“No questions.”
“No questions? You just fix a broken bone in seconds, and you expect me not to ask how?”
“Don’t play dumb, Priestess. I may not know what you are planning with today’s little stunt, but I know you are not as unaware of magic as you seem.”
I stare back at him. His arm curls to rest on top of his knee as he continues to stare for a long moment, not breaking the uncomfortable silence between us with more words.
Then slowly, he lifts his hand and tosses the hood of his cloak back, letting it fall to his shoulders.
Shadows peel away from his visage as he does so. His face is revealed, and I notice right away that he has a similar look to the White Horseman. They share the same dark brows, but where the Serpent is more clean-cut, this one has a few days’ worth of facial hair and a more unkempt way about him. His hair is longer with slight waves, layered, and the ends rest against the back of his neck. Their strands lean more toward ashen than white, and fine lines play near the corners of his mouth. His eyes could be considered hazel, though a strident yellow hue dominates them and calls to mind the color found in many birds of prey.
Though he holds eye contact with me, he shifts as if it makes him uncomfortable to do so. His brows are drawn, and two wrinkles form between them. He is handsome, in an unsettling kind of way, because he looks like no man I have ever seen, and I find myself staring for longer than I should.
The silent watchfulness—I sense this is a part of his personality. As the Plague Caster, I wonder whether he has had much interaction with humanity or spends his days mostly among nature, spreading death and decay.
I pull my leg in closer to my body and hiss from the pain the movement causes. He scowls further but doesn’t speak.
“Do you have a name, Horseman?”
His brow arches at this. “So you do know who I am.”
“Yes. You’re not the first I’ve come across in my travels.”
His head tilts. “Which of my brothers have you seen?”
“The White One. The one who goes by the name Pollock McTierney.”
“Interesting. Was this recently?”
“Yes.”
He picks up a leaf from the ground. His gloved fingers rub at the red blood coating it as if he is trying to decipher some puzzle.
When he remains quiet, I ask, “Do you have a name, or do I just call you the Grey One?”
“Orán.”
“No surname?”
He shakes his head and holds up the leaf. “Why do you bleed like a human when you aren’t one?”
“I am—a human, that is.”
His gaze travels over my face and then my body. It lands on my wound. “You’re also not healing as you should.”
“What makes you say so?”
“Before. I saw you do so. I felt the power that runs in your veins, but it’s gone now. Why?”
“I wasn’t born with it. It was gifted to me, and it runs out. And occasionally this happens.”
“So you are capable of dying?” He juts his chin out to the side as if speaking of something unseen. “Die as they do?”
“Capable of it, yes. In danger of this getting infected? Also, yes.”
He pauses at this, and his wrinkle forms between his brows. “We probably should not let it fester then. Do you have first aid supplies in your saddlebag? Something to clean and disinfect this?”
“Some.”
