Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 22

I’m unceremoniously dumped into a room.

“You’re to stay here,” Famine says.

“Or else what?” I say defiantly.

The horseman steps in close. “Stay. Inside.”

“Make. Me.”

His mouth curves into a sinister smile. “Fine. Just remember you asked for it.”

Before I can pick apart his words, Famine grabs me again and hauls me over to the bed.

“What are you—?”

The Reaper tosses me onto the mattress. Just as I’m scrambling to sit up he gets on the bed, his knee going to my chest.

I thrash as best I can against him; it isn’t much, my shoulder still throbs and I’m tired after a day of being in the saddle.

“Get off of me,” I growl.

Instead of doing just that, Famine grabs the bottom of my travel-stained nightgown. There’s a momentary pause, when I realize exactly what he’s about to do.

“Don’t,” I say.

He does.

Grabbing the bottom of the makeshift dress, he rips off a strip of fabric, then uses it to bind one of my wrists to a bedpost. I tug against the binding, but it’s alarmingly secure.

“So this is your kink, then?” I say, fuming. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a bondage man, but then again, I wouldn’t have pegged you for evil, either.”

Famine rips off another strip of the dress, and it’s quickly going from an old-lady nightgown to something a bit more salacious. I don’t entirely disapprove.

I flail, trying to keep my remaining wrist out of Famine’s grip. But, it’s the injured arm here, so my efforts are paltry. Famine captures my wrist in a matter of seconds. He handles my injured arm gentler than I expect as he moves it towards the other bedpost. It still hurts like a motherfucker.

He ties my wrist to the bedpost, then sits back on his haunches.

“There,” he says, assessing his work, “now you can’t get in too much trouble.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say.

“I’ll come for you later,” he says, backing off the bed. “Until then, behave.”

Because there’s so much trouble I could get up to.

… Says the prostitute on the bed.

Okay, correction: there’s only so much trouble I’d want to get up to, given my circumstances.

The Reaper leaves the room, his footfalls growing fainter and fainter as he walks away.

“If anyone so much as looks at that door for too long,” I hear him call in the distance, “I will gut you and feed your entrails to you as you lay dying.”

Jesus.

I guess I’m going to have to behave.

Damnit.

I lay there for hours, trapped on that damn bed.

Outside my room, I can hear people bustling about, shouting orders to each other. Unfortunately, the same awful procession of people comes to Famine’s door just as they have in the towns before this. And just like all those other unfortunate interactions, these ones don’t end well either.

I can hear the screams, but worse, I hear the crackle of a bonfire somewhere nearby, and I can smell the smoke. At first it smells as smoke should, but the longer it burns, the more … cloying and meaty the smell gets.

I gag a little when I realize why that is. I lean my face into my shoulder, coughing like I can somehow get the smell and taste out of my nose and throat. That’s about when I realize that I’m leaning into my bad arm, and the bandage that covered it for hours has simply … vanished.

The horseman has some strange, terrible magic.

Once the shadows deepen and day turns to night, the procession of people tapers off.

For some time all I hear is the snap and sputter of the bonfire. But then, that sound is interrupted by ominous footfalls that can only belong to the Reaper. They get louder and louder until they come to a halt at the threshold of the room.

In the dying light, Famine looms in the doorway.

“Well look who it is,” I say, “the asshole of the hour.”

He steps inside the room, quiet. It raises all the hairs along my arm, that silent prowl of his. The closer he gets to me, the faster my breath comes. I can make out his scythe. It’s strapped to his back, the blade arcing ominously over his shoulder.

The horseman makes his way to the bed.

The horseman drops something onto the mattress before reaching for one of my bound wrists, effortlessly pulling apart the material that held me captive for hours.

He leans over my body to reach for my other, injured arm, but he hesitates when he hears my hitched breathing.

“Are you … frightened?” His voice is so low it makes me shiver.

“You sound delighted,” I say.

Okay, maybe not delighted, but definitely curious.

“I’ll be delighted when you actually stop fighting my every decision,” he replies, ripping apart my second makeshift shackle.

I shake my wrists out, trying to get the blood flowing back into them. “Then you’ll be delighted when I’m dead.”

“I’ll be relieved when you’re dead,” he says, gently moving my injured arm back to my side. The movement makes it throb something fierce. “You make even an immortal’s head pound.”

I scoff, sitting up as Famine grabs something from the bed. A moment later, some article of clothing hits me.

“What the—? Did you just throw—?”

“Put the dress on.”

“The dress?” I pick up the wadded up garment and shake it out. “Wait, what? Why?”

The Reaper sighs dramatically. For an evil motherfucker, he is so over-the-top with the theatrics.

“Must you question everything?” he says. “Because I said so.”

I set the article of clothing aside. “Unless you force it on me yourself, I’m not wearing a damn dress.”

The truth is, I could put the dress on; it would probably look less ridiculous than the oversized, travel-stained nightgown I’m wearing, but fuck this horseman and his demands.

Famine gives another long-suffering sigh. “Last time I’m going to ask nicely: Put. It. On.”

“No.”

In the darkness I swear I see that evil little smile of his make an appearance. “Fine.”

Fine?

I’m perplexed, even as he approaches me. But then he pulls his dagger from his belt.

“What are you—?”

He grabs my dress by the collar, and—riiiip. He drags the blade down the fabric. As he does so, the material parts, revealing my flesh beneath.

“What the hell are you doing?” I almost sound scandalized.

“That was your only dress, wasn’t it?” Famine says, like the asshole he is. “Pity it’s ruined. Now, put the fucking dress on.”

“You think I care about exposing myself?” I do. “I’ll walk around bare-breasted before I put—”

“Your shoes are going next.” He reaches for my boots, his blade still poised.

“Okay—okay!” I say, mostly because it’s hard to come by a decent set of shoes these days. “I hate you, but okay,” I mutter.

I grab the dress as he watches me with steely eyes. I know he’s not going to leave, so I don’t bother asking him to. I’ve lost enough power plays today as it is.

Slipping off the bed, I shuck off the remains of my nightgown then shake out the dress, trying to determine what it looks like. It seems to be wine colored, but I can’t be sure in the growing darkness. It has enough glittery pieces to it that I can tell it’s something ostentatious.

A line of buttons run up the back of the dress, and I have to pause to unbutton each one. Once the opening is wide enough, I step into the dress. I pull it up, feeling the beaded bodice and the ruffled skirt that’s cut high in the front and low in the back. It’s a little loose, but it works well enough.

All at once I have a flashback to my nights at the bordello, wearing dresses that cinched up the back, rouging my face in front of my vanity.

I’m getting pretty again, and I’m actually not too fond of that fact.

“Happy?” I say sullenly, turning to the horseman.

“Mmm.” He makes a noncommittal sound.

“You’ll need to button it for me.”

“Do it yourself,” he throws back.

“I can’t reach the buttons, Mr. I’ve-never-worn-a-fucking-dress-before-and-have-no-idea-how-one-actually-works.”

He glares at me.

“Or—I could not wear it,” I add.

After a moment, he approaches me. “Where are they?”

“The buttons?” I reply. “Down my back—along my spine.”

Famine tosses his dagger onto the bed, freeing up his hands. Gruffly he grabs my good shoulder and turns me around so my back is facing him. I feel the brush of his fingertips as he pulls the material together. Clumsily, the Reaper tries and tries again to get the small cloth-covered buttons through the little loop openings that edge the fabric. My stomach tightens at his touch, and I can’t help but feel his breath as it stirs the hair against my neck.

I should not be reacting this way to him—not when he literally just untied me from the bed.

A hundred and twenty years later, the Reaper finishes buttoning me up. I pull out the hair that’s inadvertently gotten tucked into the dress and I turn around.

The horseman is already on his way out.

“Follow me,” he calls over his shoulder.

I hesitate, my eyes moving to the bed where the Reaper tossed his blade only minutes ago. On a whim I lean over the bed and grasp the weapon, tucking it into one of my boots. Days ago I wasn’t brave enough to hide a knife on my person. But a lot has changed in that time.

I take a couple steps, making sure I don’t slice my ankle.

Am I really going to dare the horseman’s wrath by doing this?

I think of the hours spent tied to the bed while dozens of people died.

Yes, I think I am.

Dagger now secured, I trudge out of the room.

Halfway down the hallway, Famine glances over his shoulder at me. I think he just means to make sure I’m behind him, but the moment he catches sight of me, he does a double take, stumbling to a halt.

Now that’s a reaction.

Out here in the hallway, the candlelight better illuminates my outfit, and Famine uses that light to look me over, starting with the hem of my dress—which is in fact a deep red color—and moving his gaze up. He looks like he doesn’t know what hit him.

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure you don’t like sex?” I say. “You’re looking at me as though you might.”

The horseman rips his gaze from my body, meeting my eyes. “I am not looking at you in any way”

“Yep, you are. You definitely look like you could bang one out. I’m real good at quickies—”

Famine growls—growls!—in response, much to my delight.

“Enough of this, Ana.” His gaze drops to my borrowed boots, and his irritated expression deepens.

“What?” I say defensively. “You gave me a dress, not shoes.”

He looks heavenward, then resumes walking once more. “C’mon, flower.”

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.” Earlier, he had mentioned some sort of celebration in passing, but I haven’t heard anything about it since. The dress, however, does seem to fit the occassion.

Famine doesn’t respond, and a wave of trepidation passes over me. Whatever his plans are, they can’t possibly be good.

Outside, his horse is already waiting for him, along with several of his men. The greasy stench of smoke and charred bodies is stronger out here, and I have to swallow back my rising bile.

Several of the guards’ eyes go to my exposed legs. One of them glances from my calves to my face, and I raise my eyebrows at him.

I mean, really? We are literally breathing in human remains and he wants to check out a pair of shapely legs?

For shame.

The Reaper steps in front of me. “You want a dress too?” he asks the offending man.

I raise my eyebrows. I assumed the horseman didn’t notice these sorts of nonverbal interactions.

Apparently, I was wrong.

The man sputters some response.

“No?” the horseman interrupts. “Then stop eye-fucking the girl.”

With that, the Reaper grabs me by the waist and hauls me onto his steed. A second later he follows me up, and then we’re riding off into the darkness.

I’m still processing that little exchange.

I glance over my shoulder at Famine. “You know what eye-fucking is?” I have the oddest urge to laugh.

The Reaper looks down at me. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

I gaze at him a little longer, and then I grin, my lips spreading wide.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”

“Flower, I don’t get jealous.”

“Uh huh.”

“What is that tone?” he demands.

“What tone?” I ask innocently.

“Do you not believe me?” Famine’s voice rises with his outrage, and it is music to my ears. This is what I’d been missing with the Reaper. I can play a man like a hand of cards, but a horseman … I thought I was out of my element, but it seems as though they too can behave like men.

“I’m not jealous,” he insists.

“Sure,” I say, tucking a lock of dark hair behind my ear.

“Damn you, Ana. Stop toying with your voice. I’m not jealous.”

“I’m not the one getting worked up,” I say, swinging my feet back and forth. God but I’m enjoying this.

Famine lets out a frustrated growl, but doesn’t respond.

I smile for the rest of the ride.