Famine by Laura Thalassa
Chapter 31
“Alright,” the horseman says much later, just as the sky begins to lighten. He sits up. “I’m ready.”
The Reaper reaches out, and in the dim light, I see the outline of his scythe. It’s a shock to see that enormous weapon. At some point, it reappeared.
My gaze moves to the horseman’s chest, and sure enough, I can just make out the shine of his armor. I imagine that somewhere near us are his scales as well.
Famine grabs his weapon, and I suck in a breath. I hadn’t realized that his hand had grown back.
My gaze goes to his other arm. That one hasn’t finished healing, though his forearm and hand technically are there. Still, they look a little leaner and meatier than they should.
“Ready?” I echo confused. “Ready for what?”
It takes the Reaper two tries, but he eventually pulls himself to his feet.
He glances down at me, a smile tugging the corner of his lips. “Why, for revenge. What else?”
Famine limps a little, but when I try to help him, he waves me off. With his bad arm. It’s still—cringe—growing back. I can’t tell what state his legs are in, but his neck wound seems mostly healed.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” I say, bending down to grab the horseman’s scales—which are in fact sitting nearby. I don’t know why I’m bothering to grab these. Famine himself seems happy enough to leave them behind.
He makes an indignant noise. “Of course I do. I can sense the entire world through my plants.”
That’s … unsettling.
But as odd as the statement is, it must be true because, not ten minutes later, we end up on the road.
The strip of land appears completely abandoned, though I know several men have ridden up and down this road over the last several hours. Famine walks towards the estate’s main entrance.
“This feels familiar,” I say. It’s a different city and a different year, but the same brutal horseman who needs to exact revenge on the people who hurt him.
Famine stops, glancing over his shoulder at me. “I know you think I am all anger,” he says as though he read my mind, “and much of the time, I am—but …”
It’s still too dark to see clearly, but I swear he’s giving me another one of those hungry looks.
“I’m not going to leave you. I never meant to leave you the first time we met. My mind was a mess, Ana. Let me punish the people who need to be punished, so that I can think about something other than this pressing need to kill.”
In the distance I hear the steady clop of horses’ hooves. Unlike the earlier, pounding hoof beats, these are slow and steady. Famine turns forward again, towards the noise, which is coming in the direction of the estate.
He begins walking again, the mangled archway coming into view. I follow him, fear blooming inside me at the confrontation ahead.
The hoof beats get louder, and I hear the creak of wheels over rocks and the murmur of men’s voices. The sound of those voices sends another wave of fear through me. I fight the pressing instinct telling me to run.
Famine only stops walking once we pass under the archway and re-enter the estate. He stands still under the deep blue sky, watching what appears to be a horsedrawn wagon as it approaches. He glances over his shoulder at me, then beckons me to his side.
“Why are we doing this again?” I ask.
“Calm your tits, Ana,” the horseman says, using my words against me. “This is the fun part.”
My stomach flips at that. Famine’s idea of fun inevitably involves blood and pain.
In the dark light of morning, I can just make out that there are two men driving the cart, though by the sounds of it, more are sitting in the cart’s bed.
“What is that?” I hear one of the men say.
“Get ready,” Famine says as the cart closes in on us.
He doesn’t give any other indication that something’s about to happen. But then I feel it—the barest tremble beneath my feet.
A split second later, the ground splits open with a groan. Ahead of us, the wooden cart creaks as the horseman’s plants grow beneath it, forcing it to tilt, then topple on its side. The men shout as they’re thrown over. Only the horse manages to somehow stay on its feet.
Overhead, the dark sky seems to churn as thick clouds gather.
The Reaper walks around, towards the back of the cart, whistling a tune as he goes.
Several of the men are already pulling themselves to their feet.
“What the devil?” someone says.
“Not the devil,” Famine says, “the Reaper.”
And then he begins to kill.
The horseman brings his scythe down on man after man, whistling the entire time. A few of them are able to flee the cart, dashing in every direction.
One of those directions just happens to be my way.
I assume that the man is heading for the estate’s exit, but the closer he gets the more I realize that he’s headed straight for me.
Dropping the horseman’s scales, I turn on my heel and take off, sprinting for the archway.
I’ve only made it a few meters, however, before the man collides against my back, tackling me to the ground. Desperately I try to drag myself away.
Before I can, a rough hand flips me over. I’ve barely looked up at his shadowed face when his hands go around my throat, and he begins to squeeze.
“I’ll kill her!” the man shouts over his shoulder. “I’ll do it if you don’t let us go.”
The whistling stops.
I’m choking, and all I want to do is pry the man’s fingers off my throat, but I have a knife in my boot.
My leg is half-pinned under the man and I only manage to bring it partway towards me before he leans his weight on the leg, but partway is enough.
I grope around for the hilt, even as my vision starts to cloud. My fingers find it then, and I withdraw the blade, nicking myself in the process.
Without hesitation, I slam the knife into his side.
The man cries out, his hold loosening. I’m able to draw in a large lungful of air, but then his hands are clamping around my neck once more.
Withdrawing the blade, I stab at him again.
He grunts, but holds me fast.
Dear God, let me go.
Before I can stab him again, a booted foot kicks the man off of me.
I lay there, gasping for breath as Famine steps up to the man, his boot landing on my attacker’s throat. At the sight of the Reaper, my assailant makes a startled noise.
Famine wears an unforgiving expression as he stares down at the man, his scythe holstered at his back. Behind him, lightning flashes towards the earth, illuminating the horseman’s armor and hair.
BOOOOM! BOOOOM-BOOOM-BOOOOOM!
“Never, ever fuck with what is mine,” he says.
And then he crushes the man’s windpipe.
For several seconds, I don’t move, my breath coming in heavy pants. Almost immediately the crackle of thunder and the flashes of lightning fade away. It’s only then that I realize how ominously quiet it is.
Famine comes over to me then, and lifts me into his arms. My bloody body meets his unyielding one.
“Fuck,” I say, my voice shaky as my arms go around his neck. I lean my forehead against his breastplate.
The horseman’s grip tightens.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
I nod against him.
After a moment, I say, “You’re good too?” I ask.
“Now I am.”
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me. He cares about me, and damn, it feels so good to be cared about—and to be held. Whatever closeness the two of us forged out in the fields around us, it hasn’t left.
When I open my eyes again, I look around at the dead bodies that lay scattered.
“Are they all dead?” I ask.
He stares down at me, his gaze growing distant. After a moment, he says, “Now they are.”
Once I’ve fully caught my breath, Famine sets me down and approaches the overturned cart. He uses his plants to right the thing, and then spends a minute soothing the spooked horses still hitched to it.
After he seems to have calmed them, Famine moves back to the cart itself and hoists himself into the driver’s seat.
He pats the empty space next to him. “C’mon, Ana, let’s go find Heitor and have a little chat with the bastard.”
The ride back to the estate seems much shorter than the one out. Above us, the sky continues to lighten, turning a blue-grey color.
At the sound of our cart rolling in, I see several men walk forward. It’s still dark enough that most of our surroundings have a deep, shadow-y hue to them; that must be why it takes them so long to recognize us.
The moment they do, Famine’s plants sprout from the ground, snatching the men. A chorus of screams arise as our cart makes its way up the circular drive.
Ahead of us, the front door opens and a familiar form steps out.
Heitor.
I shrink back a little at the sight of him.
The Reaper glances over at me, taking in whatever expression I wear. When he turns his attention back to Heitor, Famine’s gaze lingers on the bloody wound at the man’s temple.
“What in all the devils …” His voice dies away and he blanches at the sight of the horseman. “How are you … ?” His eyes move over the Reaper. He staggers back. “But I saw you die.”
Famine stands, then slowly makes his way off the cart, his footsteps echoing in the early morning air.
“You clearly forgot what I told you earlier,” he says, “so let me remind you: I cannot be killed, and—more importantly—attempts on my life will be met with vengeance.”
Rocha turns then, presumably to flee back inside his mansion. With a violent crack, the paved walkway beneath him parts, and a thorned bush grows up and up, its spindly branches blocking the doorway, even as they reach for the cartel boss.
Heitor stumbles back, then spins to face the horseman.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Famine says.
I can’t see the horseman’s expression as he closes in on the man, but just by the rigid set of his shoulders I can tell he’s seething.
“I’m going to ask this once and once only,” the Reaper says, his voice sinister, “what did you do to Ana?”
My eyebrows lift at the mention of my name.
Heitor stands in place, hemmed in by Famine’s plants on one side and the horseman on the other.
“Who?” Rocha says. Then his eyes dart to me, and I swear something angry passes over his features for an instant. “Do you mean that bitch you’re with?” he says, jerking his chin in my direction. He gestures to his temple. “She attacked me.”
It’s the wrong answer.
The Reaper steps up to Heitor, his scythe holstered at his back.
“Most of the time, I don’t give a shit about the humans I kill,” the horseman says. “But you—you I’ll make an exception for.”
My breath catches.
“Please,” Heitor says, raising his hands placatingly. “I swear this is all a misunderstanding. Tell me what you need, and I’ll do it—it’s as good as done.”
I see Famine tilt his head. “You and I are evil men. Let’s not lie to one another—we are beyond words now.”
Famine reaches his hand towards Rocha. Something in the air shifts, and I wait for one of the horseman’s terrible plants to grow from the ground.
But the earth doesn’t crack open, and no supernatural flora rise from its depths. And yet, as I watch, the rancher seems to choke on his own breath.
“What are you doing to me?” Heitor gasps out.
“Did you never stop to wonder just how I killed crops?” the Reaper says. “If you had, you might’ve considered the fact that what I do to them I can do to you as well. Humans are just another sort of crop, in the end.”
A chill races over me.
“What you’re experiencing,” Famine continues, “is the sensation of your body dying, little bits at a time. But it won’t happen right away. That I’ll make sure of.”
I’ve seen firsthand how Famine makes crops wither. I can’t imagine him doing the same thing to a human—or that he might prolong the experience to make it as agonizing as possible.
And it does seem to be agonizing. Heitor curls in on himself, crying out at some pain I can’t see.
“Please,” he rasps. “I can … still help … I’m … sorry … misunderstanding.”
There’s a pause, then I hear the Reaper’s low laughter. “A misunderstanding? No, no, my friend. It was one thing to try to hurt me. But then you went and tried to hurt her.” Famine glances over his shoulder, casting me a look. In the lavender glow of the morning, the horseman stares at me with a fervent sort of intensity.
At that look, unbidden warmth spreads through me. The horseman has now defended me multiple times, and I can’t help but feel … cherished.
Does Famine realize that’s my weakness? For a girl who’s never been truly beloved, this is how you ensnare me.
“The moment you touched her,” the Reaper continues, “you were a marked man.” As Famine speaks, the earth shakes. More of the pavement around the two men fissures open, and several insidious vines grow out of them. The plants glide with sinister ease over the dying man, wrapping themselves around his ankles and his hands. “But then you came for her—”
Famine’s words are punctuated by a sickening crack, and Heitor cries out.
“Tell me, evil man,” the Reaper says, “what did you intend to do to her?”
Heitor’s only response is to whimper as the vines coil tighter around him.
“Did you intend to recite her poetry?” Another snap, another agonized cry. “Or to pledge your loyalty to her?” Another crack, followed by a moan. “Did you come to bring her food or clothing or shower her with praise?” Snap, snap, snap.
Heitor is openly weeping.
“Or to tell her how unworthy of her time you were?” Crack.
The man sobs, and Famine stares down at him.
I’m pinned in place, my breath caught in my throat. I have no idea what the horseman’s doing, or how I feel about it, but I can’t look away.
There’s a pause. Then—
“No. You came to violate her. And my friend, we’re both discovering that nothing stokes my rage like trying to harm my flower.”
Crack, crack, crack.
More screams follow, then breathless, agonized cries.
Famine crouches next to Rocha and laughs. “You’re not going to die, Heitor. You haven’t begged enough yet. But you will. And even then I’ll make you linger. Because, believe it or not, you are not the worst thing to walk this earth.
The Reaper leans in close. “I am.”
