Page 42 of Famine

“Will it ever grow back?” I ask, gazing out at the dying crops.

“Not any time soon,” he replies, “and when it does, it won’t be crops. This land doesn’t belong to humans. It never has, and it never will.”

Despite the rising heat of the day, goosebumps break out along my skin.

Life really isn’t going to ever go back to the way it was. I mean, I knew that the moment Famine rode into my city, but I hadn’t fully processed it until now. There will be no more farmers, no more market days. There will be no more lazy afternoons at the bordello or evenings where it’s business as usual. Here in southern Brazil, farming is our main form of commerce. If Famine wipes that out … he won’t need to kill us in an instant. We’ll all eventually starve.

“You’ve presented me with a problem,” he admits, cutting through my thoughts.

“I’m going to put this in the nicest way possible:” I say, swinging my bare feet back and forth, “you can go fuck yourself and your problem away.”

His grip digs into my thigh. “Is fucking your only solution to any problem?”

“Is killing yours?” I shoot back.

“My problem,” he continues smoothly, as though we weren’t just arguing, “is that I’m here to blight crops and starve your kind, yet I mustfeedyou.”

He sounds truly torn about this.

“Whatwillyou do?”

“You would be wise not to offend me,” he says. “I have seen humans boil their belts and their Bibles’ leather casing, all so that they might fill their stomachs with something representing food. I’ve seen them eat all manner of inedible things. I’ve even seen them eat their own kind. All in the name of relieving that painful ache in their guts. I don’t need to make your survival easy or comfortable.”

“You’ve actually let people live long enough to boil their belts?” I say. “I findthathard to believe.”

I shift in the saddle, and I swear I feel the searing heat of his gaze on my legs.

“You know,” I add, “you’d probably be much less bloodthirsty if you banged your aggression out.”

“I don’t want to be less bloodthirsty—and I definitely don’t want to ‘bang’ you.”

“I wasn’t offering, though I’m sure you could findsomeoneopen to the idea. Probably not alivingsomeone, but still, someone.”

“You say that as though you didn’t throw yourself at me mere weeks ago,” he says, sounding exasperated.

I didn’tthrowmyself at him. Ana da Silva doesn’t throw herself atanyone; she coyly lures the unwitting into her sex den and enslaves their wills to hers … for a time.

“I was blinded by memories of a nicer Famine,” I say.

“And I have been blinded by memories of a nicer, less sexual version of you.”

I raise my eyebrows, an unwilling smile spreading across my face. “I didn’t realize my sexuality mattered to you.”

He growls. “Willyou be quiet?”

“Only if you put something in my mouth. Dicks are still an option,” I say, just to taunt him.

“I thought you weren’t offering,” he says.

I open my mouth to argue, but—oh, he’s right.

“I might make an exception just this once,” I say, “for the sake of humanity, of course. A blowjob to end all bloodshed—that sounds appropriately valiant.”

It really does.

A horseman was brought to his knees when a human got down on hers …

The PR might need to be adjusted a bit, but I’mdefinitelyliking the sound of that. Who knew prostitution could be such a noble cause?