Page 139 of Famine

Famine doesn’t remove the bottle from my lips for a long time, and I don’t stop drinking, the two of us watching each other.

Again, I feel that light, airy sensation in my stomach, the one that makes me feel like I can fly.

It’s the alcohol, I tell myself.

Not looking away from me, the horseman finally lowers the liquor from my lips, then brings it to his own.

Heat pools low in my belly.

The Reaper drinks and drinks … and drinks. He doesn’t stop until he’s drank the liquor dry.

He sets the empty bottle down onto the table with a heavyclink. “Would you like another demonstration?” he asks.

“Demonstration?” I echo, lost. I’m still hung up on the fact that Famine just drank all the rum.

His mouth curves up into a smile. “I’ll take that as ayes.”

Famine stands, and before I can call him back, he heads into the kitchen. He returns several minutes later with enough alcohol to kill a small army.

He sets his loot down on the table, knocking some of our food aside.

“You have a drinking problem,” I state.

Not that I blame him. If Elvita didn’t have a no-substance-abuse policy in place for her girls, I probably would’ve fallen into the same trap years ago.

“I kill humans by the thousands, andthat’syour issue?” he says. “That I drink too much?”

He makes a fair point.

“I have a problem with the killing too.” Sort of.

In truth, I should havemoreof a problem with it, especially considering all the transgressions Famine has made against me and my loved ones. But I’ve come to a strange sort of peace with who and what the horseman is. I want him to stop, but I can’t stop him.

And if I’m being brutally honest, I don’t know if I should.

Humans can be awful. Maybe this is what we deserve.

Famine doesn’t stop drinking. He drinks and drinks and drinks. It’s enough booze to kill a man three times over. But the Reaper seems fine. Honestly, he doesn’t even appear all that fucked up.

While he works on the alcohol, I make it a personal mission to polish off most of the food in front of me. I drink a little too.

Amongst it all, we’ve taken to asking each other questions about anything and everything.

“How many men have you been with?” Famine asks, sipping on a glass of wine.

“Sexually?” I say, grabbing a handful of nuts. “I don’t know.” I pop one of the cashews in my mouth. “A lot.”

“How many women have you been with?” he follows up.

“Thirty-three,” I say without missing a beat.

His eyebrows go up. “You kept count?”

“They were more memorable bed partners,” I say. I eat another couple nuts. “How about you?” I ask. “How many people have you been with?”

Famine takes a long drink of his wine, his gaze growing distant. “I don’t know. I don’t remember the number.”

I give him a strange look. “Then why did you think I would remember?