Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,82

pans are polished to a shine. There are a series of symbols etched onto each, and I think it might be the same markings that cover Famine’s body.

“Are you ever going to tell me what these scales are for?” I ask.

“They’re for weighing items.”

I give the horseman a look. “I figured as much.” I touch one side of the scales with my finger, the shallow metal pan bobbing a little at the contact before it resettles. “Why would a horseman need to weigh anything?” I ask.

Famine runs a thumb over his lower lip, watching me for a moment, like he’s deciding on something.

“It’s a metric to weigh men’s hearts,” he finally says.

He walks to my side, unaware that I was trying to put some space between us. “The scales represent truth, order, peace—essentially, the world as it ought to be,” he continues. “Whether humans are worthy of that world is for these scales to judge.”

I glance over at him, my heart beating a little faster at his nearness. It takes me a few extra seconds to process what he said.

“That sounds like the story you told me,” I say. The one about the Egyptian goddess who weighed men’s hearts. She had scales too.

“Ma’at and I have much in common,” the horseman says softly.

I touch one of the shallow pans again. Of all the beings who should wield such a device, vicious, violent Famine seems like the worst candidate for the job.

“Would you like to see how it works?” he asks.

Yes. It’s an unearthly contraption that can seemingly measure something as intangible as peace and truth.

I nod.

The Reaper smiles a little and reaches around to his belt, where he’s strapped a dagger.

I take a step away from him. “What are you doing?” I demand as he unholsters the blade.

“You didn’t think it would be painless, did you?” he raises an eyebrow. “I need a bit of your blood for this to work.” He reaches out a hand and beckons for me. “Now, let me see your finger.”

I don’t give it to him.

The horseman gives me a look. “I’m just going to give it a prick. Nothing more.”

“I’ve seen your definition of a prick; it’s a little more intense than my own definition of it.”

“Fine.” He begins to put the dagger back.

I watch him.

If he was interested in hurting you, he would’ve already done so.

“Wait,” I say.

He glances at me.

I hold out my index finger.

His gaze flicks from it to my eyes. Here his gaze lingers. Without looking away, he grasps my hand and lifts his blade once more. He angles my hand over the shallow pan.

“This might sting,” he says.

Before I can react, he slices his dagger across the pad of my finger.

There’s a brief flash of pain, then several beads of blood drip onto the circular tray. The metal pan dips as it takes on the weight of my blood, then lifts, then dips again, until it’s only a little lower than the other, empty pan.

My eyes flick to Famine. “What does that mean?”

“It means that you’re a decently good person.”

I give him an incredulous look. “Decently good?” I say. “I saved your ass once upon a time. That didn’t earn me any heaven points?”

“You’ve also tried to kill my ass, in case you’ve forgotten, so no.”

“Fine. Let’s see how you size up then on your little holy scale,” I challenge.

Famine smirks at me. Using his shirtsleeve, he wipes my blood first from the scale, then from the edge of his blade. A moment later he brings his wrist up to the tray.

In one swift motion he slices open his skin and lets his blood spill onto the pan.

I wait for his blood to weigh down his side of the scales, but it never comes. Instead, his pan begins to lift, rising higher even as more and more blood drips onto it.

The most unnerving part of the whole thing is that other, empty scale. In the horseman’s story of Ma’at there was at least a feather being weighed against men’s hearts. Here, there’s nothing, nothing at all.

Famine stands there, bloody arm extended, those sinister green eyes watching me as the scales continue to tip in his favor.

“I may be crueler than you,” he admits, “but my heart is still purer.”

“Your scales are obviously broken,” I say. “There’s no way your soul is purer than mine.”

If I’m really to believe that this set of scales measures truth and justice and peace, then Famine should be weighing his end of the scales