Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 29

I don’t stay in Famine’s room.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with the room, but lingering in there feels too much like waiting, and I don’t really want to feel like I’m waiting on someone else at the moment.

Unfortunately, waiting is exactly what I end up doing in my bed. I’m not sure how long I thought it would take Famine to deal with Heitor, but the minutes tick by, and the hallway outside my room is painfully quiet.

I wait for the sound of footsteps—any footsteps—heading towards this wing of the estate, but none come. I wait so long the tapered candles have dripped down to size, getting wax all over the sconces that hold them.

I wait until my eyelids grow heavy and I drift off …

Click.

My eyes snap open, my heart racing for some odd reason. The room is pitch black, the candles having burned themselves out at some point.

I lay in bed, trying to figure out what woke me. The room is so dark it’s hard to make out anything. I hear another soft noise, and I realize it’s coming from the door. I locked it earlier, but now I swear it sounds like the knob is turning.

A moment later the door does, in fact, open. Low light from the hallway filters in, outlining a male figure. There’s something in the hand at his side.

My muscles tense.

Famine’s the only person I’d actually trust to slip into my room at night, and that’s because he doesn’t hide his own brand of evil like the rest of us. But if the figure were Famine, he’d be bigger, his shoulders wider and his torso more tapered.

He probably also wouldn’t give a fuck about being quiet.

The intruder steps into the room, and a distant light glints off the object in their hand.

A blade.

Jesus.

The intruder doesn’t even hesitate, heading straight for the bed.

Move, Ana!

There’s a brass candelabra on the bedside table next to me. Silently, I reach for it, grabbing the cool metal base. And then I wait, though it just about kills me to do so.

The figure comes so close I see that it’s a man. He doesn’t stop until he’s at the bedside. He leans in, reaching a hand for my throat, his blade coming up as well.

I can see it all play out for a moment—how he’d subdue me first, then move onto the bed. And from there … well, I wish I didn’t know what happened once a wicked man was fully in control of this sort of situation, but prostitution is no fairytale.

I lift the candelabra and swing it as hard as I can at my assailant. I miss his head, instead hitting the man’s knife-wielding hand with a heavy clink. A familiar male voice cries out as his blade is knocked away.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

Heitor.

Of course it’s him. He’s the only one brazen enough to do this.

“Bitch,” he curses, lunging for my weapon.

In a panic, I swing the candelabra again. This time it hits his head with a dull thud.

Heitor grunts, toppling onto me, and for one horrifying moment I think that he’s attacking me. I swing again, but this time when the candelabra hits him, all I hear is a soft, guttural sound. The hand at my neck slides away, and the man above me is still.

For several seconds I lay there, breathing heavily as his deadweight crushes me.

Did I … kill him?

I feel shockingly little remorse at the idea.

I’m more worried about the possibility that if he isn’t dead, he’s going to wake up and really want to finish what he started.

My mind is scrambled, my pulse hammering through my veins.

With a great heave, I push Heitor off of me.

He slips off the bed, landing in a heap on the hardwood floor.

Move-move-move.

I head for the door on shaky legs. It’s only once I get to the threshold that I remember the knife.

Fuck.

If Heitor wakes up, I want to be the one with a weapon.

I hold my breath as I hurry back for the knife, keeping my eyes trained on the lump of a man collapsed next to the bed, sure he’s going to pounce on me once I’m within reaching distance. But the body doesn’t move as my gaze scours the bed for the weapon, nor does it move when I catch sight of it in my sheets and grab it by the hilt.

I back up, my eyes trained on the cartel boss, then I turn and bolt for the door. Once I’m in the hallway, I run like my life depends on it, grateful I’m still fully dressed.

Where’s Famine? The terrifying thought echoes over and over again through my head. Last I saw of him, he’d been planning on chopping up Heitor. But Heitor was in my room, his hands and legs very much intact.

I slow to a stop, then glance back down the hallway, forcing myself to think through the cloud of adrenaline and fear driving me onward.

I should check the horseman’s room to see if he’s there. That would be the logical first step.

Without another thought, I sprint back down the hall. Famine’s room is right next to mine, and as I stop in front of it, I hope to hell that Heitor isn’t rousing.

Tentatively I open the door. Inside, it’s completely dark, and I can only assume the candles here burned down to their base.

“Famine?” I whisper, tip-toeing in.

Nothing.

“Famine?” I say again, this time a bit louder.

I fumble my way around the room, trying to feel out whether he or any of his things are still here. I’m pretty sure I touch that phallic sculpture, but my fingers don’t brush Famine’s scales, or his armor, or Famine himself—which I guess is a good thing. A part of me was terrified I’d stumble across his body.

I slip back out of the room and head down the hall once more.

If the Reaper isn’t in his room, and he’s clearly not with Heitor, then where would he be? And, more importantly, what state is he in?

I get to the end of the hall and exit this wing of the house, adrenaline still singing in my veins. Outside, the cool night air ruffles my curly hair. Candles and oil lamps glow from inside the main building of the estate. Even from here I can see figures moving inside. None of them, however, are the horseman.

I stand out in that courtyard for an obscene amount of time, debating where I should look next and just how much I should make my presence known.

Before I can make up my mind, a door from the main building opens up and a man steps out into the courtyard.

I freeze. I don’t think he’s seen me yet.

“I’m just going to check on him,” the man says to someone inside the main building.

“Don’t do it,” someone shouts from farther inside. “Last man who did lost a finger.”

The guard I can see now hesitates.

“Seriously man, let the boss have his fun, and let’s have ours,” says the guard inside.

My stomach churns. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be the boss’s fun. As for the guards’ fun …

The man reluctantly reenters the building, and I hear a door click shut.

Then the only sound is my own, ragged breathing.

Dear God, what happened to Famine? Did they ambush him? How badly is he hurt?

Slowly the panic in my mind settles, and I begin to think clearly again.

One thing is absolutely obvious: I can’t stay out here. If Heitor isn’t dead—and it would be too good to hope that he is—then he’ll return to his men. When he does, they’ll all know I’m alive.

I have minutes to do something while I still have the upper hand.

It’s the hardest thing in the world to approach the main building, but I force myself to do so. Slowly, I move about the outskirts of the mansion, peering through the windows. Inside, guards seem to be assembling, several of them heading out of the foyer and into the front yard.

I make my way around the massive building, holding my breath that I don’t come across any more guards or—heaven forbid—Rocha himself.

My good luck holds out. I make it to the front of the building, keeping to the hedges.

On the circular driveway, among the shadowy remains of Famine’s unnatural plants, half a dozen men cluster around something, a few of them jeering. I see one of them swing something, and then I hear a wet, meaty sound.

Let the boss have his fun, and let’s have ours.

My stomach bottoms out, and I have to close my eyes.

Famine—awful, unmerciful Famine—is getting tortured. The same man who only hours ago touched me softly and admitted that he liked me.

If I’d given him reason to reconsider his hatred, these men have utterly obliterated it.

I watch and I try not to sick myself as they jeer and curse and hack away at the horseman. The best I can hope for is that he’s already unconscious and beyond the pain.

I need to do something—anything.

That’s when I remember the heavy weight in my hand. Through all my panic I’d nearly forgotten about the knife I’m still clutching.

Shit, am I actually going to use it?

The men’s voices drift in, interrupting my thoughts.

“I’m the one who shot him, so I’m keeping the blade. You can have his armor.”

“Well I fucking want something, considering I’m going to set up the body.”

“You can have the horse.”

“Fuck you, that thing hates humans. It nearly bit off my hand earlier.”

“Where the fuck is Heitor?” someone interrupts.

“Don’t wait up for him. He’s dealing with the hussy this guy came here with.”

Some quiet laughter.

“Randy old bastard.”

My grip tightens on the weapon.

I think I could use the blade after all.

While all this is going on, someone pulls up a horse-drawn cart, two steeds already hitched to it. The men have their fun for a little while longer, and even in the darkness I see them playing with Famine’s scythe and grasping pieces of his armor. Almost as an afterthought they load the—gag—pieces of the horseman onto the cart.

Just as they’re about to close up the back of the wagon, the front door crashes open and one of Heitor’s men dashes out.

“The boss has been attacked, and the horseman’s woman is gone.”