Page 67 of Famine

“I know,” I say instead. As violent and cruel as the Reaper has been, he’s made a point of not inflicting pain on me. Which is confusing as hell, considering that I nearly lost my life when I last met him.

With my good hand, I run my fingers over the dress I wear. Just the feel of the cloth is enough for me to know that this shirt—big and old-lady-ish as it may be—is a thing from the worldbefore.

For an instant, I’m hopelessly sad, though I’m not even sure why. I never knew that world. My sense of loss is completely made up. But from the stories, it always sounded like paradise—or, at least, a step up from the shithole world we have now.

“Thank you,” I say, still rubbing my fingers over the material.

Famine grunts in response.

After a moment, he says, “You shouldn’t have jumped in front of her.”

I sigh. “Can’t you just take a compliment without ruining it?”

“I don’t need or want compliments.”

Fuck it all. “Then I take it back,” I say. “I’m not grateful you helped me.”

The silence is heavy, and the horseman’s frowns are becoming legendary enough that I can sense them in the darkness.

Maybe he cares, maybe he doesn’t. He’s annoyed all the same.

That’s good enough for me.

“Why did you do it?” he asks.

Jump in front of the woman, he means.

“She wouldn’t have done the same for you,” he adds.

“You don’t know that,” I say.

But … in my heart of hearts, do I really believe some stranger would’ve sacrificed herself for me?

No. Definitely not. People are selfish assholes.

I don’t, however, admitthatto Famine.

“I helped you once too—even though you wouldn’t have done the same for me,” I say instead.

A long, painful silence follows that. I feel the Reaper’s searing look in the darkness.

My injury throbs, dragging my attention away from the conversation.

I try to get to my feet. After a moment, the Reaper takes my good arm and stands, pulling me up along with him.

“What now?” I ask.

“You need to sleep.”

Oh. Right. In between breaking into some old lady’s house and diverting her death, I somehow forgot Famine’s entire reason for stopping.

I let the horseman lead me to the back room. Usually I’m the one leading the opposite sex back to a bedroom. Usually I’m the one with a plan.

Famine stops at the threshold and lets me walk into this stranger’s bedroom. The air here is heavy with the smell of cloying perfume, and though it’s too dark to tell, I think the room is loaded with kitschy little trinkets, because twice I bump into furniture that sends several items rattling.

I have to feel around for the bed, and even once I find it, some combination of guilt and trepidation tightens my stomach because its rightful owner is somewhere out in the darkness.

You idiot, Ana. You should’ve known this situation would arise.It’s what happened last night, after all.

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