Page 118 of Famine
I drag him off the road and into the dark fields that sit across from Heitor’s estate, déjà vu washing over me. I hate that Famine and I have done this before, and I hate that he and I are now forced to re-enact our first horrific meeting all over again. Most of all, I hate the panicky feeling I get every time I catch sight of the arrow protruding from his face, and the way I wince every time his body bumps over rocks and other debris.
I don’t know when it happened—when I began caring for Famine. Or maybe I alwayshavecared for him, even when he acted monstrous, and I just lied to myself for a time. I don’t know what sort of awful human that makes me.
In the distance, I hear shouts.
They know we’re gone.
I push my body to its limits, forcing myself to move faster so that I can get us as far from the road as possible.
I’m not sure how far I manage to travel, only that I drag the horseman along until I can’t any longer.
My legs fold, and I collapse in a heap, the horseman’s body falling on mine. After I catch my breath, I readjust the two of us so Famine isn’t laying on me so much as he’s cradled in my arms. Then I bow my head over him.
My body shakes from overexertion, and there’s a sick feeling in my stomach, one that I try to tell myself is just fear for my own life. But every time I look at Famine, that feeling deepens.
My mind can’t stop replaying all the terrible things I heard and saw those men do to the horseman in the dark. No wonder the Reaper hates us with such unholy viciousness.
I would too.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of horses’ hooves pounding down the road. They get louder for a long time, and I wait for them to close in on us. They don’t. The riders tear down the road, not stopping to peer into the dead field we’re hiding in.
I let out a shuddering breath once they pass.
Safe—for now.
I glance down at the Reaper. His head is slumped over my arm, and the sight makes my chest ache in the worst sort of way.
I reach out a shaky hand and move aside a matted lock of hair, my fingers coming away bloody. That arrow is still protruding from Famine’s face, and he won’t be able to heal until it’s out. And he needs it out. Now.
I swallow down bile, knowing what I have to do.
Moving my hands to the wound, I probe around it, gagging a little at the feel of blood andbits. The arrow went into his face near his eye, but it didn’t go all the way through, which means I’m going to have to pull it out the way it came in.
I exhale a shaky breath. Satan’s balls, but I don’t want to do this. I really, really don’t. But those men are still out there searching for us, and neither Famine nor I are going to be truly safe until he’s awake again.
Extricating my legs out from under the horseman, I gently lay him on the ground.
Now the icky part.
Kneeling over him, I grab the arrow shaft. Biting my lower lip, I pull.
Nothing happens.
I wrap my hand tighter around the projectile, wincing at the blood oozing between my fingers, and I try again.
Still nothing.
Why me?
Finally, shifting myself to get a better angle, I pull hard, wiggling it back and forth a little. It makes awful, wet noises, but it loosens. Then, excruciatingly slowly, it begins to dislodge itself.
Thank fuck—
The arrowhead snags on a bit of flesh.
I gag again.
I tug some more, and once more it loosens before hitting more tissue
