Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 24

We leave the next day, long after Famine’s men have already headed out.

I use the extra time to find a more reasonable outfit for myself—a pair of jeans that actually fit (I’m keeping them forever) and a black shirt. I even have enough time to make myself a pot of coffee. I hum away as I heat up water over the stove.

“You seem inappropriately happy.”

I scream, whirling around and clutching my chest just as Famine strides into the room, his scales in hand.

“Oh my God, give a girl some warning,” I say leaning back against the stove for a split second before the hot metal has me jerking away from it.

“Is that what you say to all your clients?” Famine says, setting his scales on the table.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Is that another sex joke?”

The corner of his mouth curls up.

I look at him curiously. “But I thought … ”

I thought that Famine didn’t do sex. Of course, you don’t have to bang a human to poke fun at the act.

Rather than finishing my question, my gaze moves over the Reaper’s face. Right now he’s particularly destabilizing, mostly because he seems so … not horrible. I don’t really know what to make of it, just as I don’t really know what to make of his gentleness last night.

My gaze goes to the scales on the table. Unlike his armor and his scythe, the two metal pans look old and worn.

“Why do you never keep those out?” I ask. In the time I’ve traveled with the horseman, I’ve only seen his scales a few times.

“I have them out now.”

I give him a look. “You know what I mean.”

He glances down at the scales, considering them. “Perhaps I care more about death than I do justice.”

“Is that what they’re for?” I ask. “Justice?” I assumed they were for weighing shit.

He jerks his chin to the stove behind me. “Your water is boiling.”

I turn back to the pot, cursing under my breath. I feel flustered and off-kilter, and Famine is to blame.

“Drink your coffee,” the Reaper says at my back. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

He begins to walk away, then pauses. “Oh,” he says over his shoulder, “and while you’re at it, pour me a cup.”

Throughout our ride, I keep looking over my shoulder at Famine.

“What?” he finally demands, his gaze moving down to me.

I shake my head.

He sighs. “Whatever’s on your mind, just say it.”

“You’re different today.”

He arches one eyebrow, his green eyes glittering. “Different how?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, studying his face as though it holds the answers. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Could it have simply been what I said last night? Famine has made an exception of me since we reunited, but when I explained a bit about my own troubled past, his demeanor shifted, and it hasn’t shifted back.

And now he’s been acting … not nicer, necessarily, but—I don’t know—more relatable maybe?

We spend the whole day traveling. Long after the sun has set, we’re still in the saddle. Just when I’m sure Famine is going to make me sleep on his horse again, he turns off the highway.

“What are you doing?” I yawn.

“Finding a place for you to rest.” He doesn’t sound particularly pleased by this.

My stomach drops at that. “I don’t want to stop.” Not if it means Famine might kill someone else.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “I know you’re tired.”

“I’m fine, I swear.”

There’s a long pause, then—

“Whatever stranger you seek to protect, they will die anyway. The moment we pass them, their lands will blacken, the soil will turn unforgiving. A quick death is kinder.”

I shake my head. “Please. Just ride on.”

But he doesn’t. A mere fifteen minutes later the horseman directs his steed to a dark structure. Famine rides up to what appears to be a home and hops off his mount.

I’m not getting off the horse, I’m not.

But then Famine grabs me by the waist and pulls me easily off his steed.

Setting me down, he holds me close, and I stare into his eyes.

“Please don’t, Famine.”

He sighs. “While I appreciate that you always assume the worst of me, you’re wrong this time.”

I frown, confused. “I don’t understand …”

“Go inside and see for yourself.”

I glance at the ominous structure, and I almost say, you first. But then, I know how that story ends.

With lots and lots of dead bodies.

Swallowing down my fear, I head towards the door. It’s only once I’m standing on the stoop that I understand what the Reaper meant.

Overgrown shrubs press against the doorway, almost completely blocking it from view.

Famine steps up next to me and brushes the plants aside with his hand. It’s too dark to see anything clearly, but the plants seem to be curling back in on themselves to reveal the rotted front door.

Wow, uh, super uneager to touch that doorknob …

I end up not having to. The Reaper steps past me and turns the knob. The door swings open, and then falls off completely

“Charming,” Famine says.

I give the abandoned house a skeptical look. I really don’t want to go in. The sexual favors I’d commit right about now for a nice damn bed.

With a sigh, I step inside.

Dead leaves crunch under my boots, and in the distance I hear something scuttle.

It smells like mildew and rot, and the few things my hands brush feel sticky, like the process of this house unmaking itself is messy.

Can one sleep standing up? Because right now I’m sort of tempted to try.

Famine enters behind me, and I hear him kick something aside with his boot. I hear a squeak and a scampering sound as some unseen creature slips away.

I wander into what must’ve been the kitchen. There’s an old icebox in the corner, its surface banged up and tarnished. The cupboards are peeling paint and a couple of them lie on the floor.

I leave the room and wander into another, where an old washing machine rests on its side, the door of it hanging open. Pretty sure there’s a nest of some sort inside the thing …

Seriously, fuck this place.

Famine toes a broken pot. “Still want to sleep here?”

I glare at him. “You did this on purpose.”

The horseman kicks the pot out of the way. “Did what? Pick an abandoned house for you to sleep in? Little flower, don’t insult me—this was all your idea. But if you don’t like it, I’ll get my horse—” He begins to walk back towards the door.

“Wait,” I call out after him. If it’s between this and another death, I can do this.

Famine turns back to face me. “Really,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “You really want to do this?”

“It’s … it’s not so bad,” I say, sweeping debris aside with my foot to make a spot for myself on the ground.

He scoffs in response.

“I thought you of all people might like a place devoid of humans,” I snap, sitting down. It smells like vermin in here. Wet vermin. Ugh.

“How is this place devoid of humans? Everything about it was made for and by them.” He makes a face, and to himself he grumbles, “The only thing worse than human creations are festering human creations.” He punctuates his words by crushing something under his boot.

But even as he speaks, the horseman sits down near me, leaning his back against a nearby wall and crossing his arms over his chest. It can’t be very comfortable wearing all that armor right now, but he doesn’t complain and he doesn’t make a move to take any of it off.

I guess we’re really doing this.

Might as well get comfortable.

I lie down, putting my head in his lap. Immediately, his body goes rigid.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

“Calm your tits,” I say, settling in. “I’m not trying to steal your virginity. You just happen to be the cleanest thing in this house.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, but he also doesn’t push my head off his legs.

“I don’t have an appetite for mortal flesh,” he warns.

Imagine that—Famine not having an appetite.

“Why would you even say something like that?” I ask, curious. As I speak, I remember how he stared at my lips last night. He looked hungry then …

“You always bring the subject of sex up,” he says, “like you expect me to succumb to some base nature of mine.”

“You’ve succumbed to your anger,” I say. “Is lust really so different?”

“It’s not the same thing.” He sounds defensive.

“Hmmm …” I say.

“We were talking about your weaknesses,” he says. “Not mine.”

“Ah, yes,” I shift, my cheek brushing against his inner thigh. “My weakness for sex.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“Posturing doesn’t suit you, flower.”

“Oh, I’m posturing now?” I raise my eyebrows as I speak. To give him some credit, I’ve fashioned my weakness into a weapon. In a world where people believe an appetite for sex is a sin, I’ve wielded my sexuality like a sword.

“Beneath this … image you’ve built for yourself, you’re someone else entirely,” the horseman says, “aren’t you?”

I glance up at him. “We are all someone else,” I say.

I’ve seen men’s souls laid bare in the bedroom, and the biggest thing I’ve learned is that people are not what they seem. I’ve nearly been killed by a man who had a reputation for being kind, and a local criminal paid me to hold him all night, just so that he could cry in my arms.

Famine meets my eyes, and right here in the darkness, all of his posturing is gone. His hate and anger are a distant memory.

We hold each other’s gazes for longer than we should. Long enough to notice that even with his armor on, the glow of his glyphs still subtly illuminates his chin and cheeks.

“Is there anything about us humans that you do like?” I finally ask.

“I like your stories,” he admits, his voice like velvet in the darkness.

“Our stories?” I say, incredulous.

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“Stories are the most human thing about humans. Of course I’m shocked.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that.

“What sort of stories do you like?” I ask.

“Ones where a lot of people die,” he deadpans.

I reach out and give his chest a playful shove. “Get out of here. No you don’t. I bet you like romance.”

“No.”

“I bet you do. I don’t think anyone can resist a good romance.”

“Stop it, Ana,” he says. But I swear it sounds like there might be a slight smile to his voice.

Maybe I’m just imagining it.

“Well,” I say, shifting myself to get more comfortable in his lap, “now you have to tell me one.”

“No.”

“C’mon, just one little bedtime story—and a head scratch. You know, as a peace offering for me not stealing your virginity.”

“What makes you think I’m a virgin?” he says.

I gasp and sit up. “You’re not a virgin?” How scandalous!

Famine pushes me back down on his lap. “Fine, I will tell you a story—”

“Tell me about your first time,” I command.

“No.”

“Fine. First times are always messy anyway. Tell me about your second time.”

“Ana.”

I grin in the darkness. It was worth a shot.

“I’m kidding,” I say. “Tell me a story you enjoy—with a head scratch,” I add.

The Reaper stares down at me. “I don’t even know what a head scratch is.”

I take his hand and move it to my hair. “Here’s my head, now, you scratch. Really, Famine, it’s quite obvious.”

His fingers freeze in my hair. Then, ever so slowly, they comb through my dark locks, quickly catching on kinks.

“Ow,” I say.

That’s the trouble with curly hair.

Ignoring me, the Reaper begins to play with my hair a little. It’s definitely not a head scratch, but I’m distracted by it all the same.

“That story?” I prompt him.

“Impertinent girl,” he says softly, not looking away from my hair. “Would you like me to tell you the tale of Ma’at?”

“What’s Ma’at?” I ask.

“She’s the ancient Egyptian goddess of harmony and justice.”

“Ancient Egyptian?” I echo. I’ve heard of Egypt before, but ancient Egypt … it sounds too far away in time and space to hold any value or meaning for me.

“Is she real?” I ask. If the four horsemen really exist, maybe other deities do too.

“The concept of her is real.”

“Hmph.” What a cop-out answer.

“Don’t give me that noise,” Famine says. “I was a concept just like Ma’at until I was given form.”

“So she is real,” I say.

“She, like me, is one of many human constructs. If God wanted her to represent divinity, He would’ve made her exist. It just so happens that me and my three brothers better fit His plan.”

His plan to kill us all.

“Your explanation hurts my head,” I say.

“You’re not really supposed to understand these things.” Because you’re a pathetic human.

He doesn’t say that last part, but he was definitely thinking it.

“So do you know her—Ma’at?” I ask.

Famine sighs, like I’ve missed the point completely.

“Fine, fine, forget I asked. Now, tell me her story.”

Famine’s fingers run through my hair, snagging a bit. I wonder just how frizzy my hair is going to be once he’s done.

“When the world was first spoken into creation, Ma’at was created with it. She was justice, harmony, peace and order given form—”

“So she was a person,” I say.

“A goddess,” Famine corrects, sounding a little miffed. “And only in Egyptian religion. She was a winged woman who wore an ostrich feather in her hair, which represented the straight and true path.

“To live a life in alignment with Ma’at meant to follow the spirit and flow of the universe.”

Famine has a rich voice, one that pulls you in, and I listen, rapt, to the strange story he’s telling.

“On the day you died, ancient Egyptians believed that your heart would be weighed against the feather of Ma’at. If you had lived a good, righteous life, your heart would be found to be lighter than her feather, and you would go on to an afterlife of eternal peace.

“But if you committed great evil, your heart would reveal its wicked deeds on the scale, and it would weigh more than the feather. Rather than moving on to a blissful afterlife, your heart would be fed to Ammut, the devourer, a hideous beast, and your soul would be forced to wander the earth, restless and lost, forever.” The horseman falls silent, and I realize that’s the end of his tale.

Of course Famine would enjoy that sort of story.

“Does it really work like that?” I ask. “The afterlife?”

The Reaper pauses.

“No,” he finally says. “Not at all. Being human is all the pain and punishment a soul will ever endure. The rest … the rest is much better. But only you fool humans would somehow think otherwise.”

I let that soak in.

“That was a weird story. Why do you like it?”

Another pause, this one a bit longer. “I believe, if you think about it long enough, you’ll figure it out.”

Well, that sounds way too hard. Pass.