Page 174 of Famine

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’twantto 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 suddenlyright-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.

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