Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,75

we’re about ten meters away, however, that I realize those shapes are dismembered men, their heads on pikes, their cleaved torsos hanging from the blockaded gate.

At the sight, my stomach heaves.

“I think I’m going to be …”

Famine barely has time to slow his horse before I’m leaning over the side of the saddle and puking my guts out.

I’ve seen countless deaths at the horseman’s hands; why these corpses would be the ones to make me retch is beyond me.

“Please don’t tell me this means you’ll need another meal,” the Reaper says.

“Jesus,” I say, catching my breath, “you are an asshole.”

I right myself just as the horseman hands me the canteen I’ve taken to carrying around with me. Wordlessly, I take it from him, and swallow down enough water to wash the taste of sickness from my mouth. Even as I do so, my eyes return to the wall of their own accord. My stomach pitches again at the sight, but I manage to hold myself together.

As I stare up at the corpses, I realize that I recognize one of the faces. It’s the man from the last city, the one who chatted with me at the dance right before all hell broke loose.

Unease drips down my spine. These are Famine’s men. They must’ve warned the people of São Paulo of the horseman’s arrival and made demands on Famine’s behalf. And … someone didn’t take that news too well.

I lower the canteen, absently capping it.

“Better?” the Reaper asks.

I nod, shoving away my thoughts.

“Good.”

Famine raises his hand towards the thick gate. Already most of the wall around it has been toppled over, the men dragged from their posts.

Overhead, the clouds darken to the color of a bruise, and the already humid air seems to grow even heavier.

That’s all the warning I get.

A bolt of lightning streaks down from the heavens right in front of us and—

BOOM!

I scream at the deafening sound as the lightning strikes the wrought iron archway. The barred doors beneath blast open with a metallic shriek, shards of wood splintering off in all directions. The displayed bodies are blasted from the wall as well, disembodied limbs flying in all directions.

In the distance, I hear panicked shouting.

“Ah, much better,” Famine says, a smile in his voice.

He clicks his tongue and his horse starts up again, walking over the smoking remains of the gate.

A long, palm-lined driveway cuts between fields of marijuana plants, leading up to an expansive mansion. Between here and there, people are yelling out orders. Several men are running towards the gate before stumbling to a stop when they see us.

I can see them processing the scene before them—the felled gates, the rider, the scythe, the horse …

All at once they reach for their weapons.

The Reaper wastes no time dispatching them, his plants rising from the ground and twisting themselves around the men until bones break and blood flows. And then we’re riding over these men too, and I have to physically stop myself from retching again at the wet sounds of flesh being crushed beneath hooves.

We travel the rest of the way like that, with a carpet of flesh lining our way. There are a seemingly endless amount of men, and for all of the horseman’s power, I’m nervous about the cartel boss we’re squaring off with.

We head up the circular driveway, my gaze taking in the palatial home in front of me. Men are moving to defend the house, bows nocked and at the ready.

An arrow hisses by, then another. I lock eyes on an arrow headed straight for me—

Quick as lightning, Famine reaches out and catches the projectile, the point centimeters from my breast.

The Reaper makes a sound deep in his chest. “That was the wrong thing to do.”

Beneath us, the ground rumbles, splitting wide open. Thick, fast growing plants burst from a dozen different places, ensnaring whoever they manage to get ahold of.

Amongst the panicked cries, someone begins to clap. I glance towards the sound. An older man, his hair heavily streaked with white, is among the men caught in Famine’s snares. He doesn’t, however, look concerned about his predicament.

“I am not easily impressed,” the man says, looking first at me, then at the Reaper, “but you, my friend, have impressed me.”

This must be the home’s owner. I can’t imagine what sort of man he is if he can take in all this carnage and not be afraid.

“How is he still talking?” I whisper to Famine. The horseman is more of a kill first,