…Cure’s weakness…will be…his…end.”

With a shudder, the Disease shook the grains of sand from his bleeding, flayed limbs and, as Patrick watched, the wounds in his flesh disappeared.

Struggling for breath, Patrick drew on all he had within and threw it out.

Pestilence laughed. “Is that it?” Healed and grinning with smug satisfaction, he strode across the beach, closing the distance between them. “Is that all? I am disappointed.”

Patrick pushed himself to his knees, every muscle in his body trembling with fatigue. Every molecule of his existence drained. Empty. Breath ragged and shallow.

The First Horseman lowered himself into a crouch before him and Patrick’s gut rolled as the Rider’s stench assaulted him.

“I have known of this moment for over a millennium,” Pestilence murmured. “True, I tried to prevent its occurrence, but I must admit I am glad I failed.” He tilted his head to the side, smiling. “Although killing your parents was quite enjoyable.”

Patrick screamed. Hate and fury ripped through his body, charging him with new life. He lunged for Pestilence.

But it wasn’t enough.

He collapsed face first into the sand.

“Oh, how glad I am I failed.” Pestilence laughed again. “This is so much more fun.”

“You…” Patrick struggled onto his hands, pushing his body from the beach, so weak he could barely draw breath. He lifted his head, just, and glared up at the grinning First Horseman, “fucking…bastard.”

Get up, Patrick. Get up.

Pestilence lowered his head closer, his yellow eyes glowing. “That may be, but I am not the one on all fours, am I?” His grin stretched wider and he raised his hand, fingers hovering near Patrick’s mouth. “The one about to be filled with all the disease of the world.”

And then suddenly he blinked, surprise flashing across his face. “Is that…” He drew his head closer, eyes narrowing, tongue flicking at the air. “It is!” A chuckle bubbled up his throat, the sound cold and furious and ripe with mirth at once. “The Fourth Horseman.”

An invisible fist slammed into Patrick’s gut. He cried out, recoiling from the brutal blow, his stomach boiling with agony and burning vomit.

Pestilence rose to his feet. “You have been fucking the Fourth Horseman!” He shook his head, eyes yellow fire. “And they accuse me of reaching above my station.”

Another invisible fist smashed into Patrick, snapping him backward in a violent somersault. The world spun, a blur of darkening sky, emerging stars, dying sun and never-ending sand.

Pestilence followed him across the beach, fury turning his eyes to yellow pits of hate. Thick fingers of sickness wrapped around Patrick’s throat, pushed at his lips, into his mouth. He gagged, struggling against the assault. He needed to get up, get up. Goddamn it, get up!

“You have been sticking your tiny, pathetic human dick into the Fourth Horseman’s cunt!”

An image of Fred filled Patrick’s head. Fred in jeans and a Bob Marley t-shirt. Fred in a flowing black hooded robe. Fred in nothing but her sublime, pale skin.

For fuck’s sake, Patrick, get up!

With a roar, he forced himself to his feet, sucking in breath after breath, body screaming in agony, core screaming in rage. He