Page 91 of Famine

Sometimesis better thannever, which is his current track record. But I get it. This horseman has always been unforgiving and conscienceless. Or maybe thinking of him like that is itself forcing him to fit some human model when he’s telling me that sometimes famine just occurs in nature. Good and evil have nothing to do with it.

“I’m older than many of the mountains we’ve passed,” he says. “I have seen the world before humans ever touched it.”

And he will see the world after humans leave it.

“And what about Death?” I ask, switching topics a little.

“What about him?” the Reaper asks.

“You mentioned how you were worse than Pestilence and War,” I say, “but what about Death?”

Famine holds my gaze for a long minute, then gives me a slight nod, like he’s conceding a point to me. “Nothing is worse than him.”

Chapter 24

We leave the next day, long after Famine’s men have already headed out.

I use the extra time to find a more reasonable outfit for myself—a pair of jeans that actually fit (I’m keeping them forever) and a black shirt. I even have enough time to make myself a pot of coffee. I hum away as I heat up water over the stove.

“You seem inappropriately happy.”

I scream, whirling around and clutching my chest just as Famine strides into the room, his scales in hand.

“Oh my God, give a girl some warning,” I say leaning back against the stove for a split second before the hot metal has me jerking away from it.

“Is that what you say to all your clients?” Famine says, setting his scales on the table.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Is that another sex joke?”

The corner of his mouth curls up.

I look at him curiously. “But I thought … ”

I thought that Famine didn’t do sex. Of course, you don’t have to bang a human to poke fun at the act.

Rather than finishing my question, my gaze moves over the Reaper’s face. Right now he’s particularly destabilizing, mostly because he seems so … not horrible. I don’t really know what to make of it, just as I don’t really know what to make of his gentleness last night.

My gaze goes to the scales on the table. Unlike his armor and his scythe, the two metal pans look old and worn.

“Why do you never keep those out?” I ask. In the time I’ve traveled with the horseman, I’ve only seen his scales a few times.

“I have them out now.”

I give him a look. “You know what I mean.”

He glances down at the scales, considering them. “Perhaps I care more about death than I do justice.”

“Is that what they’re for?” I ask. “Justice?” I assumed they were for weighing shit.

He jerks his chin to the stove behind me. “Your water is boiling.”

I turn back to the pot, cursing under my breath. I feel flustered and off-kilter, and Famine is to blame.

“Drink your coffee,” the Reaper says at my back. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

He begins to walk away, then pauses. “Oh,” he says over his shoulder, “and while you’re at it, pour me a cup.”

Throughout our ride, I keep looking over my shoulder at Famine.

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