Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,86

have the upper hand.

It’s the hardest thing in the world to approach the main building, but I force myself to do so. Slowly, I move about the outskirts of the mansion, peering through the windows. Inside, guards seem to be assembling, several of them heading out of the foyer and into the front yard.

I make my way around the massive building, holding my breath that I don’t come across any more guards or—heaven forbid—Rocha himself.

My good luck holds out. I make it to the front of the building, keeping to the hedges.

On the circular driveway, among the shadowy remains of Famine’s unnatural plants, half a dozen men cluster around something, a few of them jeering. I see one of them swing something, and then I hear a wet, meaty sound.

Let the boss have his fun, and let’s have ours.

My stomach bottoms out, and I have to close my eyes.

Famine—awful, unmerciful Famine—is getting tortured. The same man who only hours ago touched me softly and admitted that he liked me.

If I’d given him reason to reconsider his hatred, these men have utterly obliterated it.

I watch and I try not to sick myself as they jeer and curse and hack away at the horseman. The best I can hope for is that he’s already unconscious and beyond the pain.

I need to do something—anything.

That’s when I remember the heavy weight in my hand. Through all my panic I’d nearly forgotten about the knife I’m still clutching.

Shit, am I actually going to use it?

The men’s voices drift in, interrupting my thoughts.

“I’m the one who shot him, so I’m keeping the blade. You can have his armor.”

“Well I fucking want something, considering I’m going to set up the body.”

“You can have the horse.”

“Fuck you, that thing hates humans. It nearly bit off my hand earlier.”

“Where the fuck is Heitor?” someone interrupts.

“Don’t wait up for him. He’s dealing with the hussy this guy came here with.”

Some quiet laughter.

“Randy old bastard.”

My grip tightens on the weapon.

I think I could use the blade after all.

While all this is going on, someone pulls up a horse-drawn cart, two steeds already hitched to it. The men have their fun for a little while longer, and even in the darkness I see them playing with Famine’s scythe and grasping pieces of his armor. Almost as an afterthought they load the—gag—pieces of the horseman onto the cart.

Just as they’re about to close up the back of the wagon, the front door crashes open and one of Heitor’s men dashes out.

“The boss has been attacked, and the horseman’s woman is gone.”

Chapter 30

Well, fuck me up the ass.

They found Heitor—or Heitor found them—and I’ve frittered all my time away watching these men’s sick idea of entertainment.

Almost as one, the guards race back inside the mansion, casting aside the horseman’s things.

To my complete shock, they all leave. Every single one. Clearly they’re more concerned about their boss’s well-being—and his wrath—than they are about Famine.

I stand still for several seconds, waiting for one of them to return. When all is quiet, I suck in a deep breath.

Now’s the only chance I’m going to get.

Heart pounding, I dash to the cart, pushing away the certainty that someone is going to see me.

When I get to the wagon and peer into it, I have to choke back a cry. There’s an arrow through the horseman’s head, and he’s covered in blood. And like the first time I met him, he’s missing appendages—though they’re not far. I see his lower arm and two hands resting in the cart alongside him. I can’t tell what other wounds he has, but what I can see of him is bloody and misshapen.

“Hey! What are you doing?” The voice comes from the direction of the stables.

I glance over my shoulder. A man I hadn’t seen before is now striding towards me, purpose written into the lines of his body.

Shit. I turn back to Famine, starting to panic.

I was hoping to flee with the Reaper before anyone noticed, but the time for that has passed.

I can hear the guard’s footfalls, quickly closing the last few meters between us.

My fear and panic dissolve away; all that’s left is grim resolve.

I spin to face the man—

“You,” the guard says, recognizing me. He reaches out to grab me.

Before, I was all hesitation. Now, I’m all action.

I lunge at him, knife gripped in my hand. It’s all too easy to sink my blade into his throat.

I can see the whites of the guard’s eyes as he reaches for