Famine by Laura Thalassa
Chapter 27
That evening I sit with Famine in Heitor Rocha’s grand dining room, fidgeting as the two of us wait for dinner.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper to the horseman.
He leans back in his seat, slinging a leg over his knee. “Loosen up a little, flower.”
I open my mouth to fire back a retort when several of Heitor’s men enter the room, each carrying a platter of food. Heitor himself is nowhere to be seen.
So much for serving us.
“And where is your insufferable boss?” the Reaper asks, noticing Rocha’s absence. “I believe I asked him and not you all to serve me.”
One of the men mutters something vague about Rocha being in the next town over, making arrangements on the horseman’s behalf.
It’s more likely that Heitor is wherever the hell Heitor wants to be; not even Famine himself can make him do otherwise.
The Reaper glares at the men, but just when I think he’s going to grab his scythe and start gutting them, he leans back in his seat and lets them set the platters of food on the table.
“You there,” Famine calls, pointing to one of the men.
The man’s eyes move to the horseman. It’s not fear I see in those dark irises—more like caution. I guess that’s what you get when you’re used to working around sociopaths.
The Reaper gestures for him to come over, even as the other men set down their dishes and retreat back into the kitchen.
“What is it?” the man asks, moving towards Famine.
“Grab a plate. Sit.”
Maybe I was wrong earlier. Maybe Famine is planning on killing someone right now.
The man hesitates for only a moment, then he leaves the room, returning with a plate.
Tentatively, he sits across from us.
“Serve yourself,” the Reaper orders. “There’s plenty here, and I want you to try everything.” He sounds almost benevolent, like he himself made the dishes.
The guard eyes Famine for only a second or two before he reaches for each dish, putting a little of this and a little of that on his plate until it’s a heaping tray of everything.
“Now,” Famine says, “eat.”
It takes me longer than it should to realize that the horseman isn’t going to kill the man, like I assumed. He’s using him as a food tester, making sure that the dishes prepared weren’t laced with poison.
“And the wine—don’t forget to try that,” the horseman encourages.
The two of us watch the man in silence as he eats and drinks his way through the meal. The guard’s eyes are flinty as he does Famine’s bidding, but he polishes everything off.
When it becomes clear that he’s not going to keel over, the guard stands.
“I was hoping to eat with Heitor,” Famine says casually, and I’m impressed the horseman actually remembered the man’s name.
“I will let him know he was missed,” the guard responds. “I’m sure he regrets his absence.”
“Does he now?” Famine says.
The two men stare each other down. Eventually, the corner of the Reaper’s mouth curls into a lopsided smile. “You will find me Heitor, and you will bring him back here. He and I are to have a little chat.”
My stomach dips again at the thought of one of Rocha’s own men forcing their boss to do something. From everything I’ve heard, loyalty is a big deal in cartels. But Famine’s wrath is barely leashed as it is. And I’m in the crosshairs of it all.
The Reaper sits forward as the man leaves the room, and he begins serving himself. When I don’t follow suit, Famine serves me as well.
“I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to sit next to you and not get bombarded with all your petty thoughts,” Famine says, pouring us both a glass of wine. Setting the bottle down, he picks up his glass.
I glance at the horseman. I’ve been distracted today, it’s true. Distracted by our violent entrance into São Paulo, by Famine’s barely muzzled brutality, and by Heitor’s unsolicited touch.
Before I know exactly what I’m doing, I stand.
The Reaper reaches out and places a hand over mine. “Stay.”
“Is that an order or a request?” I say. I don’t know if it’s something in the water, but like Rocha, I don’t really want to follow orders at the moment.
The horseman thins his eyes at me. “Would it make a difference?” he asks, his words sharp.
I stare at him for an extra beat.
It would. It does.
And today I don’t want to play games.
Slipping my hand out from under his, I begin to leave.
I think the horseman’s going to call on Heitor’s men to stop me.
Instead, he says, “If that’s the way you feel about it, then it’s a request.”
I stop and take a deep breath. I know Famine conceding anything is a big deal, and maybe on another day I’d be satisfied with his response, but after Heitor’s ass-grab, I’m fucking over being forced to fit into roles men have cut out for me.
“For this to work—truly work—you’re going to have to respect me,” I say, my back still to the horseman.
“A tall order from a human,” he responds.
I’m not angry, but I’ve had enough. I begin moving towards the exit again.
“But I suppose I can make an exception for you,” he adds.
I glance back at Famine, annoyance simmering just beneath my skin. But the Reaper’s eyes are full of mirth. He’s being playful, and for once playful doesn’t involve someone dying.
It’s that look, more than anything, that convinces me to stay. Not that I’m great company at the moment.
I all but stomp back to my seat.
“You’re in a fine mood tonight,” he remarks.
“You’re one to talk,” I snap back at him.
“My mood is great—or it will be, once I eviscerate our host.”
There’s a stretch of silence, then Famine adds, “You’re still upset that I let Heitor live, aren’t you?”
What’s the use lying? I am upset, and I am beyond caring if that makes me a shitty person.
“Among other things,” I say.
Famine raises his eyebrows, looking absurdly delighted. “Oh, there are other things you’re also upset about? How very fascinating. What a magic trick it is to earn a woman’s ire without trying at all.”
I glare at my plate. “God, you would make a fantastic human. You’d fit right in with the rest of my clients.”
“Watch your words.”
“Why?” I challenge, now turning my blazing gaze back on the horseman. “What could you possibly do to me that hasn’t already been done before? I’m tired of watching my words and watching my actions. I’m fucking done being careful so that other people don’t have to be.”
Abruptly I stand and pick up my delicate wine glass. I don’t know what I’m doing until I cock back my arm and throw it at the far wall. Glass shatters on impact and wine splatters across the embellished wallpaper, dripping down its length.
It feels good to destroy Rocha’s things, things that probably cost a fortune and that Famine is enjoying at the moment. It feels so good in fact that, caught up in the moment, I grab the tablecloth and yank it hard, sending food and dinnerware careening everywhere. Porcelain plates fall to the floor, shattering as they dump their contents. The sound of all that finery breaking is music to my ears. I can’t find it in myself to feel bad for my actions. Not today and not among the wolves I’m surrounded by.
Only once it’s all over do I face the horseman again, my breathing a little heavy.
“Finally,” Famine says, a smile curving the corners of his lips, “a hint of your fire.”
