Page 85 of Famine

Finally the guard moves away from me—though he does look reluctant to do so—taking up post near one of the doorways.

I glance over at Famine, who still sits in his chair, his scythe in his hand. That horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach is back.

“Enough of this farce,” he says softer now, his voice velvety and sinister. “You all know who I am. You all seek to placate me. But I see your excess, I recognize the hunger and greed that drives you all. Itsickensme.”

Raising his scythe, he pounds its base against the floor.

Beneath our feet, the concrete floor cracks, fissures opening along its surface, each one spreading out from the Reaper like the rays of a sun.

People let out surprised screams and many begin to rush towards the doors, but Famine’s guards are barring the exits.

The horseman smiles.

It’s that grin that cuts through my rising fear.

Stop him.

My heart feels like it’s in my throat as I reach for my dagger. I cut my leg as I withdraw it from my boot, but the pain barely registers over the ringing in my ears.

Stop him before it’s too late.

I stride forward, closing in on Famine. His eyes flick up to me, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.

Stop him. Now.

I step right up to the horseman, and I slam my knife down on Famine’s prone hand with as much force as I can muster. It cuts through flesh and muscle, the blade pinning the horseman to his chair.

Immediately, the earth stops shaking and the fissures halt.

Famine sucks in a sharp breath as I stagger away. He shifts his attention to the wound.

I can hear nothing aside from my own ragged breathing as I wait for him to react.

After several long seconds, the Reaper’s eyes lift, meeting mine. I expect to see anger in them; instead, I see betrayal.

“That was amistake,” he says he says softly.

Beneath me the floor cracks open once more, and a sharp, vined thing rises from the depths. I only have time to register that at least his ire is now focused on me before the plant wraps itself around me, squeezing and squeezing.

Desperately, I try to rip free from the plant, but the movement only seems to make it tighten its hold. Thorns bloom along the vines, poking me in a dozen different places.

At the sight, someone shrieks, and then it sounds likeeveryoneis shouting. People begin to stampede once more, moving as fast as they can for the exits.

The Reaper lays his scythe across his lap, then reaches for the dagger he’s been impaled with. Calmly, Famine pulls the blade out from his hand, shooting me a considering look as he tosses it aside.

“No one’s going anywhere,” he says casually. Again, his voice seems to carry over the rising mayhem.

Thick, brambly shadows rise beyond the windows, growing and growing like looming specters. Someone in their desperate attempt to escape shatters one of the windows in front of these shadows, and it’s only then that I realize that what I’m seeing outside are bushes—bushes that have grown so dense and tall that they effectively block off the exits.

Outside, the sky flickers, backlighting these plants. An instant later, thunder booms overhead.

Famine stands, grabbing his scythe and spinning it in his hand like he’s getting familiar with its weight. His bronze armor flickers and shines under the candlelight as he moves.

“Come now,” he says to the panicking room. “The party is only just getting started.”

The earth trembles again, and the floor all but crumbles apart. Dozens and dozens of plants rise from the depths, ensnaring person after person, until the entire ballroom seems to be a thrashing jungle of sorts. The screams are almost deafening as people struggle fruitlessly to get out.

I strain against my own plant that binds me tight, the thorns digging into my skin.