Page 137 of Famine

His sharp gaze grows sharper still. “Whatever you think of him,” he says, “he doesnotdeserve that look on your face.”

“What look?” I ask, touching my cheek.

“Like you want to fuck him.”

It’s not Death I want to fuck …

Oh God, I reallyshouldn’twant that. Because Famine hasissues.

But I’ve got issues too, I guess. They just don’t happen to be the murderous kind.

“So whereisDeath?” I ask.

Famine’s expression darkens. “No.”

“No what?” I ask, taking the bottle from him.

“No I’m not going to tell you where he is while you still have that expression on your face.”

I still look like I want to bone Famine? Not good.

And the fact that the horseman cares about who I’m attracted to—also not good.

I bring the bottle to my lips and take a distracted pull from it. The spiced rum slips down my throat, taking the edge off of my nerves.

I swallow, then lower the bottle.

“Trust me when I say that I wantnothingto do with Death,” I tell him.

The Reaper must believe me because, after a moment, he looks somewhat mollified.

After a moment, Famine says, “He sleeps.”

I give him a confused look. “You mean Death?” I say. “Death sleeps? What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“I mean that he hasn’t returned to earth yet. Two of my brothers came before me. Death will follow.”

Rapidly my mind is trying to piece together what he’s saying. I’d heard tales of the first two horsemen, Pestilence and War, killing off far away nations. But they never came here.

“So you guys come in waves?” I ask.

He cracks a nefarious smile at my words. “Something like that.”

“And Pestilence and War—the two that came before you—are they gone now?” The tales I heard of those horsemen are old and weatherworn. “Is that why you’re here … awake?”

“Essentially,” Famine says.

I furrow my brows. “And Death … is asleep?”

The Reaper nods. “Deep beneath the earth.”

That’s not unsettling or anything.

“Why didn’t all four of you come at the same time?” I ask. “Why draw out the process of killing us?” If there’s one thing humans are good at, it’s saving our own skins. It seems as though it would be infinitely easier to eradicate us all at once than little by little.

“Why indeed?” Famine agrees. “I’ve asked myself the same question. Let me ask you this: why don’t birth and death happen at the same time?”

“That makes no sense,” I say, taking another swallow of the spiced rum I hold.