Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,61

glinting in the candlelight.

All at once—silence. I’ve never seen a crowd go quiet that quickly.

He raises his arms. “Eat, dance, be merry,” the horseman says, his gaze sweeping over them.

If Famine thought that his words would somehow jumpstart the evening, he thought wrong.

No one moves. People were eating—some were even being merry—but now no one is budging a centimeter. Even the music has stopped. If anything, I think the horseman reminded everyone that this celebration is a little too surreal to be trusted.

Famine sits back in his seat, clutching his weapon like a scepter, a frown on his face. The longer people stay pinned in place, the angrier his expression becomes.

“Damn you all,” he finally says, slamming the base of his scythe down against the cracked concrete floor. “Eat! Be merry! Dance!”

Frightened into compliance, people begin to move, some shuffling towards the tables of food, a few creeping towards the open space in front of the band. I can see the whites of a few people’s eyes.

It’s still silent, so the Reaper points his weapon at the musicians. “You useless sacks of flesh, do your jobs.”

They scramble together, some discordant notes drifting off their instruments as they rush to make music. Once they begin playing a song, people move to the dance floor, woodenly beginning to dance.

My stomach squeezes at the sight and my skin feels clammy, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

The horseman glares at them all, a dark look on his face. That, more than anything, puts me on edge. The way Famine stares at them … like a panther sizing up prey.

All of a sudden, the horseman turns to me, and my heart skips a beat at the predatory look in his eyes.

“Well?” he says.

“Well what?” I ask.

“I was referring to you too. Dance.” He nods to the space ahead of us.

In this mockery of a party? I don’t think so.

“With who?” I say. “You?” I laugh, though the sound rings false. “I’m not just going to go out there alone. Dancing is for couples.”

I don’t actually believe that, but the thought of dancing right now makes me vaguely ill.

Famine arches an eyebrow, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. Rather than answering me, he reaches out a hand.

I eye it, then him, then it again. “What are you doing?”

“You wanted a partner.” He says it slowly, like I’m the town idiot.

“You can’t be serious.”

The horseman stands, strapping his weapon to his back once more. He moves in front of me, then extends his hand once more.

Holy shit. He is serious.

I stare at that hand. The petty part of me wants to say no, just to enjoy humiliating the Reaper for a few seconds, but the rational, frightened part of me knows that making a mockery of this man won’t end well for me.

So I take his hand.

This must be another one of the horseman’s tricks. But then he leads me onto the dance floor, where dozens of people are stiffly dancing. They give us wide berth.

“Do you even know how to dance?” I ask.

In response, Famine pulls me to him, placing a hand on my waist. The other clasps my hand.

“You act as though these irrelevant human activities of yours are somehow hard.” As the horseman speaks, he begins to lead me in a dance. It’s nothing formal or structured, and yet his movements have an expert flow to them. He moves like a river over rocks, and again I’m reminded of his otherness.

Haltingly, I follow the Reaper’s lead. I don’t know where to put my free hand. Eventually I rest it on top of an armor covered shoulder.

For a few minutes I simply stare at my feet, trying to figure out the steps. But the more I look at my boots, the more I get distracted by the dark handle of Famine’s dagger.

“They’re not going to disappear,” Famine says, his voice haughty.

I jolt, feeling like I got caught red-handed. I glance up at the horseman, wide-eyed.

“Your feet,” he clarifies.

I stare into his luminous green eyes. The candlelight makes them shine like gemstones.

“This is ridiculous,” I murmur, mostly to drag my mind away from the fact that the candlelight is doing more than just making his eyes glow. Every pleasing plane of his face is highlighted by the light, and his caramel hair shines nearly as brightly as his armor.

“This is your world and your customs,” he says. “I’m merely indulging in them.”

Right about now, I’m supposed to snap out some cunning retort,