Inside, the store is dim, but it’s not dark enough for me to miss the four separate trees that rise from the floor, their canopies pressed against the ceiling. Caught in each one of them are dark forms. One of these forms shifts, letting out another pained sob.
My eyes snag on the figure. Slowly, I approach.
“I can’t cut you out,” I say by way of greeting. “The last person I tried to help was killed by that …” I can’t bring myself to say tree, “thing.”
In response, I think I hear soft sobs. The sound twists my gut.
“Can you speak?” I ask.
“He killed my children and their children too,” the man rasps out. “He didn’t even have to touch them to end their lives.” He begins sobbing again.
“I’m looking for him,” I say. “Is he still in the city?”
The man doesn’t answer, just continues to cry.
I step in closer. Way up in that tree, I can just barely make out the man’s eyes.
I pause, assessing him, before I lift my shirt, showing him my own grisly wounds. I can’t say how many times I’ve stripped for men, or how many eyes have taken in my naked flesh. This, however, is one of the few times I’ve showed my skin for something other than money or pleasure.
After several seconds, the man goes quiet.
“He tried to kill me too,” I say, letting the stranger take in the various scars from my knife wounds. “I intend to return the favor. So, do you know where he is?” I say.
“God has spared you, girl,” he wheezes out. “Leave this place and live your life.”
I want to laugh at that. I took that option once; it landed me in a whorehouse. I’m not taking it again.
“God spared me nothing,” I respond. “Now, do you know where he is?”
The man is quiet for a long time, but finally he says, “Seven kilometers east of here, there’s the neighborhood of Jardim Social. I’ve heard that he’s staying somewhere in there.”
Seven kilometers. I could get there within an hour or two—assuming I can find the place.
“Thank you,” I say.
I hesitate then, feeling like I owe the man something.
“Leave me,” he wheezes. “I belong here, with my family.”
The thought sends a shiver through me.
“Thank you,” I say again, then turn to leave.
“It’s suicide,” he calls out to my back.
I don’t turn around. “It’s revenge.”
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 hous
e.
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?”
Chapter 8
Five years ago
Anitápolis, Brazil
I don’t believe the rumors. Not until I see him.
For the last couple years, there had been whispers in my town of the immortal man who raised the seas and split the earth. The horseman who came to our land and tried to cross us humans. Rumor was that he was caught and, as punishment, locked up somewhere in the vast Serra do Mar. Somewhere near our town.
I hadn’t given the rumor much thought until now.
Through the torrential downpour, my eyes snag on a lump laying off to the side of the dirt road.
Don’t look too hard.
I know I shouldn’t. I know that once my mind pieces together what I’m seeing I’m not going to like it. But it’s impossible to look away. My shoes squish against the mud as I close in on the thing. Eventually I realize I’m staring at a muddy, bloody torso. One that’s been mutilated nearly past the point of recognition.
My breath comes fast, and I nearly drop my basket of jabuticabas, the dark fruit rolling perilously around.
Who could’ve done this to another human?
Get home—now.
Whoever attacked this person, they could still be out here, and this poor soul who’s been left for dead, there’s no sense helping them now. They’re clearly dead.
As I walk past the body, I can’t help it—I slow, my curiosity getting the better of me. That’s when I notice something odd. The skin that rings what must be the person’s neck and chest … it glows.
Is it a necklace? What piece of jewelry glows? I stare at the bare torso, noting absently that it’s a man.
Stop staring and go home. Whoever he is, he’s dead, I’m soaked to the bone, and if I arrive home late again, Aunt Maria will have my hide.
Not to mention that a killer might be hiding in the forest that presses up against the road. He might be watching me at this very moment.
With that spooked thought, I push myself to my feet and reach for my basket, the rain still pelting down on me. Just as I start to walk away, I hear a ragged, broken sound at my back.
I spin around, and now the jabuticabas do spill out of my basket.
My gaze scans the trees around the road, certain the killer is going to spring out at any moment.
That’s when I hear the sound again, only this time, it clearly comes from the bloody carcass in front of me.
Holy shit.
Could the man still be … alive?
The thought is beyond terrifying. He’s been shredded to pieces.
I swallow, taking a step towards the body, dread pooling in my stomach.
Just check to make sure he’s dead …
Still, I hesitate before I touch him. He’s missing an entire arm; it’s just gone. His other arm ends at his elbow, the frayed edges of it a pulpy mess.
My gaze moves down to his chest, whi
ch is crisscrossed with lash marks all the way down to his groin. His legs haven’t been amputated, but like his torso, they seem to be flayed open in several spots. Rivulets of watery blood snake away from the naked man, mixing with the rainwater.
The sight of so much pain makes me want to weep.
What happened to you?
The man is so still. Too still. Whatever sound I heard earlier, I must’ve been mistaken.
There’s no way a human could survive these wounds.
My skin is still prickling, instincts telling me to run before whoever did this attacks me too.
Before I get up, I place a hand on the man’s chest, right over his heart—just to be sure he’s well and truly gone.
Beneath my palm, he’s utterly still. There’s no intake of breath, no thump of his heart.
Dead.
I start to withdraw my hand when my attention snags on the soft green light glowing only centimeters away from my fingertips. I squint as I take it in—
What in the hell?
My hand moves of its own accord, my fingers trailing over the glowing markings. This is no piece of jewelry. The markings are a part of the man’s skin.
My eyes flick to the stranger’s face, which is hidden by his matted hair. My pulse begins to quicken.
Could this actually be … ?
But that would mean that the rumors were true. Those ridiculous, frightening rumors.
Surely that can’t be right. Any being strong enough to shake the earth and kill crops couldn’t possibly be contained by humans.
But now I can hear my pulse pounding between my ears and I’m still staring at that face, hidden behind a curtain of wet hair.
On a whim, I reach out and push the dripping locks away from the man’s face, tucking them behind his ear.
At my touch, his eyes snap open, his irises a brilliant green color.
I scream, falling back on my butt.
God and all the saints! What in the actual fuck?
“Help,” he whispers to me, and then his eyes fall shut again.
I’m shivering, staring at the horseman’s unconscious form.
He’s alive. The horseman. The creature sent from God to kill everyone. He’s alive and he’s missing appendages, and now he wants my help.
Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3) Page 4
