Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 17

The next day, I’ve only just gotten out of bed when my door is thrown open, the wood banging against the wall.

Famine stands at the threshold, his armor on and his scythe in hand, looking all sorts of agitated. So, essentially, same as always.

“Let’s go,” Famine says, jerking his head over his shoulder.

“Good morning to you too,” I say, biting back a yawn as I stretch.

“Ana, let’s. Go.”

What in the world is the rush?

“I need shoes first,” I say, lifting a dirty foot. I could probably also use another bath, but I doubt I’ll be getting one any time soon.

“So you can run away?” he says skeptically. “I think not.”

I sigh. “I thought we had made some progress on the imprisonment front last night.” He had removed my shackles, after all. I thought that was a step in the right direction. “Notice I didn’t run?”

I did, however, collect every knife I could find in the kitchen and I hid them in various parts of the house. In this room alone, I have two under my mattress, two more in the closet, and another one in the top drawer of the bedside table.

Just in case.

“Am I supposed to be impressed by that? We already went over the fact that there is nowhere for you to go.”

True.

“That hasn’t stopped you from worrying I will run,” I say smoothly.

“You are prone to stupid decisions—”

“My stupid decisions once saved your life.”

“I would’ve regenerated anyway.”

I glare at him.

He glares back.

I fold my arms. “Where’s the girl?” I ask, still not moving towards him. The girl from yesterday, the one whose father heartlessly gave her away to the horseman. Last I saw of her, she was being carted away to one of this home’s bedrooms. It’s bothered me ever since, all the horrors he might’ve inflicted on her.

“What girl?” the horseman asks, momentarily distracted from our argument.

“The one you spared,” I say euphemistically.

The Reaper’s brows pull together, and I spend a traitorous moment enjoying how pretty he is. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still an asshole, and I wouldn’t fuck him unless I was especially desperate—or you know, the whole blowjob-for-humanity bit. But he is pretty.

Famine’s brow smooths. “Ah, yes,” he says. “I almost forgot.”

And then he walks away.

That’s … not an answer. And that’s definitely not the end of the conversation.

“What happened to her?” I press, rushing after him.

“You humans are such curious, conniving creatures,” he says ahead of me, striding down the hall.

“Did you rape her?” I ask. “Kill her?”

“This conversation is almost as boring as she was,” the Reaper says, not bothering to turn to me.

“‘Was’?” I say. “So you did kill her?” My stomach bottoms out, but of course he did. That’s what Famine does.

The Reaper doesn’t answer, and I’m left to imagine all sorts of horrible scenarios in my head.

I follow Famine out the front door. I can still hear low moans coming from the backyard, but I see no one—dead or alive.

Famine whistles, and a minute later his horse comes galloping out of seemingly nowhere, its hooves clacking against the broken asphalt.

I halt in my tracks. “Wait. Are we … leaving?”

Already?

“There’s nothing more I need to do here,” the Reaper says as his horse comes to a stop in front of him.

Famine turns to me and, grabbing me by the waist, hoists me into the saddle. A moment later, he joins me.

“Wait-wait-wait,” I say, “I haven’t even had breakfast, and I need my things!”

“You don’t have things,” the horseman says calmly. He clicks his tongue, and his horse begins to trot away from the house.

I glance over my shoulder forlornly. “Not anymore.” Goodbye, knives.

I face forward again. “Did you already kill off your guards?” I ask as we begin to wind our way through the city.

“I was tempted to,” he admits, “but no. I sent them off last night.”

“Why?” I ask, half turning my head.

“I hate getting blood on my clothes.”

I shut my eyes against the image. “No—I wasn’t asking why you spared them.” Ugh. “I meant, why did you send them—”

“I know what you meant,” Famine says, cutting me off.

Oh. I think that was horseman humor.

“They’re going to prepare the next city for my arrival.”

Just like my city was prepared. The thought sends a wave of apprehension through me.

“And,” he adds, “to answer your question from earlier, no I didn’t rape the girl you were worried about. I would never do such a thing.” He says this with a conviction normally reserved for people who have been victims themselves.

Could mighty Famine have been abused? It’s not too far fetched, considering all the other torture he must’ve endured.

“Then why would you send her to your room?”

The Reaper doesn’t answer.

I try again. “Is she alive?” I ask.

“Why does it matter to you?” he says.

Because she’s young and scared and I recognize bits of myself in her.

“It just does,” I say.

After a moment, Famine exhales. “She’s alive. For now.”

As we leave Colombo, people—living, breathing people—peer out from their houses. Somewhere in the distance I hear a child laugh.

I take them in, confused. Famine doesn’t leave cities intact.

Behind me, the horseman begins to whistle.

What do you have planned, Famine?

Then I hear a distant, buzzing noise at our backs.

I glance over my shoulder, and on the horizon, the sky is dark, and I swear it seems to be getting darker by the second.

“What … what is that noise?” I ask, facing forward. It sets my teeth on edge.

He whispers in my ear. “Don’t you know, though?”

I strain to listen. The noise is getting louder and louder, even as the sky continues to darken. It’s not until a large bug whacks into my arm that I start to understand.

I brush the creature off, but then another three hit me in quick succession. I glance behind us again and I realize the dark sky is moving.

That bone-chilling sound is the collective buzz of millions of wingbeats.

It’s famine in its truest form.

My eyes meet the Reaper’s.

“Thus far, you seem to find my methods of killing distasteful,” he says, “so I thought I’d try my hand at a more … biblical approach.

“It will take them a long time to die,” he comments. “Starvation is no quick end. Maybe some of those humans will even manage to survive … you would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck. You.”

“Still not interested,” he says.

I face forward again.

“Then again, I’m not sure I want to be so merciful to you humans. I really wouldn’t want another Ana surviving my wrath—one is plenty enough.”

I twist in the saddle once more to openly glare at him. Only moments after I do so, the ground seems to shudder, and I have to grab onto the horseman to brace myself. He gives me an arch look at the action. Behind him, the sky clears, the insects dispersing in a matter of minutes.

I don’t see his awful plants sprout, and I don’t hear the pained cries of thousands of people who’ve been caught in their clutches, but I know it’s happening all the same.

I don’t have it in me to be horrified any longer. It’s just one more atrocity to add to the long list of them he’s committed since I first saw him in Laguna.

And if I’m to travel with him, then I better get used to this horseman’s perversions. I’m afraid I’m going to be seeing a lot more of them soon enough.