Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3) Read online

  With that, he leaves the dining room. I can hear him rustling around in the pantry. When he returns, he brings the basket of cheese bread, the cassava chips, the salami, and the cashews.

  I stare at him, brows lifted. “Are you actually … serving me?”

  “I’m bringing us dinner,” he corrects me before leaving once more.

  A minute passes, and then Famine returns with the wine and the last of the food, dropping the wheel of cheese unceremoniously onto the table, the knife I used now jutting out from the center of it.

  “You are serving me,” I say incredulously.

  He scrapes out the chair next to me and sits down, then grabs my seat and drags it over to him. He pulls me in so close that his thighs are bracketing mine in, and there’s nowhere else to look but at him.

  This is … cozy.

  The Reaper reaches across the table and plucks the bottle of rum from where it sits.

  I’m watching him curiously, unsure of what the horseman is doing.

  He meets my gaze, a sly smile on his lips, and then he grabs the bottom of my jaw.

  “What are you—?”

  The horseman lifts the spiced rum to my lips. “This, little flower, is me serving you.”

  And then he feeds me the spirits.

  I watch him as I drink, and maybe it’s my imagination, but his eyes seem to smolder.

  I try not to stare, but the sight of him—from his tan skin to those cruel, sensual lips and his volatile gaze—is making my stomach feel light and fluttery. I don’t think I’ve ever been around someone who was so offputtingly beautiful.

  Famine doesn’t remove the bottle from my lips for a long time, and I don’t stop drinking, the two of us watching each other.

  Again, I feel that light, airy sensation in my stomach, the one that makes me feel like I can fly.

  It’s the alcohol, I tell myself.

  Not looking away from me, the horseman finally lowers the liquor from my lips, then brings it to his own.

  Heat pools low in my belly.

  The Reaper drinks and drinks … and drinks. He doesn’t stop until he’s drank the liquor dry.

  He sets the empty bottle down onto the table with a heavy clink. “Would you like another demonstration?” he asks.

  “Demonstration?” I echo, lost. I’m still hung up on the fact that Famine just drank all the rum.

  His mouth curves up into a smile. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Famine stands, and before I can call him back, he heads into the kitchen. He returns several minutes later with enough alcohol to kill a small army.

  He sets his loot down on the table, knocking some of our food aside.

  “You have a drinking problem,” I state.

  Not that I blame him. If Elvita didn’t have a no-substance-abuse policy in place for her girls, I probably would’ve fallen into the same trap years ago.

  “I kill humans by the thousands, and that’s your issue?” he says. “That I drink too much?”

  He makes a fair point.

  “I have a problem with the killing too.” Sort of.

  In truth, I should have more of a problem with it, especially considering all the transgressions Famine has made against me and my loved ones. But I’ve come to a strange sort of peace with who and what the horseman is. I want him to stop, but I can’t stop him.

  And if I’m being brutally honest, I don’t know if I should.

  Humans can be awful. Maybe this is what we deserve.

  Famine doesn’t stop drinking. He drinks and drinks and drinks. It’s enough booze to kill a man three times over. But the Reaper seems fine. Honestly, he doesn’t even appear all that fucked up.

  While he works on the alcohol, I make it a personal mission to polish off most of the food in front of me. I drink a little too.

  Amongst it all, we’ve taken to asking each other questions about anything and everything.

  “How many men have you been with?” Famine asks, sipping on a glass of wine.

  “Sexually?” I say, grabbing a handful of nuts. “I don’t know.” I pop one of the cashews in my mouth. “A lot.”

  “How many women have you been with?” he follows up.

  “Thirty-three,” I say without missing a beat.

  His eyebrows go up. “You kept count?”

  “They were more memorable bed partners,” I say. I eat another couple nuts. “How about you?” I ask. “How many people have you been with?”

  Famine takes a long drink of his wine, his gaze growing distant. “I don’t know. I don’t remember the number.”

  I give him a strange look. “Then why did you think I would remember?

  “Because you’re a human, and you give a fuck about human things. I, on the other hand, do not.” With that, he polishes off his drink.

  Famine leans forward to refill his glass. “Speaking of human things, what quaint little talents do you have?” he asks.

  “I can fuck a man nearly blind,” I say helpfully.

  He exhales.

  Aw, did he think I’d given up on the uncomfortable sex jokes? Poor, naïve man.

  I give the Reaper an innocent look. “I can demonstrate if you’d—”

  “Let’s leave my eyes out of this,” he says, bringing his now full glass of wine to his lips. “I already lost both hands in the last day. I’d hate for my eyes to go too.”

  Despite his words, I swear he looks half intrigued.

  Personally, I’m far more than half intrigued.

  “So, besides blinding men,” he says, “what else do you like to do? Read? Sing? Dance? Wait, forget about that last one. I know you can’t dance for shit.”

  It’s such a rude goddamn thing to say, but a laugh slips out anyway. I’ve sort of developed a soft spot for Famine’s asshole-ish personality.

  “Fuck you,” I respond good-naturedly.

  “Mmmm …” Again, he gives me a speculative look, like he’s taking my words literally.

  The thought heats my skin.

  “I can bang out a few keys on the piano,” I say carefully, answering his earlier question, “and I can carry a tune if it’s simple enough.”

  But the horseman doesn’t look like he’s listening, and now my mind is back on how it would feel to have this unnatural thing on me and in me.

  My thoughts are interrupted as, from the ether, Famine’s scythe and scales form right before my eyes, the two items solidifying right in the middle of our makeshift feast, the scales knocking over an empty bottle.

  I start at the sight of them. “Does that … ?”

  “Usually happen?” Famine says. “If I’m away from them long enough, it does.”

  “How long is long enough?” I ask.

  The Reaper reaches out and lifts the scythe from the table. “I used to try to figure that very thing out when I was held captive.”

  At the word captive, I glance sharply at him. This is the one thing that we haven’t discussed tonight. Famine’s captivity. And judging by the sound of his voice, it’s for good reason. Just his tone alone gives me goosebumps.

  The horseman lays the scythe across his lap. “I’d wake on a pike, or in—”

  “A pike?” I say, aghast.

  His green gaze cuts to mine, and I can almost see his pain and the sharp bite of old anger. “If I was lucky, I’d simply be tied to it. If I was unlucky …” His gaze grows distant, and I steel myself for whatever he’s about to say. “If I was unlucky I’d be nailed to it or impaled on it.”

  Impaled … ?

  The food in my stomach is suddenly not sitting so well.

  He lays the scythe lays across his lap, his fingers moving over the markings etched onto it.

  “But it was those unlucky times when my few possessions would manifest. They’d take them away of course—not that it mattered. They kept me too injured and weak to use them or any of my powers.”

  My mind is conjuring up images—awful images—and it physically hurts me to imagine Famine like this. I cannot fa
thom just how hurt he would have to be to be unable to use his powers.

  “They broke my spirit too,” he admits quietly, staring at the wine in his glass. As though the reminder is too painful to bear sober, he brings the drink to his lips and swallows it all down in three long gulps.

  I reach over and squeeze the horseman’s leg. “I’m so sorry. Truly.” I’m not a violent person, but hearing his words and seeing his expression is drawing out all my protective instincts.

  He was sent here to kill humans off—presumably because we were a little too wicked for God’s liking—and we somehow managed to prove to Famine that we were even worse than the reputation that preceded us.

  The horseman covers my hand with his and gives it a squeeze. At the touch, my heart begins to race in a way that has nothing to do with fear or anxiety.

  “How did you escape them?” I ask.

  I never heard this part of the story.

  “One of the men let down his guard and fell asleep as I was healing. I was able to gather just enough strength to dispatch him and the others keeping guard. Then I freed myself and … you know the rest.”

  He reaches out and picks up a bottle of cachaça. Uncapping it, he takes a swig of the pale liquor.

  I stare at him, taking in all of his anger and all of his pain. That’s mostly what he’s made from. But amongst it all, I’ve seen glimpses of something softer, kinder, something that grew in spite of the cruelties he endured and his own innate drive to kill us off.

  Leaning forward, I grasp Famine’s scythe with both hands, lifting it off of his lap.

  The horseman watches me intently, but he doesn’t bother stopping me. I set it aside and then I reach for the bottle of cachaça in his hand.

  “Taking all my things, are we?” he asks, though he lets me remove the liquor from his grasp.

  I bring the bottle to my lips and take a long drink of it. This is, perhaps, more liquor than I’ve ever drank in one night.

  I lower the bottle, glancing down at it. “Did you mean what you said about alcohol?” I ask, remembering what he told me all that time ago.

  “What did I say?”

  My eyes flick to his. “That a little alcohol washes away the memory of all sorts of sins?”

  Famine cracks a smile, though there’s no humor in it. “Would I drink this deeply if I felt otherwise?”

  I try not to examine that too much. That maybe Famine really does have moments of regret and self-hatred, same as me.

  Very deliberately, I set the cachaça down on the table, and I lean in close to Famine, my knees brushing against his inner thighs. The alcohol is making me brave.

  “Then maybe it will wash away the memory of this sin.”

  With that, I kiss him.

  Chapter 35

  His lips are soft like satin. I don’t remember that from the last time I kissed him.

  And like the last time I kissed him, Famine doesn’t immediately react. I think he must be shocked. The only reason the kiss continues at all is because I’ve nearly drunk my weight in booze, and my self-confidence is at an all-time high.

  But then the Reaper’s lips do begin to move, and suddenly he’s returning the kiss with a passion that I’m struggling to match. He reaches out, catching me by the waist. With a deft yank he pulls me onto his lap.

  I rearrange myself so that I end up straddling him. The horseman holds me tight against his body, his hands moving to my hips. All the while his lips devour mine.

  I’m shocked to feel that beneath me, he’s hard. I’d seen his heated looks and I’d read the interest in his body language, but this is actual proof that Famine feels desire—and for me of all people.

  My hands slide to his cheeks, cradling his face. It’s frightening how in this moment I can just sideline every evil deed he’s done. All because at the very root of him, there’s something that calls to me. Maybe it’s that kernel of kindness I’ve glimpsed. Maybe it’s his awfulness or his vulnerability. Maybe it’s nothing at all, and I’ve simply deluded myself that we’re alike.

  Famine’s palms skim up my sides, his fingers pressing into the flesh of my back. All while his mouth works mine. He parts my lips, and I have a moment of surprise that he actually knows how to kiss—and how to kiss well.

  How many women has the horseman been with?

  Famine pulls away, his breathing ragged.

  Why? His eyes seem to ask. Why did you kiss me?

  My pulse speeds up.

  Why indeed?

  Because I like making poor choices, and you look like the worst one yet.

  Despite my very real, very powerful desire to do much, much more with the horseman, I begin to get off of Famine. I’m trying my hand at self-restraint.

  He catches my hips. “Leaving so soon?”

  Now that he has me in his grip, it’s impossible to leave.

  “I was indulging in my own curiosity.”

  And if I give into this, then lines will be crossed tonight that I really, truly shouldn’t cross.

  “Kissing you again was …” Bewitching. Intriguing. Addicting, “a mistake,” I say, trying to convince myself of that very fact.

  I can still taste Famine on my tongue, and my lips are raw from the kiss, and all of it is addling my mind.

  “It was a mistake,” he agrees. “Let’s make another and another. We can regret them all tomorrow.”

  My eyebrows lift.

  Is he serious?

  I study his wicked, beautiful face. It’s one thing for me to give in to a handsome man in a moment of weakness. It’s another for this deity to test drive his human impulses on me. And while I want him, I’m not sure I want whatever fallout might come from this.

  And there will be fallout.

  But shit, I am curious. Fatalistically so.

  “Everything will go back to the way it was tomorrow?” I say.

  Famine gives me a look like he knows he’s already won. “It must.”

  I take in his face, and after only a moment’s hesitation, I lean in, and the Reaper’s mouth is back on mine as though it never left.

  And I give myself over to the sensation of it.

  Now that I’m not holding back and he’s not holding back, it’s like a spark striking kindling, catching and burning and growing. And the two of us are being consumed by it all. I’m moving against him, my body wanting more—used to having more. What I’m unused to is not being in control of my desire.

  As if to make a point, I break off the kiss.

  Famine all but groans. “You’re thinking entirely too much, little flower.”

  I give him a playful shove, even as I take in his bright, heavily lidded eyes and swollen lips.

  I smile a little at that. “Have I told you that I’m starting to find your abrasiveness endearing?”

  Famine frowns, but his eyes soften. I take his hand, deliberately threading my fingers between his. I pause as I stare at our entwined hands. Only a day ago the hand I’m holding was gone. Now I marvel at the sight of his fingers, strong and whole. They’re even a little calloused, odd as that may sound.

  “They’re really just as they were,” I say.

  My fingers move up to his wrist, and Famine watches me idly, letting me continue to explore him.

  A bronze vambrace covers his forearm, vines and florets hammered into the metal. I tug at it.

  “Can you take this off?” I ask.

  Wordlessly Famine does as I ask, unfastening the armor and tossing it aside. I push up his sleeve, my eyes catching on the glowing green glyphs that ring Famine’s wrists.

  I trace the markings, my finger tingling a little, like simply the act of making the shapes holds some power.

  This is a wonder. I get the oddest sensation, like the universe is coursing through him, and I just touched the very edge of it.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  He mocked me for overthinking a minute ago, but now he seems starved for my thoughts.

  “So many things,” I say.


  “Enumerate them.”

  “I think these look like shackles,” I say, turning his wrist back and forth as I stare at the markings, “but they’re beautiful and they remind me that you’re not human in the least, and I like that about you.” Quieter, I add, “To be honest, I like far too much about you.”

  The alcohol has loosened my lips.

  Famine stares at me with an unreadable expression. After a tension-filled second, he leans forward and grabs the back of my neck, pulling my lips back to his.

  If I thought before we were a spark to kindling, it’s nothing compared to the raw intensity of us now. The Reaper’s fingers are tangling in my hair, catching on all sorts of knots as he angles me closer. I release his arm, my hands moving to either side of his face.

  If he’s the universe, I feel like I’m entering it with this kiss.

  He groans against me, and it’s the sexiest damn sound I’ve ever heard, mostly because I know how much it costs him, giving in to this strange human side of his.

  His tongue sweeps against mine, and I can taste the alcohol on him.

  This is a bad, bad idea.

  I kiss him harder, uncaring. That light, airy feeling is back, like I might float away if he lets me go.

  The truth is, bad idea or not, this feels right. Famine has seen my ugly, angry side, and I’ve seen his soft, vulnerable one. I’ve fought him, cursed his name, I’ve even tried to kill him. This seems like the last option left to us.

  His hands move back to my waist, lingering there only for a moment before moving lower.

  He grabs my hips and stands, lifting me in the process. The chair behind him knocks over, and my thigh bumps against the table, and hardly any of it registers as my arms wrap around his neck.

  Famine carries me away from the table, and I think he might be taking me back to his room. At the thought, my core clenches.

  But before we leave the room, the horseman pushes me up against a wall, pinning me in place. Famine catches my jaw, forcing me to look at him.

  “Tonight, I want none of your pretty human tricks,” he warns.

  I exhale, leaning back against the wall. The way he’s looking at me, I feel flayed wide open.

  “You like my little tricks,” I say, breathless, a smile tugging at my lips.