Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,70
seem. I’ve nearly been killed by a man who had a reputation for being kind, and a local criminal paid me to hold him all night, just so that he could cry in my arms.
Famine meets my eyes, and right here in the darkness, all of his posturing is gone. His hate and anger are a distant memory.
We hold each other’s gazes for longer than we should. Long enough to notice that even with his armor on, the glow of his glyphs still subtly illuminates his chin and cheeks.
“Is there anything about us humans that you do like?” I finally ask.
“I like your stories,” he admits, his voice like velvet in the darkness.
“Our stories?” I say, incredulous.
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“Stories are the most human thing about humans. Of course I’m shocked.”
He doesn’t have anything to say to that.
“What sort of stories do you like?” I ask.
“Ones where a lot of people die,” he deadpans.
I reach out and give his chest a playful shove. “Get out of here. No you don’t. I bet you like romance.”
“No.”
“I bet you do. I don’t think anyone can resist a good romance.”
“Stop it, Ana,” he says. But I swear it sounds like there might be a slight smile to his voice.
Maybe I’m just imagining it.
“Well,” I say, shifting myself to get more comfortable in his lap, “now you have to tell me one.”
“No.”
“C’mon, just one little bedtime story—and a head scratch. You know, as a peace offering for me not stealing your virginity.”
“What makes you think I’m a virgin?” he says.
I gasp and sit up. “You’re not a virgin?” How scandalous!
Famine pushes me back down on his lap. “Fine, I will tell you a story—”
“Tell me about your first time,” I command.
“No.”
“Fine. First times are always messy anyway. Tell me about your second time.”
“Ana.”
I grin in the darkness. It was worth a shot.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “Tell me a story you enjoy—with a head scratch,” I add.
The Reaper stares down at me. “I don’t even know what a head scratch is.”
I take his hand and move it to my hair. “Here’s my head, now, you scratch. Really, Famine, it’s quite obvious.”
His fingers freeze in my hair. Then, ever so slowly, they comb through my dark locks, quickly catching on kinks.
“Ow,” I say.
That’s the trouble with curly hair.
Ignoring me, the Reaper begins to play with my hair a little. It’s definitely not a head scratch, but I’m distracted by it all the same.
“That story?” I prompt him.
“Impertinent girl,” he says softly, not looking away from my hair. “Would you like me to tell you the tale of Ma’at?”
“What’s Ma’at?” I ask.
“She’s the ancient Egyptian goddess of harmony and justice.”
“Ancient Egyptian?” I echo. I’ve heard of Egypt before, but ancient Egypt … it sounds too far away in time and space to hold any value or meaning for me.
“Is she real?” I ask. If the four horsemen really exist, maybe other deities do too.
“The concept of her is real.”
“Hmph.” What a cop-out answer.
“Don’t give me that noise,” Famine says. “I was a concept just like Ma’at until I was given form.”
“So she is real,” I say.
“She, like me, is one of many human constructs. If God wanted her to represent divinity, He would’ve made her exist. It just so happens that me and my three brothers better fit His plan.”
His plan to kill us all.
“Your explanation hurts my head,” I say.
“You’re not really supposed to understand these things.” Because you’re a pathetic human.
He doesn’t say that last part, but he was definitely thinking it.
“So do you know her—Ma’at?” I ask.
Famine sighs, like I’ve missed the point completely.
“Fine, fine, forget I asked. Now, tell me her story.”
Famine’s fingers run through my hair, snagging a bit. I wonder just how frizzy my hair is going to be once he’s done.
“When the world was first spoken into creation, Ma’at was created with it. She was justice, harmony, peace and order given form—”
“So she was a person,” I say.
“A goddess,” Famine corrects, sounding a little miffed. “And only in Egyptian religion. She was a winged woman who wore an ostrich feather in her hair, which represented the straight and true path.
“To live a life in alignment with Ma’at meant to follow the spirit and flow of the universe.”
Famine has a rich voice, one that pulls you in, and I listen, rapt, to the strange story he’s telling.
“On the day you died, ancient Egyptians believed that your heart would be weighed against the feather of Ma’at. If you had lived a good,