Famine (The Four Horsemen Book 3) Read online

  “Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” I say.

  The cut looks like it’s still a little dirty, and parts of it appear to have already started to scab over. I don’t know a lot about mending wounds, but I think that sealing up something that could be contaminated is a bad idea.

  Famine studies the wound. “So we should do nothing?” He’s clearly displeased at that thought.

  “I don’t know. I think if we can douse the cut in alcohol that might help.”

  Already, I’m cringing at the thought.

  No sooner have I said it, then the horseman heads for the small collection of wines, beer, and some more potent liquor behind the counter, not sparing the dead man next to him a passing glance.

  While he’s back there, I grab a glass container of rubbing alcohol from the shelf. I take a deep breath while I look at it.

  This is going to hurt.

  Famine comes back, holding a bottle of rum and a corkscrew. I let him open the bottle and hand it to me.

  Rather than pouring it over my neck, I take a long drink from it, my stomach churning at the taste.

  Too soon—much too soon—for more liquor.

  I set the rum on a nearby shelf then unstop the rubbing alcohol in my hand, passing it to Famine.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  “Rubbing alcohol—to pour on my wound.”

  The horseman looks confused. I guess he’s never realized there was a difference between the alcohol human’s drink, and the stuff used purely to disinfect.

  “Why are you giving it to me?” he asks.

  “I need you to do it. I—I don’t think I have the courage to do it myself.”

  Famine scowls at the bottle, then looks at me. Faster than I can follow, he tilts my chin and dumps the rubbing alcohol on the cut.

  “Fuck!” I hiss out, my legs nearly folding. “Motherfucking fuck!”

  I gasp out a few breaths, eyes pricking at the excruciating burn. It feels like my wound is on fire.

  I glare at him. “You could’ve warned me.”

  “You’re overestimating how nice I am.”

  I make a face, but honestly, the man has a point.

  I stare at the now-empty bottle in Famine’s hand. Hopefully that does the trick.

  I take a deep breath. “Let me just grab some gauze, and then we can get going.”

  “Get going?” the horseman says. “Not while you’re hurt. Tonight, we’re staying here.”

  Chapter 43

  My neck wound is not fine.

  Not at all.

  I first realize that shortly after I wake up the next morning, my body coated in sweat.

  My cut throbs, and when I prod at it, pain lashes through me. More than that, I feel a little unwell.

  It … might be infected.

  I get up and find the compact mirror I used yesterday to get a good look at it. Once I remove the gauze bandages, I angle the mirror towards the cut.

  I suck in a sharp breath. The skin is red and swollen, and the wound itself is a grisly sight, the flesh a mottled mess of colors.

  Definitely infected.

  Before I can think twice, I grab another bottle of rubbing alcohol and, uncapping it, I douse the wound with the disinfecting liquid.

  The pain is instant and intense. A sharp cry slips out of my mouth, and I nearly drop the glass.

  The door to the trading post bangs open, and Famine rushes to my side. He takes in my trembling form and the liquid dripping from my angry wound. The horseman grabs the bottle from my hands and glances at the label before his attention moves to my neck.

  His brows furrow. “Is it supposed to look—?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I see a myriad of emotions pass across the horseman’s features, too fast for me to make sense of them.

  He scowls, looking down at the bottle. “Will this help?” he asks.

  “I hope to hell it does,” I say.

  The Reaper’s gaze flicks back up to me. “What happens if it doesn’t?” he asks.

  He has no experience with this, I realize. The horseman maims and kills, but he doesn’t know much about healing and the complications that come along with it.

  “Let’s not worry about that, Famine,” I say, trying to reassure myself just as much as I’m trying to reassure him. “I’ve survived too many horrors for a simple neck wound to take me down.”

  Not that there’s anything simple about it.

  He stares at me for too long. Finally, he says, “I’m finding you a doctor.”

  I swallow.

  “Okay,” I capitulate.

  If I’m being honest with myself, I’m a little scared at what might happen if things continue to get worse.

  I finish packing, ignoring my festering injury as best I can.

  Riding is another story.

  As soon as we begin to move, the horse’s gait jostles my injury. It happens again and again and again with each step the steed takes, and there’s no ignoring the pain.

  And now my nausea is rising. At first I try to ignore it, mostly because I don’t want to deal with it. But then I’m beginning to sweat, even as a shiver courses through me. It’s hot out; I shouldn’t be shivering.

  Famine’s grip around my midsection tightens, and I let out a small noise at the pressure. My nausea is suddenly right-here-and-it-won’t-be-ignored-oh-God-free-my-midsection-from-this-torment-Amen.

  “Are you alright?” he asks, a vague note of concern in his voice.

  I force down my bile and pull at his hands. “I will be if you relax your damn hand.”

  After a moment, he does so, and I take a few bracing breaths.

  “I’m getting sick,” I say. “The cut on my neck,” I gesture vaguely to it, “it’s not doing too well.”

  Famine pulls his steed up short. Carefully, he removes the bandages, then leans far enough in the saddle to get a good look at it.

  He hisses in a breath while staring at the wound.

  “What?” I say, getting nervous.

  “It looks like it’s going to grow teeth and eat my face off.”

  I let out a freaked out laugh. “What am I supposed to do?” I don’t really mean to ask the question, but shit, I am not a contingency planner. Nor a doctor. And we’ve poured alcohol on the wound twice already, and I was really hoping that was going to work.

  Worry sparks in the horseman’s eyes. “You mean, besides find you a doctor? I don’t know. You’re the human,” he says accusingly. “I don’t get infections.”

  The two of us stare at each other, and without meaning to, I audibly swallow.

  “Motherfucker,” Famine curses. And then he jolts his horse into action, and the two of us ride like the wind.

  Famine

  Hunger makes men desperate, dangerous. It’s a natural state of mine, but I haven’t felt it for a while.

  But now, with Ana swaying unsteadily in the saddle, that familiar panic courses through me. I realize that I hate it. Hate it with every fiber of my being.

  I force my steed to ride as fast as he can, only slowing when Ana leans over to vomit.

  It happens just once, but then I can feel her shivering. I hold her as close as I dare—as close as she’ll let me—but my armor is hard and rigid and it can’t possibly be much comfort.

  This isn’t good.

  I knew that from the moment I first saw that wound in the light of day, but I’m understanding now that the human body shouldn’t be shivering in this sweltering heat. Nor should she be retching.

  With that thought, I urge my horse faster.

  Someone will know how to heal her.

  Ana

  We’re on the road a surprisingly long time. Then again, maybe we aren’t, maybe the pain has just become so damn distracting that the minutes drag out. It feels like a lifetime.

  Famine himself is so distracted that he doesn’t bother killing off the fields around us. I would be touched by that if I thought it was somehow for my benefit, but I think he’s simply
forgotten, so focused on getting me help.

  A hard knot forms in my stomach, and I feel real fear beginning to take root.

  It can’t be that bad. I don’t even think the cut was all that deep. But it was long … and jagged … and there’d been mud all over me and who knows what on the knife itself.

  You think I’d learn to clean my damn wounds better after my last experience with infection.

  Even when the fever starts to get bad, I’m not too worried.

  I remember this. Back in Laguna the wounds I sustained were so much worse. I laid in bed for some indeterminate amount of time, closer to death than I was to life. And still I survived.

  I’m that cockroach you just can’t kill.

  So I lean back against Famine’s jostling armor and let my eyes drift closed—just for a moment. It wouldn’t be so bad to escape myself for just a little while.

  I wake to Famine pulling me off the horse, and only then because the movement jostles my neck.

  I cry out at the pain. It hurts so goddamn bad—so, so goddamn bad.

  I try to pry myself out of his hold, but I’m groggy and my mounting fever is making my limbs stiff and clumsy.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “I’m finding you that doctor, remember?” he says, an agitated edge to his words.

  Famine strides forward with me cradled in his arms. I grit my teeth at the pain each step of his causes. And then my nausea is rising.

  Just want to go back to sleep …

  BANG!

  My eyes snap open as Famine kicks down a door, and a moan slips from my lips as pain shoots through me.

  The Reaper glances down at me, frowning deeply.

  Something catches his attention and he looks up.

  “I need a doctor,” he demands.

  There’s murmuring, but I’ve already stopped listening.

  I turn my head inward, nestling as best I can against Famine’s chest. In response, his arms tighten around me protectively.

  He says something else, his angry voice coming out to play.

  Going real well for you, I want to joke, but I feel too shitty to tease him, and besides, sleep is dragging me under again …

  My eyelids flutter open and closed, open and closed, as I’m roused from sleep again and again. I can hear Famine’s disgruntled voice and a few of his threats, and then there are the alarmed voices of the humans closing in around us.

  If this is his version of help, I’m as good as doomed.

  But shortly after that thought crosses my mind, Famine is ushered somewhere. He carries me the entire time, and I can’t be light, but he doesn’t seem bothered by my weight.

  I lean my forehead against his armor, weak and tired. In response, he presses a kiss to my hair.

  Things are beginning to get bad for me. I can tell because my lips are cracking and my eyes feel like they’re cooking themselves and yet my teeth are chattering and I can’t stop shaking.

  Famine’s grip has become almost painful, but I don’t have the energy left to say anything.

  And amongst it all is the sensation of many, many curious eyes peering at me.

  My eyes slip closed, and when they open again, we’re inside someone’s house, Famine carrying me down a narrow hallway.

  Then he’s laying me down on a bed.

  I cling to him. I have this nonsensical fear that the moment I let him go, I’m not going to be safe anymore.

  “Little flower,” Famine says softly, so softly, “you need to let me go.”

  Reluctantly, I do, opening my eyes long enough to see him. “Please don’t leave me.”

  He takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “I won’t.” The Reaper says this like he’s swearing an oath to me.

  Now that I have his word, I relax. The bed is soft and I feel so terrible that it’s easy to slip off to sleep.

  I’m not sure how long I drift for. It could be minutes or hours …

  “Why is she deteriorating so quickly?” Famine’s voice sounds far away.

  I fall back to sleep before I hear the answer.

  I wake to the feel of a wet cloth against my forehead. I crack my eyes open and see the Reaper peering down at me, his hands on the cool material. Over his shoulder someone else holds a basin of water. I give both of them a tired smile.

  “Ana—” the Reaper begins, but I’m already fading away.

  I wake again to the feel of foreign hands on me. They don’t feel right. They’re dry and calloused and they’re moving my body around like I’m a puppet.

  I try to push them away.

  “What are you doing to her?” Famine’s voice has me prying my eyes open.

  A shrewd older woman leans over me. “I’m trying to help her—unless you’ve suddenly changed your mind.”

  Before the horseman can respond, those hands take my chin and move my head to the side.

  Pain explodes through my neck and temple.

  “Well, this is why she’s so sick,” the woman says. Her voice sounds like her hands feel—scratchy but firm and full of authority. “It’s festering.”

  “Can you fix her or not?” the horseman demands.

  “You can’t fix a human,” the woman says. “We’re not houses with leaky roofs or broken windows.”

  “No, you’re all a scourge across the land, but I’m not here to play semantics with you. Now, tell me what you can do for Ana,” he says.

  “Without antibiotics? Not much,” the woman says. “I can clean and bind the wound and make her a poultice to draw out what I can of the infection. But I doubt it will do much good at this point. Her body is going to have to fight this on its own.”

  My gaze moves to the horseman. I’ve never seen that look on his face—I think it might be desperation. It, more than my fever, alarms me.

  “Am I going to die?” I ask as he catches my hand, holding it tightly. I don’t know how I feel about that—death.

  “No.” Famine says it like a vow. “Not in my lifetime.”

  Chapter 44

  Famine

  It’s strange, having a body. I feel too big for it. I am too big for it. It’s the greatest relief, you know, spreading my disease through the fields. Spoiling fruit and poisoning seed. I feel more like myself.

  Unlike this … this strange human experience I’m forced to endure.

  I stare down at Ana’s sallow face, a hot, prickly feeling overcoming me.

  It might’ve been fine if I never met you. If you hadn’t saved me those years ago.

  Your arms were too slender and your cheeks too gaunt, and yet somehow you dragged my body to shelter, and you offered me water, and I couldn’t stomach any of it. A human girl hiding me from my tormentors and giving me what little she had.

  You stayed by my side that agonizing night, even though I know I frightened you. And when those men were hunting me down and their voices came so chillingly close to us, all you had to do was call out and your nightmare would’ve been over. They would’ve taken me back to that prison. I might’ve been there still.

  But you didn’t call out, and despite your fear, you didn’t leave me.

  You saved me when you had every reason not to.

  You broke me.

  And in the process I broke you.

  And now I fear the only way we will ever be whole again is together, all your jagged edges nestled against mine.

  I hate that I want that.

  But I do.

  I want to be whole with you.

  Ana

  Bathroom.

  That’s the one thought I wake to. My bladder is screaming at me to be relieved.

  The sheets are pulled back, and then Famine’s scooping me up, his hand carefully cradling my head and neck.

  I must’ve spoken the request unknowingly because the horseman carries me outside, past several townspeople.

  He glares at the onlookers. “Leave us, or die,” he says.

  Within moments, the curious townspeople are gone.

  I
think I’m feeling better. Still feverish, still exhausted, but at least I’m aware enough to not wet myself.

  Famine carries me past the surrounding homes and into the wilds that border the neighborhood, not stopping until we’re alone.

  I’ve gone to the bathroom many times while traveling with Famine. During every one of them he’s given me some modicum of privacy. But now he doesn’t fully let me go as he lifts my dress.

  A few seconds pass. “You can let me go,” I say.

  I made it my business to have sex with strangers, but I can’t seem to find it in me to pee in front of Famine.

  “You’ve barely moved since I set you in that bed,” he says. “I’d rather not.”

  I feel myself getting weepy, though I’m too dehydrated to actually cry. “I don’t want you to … see me like—”

  Before I can finish, he kisses my lips once, softly, to silence me. “You’re being ridiculous, Ana. I don’t mind.”

  That’s all the fight I have left in me. And so I go to the bathroom right there in front of Famine as he helps hold me up.

  I’m shaking—from embarrassment, fatigue, and fever—and now I begin to sob, my dehydrated body managing to squeeze out a couple precious tears. My emotions are all twisted up.

  When I’m done Famine helps clean me up and I’m caught between utter mortification and exhausted gratitude.

  Why are you being like this? I want to ask him. You’re brash and mean and capricious.

  But he’s not. Not when you get down to the heart of him.

  The horseman carries me back into the house and resettles me on the bed. Pulling a chair up next to the mattress, he grabs a nearby pitcher and pours me a glass of water.

  I watch him while he works, feeling tired and achy and just generally unwell.

  “Drink,” he says, handing it to me.

  “So demanding …” My voice is nothing more than a whisper. I take the water from him anyway and swallow it down. It doesn’t sit well in my stomach—to be honest, my stomach doesn’t feel like it’s sitting well in my stomach—and I have to swallow several times to keep it down.

  The longer I’m awake and aware, the more I realize that I’m not actually feeling better at all, just more alert. And even that is tenuous because all I want to do is go back to sleep and escape all the pain I’m in. It reminds me of the last time I fought off an infection, when the town around me had all gone to their graves.