Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3)

by Laura Thalassa

  A bolt of lightning streaks down from the heavens right in front of us and—

  BOOM!

  I scream at the deafening sound as the lightning strikes the wrought iron archway. The barred doors beneath blast open with a metallic shriek, shards of wood splintering off in all directions. The displayed bodies are blasted from the wall as well, disembodied limbs flying in all directions.

  In the distance, I hear panicked shouting.

  “Ah, much better,” Famine says, a smile in his voice.

  He clicks his tongue and his horse starts up again, walking over the smoking remains of the gate.

  A long, palm-lined driveway cuts between fields of marijuana plants, leading up to an expansive mansion. Between here and there, people are yelling out orders. Several men are running towards the gate before stumbling to a stop when they see us.

  I can see them processing the scene before them—the felled gates, the rider, the scythe, the horse …

  All at once they reach for their weapons.

  The Reaper wastes no time dispatching them, his plants rising from the ground and twisting themselves around the men until bones break and blood flows. And then we’re riding over these men too, and I have to physically stop myself from retching again at the wet sounds of flesh being crushed beneath hooves.

  We travel the rest of the way like that, with a carpet of flesh lining our way. There are a seemingly endless amount of men, and for all of the horseman’s power, I’m nervous about the cartel boss we’re squaring off with.

  We head up the circular driveway, my gaze taking in the palatial home in front of me. Men are moving to defend the house, bows nocked and at the ready.

  An arrow hisses by, then another. I lock eyes on an arrow headed straight for me—

  Quick as lightning, Famine reaches out and catches the projectile, the point centimeters from my breast.

  The Reaper makes a sound deep in his chest. “That was the wrong thing to do.”

  Beneath us, the ground rumbles, splitting wide open. Thick, fast growing plants burst from a dozen different places, ensnaring whoever they manage to get ahold of.

  Amongst the panicked cries, someone begins to clap. I glance towards the sound. An older man, his hair heavily streaked with white, is among the men caught in Famine’s snares. He doesn’t, however, look concerned about his predicament.

  “I am not easily impressed,” the man says, looking first at me, then at the Reaper, “but you, my friend, have impressed me.”

  This must be the home’s owner. I can’t imagine what sort of man he is if he can take in all this carnage and not be afraid.

  “How is he still talking?” I whisper to Famine. The horseman is more of a kill first, ask questions later type of guy.

  “I’m letting him,” the Reaper replies smoothly.

  “I’ll admit,” the man continues, sizing me up, “I assumed you’d have smaller tits.”

  Behind me, the Reaper snorts. Smoothly he dismounts, crossing the cobblestone driveway towards the ensnared man. Famine’s scythe is strapped to his back, an open warning about who he is and the sort of violence he can wreak.

  If, you know, the dead crops, the toppled wall, and the bloody bodies weren’t warning enough.

  “Insulting me is not going to do you any good,” Famine says, casually removing his scythe from its holster as he strides towards the man.

  “So you’re going to kill me?” the man says.

  “No,” the Reaper says, “I’m going to torment you, then I’m going to kill you.”

  The older man sizes him up. All at once, he laughs. “You’re bad for business, Reaper, but you would make a damn fine lieutenant. If the situation were different, I might’ve even tried to hire you myself.”

  “You killed my men,” Famine jerks his head behind him, towards the remains of the gate. “Not to mention that your men tried to kill her.” I hear the icy chill of the Reaper’s anger as he jerks his head towards me. “So fuck your compliments and fuck your opinions.”

  “Am I supposed to apologize for defending my life and property, Reaper?” the man says. “Because if I am, then fuck you.” He flings the oath right back at Famine.

  In the wake of his words, there’s a hollow, haunted silence. I swallow, preparing myself for the horseman’s wrath.

  Famine steps in close to him. “Men like you are the reason everyone is dying. You are the reason I kill.”

  At the Reaper’s words, I feel an echo of his old pain, and my mind flashes back to the day I found his mutilated remains.

  Famine brandishes his scythe, and I am bracing myself for more decapitations.

  “I can help you,” the man rushes to say. Now he doesn’t sound quite so calm.

  The Reaper pauses.

  What is Famine doing?

  I can’t see much of the horseman’s face, but I assume he’s assessing the man.

  “Tell me, scum,” Famine says, “what use could a monster like you possibly have right now?”

  “Your men are dead. Mine are not.”

  Yeah, the three men who are left. The rest of them lay scattered in heaps behind us.

  “I can find my own men,” the Reaper says. Still, he doesn’t bring his blade down on the man’s throat.

  What is he waiting for?

  “I bet they can’t get things done the way my men can,” the man says. “People may know who you are, but you haven’t earned their trust. Not like I have.”

  “Is that so?” Famine says, amused.

  “You need something? I can get it for you. You want something done? I can snap my fingers and make it so. All my men have to do is mention my name, and people make themselves useful.”

  “And what is this name of yours?” the horseman asks, derision dripping from his voice.

  “Heitor Rocha.”

  I start at the name. Even I have heard of Heitor Rocha. He’s not just part of Brazil’s southeastern cartel; he is the southeastern cartel.

  My heart begins to drum in my chest.

  How the fuck did we end up here of all places?

  Famine doesn’t react to Heitor’s words, but he also doesn’t bring down his scythe on Heitor’s head.

  Good God, surely he’s not taking this offer seriously?

  The Reaper’s eyes sweep over the circular driveway, past an elaborate gurgling fountain where fish swim beneath lily pads, over the last of Rocha’s men, who are still caught in the grips of Famine’s plants.

  “Where’s your wife, mortal?” the horseman asks. “Where are your children?” Where is my leverage? Famine seems to be saying. And if he thinks Rocha won’t pick up on this, he’s wildly underestimating how clever we humans are.

  “Both of my wives and my only child have all passed on—but you, being all-powerful, would already know that, wouldn’t you?” Heitor challenges, staring at the horseman.

  The Reaper is unruffled by the accusation. He stares at Heitor a little longer, then, coming to some sort of decision, says, “I can’t be killed, and any attempts on my life will be met with my vengeance.”

  Wait—what?

  The Reaper’s unearthly plants loosen their hold, releasing Rocha’s men across the yard.

  Oh my God, he’s sparing Heitor Rocha? Heitor Rocha?

  The cartel boss steps out of the plant that caged him in, straightening his pressed shirt.

  “Do you want to keep your life?” Famine asks him.

  “I believe I have made that abundantly clear,” Heitor says, running a hand through his greying hair.

  “Get on your knees,” the horseman says.

  Heitor gives him a blank look. “I don’t understand.”

  “On your knees,” Famine repeats.

  Reluctantly, Rocha lowers himself.

  The Reaper extends his scythe towards Heitor, causing the cartel boss to rear back a little.

  “Kiss the blade and swear your allegiance,” Famine says.

  Heitor hesitates, and now I see his pride. He hadn’t anticipated t
his sort of debasement.

  After a moment, he leans forward and kisses the blade as best he can.

  Once he’s done, he glances up at Famine, eyebrows raised as though to say, are you satisfied? His lip bleeds a little from where he must’ve nicked it.

  “Now, your men,” the Reaper says.

  Heitor glances over at his men, who have hung back since disentangling themselves from Famine’s plants. Rocha stands, gesturing for the others to come over.

  I can see their anger burning in their eyes as they head towards the horseman. I don’t know these men, but considering they personally know Heitor, they must be powerful men in their own right. And Famine is making a mockery of that power.

  One by one, Heitor’s men get down on their knees and kiss Famine’s scythe. The Reaper makes no move to steady his weapon as they pledge their allegiance, and by the end of the ordeal, many of the men have bloody faces.

  Once the last man stands, the Reaper’s brutal eyes cut to me. Right now I can see how close to the surface his violence is. He beckons me forward with his hand.

  Damnit, I have to actually do something.

  I move slowly off the horse, barely making a fool of myself this time when I dismount—thank God. Behind me, Famine’s steed walks off; clomping across the driveway before heading off into the dead fields around us.

  Even the horse has the good sense to make himself scarce.

  I cross the expansive courtyard, to where the horseman waits. I have the attention of the entire gathering, and my skin crawls from it. Don’t get me wrong, under the right circumstances, I preen under excessive attention. But these are not the right circumstances, and the looks I’m receiving now range from I-want-to-hate-bang-you to fuck-you-demon-whore.

  What a group of fine gentlemen.

  I sidle up to the Reaper’s side, and his hand goes to my uninjured shoulder.

  Famine’s gaze moves to the mansion. “This is our house now.”

  Our house?

  Also, what the hell, Famine? As if the target on my back wasn’t already big enough.

  “You will all serve us,” the horseman continues. “And I expect you”—he points his scythe at Heitor—“to personally bring me dinner. And to draw my bath. And,” he squeeze’s my shoulder, “my companion’s.”

  Jesus. If there was ever a time not to rile a human up, now would be it. But it’s like the horseman is deliberately baiting the kingpin, hoping he’ll snap under the strain.

  “Of course,” Heitor says smoothly. His eyes are frigid, but he smiles as though none of this bothers him. The sight of that empty smile is nearly as chilling as Famine’s own nefarious grin.

  I’m going to get my throat slit tonight. I’m sure of it.

  Heitor’s eyes settle on me again, moving over my body proprietarily.

  “Who is this?” he asks, giving me the same kind of look a client might after they bought me for an evening. Like I’m his to do with as he pleases.

  I have to fight back a scowl.

  Famine’s gaze moves from Rocha to me. The horseman’s expression doesn’t change, and yet I can see him weighing his words.

  Finally, he says, “Someone important. Give her the same treatment you’d give me.”

  My heart picks up speed at his words, and for a moment, I remember what it was like to press my lips against him and discover that he kisses just as cruelly as he kills.

  Famine stares at me for several more seconds, his gaze moving to my lips. I can almost believe that he’s thinking about that kiss, too. The one he was angry about.

  “Come inside and we can discuss what it is you’d like me to do for you,” Heitor says, interrupting us.

  I blink, turning away from Famine.

  The cartel boss retreats towards the mansion, not glancing back to see whether we’re following or not. His men fall into line around him, and it’s clear that despite their bloody lips and pledged allegiance, Rocha is still the man in charge.

  Famine starts forward, seemingly oblivious to the situation. I hurry after him.

  “What are you doing?” I accuse him, keeping my voice low.

  Famine’s face is devoid of emotion. “What I always do.”

  “No, this is not what you always do,” I say heatedly, my voice hushed. “I’ve seen what you always do.” He chops people up, and the mouthier they are, the shittier he makes their deaths.

  The Reaper’s eyes cut to me. “It’s almost as though you don’t trust me.”

  Gah!

  “I don’t trust you! But more importantly, I don’t trust our host—and you shouldn’t either.”

  “I don’t.” The Reaper’s voice is icy. He glances at me, and something in my expression catches his attention. He turns to me more fully, his eyes bright with curiosity. “But tell me, little flower: what would you have me do?”

  Like the hunter that he is, he’s sighted my own dark thoughts.

  I part my lips to speak.

  Kill them. Kill them just as you do everyone else.

  I can’t force the words out. It’s one thing to see the Reaper kill, it’s another thing to encourage it.

  But I want these men to die. There’s no sense denying it.

  For the first time since we dismounted, Famine flashes me a wicked smile, looking delighted. “You’ve gotten a taste for blood, haven’t you, little flower?”

  “I’m not saying that—”

  “Enough.” His voice brokers no argument. “I’m aware of Heitor’s moral depravity. And unlike you, I am the hand of God, which means I choose when and how humans fall.”

  This is not going to end well. I just know it.

  Not even five minutes after we enter, Famine is already deep in conversation with Heitor’s men, clearly making his will known and going over logistics.

  The horseman has made a habit of recruiting terrible men to do his bidding, but so far, those men have been nothing but sellouts and goons. These people, however, these are professional killers; they seem to wear their wickedness like a coat.

  A figure steps in front of me, blocking my view of Famine.

  “A woman like you shouldn’t concern yourself with this tedious business,” Heitor says.

  I glance up and meet the drug lord’s eyes. They’re kind eyes. I wasn’t expecting that—for him to have kind eyes. Not that it means anything. Plenty of men with kind eyes have been rough with me. I think I prefer Famine’s eyes; he has the most truthful gaze of anyone I’ve ever met.

  Heitor takes me by the elbow. “Why don’t I show you your rooms?”

  Everything about this man agitates me, from his deceptive eyes to his misogynistic attitude to his misleadingly innocent offer.

  I glance over at Famine, for once wishing he’d be his usual bossy self and insert himself into my business.

  Heitor follows my gaze.

  “Surely you don’t need his permission for everything,” he says, reading my look.

  “You’d be surprised,” I respond.

  “Come, come,” the older man says, tugging my arm and ushering me along. “Famine will be right where you left him.”

  I’m used to catering to men’s needs. Perhaps that’s why I let Heitor lead me off without stronger protests.

  I rub my arm as we move away from the main room, the voices behind us getting fainter and fainter. Heitor opens a door that leads out to a courtyard.

  I step outside, and a moment later, he follows me. The door clicks behind us, sounding so loud. Or maybe it’s just my senses that are heightened now that I’m alone with the drug lord.

  His arm moves to my back, and he places his palm disturbingly low—just above the curve of my ass.

  My eyes flash to his, but he’s busy looking ahead, as though nothing is amiss.

  “This way,” he says, pressing me on.

  We cross the courtyard with its manicured gardens, skirting around a decorative pond before entering another wing of the estate.

  “How does a woman like you get tangled up with a man
like the Reaper?” Heitor asks casually.

  I feel my throat bob as I look at him. He’s still staring straight ahead.

  I bet you would hurt me in bed. Much of what I’ve learned at the bordello is how to read people.

  I lift a shoulder. “Bad circumstances.”

  “I’d argue your circumstances are quite good. He hasn’t killed you, after all.”

  Now Heitor looks at me, and a chill slips down my spine. His eyes are kind—cold and kind. It sets my nerves on edge.

  “He hasn’t.” But others might.

  I let the last unspoken part of the sentence linger in the air between us.

  Rocha stares at me a little longer, then abruptly, he stops, turning to a door I didn’t notice.

  “Ah,” he says. “Here we are. Your room.”

  He opens the door, and I peer inside, half thinking that this whole thing is a trap and I’m about to die. But Heitor did lead me to a bedroom, a very feminine one. It has paintings of beautiful women set in gilded frames, vases full of fresh flowers, a dresser inlaid with mother of pearl, and an enormous mirror that leans against the far wall. But the most impressive feature of the room is the massive canopy bed, gauzy fabric draped along the carved posts.

  This is clearly a room meant for a woman—perhaps a mistress? Whoever this woman is—or maybe there are several women—it’s empty now.

  I step inside, my gaze going to the ceiling, where a delicate chandelier hangs.

  Heitor’s hand slips down my backside and squeezes my ass. Just like that, my attention shifts from the opulent room to the man who led me here.

  “Enjoy your room,” he says, his eyes lingering on me, his expression saying, I own you.

  For a moment, I don’t react. Over the last five years, I’ve been conditioned to go along with unsolicited attention—that was how I landed new clients—but old conditioning is meeting new. I don’t want the attention, not from Heitor; and besides, I think he did it to demean me.

  My old programming finally snaps into place. I step into Heitor’s space.

  “It takes a lot more than an ass-grab to get me off,” I say, my voice low, intimate, “but I appreciate the attempt, all the same.”

  There’s a spark of … something in the man’s eyes. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s interest. Or maybe Heitor thought I was a conquerable challenge, and now he’s realizing that even I come with sharp teeth.