Famine (The Four Horsemen #3) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,88

myself is just fear for my own life. But every time I look at Famine, that feeling deepens.

My mind can’t stop replaying all the terrible things I heard and saw those men do to the horseman in the dark. No wonder the Reaper hates us with such unholy viciousness.

I would too.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of horses’ hooves pounding down the road. They get louder for a long time, and I wait for them to close in on us. They don’t. The riders tear down the road, not stopping to peer into the dead field we’re hiding in.

I let out a shuddering breath once they pass.

Safe—for now.

I glance down at the Reaper. His head is slumped over my arm, and the sight makes my chest ache in the worst sort of way.

I reach out a shaky hand and move aside a matted lock of hair, my fingers coming away bloody. That arrow is still protruding from Famine’s face, and he won’t be able to heal until it’s out. And he needs it out. Now.

I swallow down bile, knowing what I have to do.

Moving my hands to the wound, I probe around it, gagging a little at the feel of blood and bits. The arrow went into his face near his eye, but it didn’t go all the way through, which means I’m going to have to pull it out the way it came in.

I exhale a shaky breath. Satan’s balls, but I don’t want to do this. I really, really don’t. But those men are still out there searching for us, and neither Famine nor I are going to be truly safe until he’s awake again.

Extricating my legs out from under the horseman, I gently lay him on the ground.

Now the icky part.

Kneeling over him, I grab the arrow shaft. Biting my lower lip, I pull.

Nothing happens.

I wrap my hand tighter around the projectile, wincing at the blood oozing between my fingers, and I try again.

Still nothing.

Why me?

Finally, shifting myself to get a better angle, I pull hard, wiggling it back and forth a little. It makes awful, wet noises, but it loosens. Then, excruciatingly slowly, it begins to dislodge itself.

Thank fuck—

The arrowhead snags on a bit of flesh.

I gag again.

I tug some more, and once more it loosens before hitting more tissue

I pause to press my mouth against my shoulder.

You can do this, Ana. It’s almost out.

Forcing down my nausea, I pull, wiggling the arrow shaft back and forth. With a final slick, sucking sound, the projectile slides out.

I have to swallow my cry—which is half relief, half horror—as I cast the arrow aside.

Need to check the rest of him.

God, I hate this. I hate it even more than the discovery that I actually care for this insufferable creature.

I force my hands back on Famine and, starting with his head, I run my fingers over him, looking for other injuries. One of his arms ends at his wrist, the other at his elbow. I also find gaping wounds at his neck and one of his legs, as though Heitor’s men tried and failed to remove the appendages.

The entire process is awful. Famine is so still that there’s no mistaking that he’s dead.

Once I’m done, I reach out and touch the Reaper’s face again with a bloody, trembling hand. This terrible, complex monster. Most of the time he’s the evilest thing in any given place, but right now … right now Heitor and his men hold that title.

My fingers trail along Famine’s cheek. I’m so close to losing it, but I force myself to stay strong, just for a while longer. So instead, I stretch myself out next to the Reaper, laying a hand on his chest, just so that when he wakes, he won’t be alone.

And then I wait.

The cool evening air stirs my hair and sways the dead stalks of sugarcane around me. It’s an oddly peaceful night given how horrific it’s been. I draw in several deep breaths.

I killed a man—maybe two, if Heitor didn’t survive my attack.

I can still remember how easy it was to bring that knife down on the man’s throat—how easily it cut through skin and sinew. I can remember how remorseless I felt in that moment, and I know deep down that I would do it again if someone found me and Famine hiding out here.

I glance over at the horseman, frowning. I’d do all of it again for this man, because wicked or not, violent or not, Famine might