Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3)

by Laura Thalassa

  That’s nothing, though, compared to his face.

  He’s … there aren’t words for this sort of male beauty. His caramel colored hair curls around the nape of his neck, and those brilliant green eyes are made all the brighter against his tan skin.

  I don’t know where to look—at the sharp slice of his jawline or those high cheekbones—or those soft, sinner lips. He looks like some mythological figure taken straight out of a painting.

  He is a mythological figure.

  I push myself up, the action forcing the horseman to move away.

  His fingers are what woke me, I realize. He was brushing my hair from my face much the same way I had done to his throughout the night. Now his fingertips linger on the side of my face.

  His fingertips …

  “Your arms!” I gasp. Holy mother of … “How do you have hands?”

  Famine smiles a little, and my whole body reacts to that smile. “Are you now worried about my capabilities?”

  My gaze flicks skeptically from the hand touching me to his face. “Maybe … what are you doing?”

  “I wanted to see you,” he says, his gaze moving over me as though he’s trying to commit my features to memory.

  He stands, and for the first time I notice the other items lying next to him. One of them I can’t immediately identify but the other one I recognize as a scythe, its wicked blade gleaming.

  Dear God, that thing looks deadly.

  He picks up the scythe, and my heart begins to patter. Last night I didn’t realize just how massive he was, and now, with that weapon in hand, Famine looks especially lethal.

  I edge away from him.

  The horseman must see me cower because he gives me an exasperated look. “You slept on me last night. There’s nothing for you to fear.”

  “You now have a blade—and hands,” I say. “How did you get them back?”

  “My body regenerates.”

  “Your body …” Dear baby Jesus, he can grow back limbs? “And the … the …” I gesture vaguely at his attire.

  Famine presses his lips together, either in displeasure or because he’s trying not laugh. He doesn’t seem like the laughing type, so displeasure it is.

  “I’m not of this world, flower.”

  That’s not really an answer, but I’m sort of stuck on the fact that he called me flower.

  That’s a compliment, right?

  Looking at him, I want it to be a compliment.

  Are you seriously crushing on one of the horsemen of the apocalypse, Ana?

  Damnit, I think I am. But in my defense, they don’t make cheekbones that pretty here on earth.

  “Come on,” Famine says, interrupting my thoughts, “we need to move.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask, hurrying after him, grabbing my basket of fruit. I have some fatalistic hope that bringing this basket back home will somehow spare me my aunt’s wrath.

  It’s a foolish hope, but then, I am a fool.

  Famine doesn’t respond, and it’s just as well. We’re clearly headed back towards town, the two of us walking down the road I so recently found him on. My eyes linger on the scythe he holds; he decided to bring that but not the other, less threatening object, and I’m trying really, really hard not to think about the motives behind that decision. Or, for that matter, what’s going to happen the moment the townspeople meet Famine.

  “Last night this road was swarming with men,” Famine says, more to himself than to me. “Now it’s deserted.”

  The back of my neck pricks. “Do you think those men … ?”

  “They’re setting a trap for me,” he says.

  The thought is downright petrifying.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be on this road then … we could hide …” All I can see in my mind’s eye is how much torture Famine’s body endured when I first found him.

  “I have waited years for this moment,” he says. “I will not hide from them. Their deaths are mine to savor.”

  That’s right about when I have my first real misgivings about Famine.

  “I didn’t save you so that you could kill a bunch of people,” I say.

  “You know what I am, flower,”—that name again—“don’t pretend you don’t know my nature.”

  Before I can debate with him more, we enter Anitápolis.

  People are going about their morning when we walk down the street. They stop what they’re doing, however, when they notice Famine and his big-ass scythe.

  As we move towards the middle of town, a coal-black horse comes galloping down the cracked asphalt, heading right for Famine. The steed looks spitting angry, but at the sight of the creature, the horseman seems to relax.

  Wait. Is that his … ?

  The steed slows, finally stopping in front of Famine.

  The horseman leans his forehead against the horse’s muzzle. “It’s alright, boy,” he says, rubbing the side of the creature’s face. “You’re safe now,” he says, echoing the same platitudes I murmured to him last night.

  I stare at the horse. Where has the creature been this whole time? And why has the steed decided to make an appearance now?

  They’re setting a trap for me.

  Just as the thought clicks into place, I hear the whiz of an arrow.

  Thwump.

  The projectile makes a meaty sound as it skewers Famine’s shoulder.

  I expect the horseman to scream or to flinch like he did last night, but he does none of those things.

  He smiles.

  An unbidden shiver runs through me.

  That is not the look of a man who’s afraid. That is the look of a man bent on burning the world down.

  Famine’s eyes meet mine for a long second, and they’re full of wicked glee. Then his gaze flicks to the men trailing behind the black horse—men I didn’t notice until now. They hold bows and swords and cudgels.

  “I had hoped to see you all once more,” Famine says.

  The horseman’s nostrils flare, and the wind shifts. That’s all the warning any of us get.

  In the next instant the earth splits beneath the men, and strong, green shoots sprout from the ground. They grow within seconds, wrapping round and round the men’s ankles, climbing higher by the second.

  The men shout, their fear apparent, and several onlookers scream, many of them beginning to flee.

  I, however, am still as stone, my eyes pinned to the sight ahead of me. I’ve never seen anything like it. All those horrible bedtime stories I used to hear about the horsemen suddenly make so much more sense.

  As the vines grow larger, moving up the men’s legs and torsos, they sprout thorns. Now the men start to cry out in earnest. A few of them stab at their unnatural bindings. One breaks free, but he trips, and the monstrous plant reaches out for him, moving as though it has an awareness of its own, impossible though that might be.

  I glance at Famine, who is hyper focused on the men, a small, cruel smile on his lips. He told me he could kill plants; he never mentioned that he could grow them at will, or that he could turn them into weapons of his own making, but it’s obvious that he’s doing both at the moment.

  The plants have now grown as tall as the men, and their many branches twine around whatever limbs they can get ahold of. Now … now they begin to squeeze. First, the weapons fall from the men’s hands. But it doesn’t end there.

  I cover my mouth. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” It doesn’t even occur to me to tell the horseman to stop.

  I simply watch in horror as bones break and bodies contort. My stomach churns at the sight. I’ve seen my share of violence, but never like this. Never like this.

  And then it’s over. Too many vital things have been broken in those bodies. Maybe Famine could recover from those injuries, but not these men. They sag in their strange cages, their bulging eyes blank, their limbs contorted.

  I turn and vomit.

  Dead. They’re all dead.

  For several seconds there’s a strange stillness to Anitápolis. Even
though plenty of people have fled from the gruesome confrontation, more have lingered, drawn out by their curiosity and horror.

  The horseman’s gaze sweeps over these people.

  “Countless days I have been enslaved. Tortured and killed only to rise again. None of you helped.” The silence stretches out. “Did you think you were truly safe from me?”

  Wait. What?

  I glance at the horseman with wide eyes as my horror begins to grow.

  He shakes his head, and that smile of his is back. “You were never safe. Not then and especially not now. Your crops will die, your homes will fall. You and everything you’ve ever loved will perish.”

  I don’t feel the earthquake coming. One moment I’m standing on solid ground, the next moment it seems to violently buckle, throwing me forward. I hit the asphalt hard, my basket and the jabuticabas inside scattering across the crumbling road.

  Over the screams, I hear strange, groaning noises, then the ripping sounds of buildings coming down. All the while the earth continues to shake.

  I cover my head and curl up on myself, waiting for it to be over.

  A few years ago there was another massive earthquake that hit our town, knocking down an alarming number of buildings and burying dozens of people alive.

  Now, it’s happening again.

  It goes on and on, and all I can do is curl in on myself and cover my head. It feels like an eternity before the earthquake finally abates.

  Tentatively, I lower my arms. Dust is still settling around me, but it looks … it looks like Anitápolis has been leveled. Just … wiped away.

  Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.

  As I stare, more screams start up. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to shut out the noise. Then that, too, goes quiet. All I can hear is my ragged breathing.

  Eventually I force my eyes open and just … take in the horror. There are more strange plants holding more limp bodies in their grips.

  And now the world is truly silent.

  I’m not sure there’s a single soul left.

  Except for me—me and the horseman.

  For several long moments, I cannot speak. I keep trying to, but words fail me.

  I make a sound low in my throat, something that builds into a wail.

  At the noise, Famine glances my way. He saunters over and reaches a hand out to me.

  I stare up at him, ignoring his hand. “You told me there was nothing to fear.” My voice sounds off.

  “Nothing for you to fear,” Famine corrects. “I never promised the same for anyone else.”

  I take a few stuttering breaths.

  How could I have just let him come here into my town?

  This is my fault.

  “Is anyone … ?” Alive? I can’t bring myself to say it.

  Turns out, I don’t need to.

  “You are,” Famine says, his expression remorseless as he stares at me.

  That’s … it?

  What have I done?

  What. Have. I. Done?

  I thought compassion was a virtue. That’s what made me save the horseman. So why am I being punished for it?

  This is my bad luck, showing up again.

  Famine nods to the town. “Grab what you need, then hurry back. I’m eager to leave this place.”

  Eager to leave … ? With me?

  Surely he’s not serious?

  I give him a wild look. “What are you talking about?”

  “Get your things,” he says again, gesturing down what’s left of the street.

  I follow where he’s pointing. There’s nothing even left to gather. My entire town is nothing but rubble.

  Another low moan escapes my throat. My cousins are gone. So is my aunt.

  I feel a tear escape, then another. There will be no beating or disownment awaiting my return because my aunt isn’t alive to deliver any of it. The thought breaks something inside of me. She always disliked me; she’d look at me like she saw something no one else did. Something bad. I suddenly feel like her disgust towards me was merited.

  My carelessness killed my entire town.

  “I’m not going with you,” I whisper, still staring out at the destruction. Reality is beginning to sink in. I’m not sure I ever wanted to be me less than I do right now.

  “Of course you are,” Famine says.

  “You just murdered”—my voice breaks—“the only family I have.”

  He gives me a curious look. “They should have saved me. They didn’t.”

  “They didn’t know.” At least I didn’t know—and I couldn’t possibly have been the only person in this town to not know.

  Nearby, Famine’s horse whinnies. Guess that fucker survived the wreckage too. Bet he’s a dick, just like his rider.

  “Grab your things,” the horseman repeats.

  “I’m not going with you,” I say again, this time more resolute.

  He exhales, clearly impatient with me. “There’s nothing left for you here.”

  My body is beginning to shake. I pinch my eyes shut, willing away the last few minutes.

  I hear the horseman take a step towards me. My eyes snap open and I shrink back. “Stay away from me,” I say.

  He frowns. “You showed me kindness when I’d all but forgotten it existed. I won’t harm you, flower,” he says, his voice soft. “But now you must get up. I have lingered in these parts for far too long.”

  More tears are coming; they silently drip down my cheeks. “This is all my fault,” I say, taking in my surroundings. Everything is so still.

  “They were always going to die,” Famine says, his expression turning stony. “I would’ve torn this town apart even if you had never cared for me.”

  I think that’s supposed to make me feel better. It doesn’t.

  “Now,” he says, a note of steel entering his voice. “Get. Up.”

  Getting up means dealing with this situation. I’m most definitely not ready for that. I wrap my arms around myself instead.

  The horseman steps in close, placing a warm palm against my shoulder. Instinctively, I flinch away.

  “Don’t touch me.” My voice doesn’t even sound like my own.

  My eyes fall to the basket that’s rolled meters away, and regret sits heavy in my stomach.

  Near my basket a thorny bush begins to grow, rising higher by the second. Leaves unfurl, the plant fills out, and from it blooms a delicate lavender-grey rose.

  Famine plucks the flower from the bush and hands it to me, thorns and all.

  “I won’t leave you,” the horseman says fiercely. For a moment, he sounds like the Famine I got to know last night. Someone who seemed to have a heart. “Get on my horse. Come with me. Please.”

  I don’t take the rose. “I healed you, and you killed everyone I loved. Fuck you and your rose. Just … go.” I begin to weep.

  It’s all finally starting to process.

  Oh God, is it processing.

  After a long minute, the horseman sets the rose on the broken ground in front of me.

  “I won’t force you to stay with me. Not after …” He glances off in the distance, his eyes unfocused. He blinks away his thoughts, his attention returning to me. “Your choice is your own, but if you care for your life at all, then you should come with me.”

  And witness more death?

  I’d rather take my chances in this rotten world.

  My gaze meets his. I should’ve never helped you.

  The horseman must see it in my expression because, for an instant, something flickers across his features. I’d say it was regret or surprise, but who knows?

  It’s enough to drive him towards his horse. He mounts the steed, sliding the scythe into a holster at his back. Clad in his armor and astride his horse, he doesn’t look like a villain. Not at all. It’s enraging.

  “Goodbye, little flower,” Famine says, his gaze heavy on mine. “I will not soon forget your kindness.” He flashes me one last long look, then rides off.

  Chapter 10

  Present<
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  Even now I taste bile as I recall the memory.

  “You,” the horseman says. His gaze searches mine. “I had wondered …”

  “What happened to me?” I say, finishing his sentence for him. “I survived.”

  “I’m glad.” Famine takes a deep breath, the action jostling my blade. He settles himself into his chair, like he’s getting himself comfortable; it’s clear that whatever memory he has of me, he thinks it’s going to spare him.

  My anger rises like the tide. “How I hate you,” I whisper.

  “And yet you haven’t dragged the knife across my throat,” he says.

  “Is that a dare?” I whisper against his ear.

  My hand itches to do that very thing. To see his immortal blood spray from his neck. To see his pain. That’s why I’m here. Revenge. There’s nothing else left for me.

  “Do it, flower,” he taunts, echoing my thoughts.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  I dig the blade in, the endearment only making me angrier.

  Finish this, I urge myself. Still, I hesitate.

  It’s just that I’ve never killed anyone before.

  Would it technically be killing if the horseman didn’t die?

  I should definitely find out. I owe it to Elvita, to my aunt and my cousins to find out.

  I press the knife in deeper, watching as more blood slips over the blade.

  “You’re doing it all wrong,” Famine says, his voice casual. I can feel him staring at me as though he’s committing my features to memory. That angers me too.

  “Shut up.” I take a deep breath, gathering up my courage.

  The horseman looks vaguely amused when he says, “You do realize I could stop you if I wanted?”

  That causes me to pause.

  The horseman openly smirks. “Girl, have you no memory of my capabilities?”

  I meet his gaze.

  One moment I’m in control, and in the next—

  The floor bucks, the hardwood splintering beneath my feet. I’m thrown to the side, my shoulder hitting the wall. By some miracle I manage to keep my hold on my dagger. I can hear Famine’s chair scrape back, and then he grabs me.

  Pure instinct has me thrusting my blade forward, the point of my dagger burying itself into his chest. Famine grunts at the intrusion, grimacing as he glances down at the hilt jutting from his abdomen.