19.8

"Time is short." The Artist pulled back, away from the doorway. His wings rippled under the waver of pressure pulsing from the portal he was holding open. "The Children grow restless. They must be protected, despite their protestations to the contrary. I can feel them straining against their prisons, trying to break free of the bindings I wove about them." He looked directly at Roisin. "You should not have come to the gallery. They recognised you and thought it time to awaken from their long sojourn." He gave a wry smile. "I had the devil of a time to quieten their spirits after you left."

"Please don't tell me devils are real as well." Paul had uncurled from his foetal position, though the assistant still had her arm around him. " Part of the reason I studied art was to dispel the whole idea the people like Bruegel and Bosch had made up all that Earthly delights shit because they were commissioned by the Church.

"As real as you and I." The Artist looked behind himself, as if he'd heard someone calling his name. "I must leave. Someone else approaches."

The distortion in the hallway pulsed again, harder this time — not with hunger, not with malice, but with the urgency of recognition. Roisin felt the pulse echo inside her chest as it responded in perfect synchronicity, a deep, resonant thrum that made her feel like her ribs were about to explode outward. She bent forward to contain the pain, clasping her arms around her stomach.

Steve stepped forward, half-kneeling to be on the same level as her. “Roisin. Tell us what’ happening.”

Roisin’s breath trembled. “It’s not just one part of me that stayed behind.”

Paul reached forward to place one hand on her arm, his concern overweighing his fear of the Artist, still standing impassively in the doorway, his wings visible despite being larger than the house could possibly contain. “Then what is it?”

Roisin looked at him as the truth rose in her like something ancient remembering its name. She grimaced as another pulse of pain tore through her. “It’s my horse.”

The assistant gasped. “No. No, that’s not possible.”

Roisin nodded slowly, her lips pulled back across her teeth. “It is.”

Paul stared at her. “Your… what now?”

Roisin closed her eyes as the void returned — the heat, the silence, the wings, the sensation of eternity beneath her feet. But even further down, deeper than whatever was left of Yabamiah, deeper than the remains of the imp, deeper even than Azrael’s memory, there was something else.

A presence.

A hunger.

A purpose.

“My horse,” she whispered. “The dark steed I rode before the world had borders.”

Steve’s voice was low. “Famine.”

Roisin opened her eyes.

And for the first time, she didn’t deny it.

“Yes.”

Paul staggered back as if the hand he’d placed on her arm had burst into flames. “You’re one of the Four Horsemen?”

“Yes.” Roisin shook her head. “No. Not anymore. Not fully. I’m… fractured. I’m still me. Roisin. Human. But the mantle inside me remembers.”

The assistant pressed a hand to her mouth. “And the Artist?”

Roisin’s breath caught. “He’s Pestilence.”

Paul swore under his breath. “You’re telling me the guy with the weird scarf and the six wings and the paint‑spattered boots is one of the Horsemen?”

Roisin nodded. “He hid himself in the world. Just like I did.”

Steve stepped closer. “And the paintings? You said they were of children?”

Roisin looked toward the hallway.

The pressure inside her pulsed again — a slow, deliberate contraction, like a heartbeat. Less pain, this time, more determination and resilience.

“I said they were the Children. Nephilim, in the old tongue.”

Paul blinked. “Nephilim? As in—”

“Yes,” Roisin said. “The children of angels and humans. The children we hid from God.”

The assistant whispered, “Hidden from God… but not from the angels.”

Roisin nodded. “We were their guardians. Their jailers. Their shepherds. It depends on who you ask.”

Paul was still frowning from the last revelation, he was probably hoping this was all a horrible dream brought on by their long talk. “Why were you hiding them?”

“Because the Creator wanted them destroyed.”

“And that’s why the angels are hunting them? Because God wants them dead?”

“No.” Roisin took a deep breath as the pressure pulsed through her ribcage once more. “The angels are hunting them for their own ends, because only they can break the Tombs that hold the horns in place.”

“Tombs and horns, now?” Paul shook his head. “Wait. You mean trumpets, don’t you? The trumpets that open—"

“The Seven Seals.” Steve’s jaw tightened. “The angels want to open the Seven Seals.”