What we need is time. Time for the Reaper to heal. All at once I jerk on the reins, pulling the horses up short.
Hopping out of my seat, I slip my knife into my boot, and once I’m sure it’s not going to slice my ankle up, I head to the rear of the cart. Opening the back of the wagon, I grab Famine under his arms and begin to heave, gritting my teeth against the way his weight tugs at my bad shoulder. I force myself not to focus on the wet feel of his blood or his many grotesque injuries as I drag his body out of the cart and set him gently down on the ground.
Walking over to the front of the cart, where the driver’s seat is, I grab the reins and flick them. Immediately the horses begin to move, and I release the leather strap from my grip as the cart jolts forward, the horses pulling it onwards.
Hurrying back over to the horseman, I grab him under the arms and heft him up the best I can.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. Sorry for what was done to him and sorry for the pain I’m about to inflict, hauling him away.
I drag him off the road and into the dark fields that sit across from Heitor’s estate, déjà vu washing over me. I hate that Famine and I have done this before, and I hate that he and I are now forced to re-enact our first horrific meeting all over again. Most of all, I hate the panicky feeling I get every time I catch sight of the arrow protruding from his face, and the way I wince every time his body bumps over rocks and other debris.
I don’t know when it happened—when I began caring for Famine. Or maybe I always have cared for him, even when he acted monstrous, and I just lied to myself for a time. I don’t know what sort of awful human that makes me.
In the distance, I hear shouts.
They know we’re gone.
I push my body to its limits, forcing myself to move faster so that I can get us as far from the road as possible.
I’m not sure how far I manage to travel, only that I drag the horseman along until I can’t any longer.
My legs fold, and I collapse in a heap, the horseman’s body falling on mine. After I catch my breath, I readjust the two of us so Famine isn’t laying on me so much as he’s cradled in my arms. Then I bow my head over him.
My body shakes from overexertion, and there’s a sick feeling in my stomach, one that I try to tell myself is just fear for my own life. But every time I look at Famine, that feeling deepens.
My mind can’t stop replaying all the terrible things I heard and saw those men do to the horseman in the dark. No wonder the Reaper hates us with such unholy viciousness.
I would too.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of horses’ hooves pounding down the road. They get louder for a long time, and I wait for them to close in on us. They don’t. The riders tear down the road, not stopping to peer into the dead field we’re hiding in.
I let out a shuddering breath once they pass.
Safe—for now.
I glance down at the Reaper. His head is slumped over my arm, and the sight makes my chest ache in the worst sort of way.
I reach out a shaky hand and move aside a matted lock of hair, my fingers coming away bloody. That arrow is still protruding from Famine’s face, and he won’t be able to heal until it’s out. And he needs it out. Now.
I swallow down bile, knowing what I have to do.
Moving my hands to the wound, I probe around it, gagging a little at the feel of blood and bits. The arrow went into his face near his eye, but it didn’t go all the way through, which means I’m going to have to pull it out the way it came in.
I exhale a shaky breath. Satan’s balls, but I don’t want to do this. I really, really don’t. But those men are still out there searching for us, and neither Famine nor I are going to be truly safe until he’s awake again.
Extricating my legs out from under the horseman, I gently lay him on the ground.
Now the icky part.
Kneeling over him, I grab the arrow shaft. Biting my lower lip, I pull.
Nothing happens.
I wrap my hand tighter around the projectile, wincing at the blood oozing between my fingers, and I try again.
Still nothing.
Why me?
Finally, shifting myself to get a better angle, I pull hard, wiggling it back and forth a little. It makes awful, wet noises, but it loosens. Then, excruciatingly slowly, it begins to dislodge itself.
Thank fuck—
The arrowhead snags on a bit of flesh.
I gag again.
I tug some more, and once more it loosens before hitting more tissue
I pause to press my mouth against my shoulder.
You can do this, Ana. It’s almost out.
Forcing down my nausea, I pull, wiggling the arrow shaft back and forth. With a final slick, sucking sound, the projectile slides out.
I have to swallow my cry—which is half relief, half horror—as I cast the arrow aside.
Need to check the rest of him.
God, I hate this. I hate it even more than the discovery that I actually care for this insufferable creature.
I force my hands back on Famine and, starting with his head, I run my fingers over him, looking for other injuries. One of his arms ends at his wrist, the other at his elbow. I also find gaping wounds at his neck and one of his legs, as though Heitor’s men tried and failed to remove the appendages.
The entire process is awful. Famine is so still that there’s no mistaking that he’s dead.
Once I’m done, I reach out and touch the Reaper’s face again with a bloody, trembling hand. This terrible, complex monster. Most of the time he’s the evilest thing in any given place, but right now … right now Heitor and his men hold that title.
My fingers trail along Famine’s cheek. I’m so close to losing it, but I force myself to stay strong, just for a while longer. So instead, I stretch myself out next to the Reaper, laying a hand on his chest, just so that when he wakes, he won’t be alone.
And then I wait.
The cool evening air stirs my hair and sways the dead stalks of sugarcane around me. It’s an oddly peaceful night given how horrific it’s been. I draw in several deep breaths.
I killed a man—maybe two, if Heitor didn’t survive my attack.
I can still remember how easy it was to bring that knife down on the man’s throat—how easily it cut through skin and sinew. I can remember how remorseless I felt in that moment, and I know deep down that I would do it again if someone found me and Famine hiding out here.
I glance over at the horseman, frowning. I’d do all of it again for this man, because wicked or not, violent or not, Famine might be the only being who has ever truly seen me and cared for me. And … I might be the only person who has ever really seen and cared for him.
It’s made us both begrudgingly loyal to each other.
That thought lingers with me as the night toils on. Every so often I hear men shouting and horses galloping up and down the nearest road, but only once does anyone stop by this field. Even then it’s only for a few agonizing minutes. Then I hear their horse retreat and I breathe easy again.
I don’t know how long I lay motionless next to the Reaper—out here with the endless sky above us and the vast fields around us. It feels like time drifts, but at some point, I sense Famine … surfacing.
He moans, the sound tightening my chest. The tears that I’ve kept back are now starting to mutiny.
“Hey there,” I tell him, my voice wavering. I reach out and stroke his face softly. “It’s me—Ana.”
He makes an undiscernible noise and tries to move his head, and the whole thing is so goddamn heartbreaking that I have to take a few breaths before I continue.
“You’re safe,” I say, the lie coming easily to my lips. “You were ambushed by Heitor and his men,” I whisper into his ear. “They’re looking for us at the moment, so we have to stay quiet.”
Beneath my touch, the horseman is still.
Did he pass out again?
But then he reaches for my arm, letting out
a pained sound when he realizes his own is gone. In the dim moonlight his eyes slid to mine. There’s no faking the broken hopelessness in his gaze.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my tears starting to leak out. “So, so sorry.” I move then and, careful to not jostle him too much, I pull the horseman into my arms and stroke his hair.
Famine is shaking, and I can only imagine his pain.
I whisper my apologies over and over. And then, holding him to me, I let myself fall apart. I cry for every awful thing that’s happened to him at the hands of evil men. And then I cry for all the awful things that have happened to me at the hands of evil men, things I normally don’t let myself dwell on. I give in to all the pain and suffering that feels like it’s been needlessly inflicted on us.
This world is a cruel place.
“I don’t blame you for hating us,” I whisper. “I don’t. I wish I could—it would make things so much easier—but I don’t.” I hold him to me again in the darkness, rocking us together.
I feel the horseman’s arms come around me the best they can, and in the darkness, I think I hear him begin to cry. The sound breaks me. I press a kiss to his blood-matted hair.
The two of us stay like that for a long time, holding each other and being totally and completely vulnerable. And for once I think the cold, heartless Reaper might not actually be so cold and heartless after all.
At some point, the tears dry up, and all that’s left is the comfort of each other’s presence.
“This … is … upsettingly familiar,” Famine says, pain lacing his words. His head and upper body are in my lap. My legs have long since fallen asleep, but I don’t dare move him.
So I guess I finally understand the Reaper’s motives when it was me asleep in his lap.
“You … were … right,” he whispers.
About Heitor, he means.
“Screw being right,” I whisper back. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” he says. “What … happened? How did you … ?”
“Escape?” I ask, finishing his sentence for him. “Heitor came looking for me.” Even now, a hot blend of fear and anger rise within me.
Famine goes rigid in my lap. “Did he … ?”
“Hurt me?” I finish for him. “He tried, but can I tell you a little secret?” I don’t wait for the Reaper to answer before I lean in close and whisper, “You don’t fuck with a prostitute. We can be the things of nightmares.”
“I am … almost frightened,” he says.
I crack a small smile, relieved that the horseman is well enough to attempt humor.
“How did you … stop him?” he asks.
“I whacked him with one of his stupid candelabras.”
Famine huffs out a laugh, though it ends with a wince.
It’s reflexive—I reach out and stroke his hair back, trying to comfort him. And it must be my imagination, but I swear the Reaper leans into the touch.
“I don’t know if he’s alive or not,” I admit.
“I hope he is,” Famine says, and his words hold so much menace. “He and I have unfinished business.”
A chill slides down my spine. How I ever thought Heitor was as scary as Famine is a mystery. He doesn’t hold a candle to the Reaper.
“What else … happened while I was gone?”
I’m quiet for a long moment, remembering all of the evening’s atrocities.
“I killed a man,” I admit.
I think I see Famine’s eyebrows lift. He tries to sit up a little. “How did that happen?” He sounds far too curious.
I can’t meet his gaze when I say, “He caught me right after I found you—”
“After you found me?” Famine repeats. There’s a strange note to his voice, and I think he might be realizing the same thing I had earlier—that I won’t just save him, I’ll fight and kill for him too.
“Tell me the rest of what happened,” he demands softly. “Leave nothing out.”
I do just that, continuing to stroke his hair as I recount the last several hours.
He’s quiet through most of it, though I swear in that silence something subtle shifts between us. I don’t know what.
After I finish telling him what happened, he lays there, brooding.
“Twice now you’ve saved me,” he eventually says. “Why? Why do such a thing when I have brought you so much pain?” He sounds desperate to know the answer.
Gently, I place my hand against his face. “I don’t know, Famine. Because I am foolish, I suppose. And because I’m too curious for my own good. But most of all, because I like you every bit as much as you like me.”
The way the Reaper’s eyes shine in the darkness, I’m half sure that if he had hands at the moment, he’d reach out and pull my lips to his. Instead the two of us drink each other in.
“What happened to you after you left me?” I ask gently.
I know it’s going to ruin the moment, but I can’t not ask. He’s been brutalized.
His eyes slide away from me. “I was ambushed.” That’s all he’ll say on the issue.
Did it hurt? I want to ask, but of course it hurt. It clearly still hurts.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, because that’s the only thing I can think to say.
Famine’s eyes move back to mine. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m not apologizing for me. I’m apologizing for humanity.”
At that, Famine is quiet.
“Does God really hate us?” I ask softly. Now seems like an appropriate time for that question.
“Not as much as I do.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Famine’s face sobers up. “Your kind is running out of time,” he says.
Of all the frightening things I’ve seen and heard tonight, that might honestly be the most terrifying. Whatever celestial test humanity has been given, we’re failing at it.
The Reaper lets out a groan.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my heart jumping at the sound.
“I will be. It’s just some brief pain. It’ll pass soon enough,” he says, his voice strained. “But, distract me, flower. Tell me about your life.”
My gaze moves down to him. “You want to know about my work at the bordello?”
“I want to know about you,” he replies, and not for the first time this evening, Famine’s words send a pleasant heat through me.
“How far back should I go?” I ask.
In response, the horseman sighs, like I’ve taken a simple thing and made it overly complicated.
“Oh my God, calm your tits, I’ll start back at the very beginning.”
I can’t be sure in the darkness, but I think I see him smile, just for a moment.
“I never knew my mother,” I begin. “I mean, I knew her—I just don’t remember it. When I was two, she died giving birth to my brother, who also passed along with her—or maybe he passed before her, I still don’t know the full story on this.
“My father raised me alone, but he was a good dad. He called me his little princess and I remember he’d stop by my school to drop off treats from the grocery store he worked at.” I hadn’t remembered that story until now, and the thought of it fills me with an aching warmth.
“What happened to him?” Famine asks.
“He died of complications from diabetes when I was still a young girl.”
There, I’ve covered close to the first half of my life. The better half, if I’m being honest.
“After his death, I moved in with my aunt.” Now I pause.
Famine is waiting for me to continue.
I begin to stroke his hair, more to comfort myself than him.
“Life with her was …” I search for an appropriate word that won’t dishonor the dead, but then I can’t find any. Finally, I shake my head. “Unpleasant.”
“Why?” The Reaper’s tone is carefully neutral.
“She used to beat me—for everything.” She had a horse whip she kept around for this very purpose. “I co
uldn’t do anything right.” I still feel an old, dull burn of shame when I remember her constant disappointment.
“Most of the time, I’m relieved that she’s gone,” I admit, the words making me feel guilty.
“You mean to tell me you feel something other than relief?” Famine says, and I can hear the surprise in his voice.
I frown. “Of course. She was my aunt.”
“So?” Famine says. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“She cared about me … in her own way.” She gave me a place to sleep, food to eat, and clothes to wear. It wasn’t a joyful experience, but it was something.
The horseman makes a disbelieving noise.
“What?” I demand. “You don’t think she did?”
“Not enough, flower, not nearly enough,” he says. “Then again,” he adds, “I shouldn’t expect any better from the likes of humans.”
“People aren’t all bad,” I say.
The Reaper readjusts himself a little, groaning as he does so. “Clearly you’ve never been tortured by them.”
I press my lips together. He has a point. We’re in the middle of a field hiding for our lives, and the men after us don’t just delight in death—they enjoy a good dose of suffering too.
The two of us fall to silence, and we stay that way for a long time. I continue to stroke his hair. In the distance, I hear the pound of more horses’ hooves. The two of us go utterly still. But, like the first time I heard the noise, these riders don’t stop to check the field.
Once the hoof beats fade away, Famine says, “You never finished telling me about your life.”
I glance down at him. “I know you like stories, but I’m not sure mine is what you’re looking for.” There’s no justice, no peace and harmony, and except for the cameos Famine makes, there’s nothing particularly supernatural about it.
“It’s exactly what I’m looking for.”
I try not to read into that statement, or the way he’s looking at me as he says it. I’m going to start thinking that this man is really, truly interested in me, and that’s a dangerous assumption to make when it comes to the horseman.
I exhale. “I don’t want to tell you about it,” I admit. I give myself a little credit for being honest.
Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3) Page 23