Page 68 of Famine

The Reaper is watching me, so mechanically, I pull the covers back and slide into the bed. The sheets are damp from the humidity, and they have an old, musty smell to them. I make a face, even as I settle in.

I mean,technically, it isn’t the worst bed I’ve ever slept in, and it’s better than the accommodations that old woman is going to get tonight.

Once I’m laying down, Famine retreats from the room.

I lie there in the darkness a long time, staring at the ceiling. I keep waiting for sleep to come, but my shoulder still throbs, and besides, I’m wired from the last hour.

In the room beyond mine, I can hear the horseman striding back and forth, back and forth. It should be lulling, but he sounds so damn agitated.

“Will you stop that?” I finally call out.

The footsteps pause.

“I should be on the road right now,” he says.

“Iwasn’t the one who decided to stop,” I say.

Now those footsteps approach the bedroom. In the darkness I see his massive silhouette in the doorway, his scythe still in his hand.

“Ungrateful human.” His voice sends a shiver through me. “I should force you back onto my horse and continue riding.”

“You aresounnecessarily dramatic,” I say. I pat the mattress. “Just sit down for a second. I can’t sleep listening to your pacing.”

This may come as a shock, but Famine doesn’t, in fact, sit down. He just continues to loom in that doorway.

With a huff, I throw my blankets off and get up.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

Instead of answering him, I cross the room and grab the Reaper’s hand, pulling him forward, towards the bed. Much to my shock, he actually lets me lead him into the room.

When I get to the mattress, I push him down with my good arm. Now, however, hedoesresist.

“I am not interested in sex, little flower,” he says. There’s a note in his voice that raises my gooseflesh.

“I wasn’t offeringanything, you big brute,” I say smoothly. “Now,sit.” I push against his armor again.

I can perfectly imagine his insolent frown. Reluctantly, he bends his knees and perches on the edge of the bed.

“Happy?” he growls.

“Stop pouting,” I say, getting on the bed as well. “Can you see me in the dark?” I ask after a moment, feeling oddly exposed.

“Would it matter?” he grumbles.

I wave my hand in front of his face.

“What are you doing?”

“Youcan’tsee me,” I say, slightly triumphant.

“What is the point of me sitting here?” He begins to get up, but I catch his arm and pull him back down.

Before he can get up again, I begin tugging at his armor with my one good arm.

Something I’ve learned as a sex worker is the true nature of clothes. We wear our garments like masks. Take them off, and you strip a person of their pretenses. That’s what I want to do now—strip the horseman of his pretenses, whatever they might be.

Beneath my touch, his body goes rigid.