Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3) Page 19

  “Oh, trust me, I fantasized about it, flower.”

  Now that I’m off of him, the horseman rises quickly, crossing the room like he’s trying to put as much distance between us as possible.

  My eyes sweep over our surroundings, and it might not be me he’s fleeing. In the sobering light of day, this place is far worse than it was at night. The walls are covered in rings of mold and the corners of them are home to what I hope are abandoned wasp nests. The ceiling caves in precariously, and the ground is covered in droppings.

  Famine saw all this and still he didn’t shove me off his lap? I would’ve. I stare after where I last saw the horseman. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Famine was a gentleman.

  What a disturbing thought.

  I meet the Reaper outside, where he’s checking his horse’s straps.

  “Where does your horse go?” I ask as I walk over.

  Famine turns to me, his expression turbulent.

  “You mean when I leave him alone?” he says. “Wherever he pleases, I imagine.”

  “And he just comes back to you when you need him?” I ask, rolling my injured shoulder absently; my injury feels much, much better. I guess a good night’s sleep on the Reaper was all I needed. “You don’t have to worry about him running off?”

  “He may be a horse,” Famine says, “but he wasn’t born of horses. He was formed from the ether with one purpose and one purpose alone: to assist me in all ways.”

  That’s all he says on the subject—it’s all he says at all. He still wears that same, stormy expression when he lifts me onto his horse. Wordlessly, he gets on behind me and steers his horse back to the road.

  Overhead, dark clouds gather on themselves, but it’s not just the weather that feels ominous.

  I can practically feel Famine’s oppressive mood bearing down on me.

  “So …” I start.

  Last night plays out in my mind. I still want to know about Famine’s dirty little sex life—because I’m a snoop.

  “I don’t want to talk.” As he speaks, the sky seems to visibly darken.

  “But—”

  “Don’t push me,” he cuts me off. As if to punctuate his thought, I hear a distant rumble, and one fat raindrop lands on my nose.

  I glance up at the sky.

  Wait. Is it possible that he has power over … ?

  “You’re not a virgin,” I say, staring up at the grey clouds.

  “Do you suddenly not understand your own language? I don’t want to talk.”

  “Well, I do,” I insist. “And I really want to discuss the fact that you’ve boned a woman before—or was it a man?” I gasp at the titillating thought. “Please tell me it was a man!”

  Famine doesn’t respond, and if anything, the sky seems to clear a bit.

  Hmmm …

  “Or maybe we should talk about the fact that you let me sleep on your lap for an entire night.”

  A fat drop of water lands on my cheek.

  There we go.

  At my back, the horseman goes rigid.

  “One would almost think you cared about me …” I say, baiting him.

  Another raindrop hits my face—then another and another.

  “Enough.”

  The raindrops come faster and faster.

  Wonder of wonders, this is working. And now I have not one, but two revelations to ponder over—the most obvious one being the fact that the horseman clearly has some power over the weather, which, holy shit is that spooky.

  But then there’s another revelation, which is somehow even more mind-blowing than Famine’s ability to affect the weather.

  “You do care about me, don’t you?” I say, shocked.

  Abruptly, the Reaper pulls on the reins, jerking his horse to a stop.

  Without a word, he swings himself off his horse and walks away.

  “Where are you going?” I call, fumbling to get myself out of the saddle. Awkwardly I do so, grimacing when the action tugs at my shoulder.

  Overhead, the sky is turning worrisomely dark and the rain is coming down harder and harder, the raindrops stinging as they hit my skin.

  “Wait!” I call after Famine, hurrying after him.

  All at once he swivels around, facing me. “One of these days, your inability to listen is going to get you killed.”

  I step in so close to the horseman that our chests nearly brush. He’s giving me an angry look.

  I reach out and touch his cheek, for once not restraining my baser impulses. Just as he’s beginning to rear back, surprised and a little horrified, my hand goes around his neck and I pull his head towards me.

  Lifting to my tiptoes, I press my lips to his and kiss him.

  Chapter 26

  I don’t know what I’m doing. I mean, I do—I’ve done this so many times I can kiss better than I can write my own name—but I don’t know why I’m doing this now, with the horseman of all people.

  For a long moment, Famine is stiff against my lips. Then, almost like he can’t help it, I feel his mouth move against mine.

  Sweet Mother of God, the horseman knows how to kiss—and he’s responding to mine!

  A bolt of lightning arcs down from the heavens. With a loud crack it hits a tree, fire and wood exploding on impact.

  A surprised cry rips from my throat, and I rear back.

  A split-second later, Famine stumbles away from me.

  “What the fuck, Ana?” he says, his fingers going to his mouth.

  Around us, hail begins to pelt down, the clusters growing larger by the second.

  Cursing under his breath, the Reaper closes the distance between us once more, shielding my body with his own.

  My eyes eventually move up to him. “You really can control the weather,” I say. I can’t keep the wonder from my voice.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Famine says, glancing at me. After a moment, his eyebrows rise. “Is that why you kissed me? To test a damn theory of yours?” Even as he asks, his gaze strays back to my lips.

  I can practically feel the heat of his anger. I think the only thing that might piss the horseman off more than getting kissed right now is getting kissed for the wrong reasons.

  The corner of my mouth lifts. I definitely shouldn’t enjoy toying with him—people tend to die when this happens—but I can’t help it; he’s fun to tease. He takes it so poorly.

  My eyes drop to his lips. “That … and I was curious.”

  I’m still curious. He felt like sin against my lips. And damn me, but now all I want is to do it again—if only to see another tree blow up.

  Famine stalks back to his horse.

  “What?” I call after him. “Did I say something wrong? Don’t be mad—you’re much less pretty when you’re mad.”

  In response, he growls.

  I grin. So much fun to tease.

  The rest of the ride is full of silence—heavy, tense silence. Behind me, Famine broods away.

  Even though the worst of the storm is behind us—both literally and figuratively—rain still pelts down on us. There’s no escaping it, but it’s not altogether unpleasant. It cools my skin against the stifling heat of the day.

  We continue down the road, following one of Brazil’s old highways. By the looks of it, the thing has been patched over and over again since its creation. Here the farms have thinned out, replaced by rolling fields and thick, verdant forests.

  Every so often we pass by a trading post or an inn, but that’s it. We don’t pass by any travelers today, and for that, I’m immensely relieved. Famine’s men must’ve done an adequate job warning people about Famine’s arrival.

  My own mood is light and airy until I read a sign on the road.

  “We’re going to São Paulo?” I say.

  “If you’re referring to the city ahead of us, then yes, we are.”

  São Paulo is one of those big places in my world. It’s one of those cities you want to be a part of because things happened there. I always imagined that its citiz
ens were more cultured, more sophisticated, more well-traveled—just more.

  And now the Reaper is going to destroy it all.

  As we enter the city, I can’t help but suck in a breath. The place is enormous, and it just seems to go on and on and on. There are blocks upon blocks of skyscrapers as far as the eye can see.

  However, despite its sprawl, there’s a desolation to São Paulo, and slowly, I understand why. So much of what I see is rubble. There are blocks and blocks of collapsed buildings; some areas are so utterly destroyed that the debris has effectively blockaded the streets. More than once, Famine has had to turn back and find an alternate route when the original one was obstructed. It seems as though São Paulo abandoned this section of the city.

  Out of nowhere, Famine says, “You’re not to kiss me again.”

  “What?” I say, blinking away my thoughts.

  “Agree to it.”

  “Agree to what?” I’m so lost.

  A moment later my mind catches up to what he said.

  “Oh, kissing you?” I state. “Naw, I’m not going to agree to that.” I say it mostly to ruffle his feathers, but also because—curiosity.

  “Ana.” He says my name like a warning.

  Just to be an asshole, I grab his hand and, threading my fingers in between his, I lift his arm to my mouth. Softly, I press a kiss to the back of his hand, then another against the side of his wrist, then—

  “Damnit, Ana, stop.”

  He pulls his arm away, and I have to press my lips together to stop from laughing at the fact that scary, horrible Famine is physically holding his arm away from me to stop me from kissing it again.

  “God, calm down, Famine,” I say. “I’m just teasing you.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Well of course it’s not funny to you,” I say. “The joke’s at your expense.”

  The longer we move through São Paulo, the more uneasy I get. I haven’t seen anyone on the streets.

  All the stories I heard about this place made it seem lively. Could they have been wrong?

  As I look up at one of the windows, I see a figure peering out. When the woman notices me, she darts away from the window. Inside another building I see a curtain rustle.

  Trepidation drips down my spine.

  Perhaps, there are people here, after all.

  “Famine, do you think this is going to be one of those cities where people try to kill you?”

  His fingers drum against my thigh. “It’s likely.”

  Well, fuck. That doesn’t sound fun.

  Famine’s men clearly warned the people of São Paulo of our upcoming arrival. But now I wonder what exactly these people were told about the horseman.

  By the looks of it, nothing good.

  Unfortunately for Famine (and me), this city might actually have enough people to fight back.

  I don’t know how long we ride through that metropolis, the only sound the steady hoof beats of Famine’s horse, when the rider appears. His horse moves slow, making his appearance somewhat chilling, like the calm before the storm.

  He wears a large cowboy hat, and it’s only once he’s close that he calls out, “Hey friend, I’m here to take you to the estate where you’ll be staying.”

  I glance up at Famine, but the horseman wears a stoic expression.

  Eventually, he nods to the man, and the rider turns around, heading out ahead of us.

  “Is that one of your men?” I ask.

  “Maybe … maybe not,” Famine says. “You all look so alike.”

  “Well, that’s super reassuring.” I take a steadying breath. “So, is this a trap?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  By walking straight into it, he means.

  “That is not the correct way to deal with these situations,” I say. Has Famine learned nothing from his time in captivity?

  “It’ll be alright, little flower.”

  I exhale. I guess it will have to be, because for better or worse, I’m along for the ride.

  Following the rider ahead of us, we enter a section of the city that doesn’t look so desolate. In fact, it seems as though the people here have taken pains to revitalize this section of São Paulo. You can see it in the fresh paint and the manicured gardens we pass. There are pristine parks and tiled fountains with bubbling water.

  My gaze lingers on one of these fountains. Running water means pipes and infrastructure that most cities don’t have the money to bother with.

  The buildings around us look sturdy, and well-tended to. There are stores that sell tinctures and herbal remedies, flower shops, jewelry shops, stores that sell woven blankets and rugs.

  The people who live here are still nowhere to be seen, but every now and then I hear a murmur of muffled conversation or the cry of an unhappy baby.

  We move out of the city, the buildings thinning out on either side of us. Honestly, part of me thought there was no end to this place, it was so big.

  The respectable shops we passed earlier have given way to gambling halls, taverns, and massage parlors. I even spot a bordello with the logo of a bare-chested woman painted onto the sign.

  The moment I notice it, I feel a dip in my stomach, like I should be in there rather than out here, riding around in breeches and a shirt rather than a dress, my face dirty, and my hair wild. This is the longest I’ve gone without working, and I feel guilty about that.

  Maybe because I’m so damn happy to be free of The Painted Angel. Free to not have to pleasure men with sweaty bodies and smelly dicks and bad breath. Or to listen to their mean words and put up with their rough—sometimes sadistic—ministrations. And oh God am I happy to no longer have to fake it from dusk to dawn. The false moans, the forced laughter and the contrived looks of lust. I’m so happy to be rid of all of that.

  We come to the edge of the city, and the buildings are replaced on one side by farmland, and on the other by a huge, fortified wall. Armed men watch us from guard towers stationed along it. The moment I see them, I understand why this city is so wealthy.

  Drugs.

  Of course, a major city like São Paulo would be a foothold for cartels. And by the smell of it, they’re growing those drugs here, too.

  My eyes linger on the guards we pass, bows and arrows loosely held in their grips. They stare at us, unsmiling. No cheers, no cowering, no surprise or any other emotion. I see one of them spit out some chew, but that’s the extent of their reaction.

  At least they haven’t shot at us yet. That would suck.

  As Famine sweeps by, the farmland that I can see begins to wither, just as it always does when the horseman passes through a place.

  One of the armed guards shouts, pointing to something on their side of the wall. Then several of them are yelling at each other—then at us. A few point their weapons in our direction.

  “Flower, I don’t think our company was adequately warned about me,” Famine says.

  No sooner has he spoken than the Reaper turns his punishing gaze on them.

  The earth revolts, shaking the ground violently. The wall seems to weave back and forth before collapsing altogether, and the men come toppling down with it.

  Now that the guards are on the ground, several plants break through the surface of the earth, growing in a matter of seconds, their vines coiling around the men.

  I turn my head away before I can watch the rest. I still hear their agonized screams.

  “Can I admit something to you?” Famine says conversationally. “I like it when they fight.”

  In front of us, our escort’s horse rears back. The man manages to stay in the saddle, but before either horse or rider can get their bearings, another plant bursts from the ground nearby. It lashes out like a whip, wrapping itself around the rider and dragging him off the beast. He screams, even as more spindly shoots follow, overtaking him until he’s entangled completely.

  Famine passes him by without a second glance. Ahead of us there are more fields and more guards and, once
we pass them, more death. So much more death. The men fall in droves, along with the wall they were defending.

  Just when I think the Reaper has wiped everyone out, more appear. And with each death, I swear the horseman at my back grows giddier and giddier.

  Eventually, I catch sight of a thick gate to our left, barring us entrance. As we get close, I notice strange shapes dangling from the wrought iron archway. It’s not until we’re about ten meters away, however, that I realize those shapes are dismembered men, their heads on pikes, their cleaved torsos hanging from the blockaded gate.

  At the sight, my stomach heaves.

  “I think I’m going to be …”

  Famine barely has time to slow his horse before I’m leaning over the side of the saddle and puking my guts out.

  I’ve seen countless deaths at the horseman’s hands; why these corpses would be the ones to make me retch is beyond me.

  “Please don’t tell me this means you’ll need another meal,” the Reaper says.

  “Jesus,” I say, catching my breath, “you are an asshole.”

  I right myself just as the horseman hands me the canteen I’ve taken to carrying around with me. Wordlessly, I take it from him, and swallow down enough water to wash the taste of sickness from my mouth. Even as I do so, my eyes return to the wall of their own accord. My stomach pitches again at the sight, but I manage to hold myself together.

  As I stare up at the corpses, I realize that I recognize one of the faces. It’s the man from the last city, the one who chatted with me at the dance right before all hell broke loose.

  Unease drips down my spine. These are Famine’s men. They must’ve warned the people of São Paulo of the horseman’s arrival and made demands on Famine’s behalf. And … someone didn’t take that news too well.

  I lower the canteen, absently capping it.

  “Better?” the Reaper asks.

  I nod, shoving away my thoughts.

  “Good.”

  Famine raises his hand towards the thick gate. Already most of the wall around it has been toppled over, the men dragged from their posts.

  Overhead, the clouds darken to the color of a bruise, and the already humid air seems to grow even heavier.

  That’s all the warning I get.