Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 34

The horseman is sharing a lot of himself tonight. I mean, a lot a lot. More than he ever has. That’s what strikes me most as I rifle through the items in the pantry, grabbing the cassava chips and the cheese bread and setting them on the ground as well.

I can’t decide if Famine was always willing to share these parts of himself and I’m just now comfortable enough asking him these questions … or if he’s the one who now feels comfortable enough answering them.

I grab a basket filled with dried figs, and another filled with cashews and set them on the ground. There’s a roll of salami and another basket of Brazil nuts. I grab these final two item and lower myself to the floor, my back against a sack of rice.

“I’m not sitting on the ground,” Famine says, scornfully staring down at me.

“Then stay standing,” I reply. I mean, I don’t really fucking care.

He sets the bottle of wine he still holds on one of the nearby counters. Then, without warning, he scoops me up and begins carrying me away from the food, pausing only to snatch up the spiced rum from where it rested next to me.

“Hey!” I protest. “I was comfortable.”

“You’ll like this better,” he insists.

“Ah, yes, because you understand my desires so much better than I do.”

Famine gives me a look, one that’s heated as hell, and now I’m thinking about his mouth again … and those other parts of him I saw earlier today.

I barely register that we’ve crossed through the kitchen and entered the dining room.

The Reaper kicks out a chair and dumps me into it. A moment later, he sets the rum down on the table in front of me.

“For you to entertain yourself until I get back,” he says into my ear.

With that, he leaves the dining room. I can hear him rustling around in the pantry. When he returns, he brings the basket of cheese bread, the cassava chips, the salami, and the cashews.

I stare at him, brows lifted. “Are you actually … serving me?”

“I’m bringing us dinner,” he corrects me before leaving once more.

A minute passes, and then Famine returns with the wine and the last of the food, dropping the wheel of cheese unceremoniously onto the table, the knife I used now jutting out from the center of it.

“You are serving me,” I say incredulously.

He scrapes out the chair next to me and sits down, then grabs my seat and drags it over to him. He pulls me in so close that his thighs are bracketing mine in, and there’s nowhere else to look but at him.

This is … cozy.

The Reaper reaches across the table and plucks the bottle of rum from where it sits.

I’m watching him curiously, unsure of what the horseman is doing.

He meets my gaze, a sly smile on his lips, and then he grabs the bottom of my jaw.

“What are you—?”

The horseman lifts the spiced rum to my lips. “This, little flower, is me serving you.”

And then he feeds me the spirits.

I watch him as I drink, and maybe it’s my imagination, but his eyes seem to smolder.

I try not to stare, but the sight of him—from his tan skin to those cruel, sensual lips and his volatile gaze—is making my stomach feel light and fluttery. I don’t think I’ve ever been around someone who was so offputtingly beautiful.

Famine doesn’t remove the bottle from my lips for a long time, and I don’t stop drinking, the two of us watching each other.

Again, I feel that light, airy sensation in my stomach, the one that makes me feel like I can fly.

It’s the alcohol, I tell myself.

Not looking away from me, the horseman finally lowers the liquor from my lips, then brings it to his own.

Heat pools low in my belly.

The Reaper drinks and drinks … and drinks. He doesn’t stop until he’s drank the liquor dry.

He sets the empty bottle down onto the table with a heavy clink. “Would you like another demonstration?” he asks.

“Demonstration?” I echo, lost. I’m still hung up on the fact that Famine just drank all the rum.

His mouth curves up into a smile. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Famine stands, and before I can call him back, he heads into the kitchen. He returns several minutes later with enough alcohol to kill a small army.

He sets his loot down on the table, knocking some of our food aside.

“You have a drinking problem,” I state.

Not that I blame him. If Elvita didn’t have a no-substance-abuse policy in place for her girls, I probably would’ve fallen into the same trap years ago.

“I kill humans by the thousands, and that’s your issue?” he says. “That I drink too much?”

He makes a fair point.

“I have a problem with the killing too.” Sort of.

In truth, I should have more of a problem with it, especially considering all the transgressions Famine has made against me and my loved ones. But I’ve come to a strange sort of peace with who and what the horseman is. I want him to stop, but I can’t stop him.

And if I’m being brutally honest, I don’t know if I should.

Humans can be awful. Maybe this is what we deserve.

Famine doesn’t stop drinking. He drinks and drinks and drinks. It’s enough booze to kill a man three times over. But the Reaper seems fine. Honestly, he doesn’t even appear all that fucked up.

While he works on the alcohol, I make it a personal mission to polish off most of the food in front of me. I drink a little too.

Amongst it all, we’ve taken to asking each other questions about anything and everything.

“How many men have you been with?” Famine asks, sipping on a glass of wine.

“Sexually?” I say, grabbing a handful of nuts. “I don’t know.” I pop one of the cashews in my mouth. “A lot.”

“How many women have you been with?” he follows up.

“Thirty-three,” I say without missing a beat.

His eyebrows go up. “You kept count?”

“They were more memorable bed partners,” I say. I eat another couple nuts. “How about you?” I ask. “How many people have you been with?”

Famine takes a long drink of his wine, his gaze growing distant. “I don’t know. I don’t remember the number.”

I give him a strange look. “Then why did you think I would remember?

“Because you’re a human, and you give a fuck about human things. I, on the other hand, do not.” With that, he polishes off his drink.

Famine leans forward to refill his glass. “Speaking of human things, what quaint little talents do you have?” he asks.

“I can fuck a man nearly blind,” I say helpfully.

He exhales.

Aw, did he think I’d given up on the uncomfortable sex jokes? Poor, naïve man.

I give the Reaper an innocent look. “I can demonstrate if you’d—”

“Let’s leave my eyes out of this,” he says, bringing his now full glass of wine to his lips. “I already lost both hands in the last day. I’d hate for my eyes to go too.”

Despite his words, I swear he looks half intrigued.

Personally, I’m far more than half intrigued.

“So, besides blinding men,” he says, “what else do you like to do? Read? Sing? Dance? Wait, forget about that last one. I know you can’t dance for shit.”

It’s such a rude goddamn thing to say, but a laugh slips out anyway. I’ve sort of developed a soft spot for Famine’s asshole-ish personality.

“Fuck you,” I respond good-naturedly.

“Mmmm …” Again, he gives me a speculative look, like he’s taking my words literally.

The thought heats my skin.

“I can bang out a few keys on the piano,” I say carefully, answering his earlier question, “and I can carry a tune if it’s simple enough.”

But the horseman doesn’t look like he’s listening, and now my mind is back on how it would feel to have this unnatural thing on me and in me.

My thoughts are interrupted as, from the ether, Famine’s scythe and scales form right before my eyes, the two items solidifying right in the middle of our makeshift feast, the scales knocking over an empty bottle.

I start at the sight of them. “Does that … ?”

“Usually happen?” Famine says. “If I’m away from them long enough, it does.”

“How long is long enough?” I ask.

The Reaper reaches out and lifts the scythe from the table. “I used to try to figure that very thing out when I was held captive.”

At the word captive, I glance sharply at him. This is the one thing that we haven’t discussed tonight. Famine’s captivity. And judging by the sound of his voice, it’s for good reason. Just his tone alone gives me goosebumps.

The horseman lays the scythe across his lap. “I’d wake on a pike, or in—”

“A pike?” I say, aghast.

His green gaze cuts to mine, and I can almost see his pain and the sharp bite of old anger. “If I was lucky, I’d simply be tied to it. If I was unlucky …” His gaze grows distant, and I steel myself for whatever he’s about to say. “If I was unlucky I’d be nailed to it or impaled on it.”

Impaled … ?

The food in my stomach is suddenly not sitting so well.

He lays the scythe lays across his lap, his fingers moving over the markings etched onto it.

“But it was those unlucky times when my few possessions would manifest. They’d take them away of course—not that it mattered. They kept me too injured and weak to use them or any of my powers.”

My mind is conjuring up images—awful images—and it physically hurts me to imagine Famine like this. I cannot fathom just how hurt he would have to be to be unable to use his powers.

“They broke my spirit too,” he admits quietly, staring at the wine in his glass. As though the reminder is too painful to bear sober, he brings the drink to his lips and swallows it all down in three long gulps.

I reach over and squeeze the horseman’s leg. “I’m so sorry. Truly.” I’m not a violent person, but hearing his words and seeing his expression is drawing out all my protective instincts.

He was sent here to kill humans off—presumably because we were a little too wicked for God’s liking—and we somehow managed to prove to Famine that we were even worse than the reputation that preceded us.

The horseman covers my hand with his and gives it a squeeze. At the touch, my heart begins to race in a way that has nothing to do with fear or anxiety.

“How did you escape them?” I ask.

I never heard this part of the story.

“One of the men let down his guard and fell asleep as I was healing. I was able to gather just enough strength to dispatch him and the others keeping guard. Then I freed myself and … you know the rest.”

He reaches out and picks up a bottle of cachaça. Uncapping it, he takes a swig of the pale liquor.

I stare at him, taking in all of his anger and all of his pain. That’s mostly what he’s made from. But amongst it all, I’ve seen glimpses of something softer, kinder, something that grew in spite of the cruelties he endured and his own innate drive to kill us off.

Leaning forward, I grasp Famine’s scythe with both hands, lifting it off of his lap.

The horseman watches me intently, but he doesn’t bother stopping me. I set it aside and then I reach for the bottle of cachaça in his hand.

“Taking all my things, are we?” he asks, though he lets me remove the liquor from his grasp.

I bring the bottle to my lips and take a long drink of it. This is, perhaps, more liquor than I’ve ever drank in one night.

I lower the bottle, glancing down at it. “Did you mean what you said about alcohol?” I ask, remembering what he told me all that time ago.

“What did I say?”

My eyes flick to his. “That a little alcohol washes away the memory of all sorts of sins?”

Famine cracks a smile, though there’s no humor in it. “Would I drink this deeply if I felt otherwise?”

I try not to examine that too much. That maybe Famine really does have moments of regret and self-hatred, same as me.

Very deliberately, I set the cachaça down on the table, and I lean in close to Famine, my knees brushing against his inner thighs. The alcohol is making me brave.

“Then maybe it will wash away the memory of this sin.”

With that, I kiss him.