Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 33

A soft tapping noise wakes me.

I blink my eyes slowly, taking in the dusky light that coats the room.

Must’ve slept the entire day away.

Yawning, I sit up and rub my eyes.

There’s a blissful moment of ignorance, where I can’t place exactly where or when I am. And then the moment passes and my memories flood my mind.

Aw, fuck.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, like somehow that’s going to make it all go away.

Tap-tap-tap. That sound again.

My gaze moves towards it.

Famine leans against a nearby wall, his fingers tapping along the side of the crystal tumbler he holds. He’s giving me a funny look.

I sit up a little straighter, waking up fast now that I realize I have the full attention of the horseman.

“What time is it?” I ask, glancing out the window, where the sky is a greyish purple.

The Reaper doesn’t respond, just taps those fingers along the side of his glass. He looks wholly untouched, like he was never butchered apart to begin with.

“You’re better,” I say.

“Mmm …” he responds distractedly, those sharp green eyes still taking me in.

“What?” I finally say, because his focus is getting awkward. “Is there a big-ass bug in my hair or something?”

“Do you regret it?” the horseman asks, his voice neutral.

“Regret what?” But then I see it in his eyes.

Saving him.

I assume he’s referring to last night.

“Should I?” I ask him.

He takes a sip of his drink, studying me like I’m some sort of puzzle he can’t figure out.

“Why did you do it?” he asks.

“Save you?” I raise my eyebrows as I look at him. “Because you needed saving.”

He frowns, and I’m pretty sure he hates how simple I’ve made the situation sound.

I thought we were beyond this. I assumed that last night brought the two of us closer, but now he seems skeptical and distant.

My gaze moves away from the Reaper and out the window. I can’t see the main house from here, but I can sense it out there. Somewhere inside it, a dozen men are trussed up.

The thought makes me feel vaguely nauseous.

“Is everyone … ?”

“Dead?” Famine finishes for me.

I nod my head.

He takes another drink. “Unfortunately.”

I sense that if the Reaper could’ve, he would’ve kept them alive and lingering for just as long as he was once kept alive and suffering.

He lifts his glass. “Want one?” he asks, scattering my thoughts.

“Yes,” I say, before I can even consider the fact that eating first might be the better option. After the night we had, alcohol sounds like a godsend.

Famine pushes off the wall, heading to the bar nestled in the corner of his room. There’s a crystal decanter already sitting out, and with a shock I realize that while I slept, the Reaper moved about the room. I should be mortified at the thought—especially considering what happened the last time a man entered my room while I slept—but all it does is make my stomach clench strangely.

Famine grabs a glass from beneath the counter and sets it next to his. Uncorking the decanter, he pours the amber liquid into both glasses. The Reaper takes his own glass, lifts it to his lips and throws it back, swallowing it in a single gulp. He pours himself another drink, then grabs both glasses.

I slide out of the bed and meet him in the middle of the room, taking the glass from him. Now that I’ve slept and Famine’s enemies are dead, the reality of last night sinks in.

I move to the bed, sitting down heavily on the mattress. I take a long drink of the liquor. It doesn’t burn as much as it should, so I take another drink—and another—my hand beginning to shake uncontrollably.

“I killed a man,” I finally say, my eyes rising to meet Famine’s. Dread rests like a stone in my stomach.

“I take it you didn’t enjoy the experience quite as much as I do?” he says.

A small, agonized sound slips from me. I cover my eyes and bring my drink back to my lips, swallowing the rest of it in one large mouthful. It’s smooth liquor, made all the smoother by my guilty conscience. At least it’s beginning to warm me from the inside out, easing away a little of that guilt.

“If it’s any consolation,” he says, “I appreciate all that you did to help me—killing included.”

I give him a hollow laugh … and then I start crying.

It begins as a hiccup, but quickly morphs into full body sobs. Once I start, I can’t seem to stop. This sadness has me in its grips. My hands still shake, and I killed a man, and so many more men are going to die, and I have no fucking clue what I’m doing or why I feel so compelled to help this demon—

“Hey,” Famine says, his voice going gentle, so gentle. “Hey.”

He comes forward and kneels in front of me. The horseman takes my glass from me, setting it aside, along with his own.

He spreads my legs apart, just so that he can move in closer, his armor rigid against my inner thighs. Then Famine takes my face in his hands, cupping my cheeks and brushing away my tears.

“Don’t cry.”

I lift my gaze to his, feeling miserable.

His eyes lock on a tear. He gives a fierce frown, his eyes agonized. “You saved me,” he says.

“Is that really supposed to make me feel better?” I say, my voice hitching. “You’re just going to kill more people.”

His brows pull together, like maybe this is the first time he even considered that to be a bad idea.

I let out a wretched laugh. “You give God a bad name.”

Famine forces out his own laugh. “You give humans a good one.”

My chest tightens at that, and for a moment, I’m distracted from my sadness by the memory of his lips on mine and the close press of his body.

Just as his body presses in close now.

The Reaper continues to stare at me, his gaze intense. “Too good.”

I think he might kiss me.

I’m not exactly in the best headspace for a kiss, but Famine’s looking at me like he’s willing to change my mind. His hands are still on my cheeks, I can feel the tickle of his breath, and his face is so close, so close. And then there’s his wild eyes and wicked mouth and now I’ve gone still, my guilt forgotten for a moment.

Just when I think the Reaper is going to lean in, he drops his hands instead.

“You must be hungry,” he says.

I feel a swell of disappointment, my misery crowding back in.

“I’m shocked that you’d remember I need to eat,” I say.

“In case you forgot, little flower, I’m Famine. Hunger is the one thing I never forget,” he says. He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” I say, letting him lead me out of the room, “my hunger has slipped your mind in the past.”

He ignores me, tugging me onwards, out of this wing of the estate. We cross the courtyard, Famine’s bronze armor catching the last bits of the fading light.

All over again the sight of him takes my breath away. He looks like some fabled hero with his staggering height and muscled form, all of it encased in mythic-looking armor. It’s almost impossible to fathom that less than a day ago he was dead.

The Reaper glances over his shoulder at me then, catching the wondrous look on my face. The corner of his mouth curves up into a sly smile and his eyes seem to dance. I think he might tease me, but he doesn’t. He simply flashes me a secretive look and faces forward once more.

It’s only after we enter the main building that I remember the men Famine ensnared in his plants.

I come to a halt, my eyes going to the thick green wall of shrubs that have sprouted from the ground. Since I last saw the men, the plants have flowered, and their vines have begun climbing up the walls, almost completely obscuring the foyer. Other plants have also taken root, draping themselves over the furniture, so the place looks like some strange fantasy landscape. Amongst it all, I don’t see a single body.

“Where are they?” I ask, my eyes searching the growing darkness.

“The men?” the Reaper asks. “I moved them.”

I turn my attention to Famine. “How?”

He arches a brow. “Even after everything you’ve seen from me, you still question my abilities?”

When I don’t respond, he says, “I had the plants move them.”

I grimace a little at the image.

“Why would you do that?” I ask.

“As much as I enjoy the sight of dead humans, I thought it might ruin your appetite.”

It undoubtedly would’ve, but when has that ever factored into Famine’s thought process?

That was … unusually thoughtful of him.

“You’re welcome,” he adds, because he can’t just let a kindness go without somehow spoiling it.

I stare at the foliage a little more, marveling at the odd sight now that I know there aren’t any bodies lurking within those plants.

“I was never particularly sympathetic to the plights of the living,” Famine says as we gaze out at the plants. “Even before your kind got ahold of me.”

I glance over at him. There’s something about the tilt of his face and the gleam in his eyes that reminds me of wild, untamed places. He was right when he said he had more in common with the mountains and clouds than he does with humans.

That doesn’t make me like him any less. If anything, his strangeness makes him more alluring. I know men, I know them far too well. What I don’t know is this being, with his unnatural powers and otherworldly mind.

The only thing human about him is his cruelty.

Taking my hand once more, Famine leads me out of the room. We cut through the dining room, and as I pass the giant table centered in the middle of it, I realize that it was only last night that I ruined the horseman’s dinner—much to his delight. That memory feels like a lifetime ago.

We pass through a nondescript door. On the other side of it is an enormous kitchen.

Unlike other houses we’ve been in, there’s no soul to this kitchen. It’s clear from the unadorned walls and the bare countertops that only servants lingered in this space.

“There’s no one left to prepare you a meal,” Famine says. “We’re on our own, I’m afraid.” He actually sounds vaguely concerned about that.

“I think I can manage,” I say. Unlike some people I know, I’ve had to cook for myself for the last several years. A twinge of sadness hits me when I realize I won’t ever get those campy meals again, where I and some of the other girls at the bordello would pile into the kitchen, all of us talking and laughing while we cooked and cleaned.

Life at The Painted Angel wasn’t all bad. It really wasn’t.

Connected to the kitchen is a walk-in pantry where it looks like most of the food is stored. There are huge bags of rice and flour, jars of various fruits, dried salamis and herbs that hang from the overhead crossbeams—and on and on. There are even some pre-made items, like the basket of cheese bread that sits untouched on the shelf and the small sack of cassava chips.

Famine moves towards a wheel of cheese and peers at it. “This smells like death. I’m immensely intrigued.”

I glance at the horseman. I hadn’t realized he was planning on eating alongside me. This … might actually be fun.

“Give me a second,” I say to him.

He looks over at me just as I leave the pantry and re-enter the kitchen. I’m only in the room long enough to grab a knife, and then I return to the horseman’s side.

Stepping up to the wheel of cheese, I cut out a wedge and hand it to him.

“You’re welcome,” I say, throwing his earlier words back at him.

He takes the cheese from me, a playful spark in his eyes. Peeling back the wax, he takes a bite.

“Ugh.” He makes a face. “Tastes like death too.” With that he drops the rest of his slice of cheese onto the ground, his gaze moving along to the next food that piques his interest.

“What is that like?” I ask, watching him move around the space.

Famine heads to the back of the pantry, where a door is set into the wall. He opens it and disappears into what looks like a wine cellar.

“What’s what like?” he calls out. “Death?” I can hear him rummaging around. “He’s a dour asshole, that’s what—

“Aha!”

Famine returns a moment later with a bottle of amber liquid in one hand and wine in the other, holding them up like war prizes.

“Not Death,” I say, shuddering at the thought of the fourth horseman, the one Famine clearly knows a little too well. “Being Famine and eating food.”

He comes in close to me. “You know, for a girl who made it her profession to lie on her back, you have a very curious mind.”

I try not to get my panties in a bunch over Famine’s description of what a prostitute does. Lying on my back! I wish. Fulfilling fantasies is damn hard work.

Instead I say, “Curiosity is also a handy tool for sex work.” Very handy.

“Mmm,” the Reaper responds, removing the liquor’s corked lid as he does so. He takes a drink straight from the bottle.

“Ah,” he sighs out. “This tastes like death too—but a much better version of it. Death at his most appealing.”

That’s the second time Famine has mentioned the horseman within that many minutes.

“Does he actually have a personality? Death?” I ask, intrigued.

Famine gives me a look that plainly states I’m an idiot. “Do I?” he asks.

I take the bottle from him. “Anger isn’t a personality,” I tease.

I don’t point out that not so long ago Famine was the one who was insisting he lacked a core personality.

He takes it back from me. “But attitude is.”

And the Reaper has boundless attitude.

“Alright,” I concede, “you made your point.”

“Hmm,” he says, scrutinizing me as he takes a drink of the liquor.

I realize as I watch his throat work, that I really want those lips back on me. And those hands—hands that have cut down so many—I want them to slide over my skin.

I want them to relieve this growing ache I feel when I’m around him.

Famine lowers the bottle, giving me a suspicious look.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

Hell no am I going to admit my true thoughts.

“Just thinking about Death,” I reply.

Wrong response.

His sharp gaze grows sharper still. “Whatever you think of him,” he says, “he does not deserve that look on your face.”

“What look?” I ask, touching my cheek.

“Like you want to fuck him.”

It’s not Death I want to fuck …

Oh God, I really shouldn’t want that. Because Famine has issues.

But I’ve got issues too, I guess. They just don’t happen to be the murderous kind.

“So where is Death?” I ask.

Famine’s expression darkens. “No.”

“No what?” I ask, taking the bottle from him.

“No I’m not going to tell you where he is while you still have that expression on your face.”

I still look like I want to bone Famine? Not good.

And the fact that the horseman cares about who I’m attracted to—also not good.

I bring the bottle to my lips and take a distracted pull from it. The spiced rum slips down my throat, taking the edge off of my nerves.

I swallow, then lower the bottle.

“Trust me when I say that I want nothing to do with Death,” I tell him.

The Reaper must believe me because, after a moment, he looks somewhat mollified.

After a moment, Famine says, “He sleeps.”

I give him a confused look. “You mean Death?” I say. “Death sleeps? What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“I mean that he hasn’t returned to earth yet. Two of my brothers came before me. Death will follow.”

Rapidly my mind is trying to piece together what he’s saying. I’d heard tales of the first two horsemen, Pestilence and War, killing off far away nations. But they never came here.

“So you guys come in waves?” I ask.

He cracks a nefarious smile at my words. “Something like that.”

“And Pestilence and War—the two that came before you—are they gone now?” The tales I heard of those horsemen are old and weatherworn. “Is that why you’re here … awake?”

“Essentially,” Famine says.

I furrow my brows. “And Death … is asleep?”

The Reaper nods. “Deep beneath the earth.”

That’s not unsettling or anything.

“Why didn’t all four of you come at the same time?” I ask. “Why draw out the process of killing us?” If there’s one thing humans are good at, it’s saving our own skins. It seems as though it would be infinitely easier to eradicate us all at once than little by little.

“Why indeed?” Famine agrees. “I’ve asked myself the same question. Let me ask you this: why don’t birth and death happen at the same time?”

“That makes no sense,” I say, taking another swallow of the spiced rum I hold.

“One must live before one dies,” the horseman continues. “There’s a certain order to things—even divine things—especially divine things. My brothers and I come when we do because that is the nature of our purpose—and it’s the nature of your fates.”