Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,13
out which home backs up against Famine’s, I cut across the home’s yard, making my way to the back of the property. Everything is chillingly quiet.
I climb over the stone fence that separates the two properties, then drop down inside the mansion’s yard, my feet landing in soft dirt.
My heart begins to pound in earnest, my breath coming in shallow pants. This is the point of no return. Up until now I could’ve taken that old man’s advice and fled with my life. I could’ve existed. It would’ve been lonely and it would’ve looked nothing like the life I knew, but I would’ve survived, which is better than what I can say for most people.
I take a step forward, then another and another, ignoring the scared, rational part of my brain. This part of the property is dark; there are lamp posts back here, but they don’t burn.
I realize why a moment later when I hear the groan of some dying soul. I squint into the darkness. After several seconds, I make out a pile of bodies.
Jesus.
I swallow a scream, my own memories swarming in. For a minute I simply stand there, riding out the old pain and fear, which doesn’t seem so old at the moment. Then, when I’ve managed to wrestle my emotions back into place, I take a deep breath and continue on, skirting around the bodies.
My hand touches the hilt of my weapons. I’ve never stabbed a person before. I’ve scratched, slapped, and punched a few people in my time—and I’ve kicked men in the balls more times than I care to admit—but that’s about it.
Tonight … tonight will truly be my first time using a dagger. I try not to think about that too hard; I don’t want to lose my nerve.
I head over to a back door and, reaching out, I try the handle. It gives beneath my touch.
Unlocked.
Because who would dare break into Famine’s house after he decimated the city?
I swear I can hear my own heartbeat as I push the door open. I glance around at the cold living room beyond me. A few candles flicker, the wax dripping down their stems. The dim light illuminates a couch, a set of side chairs, an enormous vase, and an oiled wooden bust of a woman. No one’s in here.
Silently, I step into the room.
Where are all the guards? I saw nearly a dozen of them outside, but in here they’re nowhere to be seen.
After a moment, I hear a soft tapping sound. The sound drags my gaze to the right, where I take in a dimly lit dining room. My chest stills when I see Famine’s silhouette sitting in one of the chairs, his back to me.
His armor is gone, but his telltale scythe rests on the table in front of him, just beyond the open book that’s resting where a plate should be. The Reaper, however, doesn’t seem to be reading. Based on the angle of his head, he’s staring out the windows across from him, his fingers drumming absently on the table.
The Reaper sits so still that if it weren’t for those fingers, I would’ve assumed he was just another pricey decoration put on display in this house.
For a moment, I wonder if this is some sort of trap. There aren’t any guards posted in here, and there probably should be. And Famine is right there, alone and seemingly unaware of my presence.
I wait in the shadows for a long time, staring at his broad back and his caramel colored hair. Long enough for the teeth of any trap to close on me. The seconds pass and nothing happens.
Eventually, I begin to creep closer, cutting through the living room, my steps silent.
I reach for one of the knives sheathed at my side, drawing it out as quietly as I can.
Kill him and leave unnoticed. That’s the plan. I know it’s no permanent solution. After all, he cannot die.
That’s one of the first things I learned about Famine long ago. There is no ending him.
It doesn’t really matter at this point. Killing him—no matter how temporary—is the only solution any of us humans have left. So I push my misgivings aside. I’ve come too far to stop now.
As I round the couch in the living room, I nearly trip on a body.