Page 140 of Famine

“Because you’re a human, and you give a fuck about human things. I, on the other hand, do not.” With that, he polishes off his drink.

Famine leans forward to refill his glass. “Speaking of human things, what quaint little talents do you have?” he asks.

“I can fuck a man nearly blind,” I say helpfully.

He exhales.

Aw, did he think I’d given up on the uncomfortable sex jokes? Poor, naïve man.

I give the Reaper an innocent look. “I can demonstrate if you’d—”

“Let’s leave my eyes out of this,” he says, bringing his now full glass of wine to his lips. “I already lost both hands in the last day. I’d hate for my eyes to go too.”

Despite his words, I swear he looks half intrigued.

Personally, I’m far more thanhalf intrigued.

“So, besides blinding men,” he says, “what else do you like to do? Read? Sing? Dance? Wait, forget about that last one. I know you can’t dance for shit.”

It’s such a rude goddamn thing to say, but a laugh slips out anyway. I’ve sort of developed a soft spot for Famine’s asshole-ish personality.

“Fuck you,” I respond good-naturedly.

“Mmmm …” Again, he gives me a speculative look, like he’s taking my words literally.

The thought heats my skin.

“I can bang out a few keys on the piano,” I say carefully, answering his earlier question, “and I can carry a tune if it’s simple enough.”

But the horseman doesn’t look like he’s listening, and now my mind is back on how it would feel to have this unnatural thing on me and in me.

My thoughts are interrupted as, from the ether, Famine’s scythe and scales form right before my eyes, the two items solidifying right in the middle of our makeshift feast, the scales knocking over an empty bottle.

I start at the sight of them. “Does that … ?”

“Usually happen?” Famine says. “If I’m away from them long enough, it does.”

“How long is long enough?” I ask.

The Reaper reaches out and lifts the scythe from the table. “I used to try to figure that very thing out when I was held captive.”

At the wordcaptive, I glance sharply at him. This is the one thing that we haven’t discussed tonight. Famine’s captivity. And judging by the sound of his voice, it’s for good reason. Just his tone alone gives me goosebumps.

The horseman lays the scythe across his lap. “I’d wake on a pike, or in—”

“Apike?” I say, aghast.

His green gaze cuts to mine, and I can almost see his pain and the sharp bite of old anger. “If I was lucky, I’d simply be tied to it. If I was unlucky …” His gaze grows distant, and I steel myself for whatever he’s about to say. “If I wasunluckyI’d be nailed to it or impaled on it.”

Impaled … ?

The food in my stomach is suddenly not sitting so well.

He lays the scythe lays across his lap, his fingers moving over the markings etched onto it.

“But it was those unlucky times when my few possessions would manifest. They’d take them away of course—not that it mattered. They kept me too injured and weak to use them or any of my powers.”

My mind is conjuring up images—awful images—and it physically hurts me to imagine Famine like this. I cannot fathom just how hurt he would have to be to be unable to use his powers.