The Study of Man
Chapter Seventeen
The Chosen
I’m not sure if I found him or he found me, but I stumbled upon the path of the Soul Sucker. The Plague Caster, who also goes by the name Pestilence. The Grey Horseman, who was the third one to breach this plane.
I do not remember him as well as the others, and I only get a few furtive glimpses of him as he stalks my every step. His powers allow him to go invisible or blend in with the environment and space around him as if to make him undetectable.
However, I do not just sense his power. I feel it push into my own. Like a surging force or a low-thrumming storm, giving off an electric charge to the air in the vicinity so you feel it even if you don’t see it.
It can be overwhelming at times, while at others, it’s simply a presence that follows.
When he remains at a distance and withdraws it, I breathe more easily. I keep my guard up just in case, ready to defend myself against it, him, should an attack come my way.
It never does.
He simply watches me. For what purpose, I do not know. To kill me. To take me unawares when I least expect it, or is he just curious about me?
The worst possible scenario would be that he knows of my theft and has come to reclaim the sword I swiped from his counterpart. This, I anticipate for days, but also take comfort in the knowledge that the great blade is well hidden.
However, as time progresses, he makes no move to strike me down or approach me at all.
Some days, I grow insanely curious myself.
Some days, angry. Some days, I'm absolutely fed up. I want to turn and attack—get this battle over with—and put an end to this dance we are taking part in. Either I’ll survive or I won’t, but at least this endless cycle of pretending will come to a halt so I can go on with life or death, depending on the outcome.
It is that maddening.
But he remains apart, never coming close enough to attack, and I cannot return home where my supplies and equipment are stored while he’s monitoring my every movement.
I will not lead him close to the weapons if that is what he’s after.
Or the massive stores of elixir. So I merely roam as I try to figure out his true intentions.
Fighting an enemy I cannot see would be difficult, and it makes me wonder whether I should try a different tactic against this enemy.
I have been trained in a variety of ways, including all the ways in which women can wield their natures and corrupt a man's heart and mind. Luring him, drawing him closer, so as to reveal himself, seems like the best option. But subtlety is necessary, and seduction is not something I’ve often practiced or wielded with great success in the past. Plus, I am not dealing with a mere man.
As a long-lived immortal who experienced far more of the world than I am capable of comprehending, I know not how the Horseman may respond. Is he susceptible to desire?
Would my clumsy wiles be in vain, or could I tempt him by appealing to his baser instincts?
The emotions rolling off him are subdued. They do not scream threat, so I explore ways to make myself more interesting and give him a glimpse of the woman I am underneath the cloak, without the magical properties of the elixir.
Beauty is relative. Compared to all the females he has likely encountered, how might I measure up? These are questions I ponder as I travel ever onward with no real destination in mind.
I know one thing…
This course of action is a high-risk, low-margin-for-error gamble. But at the same time, I believe if I pique his curiosity further, he will finally either choose to reveal himself or leave me in peace.
As the days progress, I dive back into my studies on the art of seduction and research symbols of conquest and desire. I work to make myself more appealing, less of a threat, and play up the distress while downplaying my ability to fend for or defend myself.
I stretch it out over a long period so as not to give myself away. However, I must be too subtle, because for all my effort, I am rewarded with no change in the distance between us. And time is running out.
I cannot continue to roam endlessly over the Earth with a ghost tracking my every movement. I cannot return to the homestead with this threat looming and lead him to what I hold most dear, and there are a great many things I must see to.
Time is precious, and whether he realizes it or not, he is wasting it.
Mine. His.
Drastic change calls for drastic measures. Grand Minister Judiah’s words come back to me then, and I spend the better part of a week figuring out what course of action to take to bring him out of hiding.
I do not know if I will survive our meeting, but I am prepared for either outcome just in case.
Two new tattoos sit fresh on my skin, still bleeding under salve that will speed up the healing process. They glow under the candlelight. One yellow. One red.
The new sigils are not as clean as I would like, but the equipment is a backup set I keep hidden in an underground bunker that acts as storage and temporary safety, and nothing more.
Having completed them, I gather all the medical supplies from the top shelf and begin setting them up. It is a tight space full of organized collections and various things I have salvaged on my excursions, but it will have to do.
While attempting to get comfortable on the cot, I slap at the skin of my inner elbow.
The needle is thin, but the tubing is not.
The needle point punctures through the skin and slides easily into my best vein.
My blood begins to flow, rapidly rushing into the tubing, filling up the clear IV bag hanging just above my head.
The first bag connects to a network of others, all lined up and suspended from a system I’ve erected to measure out exactly how much I extract.
It is the only way to accelerate the change.
To weaken myself. Make myself as vulnerable as possible, susceptible to injury or illness.
When I drain as much as I dare, when the edges of my vision darken, and consciousness threatens to slip from my grasp, I carefully pull the needle free and quickly apply a bandage.
The bags hang heavy now, their colors shifting from a muted bluish-grey to purple to pink, and finally to a deep crimson.
I am temporarily restored to my human state, and weaker than I have let myself fall burden to in recent years.
There were times in the beginning when it could not be helped—when poor planning or fatal injury left me too far from my reserves.
But that was before I carried small doses on my person at all times, enough to keep death at bay when necessary.
It was done more out of fear that it might fall into the wrong hands than anything else.
This is not that.
This is deliberate. A premeditated measure to obtain the result I seek.
I will carry hidden reserves of the elixir and take care not to use them under his watchful gaze. Which means carefully analyzing the situation as it plays out, evaluating timing, and taking a dose only when success is guaranteed.
If I reveal my deception too soon, or give him any hint that my power stems from an external source—one he could take—he could use it against me.
Which means this may be my only opportunity to play the part of the damsel, and my studies suggest it is one of a man’s greatest weaknesses.
They want to play the hero. They are caregivers by nature, but not in the same sense as women are.
They provide. Protect. I must appeal to that instinct—the part of him that seeks to care for another.
He is the Reaper of All Growing Things and not to be underestimated. Once he discovers the truth—how powerful I truly am, what I’m capable of—any advantage I have will be gone.
Should I fail and, by any stretch of God’s will, make it out of this alive, I may never get this close to him again. All hope rests on my ability to sever his head from his shoulders before he figures me out.
The day comes, and I pack with care. After securing my supplies, I head east toward an area known for good hunting, not far from a settlement that accepts venison in trade.
It will be an arduous journey—but one I must endure since delaying any longer would drain me to the last dregs of my energy and compound the danger of the task I have set in motion.
Already, the gnawing need to feed the elixir back into my system has taken hold. It creeps beneath my skin, activating an itch that cannot be soothed. The tremors have not yet begun—but they will, and all too soon strip me of the precision I rely on.
So for now, I ride the edge of it.
Like crossing a rotted log over a raging river that could give under my weight at any moment, this too is a delicate balancing act. One I navigate with care as I manage between coping with symptoms of withdrawal and maintaining enough power to accomplish my undertaking.
Putting the worry to the back of my mind and muttering come what may under my breath, I tighten my grip on the reins and push on.
Most of the day is spent covering flat terrain—on plains, where the wind makes visibility difficult, and small cyclones of ash spin in the distance like miniature tempests, engulfing whatever wanders into their path.
Hours later, once we reach our desired destination, we weave through the trees until we hit the densest part of the forest.
Enoch, or so I’ve renamed him, seems to love this place. He is content among the healthy Douglas firs, aspen, and spruce trees, which remain untouched by the havoc many other parts of the world experienced in the fallout.
Most are leaking sap, and the strong scent of each species permeates the air, filtering into my lungs on each inhale. Along with the shade they provide, it is a welcome reprieve that makes my suffering easier to bear.
The rain comes, starting as a trickle and then in earnest. It deepens the aroma of earth, which then joins the melee, invading my dulled senses.
Besides the rainfall and Enoch’s hoofbeats as they fall in a steady rhythm, there is little sound other than that of wildlife around us.