Page 120 of Famine

I feel the horseman’s arms come around me the best they can, and in the darkness, I think I hear him begin to cry. The sound breaks me. I press a kiss to his blood-matted hair.

The two of us stay like that for a long time, holding each other and being totally and completely vulnerable. And for once I think the cold, heartless Reaper might not actually be so cold and heartless after all.

At some point, the tears dry up, and all that’s left is the comfort of each other’s presence.

“This … is … upsettingly familiar,” Famine says, pain lacing his words. His head and upper body are in my lap. My legs have long since fallen asleep, but I don’t dare move him.

So I guess I finally understand the Reaper’s motives when it wasmeasleep inhislap.

“You … were … right,” he whispers.

About Heitor, he means.

“Screw being right,” I whisper back. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” he says. “What … happened? How did you … ?”

“Escape?” I ask, finishing his sentence for him. “Heitor came looking for me.” Even now, a hot blend of fear and anger rise within me.

Famine goes rigid in my lap. “Did he … ?”

“Hurt me?” I finish for him. “He tried, but can I tell you a little secret?” I don’t wait for the Reaper to answer before I lean in close and whisper, “You don’t fuck with a prostitute. We can be the things of nightmares.”

“I am … almost frightened,” he says.

I crack a small smile, relieved that the horseman is well enough to attempt humor.

“How did you … stop him?” he asks.

“I whacked him with one of his stupid candelabras.”

Famine huffs out a laugh, though it ends with a wince.

It’s reflexive—I reach out and stroke his hair back, trying to comfort him. And it must be my imagination, but I swear the Reaper leans into the touch.

“I don’t know if he’s alive or not,” I admit.

“I hope he is,” Famine says, and his words hold so much menace. “He and I have unfinished business.”

A chill slides down my spine. How I ever thought Heitor was as scary as Famine is a mystery. He doesn’t hold a candle to the Reaper.

“What else … happened while I was gone?”

I’m quiet for a long moment, remembering all of the evening’s atrocities.

“I killed a man,” I admit.

I think I see Famine’s eyebrows lift. He tries to sit up a little. “How didthathappen?” He sounds far too curious.

I can’t meet his gaze when I say, “He caught me right after I found you—”

“After you found me?” Famine repeats. There’s a strange note to his voice, and I think he might be realizing the same thing I had earlier—that I won’t just save him, I’ll fight and kill for him too.

“Tell me the rest of what happened,” he demands softly. “Leave nothing out.”

I do just that, continuing to stroke his hair as I recount the last several hours.

He’s quiet through most of it, though I swear in that silence something subtle shifts between us. I don’t know what.

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