Page 52 of Famine

The man comes into my room and grabs me by the arm, lifting me up to my feet.

“I hate this too,” he admits quietly as he drags me out. Even as he says it, I notice the blood crusted on his hands and splattered on his shirt.

He clearly doesn’t hate the situationenough.

I follow after him, my arms heavy from wearing the shackles all day. In the living room, many of the guards are now milling about, clearly waiting for Famine’s next order.

The man himself sits at a table overflowing with all sorts of food, from steaming cassava to fruit cut into pleasing shapes and steak dripping in its own juices. There’sbacalhauand rice and a tray of assorted cheeses and another with various breads and crackers. There’s even a dessert platter, laden withcakes and custards, cookies and sugared candies.

The smells are enough to make my stomach cramp with hunger.

The guard releases me at the edge of the dining room, moving away to stand back at his post.

Famine doesn’t look at me when he gestures for me to come closer.

I narrow my eyes. Sex work has taught me a thing or two about reading people. Self-satisfied assholes like Famine—ones who expect me to be at their beck and call—are the cheapest of the lot. The value they place on you is next to nothing.

I walk over to him, stopping just to the side of his chair.

“Entertain me.” He still doesn’t look up.

Casually I reach out and upend his plate, scattering food everywhere. “Go fuck yourself.”

Now the horseman looks up at me, those cruel green eyes sparking with fire. I’ve issued a direct challenge in front of nearly half a dozen men; he’s going to do something.

I should probably care more.

Before the horseman can react, however, another guard of his closes in on me. He raises his arm and backhands me, hitting me so hard I fall against the table before crumpling to the floor.

The sting against my cheek feels perversely good, just like the manacles around my wrists. They remind me who exactly the Reaper is.

There’s several seconds of silence.

“Well, that was foolish of you,” Famine says.

I assume the horseman’s talking to me, but when I glance up, I see the Reaper’s blistering gaze is focused on the man who hit me.

The guard’s eyes grow wide. “My Lord, I’m sorry,” he stammers out.

“‘My Lord’?” Famine repeats. “I am nolord.”

The Reaper adjusts himself in his seat. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Ricardo.”

“Ricardo,” Famine echoes. After a moment’s pause, the horseman spreads an arm towards the food in front of him. “Care to try anything?”

Ricardo’s throat bobs. He gives his head a shake.

“Go on,” Famine encourages.

I push myself to my knees, my cheek hot and throbbing. I and everyone else in the house watch the two men raptly. It’s like seeing an accident happen in slow motion. You know it’s coming but you can’t stop it and you can’t look away.

The same hand that struck me not a minute ago now shakes as it reaches out and takes a thin slice of cheese from one of the platters. The guard brings it to his lips, and after only pausing for a moment, he takes a bite of it.

“Good?” Famine asks, raising his eyebrows.

Ricardo nods, though I’d bet a whole night’s earnings that the slice of cheese tastes like dust in his mouth.