Page 57 of Famine
“‘Was’?” I say. “So you did kill her?” My stomach bottoms out, but of course he did. That’s what Famine does.
The Reaper doesn’t answer, and I’m left to imagine all sorts of horrible scenarios in my head.
I follow Famine out the front door. I can still hear low moans coming from the backyard, but I see no one—dead or alive.
Famine whistles, and a minute later his horse comes galloping out of seemingly nowhere, its hooves clacking against the broken asphalt.
I halt in my tracks. “Wait. Are we … leaving?”
Already?
“There’s nothing more I need to do here,” the Reaper says as his horse comes to a stop in front of him.
Famine turns to me and, grabbing me by the waist, hoists me into the saddle. A moment later, he joins me.
“Wait-wait-wait,” I say, “I haven’t even had breakfast, and I need my things!”
“You don’thavethings,” the horseman says calmly. He clicks his tongue, and his horse begins to trot away from the house.
I glance over my shoulder forlornly. “Not anymore.”Goodbye, knives.
I face forward again. “Did you already kill off your guards?” I ask as we begin to wind our way through the city.
“I was tempted to,” he admits, “but no. I sent them off last night.”
“Why?” I ask, half turning my head.
“I hate getting blood on my clothes.”
I shut my eyes against the image. “No—I wasn’t asking why you spared them.” Ugh. “I meant, why did you send them—”
“I know what you meant,” Famine says, cutting me off.
Oh. I think that was horseman humor.
“They’re going to prepare the next city for my arrival.”
Just like my city was prepared. The thought sends a wave of apprehension through me.
“And,” he adds, “to answer your question from earlier, no I didn’t rape the girl you were worried about. I wouldneverdo such a thing.” He says this with a conviction normally reserved for people who have been victims themselves.
Couldmighty Famine have been abused? It’s not too far fetched, considering all the other torture he must’ve endured.
“Then why would you send her to your room?”
The Reaper doesn’t answer.
I try again. “Is she alive?” I ask.
“Why does it matter to you?” he says.
Because she’s young and scared and I recognize bits of myself in her.
“It just does,” I say.
After a moment, Famine exhales. “She’s alive. For now.”
As we leave Colombo, people—living, breathing people—peer out from their houses. Somewhere in the distance I hear a child laugh.
