Page 103 of Famine

“Am I supposed to apologize for defending my life and property, Reaper?” the man says. “Because if I am, thenfuck you.” He flings the oath right back at Famine.

In the wake of his words, there’s a hollow, haunted silence. I swallow, preparing myself for the horseman’s wrath.

Famine steps in close to him. “Men like you are the reason everyone is dying.Youare the reason I kill.”

At the Reaper’s words, I feel an echo of his old pain, and my mind flashes back to the day I found his mutilated remains.

Famine brandishes his scythe, and I am bracing myself for more decapitations.

“I can help you,” the man rushes to say. Now he doesn’t sound quite so calm.

The Reaper pauses.

What is Famine doing?

I can’t see much of the horseman’s face, but I assume he’s assessing the man.

“Tell me, scum,” Famine says, “what use could a monster like you possibly have right now?”

“Your men are dead. Mine are not.”

Yeah, the three men who are left. The rest of them lay scattered in heaps behind us.

“I can find my own men,” the Reaper says. Still, he doesn’t bring his blade down on the man’s throat.

What is he waiting for?

“I bet they can’t get things done the way my men can,” the man says. “People may know who you are, but you haven’t earned their trust. Not like I have.”

“Is that so?” Famine says, amused.

“You need something? I can get it for you. You want something done? I can snap my fingers and make it so. All my men have to do is mention my name, and people make themselves useful.”

“And what is this name of yours?” the horseman asks, derision dripping from his voice.

“Heitor Rocha.”

I start at the name. EvenIhave heard of Heitor Rocha. He’s not just part of Brazil’s southeastern cartel; heisthe southeastern cartel.

My heart begins to drum in my chest.

How thefuckdid we end up here of all places?

Famine doesn’t react to Heitor’s words, but he also doesn’t bring down his scythe on Heitor’s head.

Good God, surely he’s not taking this offer seriously?

The Reaper’s eyes sweep over the circular driveway, past an elaborate gurgling fountain where fish swim beneath lily pads, over the last of Rocha’s men, who are still caught in the grips of Famine’s plants.

“Where’s your wife, mortal?” the horseman asks. “Where are your children?”Where is my leverage?Famine seems to be saying. And if he thinks Rocha won’t pick up on this, he’s wildly underestimating how clever we humans are.

“Both of my wives and my only child have all passed on—but you, being all-powerful, would already know that, wouldn’t you?” Heitor challenges, staring at the horseman.

The Reaper is unruffled by the accusation. He stares at Heitor a little longer, then, coming to some sort of decision, says, “I can’t be killed, and any attempts on my life will be met with my vengeance.”

Wait—what?

The Reaper’s unearthly plants loosen their hold, releasing Rocha’s men across the yard.

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