20.4

 Roisin swallowed. “What am I remembering?”

“Who you are,” he said. “Who we are.”

Steve lowered his cross and stared at him. “You’re Pestilence.”

The Artist nodded. “One of the Four.”

“And Roisin is—”

“Famine,” the Artist finished. “Though she’s wearing the wrong skin at the moment.”

Roisin felt the room tilt. “I’m not whole.”

“No,” the Artist said gently. “You’re not.”

Paul bucked again, a long, inhuman wail escaping from a mouth that should never be able to form such a song of despair. Roisin could feel the echo of it inside her, and though she gave it no voice, still it echoed through her, the way a star swallowed by a black hole will emit a death-scream despite the vacuum of space that surrounds it

The Artist glanced down at him. “Your horse is impatient.”

Steve blinked. “Are we talking a literal horse, here. Or a metaphorical one?”

The Artist squatted to rest two fingers on Paul’s forehead. The agony he was expressing as he battled the warhorse visibly eased, and his face softened again. Roisin felt the desperation of her inner self to ease in a similar manner, and she took a moment to breath more easily. Pain was cyclic. It always was, and always will be. When it becomes too hard to bear, the body shuts down until it once more has the strength. As he stood again, he held the hand up and Roisin could see the two fingers he’d used turn black for a moment before they once more turned, if not the pink of healthy human flesh, at least the pale cream he had exhibited earlier. “It is both. It is the embodiment of her mantle. The hunger that balances abundance. The emptiness that keeps the world from collapsing under its own weight.” He smiled softly. “And it is the vehicle upon which she will ride on the Last Day.”

Steve stepped closer. “And you want her to merge with it.”

The Artist smiled. “Of course.”

The assistant shook her head. “If she does, Heaven will feel her.”

“Yes,” the Artist said. “That’s the point.”

Roisin’s breath caught. “You want the angels to come.”

The Artist’s smile widened. “I want them to try.”

Steve held up his hands, uncomprehending. “Why? Why would you want to fight angels?”

The Artist turned to him.

His voice was soft.

“Because they want to open the seals.”

Roisin felt the hunger inside her flare — a burst of emptiness that made her gasp.

The Artist’s eyes flicked to her. “She has taken an angel already.”

Roisin nodded. “He was trying to kill me.”

“Yes,” the Artist said. “To stop you from becoming whole. To stop the Horsemen from rising. To stop the Nephilim from waking.”

The assistant whispered, “The paintings.”

The Artist closed his eyes as he inhaled. “My greatest work. Their salvation and their prisons. It was the only way to hide them from the sight of God.”

Roisin felt her breath tremble. “Why?”

The Artist looked at her with something like affection.

“Because they are the last children of a world that wasn’t meant to end.”

The distortion pulsed again — a violent, hungry thrum.

The Artist let out a long breath. “They’re waking. They can feel you.”

Roisin pressed a hand to her chest. “I can feel them.”

Steve’s voice was low. “And if the angels find them—”

“They’ll destroy them,” the Artist said. “And then they’ll destroy everything else.”

Steve shook his head. “But angels are supposed to protect the world.”

The Artist laughed softly. “Angels protect God’s plan. Not the world.”

Roisin felt the urgency inside her flare again — a burst of emptiness, a longing.

The Artist’s eyes narrowed. “You need to choose. Now.”

Roisin nodded weakly. “And if I choose to remain human?”

The artist shrugged. “Your friend will die. The Nephilim will die. The seals will open. The world will cease.”

“No pressure, then.” Steve glanced at Roisin “If you choose the Horseman, the seals stay closed.”

The room went silent.

Steve tightened his grip on his crucifix. How he hoped that would help was anyone’s guess, but it seemed to give him strength. “Then she chooses the Horseman.”

Roisin shook her head. “I can’t make the decision. It’s tearing me apart.”

The Artist stepped closer. “Then let me help you.”

Steve moved instantly, blocking him. “Don’t touch her.”

The Artist raised an eyebrow. “You think you can stop me?”

Steve didn’t blink. “I can try.”

Pestilence nodded. "As you must, though you will fail."

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