Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,39

I do. And it is. I often sat myself down on men’s laps in the tavern next to The Painted Angel, and plenty of those men were only slightly less revolting than Famine.

Beneath my ass, the Reaper tenses.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, too low for anyone else to hear.

I ignore the way my heart pounds or the fact that this monster has rejected me several times over. I shake my hair out, the long, wavy locks brushing against his face.

“Making myself comfortable,” I say.

I adjust myself on his lap, the manacles jangling, and I make sure to cause a little extra friction.

Much to my delight, he sucks in a breath.

I can’t fight Famine, or appeal to his sensibilities, but I can drive him mad. I’m actually pretty good at that.

The horseman grabs me by the waist. He’s about to push me off, I can feel it, but for whatever reason he decides at the last minute to keep me pinned in place, his fingers digging into my skin.

The man waiting in the foyer now approaches us, fear—and perhaps a little hope—visible on his face. His clothes are tattered and patched up, and the sandals he wears look worn thin. Whoever he is, he doesn’t have much, yet still he came here intent on giving the Reaper something.

When he gets close to us, the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out several rings, a dainty gold bracelet, and a necklace with the image of Our Lady of Aparecida dangling from it. The man bows his head and kneels, his hand outstretched.

“What is this?” Famine asks, disdain dripping from his voice.

“This is the only true wealth my family has,” the man says. “It’s yours.” He looks up, and I can see in his eyes he wants to beg for someone’s life, but he bites back the words.

I move to stand. For an instant the horseman resists, but eventually he releases me.

God, the Reaper is an odd bastard.

I approach the man and crouch down in front of him. “That’s beautiful,” I say, touching the image of the Virgin, my manacles clanking. “Does it have a story behind it?”

“It was my mother’s—given to her by her mother,” the man says, daring to look from me to the horseman behind me.

“She must’ve loved it very much,” I say.

“Ana, get up.”

I look over my shoulder at Famine, who is signaling to the guards to take the man. I know what happens next.

I grab the man’s wrist, not getting up and refusing to let him get up either, even as Famine’s new recruits close in on us.

“This man is giving away a holy relic,” I say, staring at the Reaper. “Surely you see the sacrifice in that?”

Famine frowns at me. “It’s a shiny trinket dedicated to a false idol. It is less than useless to me.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Is it false?” No one in Brazil stopped believing in the Virgin and her benevolence, not even when the world was being ravaged. If anything, she’s the one thing we clung to most—proof that there’s some mercy to what otherwise appears to be a vengeful God.

Famine narrows his eyes and gives me a mean smile, the expression all but saying, Wouldn’t you like to know?

“Fine,” he says. His eyes move to the man. “I accept your gift.”

For a moment, I relax. But then the guards still close in on the man, one taking his offered jewelry and casting it to the ground. The rest grab the man’s arms and drag him away.

He’s begging to them now, though he leaves willingly enough.

I stare down at the scattered jewelry as the group of them leave the house. The Virgin and all her benevolence stare back up at me.

God is here, she seems to be saying, but even I can do nothing.

“I wonder,” I say, staring down at the small pendant, “if you were a woman who could bear children, if you’d still be so cavalier.”

“Man or woman—it wouldn’t matter. I am not a person, Ana. I am hunger, I am pain, and no thinly veiled attempts to stop me will work.”

He’s right.

I interceded and it did nothing.

I stand up, still feeling the eyes of both Famine and Our Lady of Aparecida on me.

I walk away from the both of them, heading back to my room, and this time no one stops me.

I stay in my room for the rest of the day. I can hear the pleading, the pained screams, and the rattling death moans. And if I