Page 104 of Famine
Oh my God, he’s sparing Heitor Rocha?Heitor Rocha?
The cartel boss steps out of the plant that caged him in, straightening his pressed shirt.
“Do you want to keep your life?” Famine asks him.
“I believe I have made that abundantly clear,” Heitor says, running a hand through his greying hair.
“Get on your knees,” the horseman says.
Heitor gives him a blank look. “I don’t understand.”
“On your knees,” Famine repeats.
Reluctantly, Rocha lowers himself.
The Reaper extends his scythe towards Heitor, causing the cartel boss to rear back a little.
“Kiss the blade and swear your allegiance,” Famine says.
Heitor hesitates, and now I see his pride. He hadn’t anticipated this sort of debasement.
After a moment, he leans forward and kisses the blade as best he can.
Once he’s done, he glances up at Famine, eyebrows raised as though to say,are you satisfied?His lip bleeds a little from where he must’ve nicked it.
“Now, your men,” the Reaper says.
Heitor glances over at his men, who have hung back since disentangling themselves from Famine’s plants. Rocha stands, gesturing for the others to come over.
I can see their anger burning in their eyes as they head towards the horseman. I don’t know these men, but considering they personally know Heitor, they must be powerful men in their own right. And Famine is making a mockery of that power.
One by one, Heitor’s men get down on their knees and kiss Famine’s scythe. The Reaper makes no move to steady his weapon as they pledge their allegiance, and by the end of the ordeal, many of the men have bloody faces.
Once the last man stands, the Reaper’s brutal eyes cut to me. Right now I can see how close to the surface his violence is. He beckons me forward with his hand.
Damnit, I have to actually do something.
I move slowly off the horse, barely making a fool of myself this time when I dismount—thank God. Behind me, Famine’s steed walks off; clomping across the driveway before heading off into the dead fields around us.
Even the horse has the good sense to make himself scarce.
I cross the expansive courtyard, to where the horseman waits. I have the attention of the entire gathering, and my skin crawls from it. Don’t get me wrong, under the right circumstances, I preen under excessive attention. But these are not the right circumstances, and the looks I’m receiving now range fromI-want-to-hate-bang-youtofuck-you-demon-whore.
What a group of fine gentlemen.
I sidle up to the Reaper’s side, and his hand goes to my uninjured shoulder.
Famine’s gaze moves to the mansion. “This is our house now.”
Ourhouse?
Also, what the hell, Famine? As if the target on my back wasn’t already big enough.
“You will all serve us,” the horseman continues. “And I expect you”—he points his scythe at Heitor—“to personally bring me dinner. And to draw my bath. And,” he squeeze’s my shoulder, “my companion’s.”
Jesus. If there was ever a timenotto rile a human up, now would be it. But it’s like the horseman is deliberately baiting the kingpin, hoping he’ll snap under the strain.
“Of course,” Heitor says smoothly. His eyes are frigid, but he smiles as though none of this bothers him. The sight of that empty smile is nearly as chilling as Famine’s own nefarious grin.
