Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,85
candelabra hits him, all I hear is a soft, guttural sound. The hand at my neck slides away, and the man above me is still.
For several seconds I lay there, breathing heavily as his deadweight crushes me.
Did I … kill him?
I feel shockingly little remorse at the idea.
I’m more worried about the possibility that if he isn’t dead, he’s going to wake up and really want to finish what he started.
My mind is scrambled, my pulse hammering through my veins.
With a great heave, I push Heitor off of me.
He slips off the bed, landing in a heap on the hardwood floor.
Move-move-move.
I head for the door on shaky legs. It’s only once I get to the threshold that I remember the knife.
Fuck.
If Heitor wakes up, I want to be the one with a weapon.
I hold my breath as I hurry back for the knife, keeping my eyes trained on the lump of a man collapsed next to the bed, sure he’s going to pounce on me once I’m within reaching distance. But the body doesn’t move as my gaze scours the bed for the weapon, nor does it move when I catch sight of it in my sheets and grab it by the hilt.
I back up, my eyes trained on the cartel boss, then I turn and bolt for the door. Once I’m in the hallway, I run like my life depends on it, grateful I’m still fully dressed.
Where’s Famine? The terrifying thought echoes over and over again through my head. Last I saw of him, he’d been planning on chopping up Heitor. But Heitor was in my room, his hands and legs very much intact.
I slow to a stop, then glance back down the hallway, forcing myself to think through the cloud of adrenaline and fear driving me onward.
I should check the horseman’s room to see if he’s there. That would be the logical first step.
Without another thought, I sprint back down the hall. Famine’s room is right next to mine, and as I stop in front of it, I hope to hell that Heitor isn’t rousing.
Tentatively I open the door. Inside, it’s completely dark, and I can only assume the candles here burned down to their base.
“Famine?” I whisper, tip-toeing in.
Nothing.
“Famine?” I say again, this time a bit louder.
I fumble my way around the room, trying to feel out whether he or any of his things are still here. I’m pretty sure I touch that phallic sculpture, but my fingers don’t brush Famine’s scales, or his armor, or Famine himself—which I guess is a good thing. A part of me was terrified I’d stumble across his body.
I slip back out of the room and head down the hall once more.
If the Reaper isn’t in his room, and he’s clearly not with Heitor, then where would he be? And, more importantly, what state is he in?
I get to the end of the hall and exit this wing of the house, adrenaline still singing in my veins. Outside, the cool night air ruffles my curly hair. Candles and oil lamps glow from inside the main building of the estate. Even from here I can see figures moving inside. None of them, however, are the horseman.
I stand out in that courtyard for an obscene amount of time, debating where I should look next and just how much I should make my presence known.
Before I can make up my mind, a door from the main building opens up and a man steps out into the courtyard.
I freeze. I don’t think he’s seen me yet.
“I’m just going to check on him,” the man says to someone inside the main building.
“Don’t do it,” someone shouts from farther inside. “Last man who did lost a finger.”
The guard I can see now hesitates.
“Seriously man, let the boss have his fun, and let’s have ours,” says the guard inside.
My stomach churns. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be the boss’s fun. As for the guards’ fun …
The man reluctantly reenters the building, and I hear a door click shut.
Then the only sound is my own, ragged breathing.
Dear God, what happened to Famine? Did they ambush him? How badly is he hurt?
Slowly the panic in my mind settles, and I begin to think clearly again.
One thing is absolutely obvious: I can’t stay out here. If Heitor isn’t dead—and it would be too good to hope that he is—then he’ll return to his men. When he does, they’ll all know I’m alive.