Page 16 of Famine

Silently, I step into the room.

Where are all the guards? I saw nearly a dozen of them outside, but in here they’re nowhere to be seen.

After a moment, I hear a soft tapping sound. The sound drags my gaze to the right, where I take in a dimly lit dining room. My chest stills when I see Famine’s silhouette sitting in one of the chairs, his back to me.

His armor is gone, but his telltale scythe rests on the table in front of him, just beyond the open book that’s resting where a plate should be. The Reaper, however, doesn’t seem to be reading. Based on the angle of his head, he’s staring out the windows across from him, his fingers drumming absently on the table.

The Reaper sits so still that if it weren’t for those fingers, I would’ve assumed he was just another pricey decoration put on display in this house.

For a moment, I wonder if this is some sort of trap. There aren’t any guards posted in here, and there probably should be. And Famine is right there, alone and seemingly unaware of my presence.

I wait in the shadows for a long time, staring at his broad back and his caramel colored hair. Long enough for the teeth of any trap to close on me. The seconds pass and nothing happens.

Eventually, I begin to creep closer, cutting through the living room, my steps silent.

I reach for one of the knives sheathed at my side, drawing it out as quietly as I can.

Kill him and leave unnoticed.That’s the plan. I know it’s no permanent solution. After all,he cannot die.

That’s one of the first things I learned about Famine long ago. There is no ending him.

It doesn’t really matter at this point. Killing him—no matter how temporary—is the only solution any of us humans have left. So I push my misgivings aside. I’ve come too far to stop now.

As I round the couch in the living room, I nearly trip on a body.

I have to bite down on my lip to stifle my yelp.

Dear God.

Just when I thought there were no more surprises.

The man at my feet has been gutted from navel to collarbone. He stares blankly off in the distance, laying in a pool of his own blood.

Bile rises up my throat, and I have to choke it back down. The whole time, I’m sure that Famine is going to hear me.

And yet he doesn’t, so far as I can tell. He just continues to drum his fingers on the table and gaze out the windows.

Skirting around the corpse, I make my way to the dining room on silent feet. My heart, which was beating madly just minutes ago, has now slowed. I feel eerily calm. Gone is my fear, my nerves, and that terrible anger that’s churned inside me for weeks.

This is what it must feel like to live without a conscience.

I step up to the back of Famine’s chair, and in one smooth movement, my dagger makes it to his neck.

I hear the horseman’s sharp, surprised inhalation.

Threading my fingers into that pretty hair of his, I jerk his head back, my blade pressed tightly against his skin.

“You made an example of the wrong girl,” I whisper into his ear.

Beneath my touch, the horseman feels rigid.

“You are either very brave or very foolish to cross me,” he says, his jade green eyes staring straight ahead.

“Youbastard,” I say, tightening my grip on his hair. “Look at me.”

He does, his gaze moving to my face, his neck brushing against my blade as he turns his head. The Reaper wears a smirk as he meets my eyes, though he’s in no position to find this funny.

“Do you remember me?” I ask.