Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,114
the Reaper doting on me. That does strange things to my mind—and my heart.
“We made an agreement last night—”
Famine sets the pitcher back down. “Fine,” he says, looking unbothered. He turns his head towards the vase I vomited in and wrinkles his nose. “I’ll let you take care of yourself. Grab what you need and meet me in the front of the estate in an hour.”
Famine keeps his distance as I get myself cleaned up, and on the one hand I’m absurdly grateful for it, but on the other … I don’t know. His absence feels like a void has been opened up in me, one I didn’t know existed, and it’s making me feel restless. And that, in turn, makes me angry at myself.
“Stupid girl,” I mutter. Stupid for caring and stupid for pushing him away.
My head still pounds and my stomach is still unsettled. Riding a horse should be fun.
I gather a few items I want to take along with me—among them Rocha’s dagger, because fuck that dude. I shove them into a bag I find resting in the closet.
I leave Famine’s old rooms and cross the courtyard. Lying on the ground are the remnants of last night’s clothing. My gaze slides to it, and I feel heat gathering low in my belly.
Stop—thinking—about—it—Ana.
I enter the main building and nearly back out. The plants inside have run rampant, all but swallowing up the room. I glance back the way I came, and for the first time I register that outside, too, the plants in the courtyard have swelled, seeming to reclaim most of the space.
Facing the room once more, I take a deep breath.
There are no dead people in here. It’s fine.
With that rallying thought, I elbow my way through the vegetation, my hair snagging on a couple outstretched branches.
When I get to the front yard, Famine is waiting for me, his horse saddled and ready. Wordlessly, he takes the bag I’m holding and secures it to his steed.
I follow behind him, taking a deep breath to steady my stomach.
The Reaper turns to me. “Before we go …”
I wait for him to finish his sentence. Instead, he reaches a hand out, angling his palm towards my feet.
My skin tingles, and I can sense Famine’s magic unfolding around us.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Being naughty,” he says.
After seeing what I have of Famine’s normal behavior, I can’t imagine what naughty looks like. What I do know is that I should definitely be afraid.
Only, I’m not. Despite all his brutality, I know this man isn’t going to hurt me. I know it with a certainty I cannot explain.
At my feet, the moist earth shifts. From it rises a small green shoot. I watch, fascinated, as it grows before my eyes, the branches climbing, several of them twisting up my leg. Leaves and thorns sprout from the plant.
“Is this where I finally die?” I say, my voice even.
“Don’t be so dramatic, little flower. I already told you—I don’t intend to kill you.”
Even as the plant grows, not a single thorn pricks me, though it does start to coil itself around my body like a lover.
I watch, transfixed, as in a matter of moments a rosebush comes to life around me. From it sprouts a single bud. I stare at it as the bud grows, then bursts open, revealing the delicate, smoky petals of a lavender rose.
I go numb at the sight of it.
Famine grew the same flower the first time our paths crossed. And now he grew it again.
He plucks the rose from the plant, removing its thorns. He runs a hand over the rose bush. “I know she’s lovely,” he murmurs to the plant, “but you must let her go.”
As though it understands, the rose bush uncoils itself from me.
Just as I’m stepping away from the plant, Famine hands the rose over.
“Why?” I ask, taking it from him. Why did he grow this rose for me after he wiped out my village, and why did he grow it for me again today? It’s been one of those odd, random things that’s picked at me.
“Because around you,” he says, “I feel the oddest urge to use my power to create rather than destroy.”
We don’t return to São Paulo, and for that, I’m absurdly grateful. Even from here I swear I can smell the decay in the air. I can’t imagine what death would look like in a city that large.
Not that we avoid it altogether. Heitor might’ve lived on the outskirts