Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3) Page 21

  He holds my gaze for a second longer. “You’ll know when I’m trying to get you off. Perhaps sooner than you realize.”

  Rocha turns his back on me and walks away, his shoes clicking along the floor.

  Long after he’s gone, my skin still crawls.

  Definitely going to die soon.

  Chapter 27

  That evening I sit with Famine in Heitor Rocha’s grand dining room, fidgeting as the two of us wait for dinner.

  “This is a bad idea,” I whisper to the horseman.

  He leans back in his seat, slinging a leg over his knee. “Loosen up a little, flower.”

  I open my mouth to fire back a retort when several of Heitor’s men enter the room, each carrying a platter of food. Heitor himself is nowhere to be seen.

  So much for serving us.

  “And where is your insufferable boss?” the Reaper asks, noticing Rocha’s absence. “I believe I asked him and not you all to serve me.”

  One of the men mutters something vague about Rocha being in the next town over, making arrangements on the horseman’s behalf.

  It’s more likely that Heitor is wherever the hell Heitor wants to be; not even Famine himself can make him do otherwise.

  The Reaper glares at the men, but just when I think he’s going to grab his scythe and start gutting them, he leans back in his seat and lets them set the platters of food on the table.

  “You there,” Famine calls, pointing to one of the men.

  The man’s eyes move to the horseman. It’s not fear I see in those dark irises—more like caution. I guess that’s what you get when you’re used to working around sociopaths.

  The Reaper gestures for him to come over, even as the other men set down their dishes and retreat back into the kitchen.

  “What is it?” the man asks, moving towards Famine.

  “Grab a plate. Sit.”

  Maybe I was wrong earlier. Maybe Famine is planning on killing someone right now.

  The man hesitates for only a moment, then he leaves the room, returning with a plate.

  Tentatively, he sits across from us.

  “Serve yourself,” the Reaper orders. “There’s plenty here, and I want you to try everything.” He sounds almost benevolent, like he himself made the dishes.

  The guard eyes Famine for only a second or two before he reaches for each dish, putting a little of this and a little of that on his plate until it’s a heaping tray of everything.

  “Now,” Famine says, “eat.”

  It takes me longer than it should to realize that the horseman isn’t going to kill the man, like I assumed. He’s using him as a food tester, making sure that the dishes prepared weren’t laced with poison.

  “And the wine—don’t forget to try that,” the horseman encourages.

  The two of us watch the man in silence as he eats and drinks his way through the meal. The guard’s eyes are flinty as he does Famine’s bidding, but he polishes everything off.

  When it becomes clear that he’s not going to keel over, the guard stands.

  “I was hoping to eat with Heitor,” Famine says casually, and I’m impressed the horseman actually remembered the man’s name.

  “I will let him know he was missed,” the guard responds. “I’m sure he regrets his absence.”

  “Does he now?” Famine says.

  The two men stare each other down. Eventually, the corner of the Reaper’s mouth curls into a lopsided smile. “You will find me Heitor, and you will bring him back here. He and I are to have a little chat.”

  My stomach dips again at the thought of one of Rocha’s own men forcing their boss to do something. From everything I’ve heard, loyalty is a big deal in cartels. But Famine’s wrath is barely leashed as it is. And I’m in the crosshairs of it all.

  The Reaper sits forward as the man leaves the room, and he begins serving himself. When I don’t follow suit, Famine serves me as well.

  “I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to sit next to you and not get bombarded with all your petty thoughts,” Famine says, pouring us both a glass of wine. Setting the bottle down, he picks up his glass.

  I glance at the horseman. I’ve been distracted today, it’s true. Distracted by our violent entrance into São Paulo, by Famine’s barely muzzled brutality, and by Heitor’s unsolicited touch.

  Before I know exactly what I’m doing, I stand.

  The Reaper reaches out and places a hand over mine. “Stay.”

  “Is that an order or a request?” I say. I don’t know if it’s something in the water, but like Rocha, I don’t really want to follow orders at the moment.

  The horseman thins his eyes at me. “Would it make a difference?” he asks, his words sharp.

  I stare at him for an extra beat.

  It would. It does.

  And today I don’t want to play games.

  Slipping my hand out from under his, I begin to leave.

  I think the horseman’s going to call on Heitor’s men to stop me.

  Instead, he says, “If that’s the way you feel about it, then it’s a request.”

  I stop and take a deep breath. I know Famine conceding anything is a big deal, and maybe on another day I’d be satisfied with his response, but after Heitor’s ass-grab, I’m fucking over being forced to fit into roles men have cut out for me.

  “For this to work—truly work—you’re going to have to respect me,” I say, my back still to the horseman.

  “A tall order from a human,” he responds.

  I’m not angry, but I’ve had enough. I begin moving towards the exit again.

  “But I suppose I can make an exception for you,” he adds.

  I glance back at Famine, annoyance simmering just beneath my skin. But the Reaper’s eyes are full of mirth. He’s being playful, and for once playful doesn’t involve someone dying.

  It’s that look, more than anything, that convinces me to stay. Not that I’m great company at the moment.

  I all but stomp back to my seat.

  “You’re in a fine mood tonight,” he remarks.

  “You’re one to talk,” I snap back at him.

  “My mood is great—or it will be, once I eviscerate our host.”

  There’s a stretch of silence, then Famine adds, “You’re still upset that I let Heitor live, aren’t you?”

  What’s the use lying? I am upset, and I am beyond caring if that makes me a shitty person.

  “Among other things,” I say.

  Famine raises his eyebrows, looking absurdly delighted. “Oh, there are other things you’re also upset about? How very fascinating. What a magic trick it is to earn a woman’s ire without trying at all.”

  I glare at my plate. “God, you would make a fantastic human. You’d fit right in with the rest of my clients.”

  “Watch your words.”

  “Why?” I challenge, now turning my blazing gaze back on the horseman. “What could you possibly do to me that hasn’t already been done before? I’m tired of watching my words and watching my actions. I’m fucking done being careful so that other people don’t have to be.”

  Abruptly I stand and pick up my delicate wine glass. I don’t know what I’m doing until I cock back my arm and throw it at the far wall. Glass shatters on impact and wine splatters across the embellished wallpaper, dripping down its length.

  It feels good to destroy Rocha’s things, things that probably cost a fortune and that Famine is enjoying at the moment. It feels so good in fact that, caught up in the moment, I grab the tablecloth and yank it hard, sending food and dinnerware careening everywhere. Porcelain plates fall to the floor, shattering as they dump their contents. The sound of all that finery breaking is music to my ears. I can’t find it in myself to feel bad for my actions. Not today and not among the wolves I’m surrounded by.

  Only once it’s all over do I face the horseman again, my breathing a little heavy.

  “Finally,” Famine says, a smile curving the corners of his lips, “a hint of your fir
e.”

  Chapter 28

  The horseman stands, his chair scraping out behind him. A few pieces of food fall out of his lap as he does so, but he doesn’t seem to notice them.

  He closes the distance between us, looking just as scary and intimidating as ever. The Reaper steps in so close our chests nearly touch, keeping eye contact the entire time.

  I’m still angry, but now there’s this confusion to add to it. I assumed acting out would piss Famine off. Instead, he’s looking at me like I’m wine he wants to taste.

  The horseman takes my hand, his own dwarfing mine, and then he leads me from the room. And damn him and damn me, but I go along with it as though I didn’t learn my lesson the first time with Heitor.

  “What are you doing?” I say as he pulls me along, moving through the expansive house. “Aren’t you mad?” I ask.

  “That you lost control? Little flower, I’m enchanted. Your antics have been the best entertainment I’ve seen in a while.”

  Really now? Killing people suddenly got boring?

  The Reaper and I leave the main building and cut through the courtyard.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “To my room, of course,” he responds.

  I stumble over my feet.

  Famine glances at me and smiles secretively, like he knows exactly where my mind is.

  My gaze goes to his lips, and a sudden, shocking realization hits me: I want to kiss him again. Not to tease him or to distract him, but to taste those lips again in earnest and to feel the press of his body against mine.

  I’ve absolutely lost it.

  “W-why?” I ask.

  He gives me another loaded glance, and I feel that look right to my core.

  “Would you rather I leave you at the door to your room?” he asks.

  “No,” I say too quickly, and ugh, I want to cringe. I sound like a horny teenager.

  The Reaper’s mouth curves up on one side and the world feels like it’s turned on its axis.

  Famine stops at a door just down the hall from mine. He opens it, then holds the door open for me.

  I step inside the room. The place is already lit by candlelight, the flames dancing in wrought iron sconces.

  I move towards a side table that has a globe made entirely from inlaid stone. I spin it a little before my attention moves to the stack of books sitting next to it, their names painted along their spines.

  “Why yes, please explore my room,” Famine says, his voice laced with sarcasm.

  “Was I not supposed to?” I say, raising an eyebrow as I turn to him. “You invited me here, after all.”

  Famine doesn’t say anything to that, which I take for capitulation, so I continue to peruse his quarters. I toe the rugs, eye the bar in the corner of the room, stare at the mounted paintings, touch a sculpture of a nude male with a huge phallus—clearly wistful thinking on the artist’s part—and eye the bed. The entire time I feel Famine’s gaze on me.

  I keep waiting for him to make some sort of move; he’s the one who led me here after all. He was the one with desire in his eyes and suggestion on his lips. But he doesn’t even try to approach me.

  So weird.

  As he watches me, Famine begins to unfasten his bronze armor. And now my blood heats. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

  It doesn’t take him long to remove it all. The sight of the horseman in his black shirt and breeches has me swallowing. The candlelight does nothing but heighten his beauty, dancing over his sharp jaw, high cheekbones and bemused lips. He watches me like a panther, arms folded over his chest.

  The sight causes my heart to leap and my abdomen to tighten in the strangest way …

  Still, I am reluctant to move to the horseman, now that I’m acknowledging my own desire. I don’t want whatever this is between us to echo every other experience I’ve had, but I don’t know how to make it different. That’s why, when my gaze snags on the Reaper’s bronze scales, I move over to them instead of the horseman.

  I’ve only caught glimpses of this device since I started traveling with the horseman.

  I step up to the scales, drawn in by their odd existence. The delicate circular pans are polished to a shine. There are a series of symbols etched onto each, and I think it might be the same markings that cover Famine’s body.

  “Are you ever going to tell me what these scales are for?” I ask.

  “They’re for weighing items.”

  I give the horseman a look. “I figured as much.” I touch one side of the scales with my finger, the shallow metal pan bobbing a little at the contact before it resettles. “Why would a horseman need to weigh anything?” I ask.

  Famine runs a thumb over his lower lip, watching me for a moment, like he’s deciding on something.

  “It’s a metric to weigh men’s hearts,” he finally says.

  He walks to my side, unaware that I was trying to put some space between us. “The scales represent truth, order, peace—essentially, the world as it ought to be,” he continues. “Whether humans are worthy of that world is for these scales to judge.”

  I glance over at him, my heart beating a little faster at his nearness. It takes me a few extra seconds to process what he said.

  “That sounds like the story you told me,” I say. The one about the Egyptian goddess who weighed men’s hearts. She had scales too.

  “Ma’at and I have much in common,” the horseman says softly.

  I touch one of the shallow pans again. Of all the beings who should wield such a device, vicious, violent Famine seems like the worst candidate for the job.

  “Would you like to see how it works?” he asks.

  Yes. It’s an unearthly contraption that can seemingly measure something as intangible as peace and truth.

  I nod.

  The Reaper smiles a little and reaches around to his belt, where he’s strapped a dagger.

  I take a step away from him. “What are you doing?” I demand as he unholsters the blade.

  “You didn’t think it would be painless, did you?” he raises an eyebrow. “I need a bit of your blood for this to work.” He reaches out a hand and beckons for me. “Now, let me see your finger.”

  I don’t give it to him.

  The horseman gives me a look. “I’m just going to give it a prick. Nothing more.”

  “I’ve seen your definition of a prick; it’s a little more intense than my own definition of it.”

  “Fine.” He begins to put the dagger back.

  I watch him.

  If he was interested in hurting you, he would’ve already done so.

  “Wait,” I say.

  He glances at me.

  I hold out my index finger.

  His gaze flicks from it to my eyes. Here his gaze lingers. Without looking away, he grasps my hand and lifts his blade once more. He angles my hand over the shallow pan.

  “This might sting,” he says.

  Before I can react, he slices his dagger across the pad of my finger.

  There’s a brief flash of pain, then several beads of blood drip onto the circular tray. The metal pan dips as it takes on the weight of my blood, then lifts, then dips again, until it’s only a little lower than the other, empty pan.

  My eyes flick to Famine. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you’re a decently good person.”

  I give him an incredulous look. “Decently good?” I say. “I saved your ass once upon a time. That didn’t earn me any heaven points?”

  “You’ve also tried to kill my ass, in case you’ve forgotten, so no.”

  “Fine. Let’s see how you size up then on your little holy scale,” I challenge.

  Famine smirks at me. Using his shirtsleeve, he wipes my blood first from the scale, then from the edge of his blade. A moment later he brings his wrist up to the tray.

  In one swift motion he slices open his skin and lets his blood spill onto the pan.

  I wait for his blood to weigh down his side of the scales, but i
t never comes. Instead, his pan begins to lift, rising higher even as more and more blood drips onto it.

  The most unnerving part of the whole thing is that other, empty scale. In the horseman’s story of Ma’at there was at least a feather being weighed against men’s hearts. Here, there’s nothing, nothing at all.

  Famine stands there, bloody arm extended, those sinister green eyes watching me as the scales continue to tip in his favor.

  “I may be crueler than you,” he admits, “but my heart is still purer.”

  “Your scales are obviously broken,” I say. “There’s no way your soul is purer than mine.”

  If I’m really to believe that this set of scales measures truth and justice and peace, then Famine should be weighing his end of the scales way down. Out of all the devils that inhabit this earth, he’s the worst of them.

  Which means the scales are rigged.

  God hates us and loves his evil reaper.

  There’s a long stretch of silence, and in that silence, I feel the horseman’s nearness. All over again it reminds me that he took my hand and brought me here. That all of this is just a prelude to … to whatever comes next.

  I turn to the horseman, and I suck in a breath at the sight of him. Seeing him without all that heavy armor feels intimate. Particularly when the two of us are in his bedroom.

  “Why did you bring me here?” I ask.

  You know why, his eyes seem to say.

  I exhale, my pulse speeding up. I’ve been worried since entering this room that this night might play itself out like every other experience I had at the bordello, but I realize now how wrong I was. No one—no one—has ever made me feel as self-aware as Famine. No one has ever made me want them so badly in spite of every awful thing they’ve done. Not even Martim, the first boy I loved.

  Only the horseman.

  My hands move to my shirt, ready to remove the garment.

  Famine catches my hands. His fingers tighten over mine. I stare down at our entwined hands.

  “Not everything is about sex, flower,” he breathes. That low, velvety voice seems to rub me in all the right places.

  Contrary to his words, my reaction to him has everything to do with sex.