Page 111 of Famine

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 aprick; 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. “Decentlygood?” I say. “I saved your ass once upon a time. That didn’t earn meanyheaven points?”

“You’ve also tried to killmy 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’sno wayyour soul is purer than mine.”