His visage slowly changes back before my eyes to that of the rugged man I met in the woods when injured. Not exactly the blond highlander I witnessed in my visions because of the grey, and I am curious as to why he chooses to appear as this—older and his hair ashen like the air around us. Is it to blend in, or because of the role he plays among the Horsemen? That of a Plague Caster?
“Unlike War and Death, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“They are creations of Heaven and Hell, imbued with powers from their makers like us. But they never once lived among mankind. They don’t know them as we do, and Pollock and I are the balance of those two scales. Conquest and Devastation. He can influence the hearts and minds of those susceptible, and I can influence the world around them, their anatomy, or ability to function, any life on earth, really.”
“What do you mean, imbued with powers from their makers? Isn’t there just one? God, who’s the other?”
“The Devil, or as you all like to call him, Lucifer.”
“He created the black one? Death?”
“No, he created Kahill, Wrath, or again, as you all have come up with many creative names for us, he also goes by War.”
My hair blew across my face again, and I raised my hand to brush it away. “That is not at all what the scriptures say.”
He shrugs and looks away, inspecting the area around us. “Then your scriptures would be wrong.”
Agitation runs through me. I riffle through the words I know by heart and think over their meaning, how they might be misconstrued. While I do, I work to unwind the torn portion of the blanket from around my injured leg. My blood has soaked through many layers of cloth, and they stick to one another, making it more difficult not to jar my leg while removing them.
However, I need to see how bad the wound still is, so I proceed until the last binding is gone.
He sees what I’m doing and sinks to his knee to get a closer look.
“It’s healed some, but without properly cleaning it, infection will set in.”
“At least the bone is no longer sticking out.”
“How’s your pain?”
“Manageable.”
He looks doubtful. His lips pinch as he gets back to his feet. I’m going to search for dry wood and build us a fire.”
“No ability to just point and create one? That’s disappointing.” It’s a joke, but he takes me literally.
“That would be Kahill. But I can guarantee he wouldn’t be as accommodating as I am. He would have left you behind in that trap to die. He has no patience for women or their whims. Only the strong survive in his company. The rest get left behind.”
“He sounds pleasant.”
“Pleasant is not the word I would use to describe him, no.”
He ventures a few feet away, then disappears into the trees. I hear him, but whether he’s gone back to being invisible or just where I can’t see him, I’m not sure.
A loud screech rents the air, so piercing in pitch that a shiver skates up my spine.
Orán is back in a matter of seconds, dumps wood into a pile a safe distance away from me. He crosses to an outcropping and peers downward. Another screech comes and another.
It sounds like an animal dying.
“What in Heaven’s name is that?”
He looks back at me over his shoulder, a dour expression covering his features. “They’ve found the trail. They’re hunting us.”
“The demons?”
