Page 201 of Famine
There it is.
“Why would he come here?” I ask. Famine made it pretty clear when he told me about his encounter with War that the horsemen try to keep to their own corners of the world.
“Because I’ve been naughty,” the Reaper says.
“You’re always naughty,” I say. “Why is today any different?”
Other than, you know, Famine trying to relinquish himself of his duty.
“You’ll see.”
That sounds ominous.
We enter our house, and he pulls me towards the kitchen. On the countertop are ingredients from my failed attempts at baking—eggs and flour, butter and milk.
With a single sweep of his arm, Famine sends the ingredients careening off the counter. The glass jar of milk explodes and the eggs splatter, and Famine notices none of it.
Instead, he sets the scales on the cleared surface.
I stare at the bronze device. It’s the one possession of Famine’s I usually forget about. Now, however, he’s giving the thing an inordinate amount of attention.
From a nearby drawer, the Reaper withdraws a knife with a wicked sharp blade.
“What are y—?”
Quick as lightning, he slices his forearm, then holds it directly over one of the bronze pans.
The scale wavers, bobbing up and down, up and down. Like last time, the pan with the horseman’s blood rises higher than its empty companion.
Famine wipes the blade on his sleeve. Then, he grasps my hand.
“Famine.”
His eyes hold mine, and they’re lethally steady. “Just trust me.” Even as he speaks, his cut continues to bleed everywhere.
He doesn’t look away from me, not until I give him a reluctant nod. I don’t know what’s going on, but I do trust him. I trust him with my life.
He takes my index finger, and using the tip of the knife, he pricks it.
Instinctively my hand jerks back, but the horseman holds it fast. Moving it over the scales, he squeezes out one—two—three drops of blood from the tip of my finger, each droplet hitting the saucer across from his. Last time we did this, Famine had weighed my blood against an empty saucer. Now he’s pitting it against his.
I expect my side of the scales to dip as it did before. I expect to see Famine’s blood rise above mine like it did last time.
Instead, the tray holding my blood rises and rises. It shouldn’t be a strange sight. There’s more blood on Famine’s saucer after all; his side is heavier. But his scales have never weighed the literal mass of things.
I suck in a breath. “How … ?”
How could I possibly be holier than you?
“It was my mind all along that ruled the scales, not God’s,” Famine says.
My eyebrows draw together in confusion.
He’s still holding my hand and blood is slipping down my fingers and onto his skin and the look he’s giving me … like he’s trying to will the answer into my head.
“It’s not you who has changed,” he says, “It’s me.”
I search his eyes. “But … you still hate humanity,” I say. Because those scales were never just about me. They were about what I represented—humankind.
