Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3)

by Laura Thalassa

  And now I’m vividly picturing an arrow spearing me through the heart. It could happen so easily. But it never comes. Just like my city, this one believes that they can win this monster over.

  We wind our way through the streets, and everywhere I look, I see pre-apocalyptic buildings that’ve been repurposed into something else. Stables, taverns, produce markets, butcher shops, homespun clothing stores, bicycle shops, tanneries, smitheries, and on and on.

  By the looks of it, Registro has done well for itself. Up until today, at least.

  At some point, another man on horseback separates himself from crowd, entering the street to wave at the horseman.

  I lean back against Famine. Once again, I’m vividly imagining an arrow slicing through me.

  “Relax, flower,” the Reaper says, reading my body language, “that’s one of my men.” Famine steers us towards him.

  “Good to see you again, Famine,” the man calls out. “We have a house on the edge of the city that we’ve prepared for you.”

  “Good,” Famine says. “Take us there now.”

  The man’s gaze moves from the horseman to me, then he turns his horse forward and begins moving.

  Up until now, I hadn’t thought about being seen with the horseman. Famine had me shackled and locked away like a real prisoner. But now the cuffs are gone and the Reaper has that arm draped over my thigh.

  I know what it looks like. Even if I had never been in the business of sex and intimacy, I would know what this looked like.

  Like Famine and I were together.

  I glance over my shoulder at the Reaper, but his eyes are on the rider ahead of us. A sinister smile tugs at his lips.

  Shit.

  Excitement from this guy means that we’re all probably fucked.

  We follow the rider down several side streets. People still stand by and cheer, but the crowds are a little thinner here, now that we’re off the main thoroughfare.

  Soon the buildings that were once clustered together now spread farther and farther apart until it seems as though we’ve left the city altogether.

  I’ve traveled farther in the last month than I ever have before, and most of what I’ve seen are ruins—not just of people, but of old towns and buildings too. We live in a secondhand world, one that clings to the last vestiges of that time before true hardship.

  But then, alongside repurposed buildings and dilapidated houses, there are the homes like the one ahead of us. Homes that are more like palaces.

  Whoever lives here, they’ve done well for themselves.

  We ride up to the circular driveway. I see a handful of the Reaper’s men loitering about the property, but it’s the older couple and two sullen teenage boys that stand in front of the house that snag my attention. Next to the four of them is an ancient woman. I’m presumably staring at three generations of family, all waiting for us.

  Famine rides right up to them, so close I can see the wavering smile on the middle-aged woman’s face, and I can see her husband’s shaking hands. They’re dressed in their finest, and even though most of my life I’ve envied families like this—families whose privilege has shielded them from most of life’s discomforts—I feel a deep sense of dread for them now. Their good fortune has gotten them noticed by the worst sort of man.

  The Reaper pulls his steed up short, and I can practically sense his giddiness. Just as he’s about to swing off his horse, I grab his thigh, my fingers digging into the muscle.

  “Please, whatever you’re about to do—don’t,” I say quietly.

  Famine leans in close to my ear. “This is the fun part, flower. Now, let go.”

  He jerks out of my hold, hopping off his steed, and I’m left sitting there alone.

  Famine takes a moment to grab his scythe and then he approaches the family, his boots crunching ominously against the gravel driveway. He’s a terrifying sight. You can’t look at him for more than a few seconds without realizing that this is no earthly man.

  As the Reaper steps forward, his men close in on the family.

  Oh God.

  The previously sullen boys now appear intimidated, and the middle-aged couple look downright terrified. Only the old woman isn’t caught in the grips of fear; she looks more resigned, like she’s seen this all before.

  Famine steps in close to the family, his scythe looming over them. His back is to me, but I’m still tense with nerves.

  “W-welcome to our house,” the woman stammers out.

  “Your house?” the Reaper says, incredulous. He cocks his head. “I’m afraid my men have lied to you if they made it seem like I was the guest.”

  I close my eyes. I can’t watch this.

  “Perhaps we should give you an honest reception,” he continues. “Men?”

  It’s the mother’s scream that does it for me.

  “Stop!” I say, my eyes snapping open.

  It might’ve been the mother’s scream that prompted me to do anything, but it’s the grandmother’s gaze that ensnares me now. She and I lock eyes, and she gives me a look that says, but what can you really do, girl? You cannot fight a storm and hope to win.

  Famine’s men ignore me. Even as I’m scrambling to get off Famine’s horse, they drag the family away.

  Famine, turns to me then, eyes narrowing.

  I’m still trying to get out of the saddle, which is especially hard with an injured shoulder. I end up sort of just falling off the horse, crying out as I hit the ground, the action jostling my wound.

  The Reaper closes in on me. In the distance, I can hear the rising voices of the family. The sound of it tightens my gut. No one thinks things are going to escalate this quickly … until they do.

  Not even I anticipated this sort of escalation, and I know better.

  When Famine gets to me, he pulls me roughly to my feet.

  “Undermine me again, and I will make the situation so much worse,” he promises.

  I lift my chin. “Fuck you.”

  In response, he grabs the wrist of my good arm and pulls me towards the ranch house’s front door. Off in the distance, the screams have reached a crescendo. I’m shaking, full of fear and hopelessness. That, and a touch of anger. Smoldering, righteous anger.

  Famine kicks open the front door. Inside, more of the Reaper’s men linger.

  “Round up the people of this city and find a building big enough to fit them all,” Famine announces. “Tonight, I want there to be a celebration in my honor.”

  Chapter 22

  I’m unceremoniously dumped into a room.

  “You’re to stay here,” Famine says.

  “Or else what?” I say defiantly.

  The horseman steps in close. “Stay. Inside.”

  “Make. Me.”

  His mouth curves into a sinister smile. “Fine. Just remember you asked for it.”

  Before I can pick apart his words, Famine grabs me again and hauls me over to the bed.

  “What are you—?”

  The Reaper tosses me onto the mattress. Just as I’m scrambling to sit up he gets on the bed, his knee going to my chest.

  I thrash as best I can against him; it isn’t much, my shoulder still throbs and I’m tired after a day of being in the saddle.

  “Get off of me,” I growl.

  Instead of doing just that, Famine grabs the bottom of my travel-stained nightgown. There’s a momentary pause, when I realize exactly what he’s about to do.

  “Don’t,” I say.

  He does.

  Grabbing the bottom of the makeshift dress, he rips off a strip of fabric, then uses it to bind one of my wrists to a bedpost. I tug against the binding, but it’s alarmingly secure.

  “So this is your kink, then?” I say, fuming. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a bondage man, but then again, I wouldn’t have pegged you for evil, either.”

  Famine rips off another strip of the dress, and it’s quickly going from an old-lady nightgown to something a bit more salacious. I don’t entirely disapprove.


  I flail, trying to keep my remaining wrist out of Famine’s grip. But, it’s the injured arm here, so my efforts are paltry. Famine captures my wrist in a matter of seconds. He handles my injured arm gentler than I expect as he moves it towards the other bedpost. It still hurts like a motherfucker.

  He ties my wrist to the bedpost, then sits back on his haunches.

  “There,” he says, assessing his work, “now you can’t get in too much trouble.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I say.

  “I’ll come for you later,” he says, backing off the bed. “Until then, behave.”

  Because there’s so much trouble I could get up to.

  … Says the prostitute on the bed.

  Okay, correction: there’s only so much trouble I’d want to get up to, given my circumstances.

  The Reaper leaves the room, his footfalls growing fainter and fainter as he walks away.

  “If anyone so much as looks at that door for too long,” I hear him call in the distance, “I will gut you and feed your entrails to you as you lay dying.”

  Jesus.

  I guess I’m going to have to behave.

  Damnit.

  I lay there for hours, trapped on that damn bed.

  Outside my room, I can hear people bustling about, shouting orders to each other. Unfortunately, the same awful procession of people comes to Famine’s door just as they have in the towns before this. And just like all those other unfortunate interactions, these ones don’t end well either.

  I can hear the screams, but worse, I hear the crackle of a bonfire somewhere nearby, and I can smell the smoke. At first it smells as smoke should, but the longer it burns, the more … cloying and meaty the smell gets.

  I gag a little when I realize why that is. I lean my face into my shoulder, coughing like I can somehow get the smell and taste out of my nose and throat. That’s about when I realize that I’m leaning into my bad arm, and the bandage that covered it for hours has simply … vanished.

  The horseman has some strange, terrible magic.

  Once the shadows deepen and day turns to night, the procession of people tapers off.

  For some time all I hear is the snap and sputter of the bonfire. But then, that sound is interrupted by ominous footfalls that can only belong to the Reaper. They get louder and louder until they come to a halt at the threshold of the room.

  In the dying light, Famine looms in the doorway.

  “Well look who it is,” I say, “the asshole of the hour.”

  He steps inside the room, quiet. It raises all the hairs along my arm, that silent prowl of his. The closer he gets to me, the faster my breath comes. I can make out his scythe. It’s strapped to his back, the blade arcing ominously over his shoulder.

  The horseman makes his way to the bed.

  The horseman drops something onto the mattress before reaching for one of my bound wrists, effortlessly pulling apart the material that held me captive for hours.

  He leans over my body to reach for my other, injured arm, but he hesitates when he hears my hitched breathing.

  “Are you … frightened?” His voice is so low it makes me shiver.

  “You sound delighted,” I say.

  Okay, maybe not delighted, but definitely curious.

  “I’ll be delighted when you actually stop fighting my every decision,” he replies, ripping apart my second makeshift shackle.

  I shake my wrists out, trying to get the blood flowing back into them. “Then you’ll be delighted when I’m dead.”

  “I’ll be relieved when you’re dead,” he says, gently moving my injured arm back to my side. The movement makes it throb something fierce. “You make even an immortal’s head pound.”

  I scoff, sitting up as Famine grabs something from the bed. A moment later, some article of clothing hits me.

  “What the—? Did you just throw—?”

  “Put the dress on.”

  “The dress?” I pick up the wadded up garment and shake it out. “Wait, what? Why?”

  The Reaper sighs dramatically. For an evil motherfucker, he is so over-the-top with the theatrics.

  “Must you question everything?” he says. “Because I said so.”

  I set the article of clothing aside. “Unless you force it on me yourself, I’m not wearing a damn dress.”

  The truth is, I could put the dress on; it would probably look less ridiculous than the oversized, travel-stained nightgown I’m wearing, but fuck this horseman and his demands.

  Famine gives another long-suffering sigh. “Last time I’m going to ask nicely: Put. It. On.”

  “No.”

  In the darkness I swear I see that evil little smile of his make an appearance. “Fine.”

  Fine?

  I’m perplexed, even as he approaches me. But then he pulls his dagger from his belt.

  “What are you—?”

  He grabs my dress by the collar, and—riiiip. He drags the blade down the fabric. As he does so, the material parts, revealing my flesh beneath.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I almost sound scandalized.

  “That was your only dress, wasn’t it?” Famine says, like the asshole he is. “Pity it’s ruined. Now, put the fucking dress on.”

  “You think I care about exposing myself?” I do. “I’ll walk around bare-breasted before I put—”

  “Your shoes are going next.” He reaches for my boots, his blade still poised.

  “Okay—okay!” I say, mostly because it’s hard to come by a decent set of shoes these days. “I hate you, but okay,” I mutter.

  I grab the dress as he watches me with steely eyes. I know he’s not going to leave, so I don’t bother asking him to. I’ve lost enough power plays today as it is.

  Slipping off the bed, I shuck off the remains of my nightgown then shake out the dress, trying to determine what it looks like. It seems to be wine colored, but I can’t be sure in the growing darkness. It has enough glittery pieces to it that I can tell it’s something ostentatious.

  A line of buttons run up the back of the dress, and I have to pause to unbutton each one. Once the opening is wide enough, I step into the dress. I pull it up, feeling the beaded bodice and the ruffled skirt that’s cut high in the front and low in the back. It’s a little loose, but it works well enough.

  All at once I have a flashback to my nights at the bordello, wearing dresses that cinched up the back, rouging my face in front of my vanity.

  I’m getting pretty again, and I’m actually not too fond of that fact.

  “Happy?” I say sullenly, turning to the horseman.

  “Mmm.” He makes a noncommittal sound.

  “You’ll need to button it for me.”

  “Do it yourself,” he throws back.

  “I can’t reach the buttons, Mr. I’ve-never-worn-a-fucking-dress-before-and-have-no-idea-how-one-actually-works.”

  He glares at me.

  “Or—I could not wear it,” I add.

  After a moment, he approaches me. “Where are they?”

  “The buttons?” I reply. “Down my back—along my spine.”

  Famine tosses his dagger onto the bed, freeing up his hands. Gruffly he grabs my good shoulder and turns me around so my back is facing him. I feel the brush of his fingertips as he pulls the material together. Clumsily, the Reaper tries and tries again to get the small cloth-covered buttons through the little loop openings that edge the fabric. My stomach tightens at his touch, and I can’t help but feel his breath as it stirs the hair against my neck.

  I should not be reacting this way to him—not when he literally just untied me from the bed.

  A hundred and twenty years later, the Reaper finishes buttoning me up. I pull out the hair that’s inadvertently gotten tucked into the dress and I turn around.

  The horseman is already on his way out.

  “Follow me,” he calls over his shoulder.

  I hesitate, my eyes moving to the bed where the Reaper tossed his blade only minutes ago.
On a whim I lean over the bed and grasp the weapon, tucking it into one of my boots. Days ago I wasn’t brave enough to hide a knife on my person. But a lot has changed in that time.

  I take a couple steps, making sure I don’t slice my ankle.

  Am I really going to dare the horseman’s wrath by doing this?

  I think of the hours spent tied to the bed while dozens of people died.

  Yes, I think I am.

  Dagger now secured, I trudge out of the room.

  Halfway down the hallway, Famine glances over his shoulder at me. I think he just means to make sure I’m behind him, but the moment he catches sight of me, he does a double take, stumbling to a halt.

  Now that’s a reaction.

  Out here in the hallway, the candlelight better illuminates my outfit, and Famine uses that light to look me over, starting with the hem of my dress—which is in fact a deep red color—and moving his gaze up. He looks like he doesn’t know what hit him.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure you don’t like sex?” I say. “You’re looking at me as though you might.”

  The horseman rips his gaze from my body, meeting my eyes. “I am not looking at you in any way”

  “Yep, you are. You definitely look like you could bang one out. I’m real good at quickies—”

  Famine growls—growls!—in response, much to my delight.

  “Enough of this, Ana.” His gaze drops to my borrowed boots, and his irritated expression deepens.

  “What?” I say defensively. “You gave me a dress, not shoes.”

  He looks heavenward, then resumes walking once more. “C’mon, flower.”

  “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.” Earlier, he had mentioned some sort of celebration in passing, but I haven’t heard anything about it since. The dress, however, does seem to fit the occassion.

  Famine doesn’t respond, and a wave of trepidation passes over me. Whatever his plans are, they can’t possibly be good.

  Outside, his horse is already waiting for him, along with several of his men. The greasy stench of smoke and charred bodies is stronger out here, and I have to swallow back my rising bile.

  Several of the guards’ eyes go to my exposed legs. One of them glances from my calves to my face, and I raise my eyebrows at him.