Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3)

by Laura Thalassa

  I mean, really? We are literally breathing in human remains and he wants to check out a pair of shapely legs?

  For shame.

  The Reaper steps in front of me. “You want a dress too?” he asks the offending man.

  I raise my eyebrows. I assumed the horseman didn’t notice these sorts of nonverbal interactions.

  Apparently, I was wrong.

  The man sputters some response.

  “No?” the horseman interrupts. “Then stop eye-fucking the girl.”

  With that, the Reaper grabs me by the waist and hauls me onto his steed. A second later he follows me up, and then we’re riding off into the darkness.

  I’m still processing that little exchange.

  I glance over my shoulder at Famine. “You know what eye-fucking is?” I have the oddest urge to laugh.

  The Reaper looks down at me. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  I gaze at him a little longer, and then I grin, my lips spreading wide.

  “What?” he says.

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.”

  “Flower, I don’t get jealous.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What is that tone?” he demands.

  “What tone?” I ask innocently.

  “Do you not believe me?” Famine’s voice rises with his outrage, and it is music to my ears. This is what I’d been missing with the Reaper. I can play a man like a hand of cards, but a horseman … I thought I was out of my element, but it seems as though they too can behave like men.

  “I’m not jealous,” he insists.

  “Sure,” I say, tucking a lock of dark hair behind my ear.

  “Damn you, Ana. Stop toying with your voice. I’m not jealous.”

  “I’m not the one getting worked up,” I say, swinging my feet back and forth. God but I’m enjoying this.

  Famine lets out a frustrated growl, but doesn’t respond.

  I smile for the rest of the ride.

  Chapter 23

  Eventually, we come to an enormous warehouse, something made of corrugated iron sheeting and small, smudged windows. It’s clearly a structure from before, when large quantities of goods needed to be stored and processed.

  Now, however, soft candlelight glows from within, and dozens and dozens of people are streaming into the building. By the looks of their formal attire, Famine’s men didn’t round them up so much as they got the word out that the horseman was hosting some sort of celebration tonight.

  I don’t know just how many of the city’s residents were actually foolish enough to come. It looks like a lot, but then again, Registro is a large city; perhaps this is just a small portion of its citizens. I hope the vast majority of the town knew better than to fall for this horseman’s tricks. I hope they’re fleeing now, using this time to pack up their things and run.

  Still, a wave of nausea rolls through me at the sight of all of the people who did decide to come here tonight, either out of curiosity or misplaced faith.

  Have none of them noticed the burning bonfire at Famine’s new estate, or the fact that the people who went to see the horsemen haven’t been heard from since?

  “What are you planning?” I say to the Reaper as he rides us up to the front of the building.

  “Always so fearful of me,” he muses, pulling his horse to a stop. “Perhaps I simply want to enjoy myself the way humans do.”

  He slips off his steed, his scythe at his back. I stare at the curving blade; it looks so much more threatening here amongst all these people.

  Famine turns and reaches up for me.

  “What are you going to do to them?” I whisper.

  “That is not for you to concern yourself with.”

  “Famine,” I say, my eyes pleading with him.

  His expression is merciless. “Off.”

  “I can’t watch any more bloodshed,” I say. “I won’t.”

  The horseman grabs me roughly then, dragging me off his steed. I wince a little as my bad shoulder is jostled.

  He sets me down, but rather than letting me go, he steps in close. “I’ll do what I want, flower,” he says softly.

  And now my earlier trepidation blooms into full-bodied dread.

  Famine steers me towards the building, his hand on my uninjured shoulder. I move forward like a prisoner walking the plank.

  We head inside, and the people around us move out of our way.

  Someone has tried to make the massive warehouse look less like some old pile of corroded metal and more like a ballroom. Bright cloth has been draped around the room and hung from the rafters. Wood and iron chandeliers hang from metal crossbeams, their candles already dripping wax.

  Platters of food lay along tables lining the room, and there are basins of water and huge barrels of what must be wine resting next to a pyramid of cups.

  Across the room, a lavish chair has been set up—it’s the only seat in the entire building, so it’s clearly meant for Famine.

  The horseman steers us towards it. Nearby, several guards loiter. The horseman gestures for them, and several hustle over.

  “Get me another chair,” the Reaper demands.

  A couple of the men’s eyes go to me, and I can see their confusion. Why does she get special treatment?

  Sorry guys, I wish I knew the answer.

  They hurry off to do Famine’s bidding, and within minutes another chair is dragged inside and placed next to Famine’s.

  “Sit,” the horseman tells me, releasing my shoulder.

  I frown at him but take the seat.

  The Reaper moves to his own chair, removing the scythe from his back before he sits. He lays his weapon across his legs, lounging back.

  “Why are you doing this?” I say, staring out at the sea of people who are quickly filling the room. They keep to the edges, standing in nervous groups. A few brave souls have dared to serve themselves some food, but most people seem to be of the opinion that it’s better to leave the food alone.

  Fools! I want to shout at them. Why did you stay when you could have fled? The horseman won’t take pity on you. He doesn’t know what pity is.

  Famine arches an eyebrow at me. “I thought you would want me to do something more human. Don’t you mortals love parties?”

  That answer only causes my heart to pound harder.

  “Look,” he says, gesturing to the tables laden with hors d’oeuvres and drinks. “I haven’t even destroyed the food.”

  Yet.

  We both know he will. He always does.

  Whatever this is, it’s another one of Famine’s cruel tricks.

  A band begins to play sambas, and it’s an awful pairing—this joyful music with the frightened faces of Registro’s citizens.

  I sit in my seat, beginning to squirm the longer nothing happens.

  People—mothers, fathers, friends, neighbors—all of them are beginning to relax. Slowly, the noise in the room rises as people talk to each other.

  Without warning, the Reaper grabs his scythe and rises from his throne, his bronze armor glinting in the candlelight.

  All at once—silence. I’ve never seen a crowd go quiet that quickly.

  He raises his arms. “Eat, dance, be merry,” the horseman says, his gaze sweeping over them.

  If Famine thought that his words would somehow jumpstart the evening, he thought wrong.

  No one moves. People were eating—some were even being merry—but now no one is budging a centimeter. Even the music has stopped. If anything, I think the horseman reminded everyone that this celebration is a little too surreal to be trusted.

  Famine sits back in his seat, clutching his weapon like a scepter, a frown on his face. The longer people stay pinned in place, the angrier his expression becomes.

  “Damn you all,” he finally says, slamming the base of his scythe down against the cracked concrete floor. “Eat! Be merry! Dance!”

  Frightened into compliance, people
begin to move, some shuffling towards the tables of food, a few creeping towards the open space in front of the band. I can see the whites of a few people’s eyes.

  It’s still silent, so the Reaper points his weapon at the musicians. “You useless sacks of flesh, do your jobs.”

  They scramble together, some discordant notes drifting off their instruments as they rush to make music. Once they begin playing a song, people move to the dance floor, woodenly beginning to dance.

  My stomach squeezes at the sight and my skin feels clammy, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

  The horseman glares at them all, a dark look on his face. That, more than anything, puts me on edge. The way Famine stares at them … like a panther sizing up prey.

  All of a sudden, the horseman turns to me, and my heart skips a beat at the predatory look in his eyes.

  “Well?” he says.

  “Well what?” I ask.

  “I was referring to you too. Dance.” He nods to the space ahead of us.

  In this mockery of a party? I don’t think so.

  “With who?” I say. “You?” I laugh, though the sound rings false. “I’m not just going to go out there alone. Dancing is for couples.”

  I don’t actually believe that, but the thought of dancing right now makes me vaguely ill.

  Famine arches an eyebrow, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. Rather than answering me, he reaches out a hand.

  I eye it, then him, then it again. “What are you doing?”

  “You wanted a partner.” He says it slowly, like I’m the town idiot.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  The horseman stands, strapping his weapon to his back once more. He moves in front of me, then extends his hand once more.

  Holy shit. He is serious.

  I stare at that hand. The petty part of me wants to say no, just to enjoy humiliating the Reaper for a few seconds, but the rational, frightened part of me knows that making a mockery of this man won’t end well for me.

  So I take his hand.

  This must be another one of the horseman’s tricks. But then he leads me onto the dance floor, where dozens of people are stiffly dancing. They give us wide berth.

  “Do you even know how to dance?” I ask.

  In response, Famine pulls me to him, placing a hand on my waist. The other clasps my hand.

  “You act as though these irrelevant human activities of yours are somehow hard.” As the horseman speaks, he begins to lead me in a dance. It’s nothing formal or structured, and yet his movements have an expert flow to them. He moves like a river over rocks, and again I’m reminded of his otherness.

  Haltingly, I follow the Reaper’s lead. I don’t know where to put my free hand. Eventually I rest it on top of an armor covered shoulder.

  For a few minutes I simply stare at my feet, trying to figure out the steps. But the more I look at my boots, the more I get distracted by the dark handle of Famine’s dagger.

  “They’re not going to disappear,” Famine says, his voice haughty.

  I jolt, feeling like I got caught red-handed. I glance up at the horseman, wide-eyed.

  “Your feet,” he clarifies.

  I stare into his luminous green eyes. The candlelight makes them shine like gemstones.

  “This is ridiculous,” I murmur, mostly to drag my mind away from the fact that the candlelight is doing more than just making his eyes glow. Every pleasing plane of his face is highlighted by the light, and his caramel hair shines nearly as brightly as his armor.

  “This is your world and your customs,” he says. “I’m merely indulging in them.”

  Right about now, I’m supposed to snap out some cunning retort, or look away and disengage. I do neither. I’m pinned under that spellbinding gaze of his.

  The intense way Famine is looking at me makes me feel like there’s lightning in my veins. And I can’t help but notice how, despite the cruel curve of his lips, the Reaper is unimaginably handsome.

  Finally, I tear my eyes away, staring at everyone and everything else but him.

  “Uncomfortable?” he asks, squeezing my hand.

  “More than a little,” I admit.

  “Good. It means you haven’t forgotten what I am.”

  I press my lips together. He thinks that’s the reason I’m uncomfortable? If only he realized that despite how awful he is, I’d still be half down to fuck the smirk off his face. And not for the sake of humanity. Staring at him makes me forget what a shitty person he is.

  His gaze stays on me as we move, and I fight to ignore it. It helps that every few seconds I accidentally step on Famine’s feet. That’s distracting enough to ignore his gaze.

  “Has anyone told you that you are complete shit at dancing?” he asks, drawing my attention back to him.

  “I can always count on you for a compliment,” I say sarcastically.

  “Why are you so terrible at this?” Famine asks, curious.

  “I was paid to fuck people, not to teach them the samba.”

  The song ends, and I pull my hands back. The Reaper, meanwhile, is slower to release me, his hand lingering on my waist.

  His fingers press in, and he pulls me towards him. “Stay close,” he whispers into my ear.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”

  The corner of his mouth curves up. After a moment, his gaze lifts from me, taking in the rest of the room. And just like that, my pulse begins to gallop away.

  He brushes past me, returning to his chair, and I’m left on the dancefloor, staring after him.

  “What does he have over you?” a male voice asks.

  I nearly jump at the sound. I glance over at the man who’s crept up to my side. It’s one of Famine’s guards—I think it might be the same one who was staring at my legs earlier.

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  “What does he have over you?” the man repeats. “Or are you with him by choice?”

  I scrutinize him. “Why do you care?” I say.

  The man lifts a shoulder in response, his gaze flitting over my face. He’s taken a little too much interest in me.

  I edge away from him.

  The Reaper lounges in his chair, one leg thrown over his knee, his fingers drumming along the armrest. His agitation is back. The horseman stares at the room full of people as though they sicken him. It doesn’t seem to matter that he forced them here, or that many of them appear worried.

  My heart is racing and my breath is coming fast. I’m acutely aware of the dagger in my boot.

  Next to me, Famine’s guard lingers, like he has more to say but he needs to recapture my attention.

  I turn to him. “What are you still doing next to me?”

  Ugh, I sound like the Reaper. That infernal bastard is rubbing off on me.

  The guard opens his mouth, his expression caught somewhere between ire and defensiveness.

  “Enough,” Famine says, interrupting us. His voice booms across the room.

  The music cuts off and the people end their chatter. In the silence, the hairs along my arms rise.

  Finally the guard moves away from me—though he does look reluctant to do so—taking up post near one of the doorways.

  I glance over at Famine, who still sits in his chair, his scythe in his hand. That horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach is back.

  “Enough of this farce,” he says softer now, his voice velvety and sinister. “You all know who I am. You all seek to placate me. But I see your excess, I recognize the hunger and greed that drives you all. It sickens me.”

  Raising his scythe, he pounds its base against the floor.

  Beneath our feet, the concrete floor cracks, fissures opening along its surface, each one spreading out from the Reaper like the rays of a sun.

  People let out surprised screams and many begin to rush towards the doors, but Famine’s guards are barring the exits.

  The horseman smiles.

  It’s that grin that cuts through my rising
fear.

  Stop him.

  My heart feels like it’s in my throat as I reach for my dagger. I cut my leg as I withdraw it from my boot, but the pain barely registers over the ringing in my ears.

  Stop him before it’s too late.

  I stride forward, closing in on Famine. His eyes flick up to me, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.

  Stop him. Now.

  I step right up to the horseman, and I slam my knife down on Famine’s prone hand with as much force as I can muster. It cuts through flesh and muscle, the blade pinning the horseman to his chair.

  Immediately, the earth stops shaking and the fissures halt.

  Famine sucks in a sharp breath as I stagger away. He shifts his attention to the wound.

  I can hear nothing aside from my own ragged breathing as I wait for him to react.

  After several long seconds, the Reaper’s eyes lift, meeting mine. I expect to see anger in them; instead, I see betrayal.

  “That was a mistake,” he says he says softly.

  Beneath me the floor cracks open once more, and a sharp, vined thing rises from the depths. I only have time to register that at least his ire is now focused on me before the plant wraps itself around me, squeezing and squeezing.

  Desperately, I try to rip free from the plant, but the movement only seems to make it tighten its hold. Thorns bloom along the vines, poking me in a dozen different places.

  At the sight, someone shrieks, and then it sounds like everyone is shouting. People begin to stampede once more, moving as fast as they can for the exits.

  The Reaper lays his scythe across his lap, then reaches for the dagger he’s been impaled with. Calmly, Famine pulls the blade out from his hand, shooting me a considering look as he tosses it aside.

  “No one’s going anywhere,” he says casually. Again, his voice seems to carry over the rising mayhem.

  Thick, brambly shadows rise beyond the windows, growing and growing like looming specters. Someone in their desperate attempt to escape shatters one of the windows in front of these shadows, and it’s only then that I realize that what I’m seeing outside are bushes—bushes that have grown so dense and tall that they effectively block off the exits.

  Outside, the sky flickers, backlighting these plants. An instant later, thunder booms overhead.

  Famine stands, grabbing his scythe and spinning it in his hand like he’s getting familiar with its weight. His bronze armor flickers and shines under the candlelight as he moves.