Famine by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 7

I follow the old man’s directions the best I can and head east. If there was once fear in me, there is no longer. It takes me a long time to find the house Famine is staying in, though eventually I find it. It doesn’t in any way stand out from the houses around it. In fact, I might’ve ridden right past it if it weren’t for the mean-looking men that loiter around the property.

One of them sees me, taking several ominous steps forward before he retreats into the house. Someone has clearly gone to tattle on me. Which means …

Famine is in that house.

My heart begins to beat like mad.

Famine is in that house and in a few moments, he will know there’s still someone alive in this blighted city.

Before the rest of the men standing guard can do anything else, I ride away, only stopping three blocks later when I come across an abandoned house, a relic of a different era.

Grabbing several of the weapons from my cart, I wait for one of Famine’s men to come hunt me down—or worse, for one of those unnatural plants to spring up from the ground and crush me to death. I’m all but ready for it, but nothing happens. The minutes tick by, and the sun makes its way across the horizon.

The Reaper is here, in this city, mere blocks away. My adrenaline is spiking at the thought, and a part of me wants to charge over to that mansion, kick down its doors and push my way in. Instead, I force myself to wait, coming up with a plan of sorts while the sky darkens.

I wait until it’s pitch black outside before I leave. I’ve strapped two blades to my hips and another across my chest, the leather straps feeling strange against my body. Two months ago, this would’ve been excessive for most law-abiding citizens. Now it might not be enough protection against Famine and his men.

I creep back towards the house he’s staying in, my heart beginning to pound. I know enough about the horseman to understand that nothing humans have done has killed him. That doesn’t slow my step.

Ahead of me, I catch sight of the mansion. I couldn’t miss it. It’s the only house anywhere in the city that’s lit up. Oil lamps glow, and yet again a handful of men linger outside. Some are standing, a couple of them sit and smoke cigarettes and cigars on the front lawn. One of them is pacing, gesturing wildly as he does so; he’s saying something, but I’m too far away to hear.

I move to the block that runs behind the house, sticking to the shadows. No one’s posted back here, among these dark, empty homes. It’s not surprising; Famine probably isn’t expecting any sort of attack now that he’s killed off most of the city’s population.

Once I figure out which home backs up against Famine’s, I cut across the home’s yard, making my way to the back of the property. Everything is chillingly quiet.

I climb over the stone fence that separates the two properties, then drop down inside the mansion’s yard, my feet landing in soft dirt.

My heart begins to pound in earnest, my breath coming in shallow pants. This is the point of no return. Up until now I could’ve taken that old man’s advice and fled with my life. I could’ve existed. It would’ve been lonely and it would’ve looked nothing like the life I knew, but I would’ve survived, which is better than what I can say for most people.

I take a step forward, then another and another, ignoring the scared, rational part of my brain. This part of the property is dark; there are lamp posts back here, but they don’t burn.

I realize why a moment later when I hear the groan of some dying soul. I squint into the darkness. After several seconds, I make out a pile of bodies.

Jesus.

I swallow a scream, my own memories swarming in. For a minute I simply stand there, riding out the old pain and fear, which doesn’t seem so old at the moment. Then, when I’ve managed to wrestle my emotions back into place, I take a deep breath and continue on, skirting around the bodies.

My hand touches the hilt of my weapons. I’ve never stabbed a person before. I’ve scratched, slapped, and punched a few people in my time—and I’ve kicked men in the balls more times than I care to admit—but that’s about it.

Tonight … tonight will truly be my first time using a dagger. I try not to think about that too hard; I don’t want to lose my nerve.

I head over to a back door and, reaching out, I try the handle. It gives beneath my touch.

Unlocked.

Because who would dare break into Famine’s house after he decimated the city?

I swear I can hear my own heartbeat as I push the door open. I glance around at the cold living room beyond me. A few candles flicker, the wax dripping down their stems. The dim light illuminates a couch, a set of side chairs, an enormous vase, and an oiled wooden bust of a woman. No one’s in here.

Silently, I step into the room.

Where are all the guards? I saw nearly a dozen of them outside, but in here they’re nowhere to be seen.

After a moment, I hear a soft tapping sound. The sound drags my gaze to the right, where I take in a dimly lit dining room. My chest stills when I see Famine’s silhouette sitting in one of the chairs, his back to me.

His armor is gone, but his telltale scythe rests on the table in front of him, just beyond the open book that’s resting where a plate should be. The Reaper, however, doesn’t seem to be reading. Based on the angle of his head, he’s staring out the windows across from him, his fingers drumming absently on the table.

The Reaper sits so still that if it weren’t for those fingers, I would’ve assumed he was just another pricey decoration put on display in this house.

For a moment, I wonder if this is some sort of trap. There aren’t any guards posted in here, and there probably should be. And Famine is right there, alone and seemingly unaware of my presence.

I wait in the shadows for a long time, staring at his broad back and his caramel colored hair. Long enough for the teeth of any trap to close on me. The seconds pass and nothing happens.

Eventually, I begin to creep closer, cutting through the living room, my steps silent.

I reach for one of the knives sheathed at my side, drawing it out as quietly as I can.

Kill him and leave unnoticed. That’s the plan. I know it’s no permanent solution. After all, he cannot die.

That’s one of the first things I learned about Famine long ago. There is no ending him.

It doesn’t really matter at this point. Killing him—no matter how temporary—is the only solution any of us humans have left. So I push my misgivings aside. I’ve come too far to stop now.

As I round the couch in the living room, I nearly trip on a body.

I have to bite down on my lip to stifle my yelp.

Dear God.

Just when I thought there were no more surprises.

The man at my feet has been gutted from navel to collarbone. He stares blankly off in the distance, laying in a pool of his own blood.

Bile rises up my throat, and I have to choke it back down. The whole time, I’m sure that Famine is going to hear me.

And yet he doesn’t, so far as I can tell. He just continues to drum his fingers on the table and gaze out the windows.

Skirting around the corpse, I make my way to the dining room on silent feet. My heart, which was beating madly just minutes ago, has now slowed. I feel eerily calm. Gone is my fear, my nerves, and that terrible anger that’s churned inside me for weeks.

This is what it must feel like to live without a conscience.

I step up to the back of Famine’s chair, and in one smooth movement, my dagger makes it to his neck.

I hear the horseman’s sharp, surprised inhalation.

Threading my fingers into that pretty hair of his, I jerk his head back, my blade pressed tightly against his skin.

“You made an example of the wrong girl,” I whisper into his ear.

Beneath my touch, the horseman feels rigid.

“You are either very brave or very foolish to cross me,” he says, his jade green eyes staring straight ahead.

“You bastard,” I say, tightening my grip on his hair. “Look at me.”

He does, his gaze moving to my face, his neck brushing against my blade as he turns his head. The Reaper wears a smirk as he meets my eyes, though he’s in no position to find this funny.

“Do you remember me?” I ask.

“Forgive me, human,” he says, “but you all look so very similar.”

It’s supposed to be an insult, but I’m beyond insults. So far beyond them.

After a moment, however, a spark of recognition sharpens his features and his brows lift. “You were the girl whose flesh was offered to me—weren’t you?” he says. “My, what a difference face paint makes.”

Another insult.

My grip on his hair tightens, and I press the dagger a little deeper into his neck. He doesn’t react, but I swear he’s agitated—very, very agitated.

His gaze scans over my body. “And you’re still breathing,” he notes. “Did one of my men succumb to your pitiful wiles and spare you?”

My blade bites into his skin now, drawing out a line of blood. After years of enduring men’s demands of me, it is awfully nice to push my will onto someone else, and I cannot think of a more deserving creature to endure it.

The Reaper takes in my expression. After a moment, he laughs.

“I’m sorry, am I supposed to be scared?” He sounds so calm that I almost believe him. But his arms are tense, his muscles taut. And then there’s the memory of the last time we met. For all the suffering he inflicts, I don’t think he has much taste for it when it comes to himself.

“You still don’t truly remember me,” I say. “Think further back.”

“What is the point of this exercise?” Famine says, exasperated. “I don’t make it a habit of remembering humans.”

I loosen my hold on his hair just a fraction. “I saved you once, back when no one else would.”

“Did you now?” Famine says, amused. But unlike his expression, his eyes glint with anger. I sense that he’s biding his time, waiting for me to screw up before he pounces.

“It’s a mistake I’ve regretted every day since,” I admit, my throat tightening.

“Is that right?” he says, and now I swear he is entertained. “And tell me, brave human, how did you save me?”

“You don’t remember?” I say, actually somewhat shocked. How could he ever forget? “It was raining when I found you. You were covered in blood and your body was missing … pieces.”

Slowly, Famine’s shitty little smile melts away.

Finally, the reaction I was looking for.

My grip on his hair tightens again. “Remember me now, motherfucker?”