Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,48

he seems to alter course, directing his horse through a nearby field. We trample over some nameless crop.

“What are you doing?” I ask, shaking off my sleepiness.

“Fulfilling your needs,” he bites out. “I can only take so much of your pestering.”

Convincing him was … easy enough. I feel a spark of apprehension. Maybe it was too easy.

The crops we pass whack our arms and legs as we pass them. I can’t see anything beyond them, not until the field falls away. Ahead of us I catch sight of a small, dark structure. We ride right up to it at full speed.

At the last second, Famine pulls on the reins, and his horse comes to a sudden halt, its front hooves lifting off the ground and pawing the air.

Everything this guy does has to be so damn dramatic.

Once the horse has dropped his feet back to the ground, the Reaper reaches down, unfastening the scythe he had strapped to his horse.

Weapon in hand, Famine swings off the horse and stalks towards the house. Only then, when I see his big-ass blade glinting ominously in the moonlight, does his awful little plan come together.

Aw fuck.

This is how he means to meet my needs. By killing off someone else so that we can freely use their home.

Goddamnit.

I hop off the horse and rush after him. “Famine, please, let’s not do anything too drastic—”

The horseman lifts a foot and unceremoniously kicks the door in, the blow so intense I hear the metal rip from its hinges.

Inside, a woman screams.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

The horseman strides inside, looking massive and lethal, a sinister frown on his face. On the opposite side of the room an old woman cowers behind an ancient couch. I see a book on the ground, and one small oil lamp giving off weak, watery light.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” she says, her voice wobbly.

As soon as Famine sees the woman, he stalks towards her, and it’s obvious what he intends.

The elderly woman crosses herself, despite the uselessness of the gesture. The only divine intervention she’s going to get tonight is closing in on her, and he doesn’t give a shit about her life.

“Famine!” I rush after him, feeling panicked and useless.

He ignores me completely, his gaze glued to his next victim. She’s still crouched on the ground, babbling something now—maybe a prayer—but I can’t make out the words.

I grab the wooden staff of the Reaper’s scythe, but he shakes off my hold easily enough.

“Step away, Ana,” Famine commands, not casting me a glance.

Yeah, uh, fuck that.

He looms over the woman and pulls the scythe back, getting ready to strike.

Without thinking, I throw myself in the way, knocking the old lady aside. My eyes go big when I see the tip of that terrible scythe descending down on me.

When he realizes he’s about to strike me and not the other woman, Famine jerks his arm back—

He just doesn’t do it quickly enough.

The tip of the scythe sinks into my shoulder, and it’s sickening just how easily it cuts through sinew.

Like a knife through butter.

For a moment, I feel like a fish caught on a hook. But then just as swiftly as the blade descended, it’s gone, more flesh tearing in its wake.

It takes a second for the pain to register, but once it does, I gasp, my legs buckling.

“Ana,” Famine says, aghast, dropping the blade.

The woman shrieks again. Then, while the horseman is distracted, she bolts through her front door, lost to the night.

The Reaper doesn’t even notice.

“You foolish woman!” he bellows at me.

He drops to his knees, reaching for me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear his hands tremble a little when they touch my skin.

I cry out as he probes at the wound. I can’t see his face, but I swear he recoils a little.

“Take off your dress,” he demands.

“Oh, now you try to get in my pants,” I gasp out.

“Ana.”

“I’m kidding,” I breathe. “Geez.”

“Your dress,” the Reaper says, his voice angry.

I can only make out the dramatic cut of Famine’s high cheekbones and those cruel, full lips of his, and I’m thankful for that. I don’t really want to see whatever emotion lingers in those frightening eyes of his.

“I’m not moving my arm,” I say.

A moment later Famine’s warm hands grab the collar of my dress.

Riiiiiiiip.

He tears the fabric apart.

Famine avoids looking at my now exposed breasts as he removes the last of my dress from my shoulder.

He reaches for the wound again. I’m assuming he’s trying to