“Flower, I don’t get jealous.”
“Uh huh.”
“What is that tone?” he demands.
“What tone?” I ask innocently.
“Do you not believe me?” Famine’s voice rises with his outrage, and it is music to my ears. This is what I’d been missing with the Reaper. I can play a man like a hand of cards, but a horseman … I thought I was out of my element, but it seems as though they too can behave like men.
“I’m not jealous,” he insists.
“Sure,” I say, tucking a lock of dark hair behind my ear.
“Damn you, Ana. Stop toying with your voice. I’m not jealous.”
“I’m not the one getting worked up,” I say, swinging my feet back and forth. God but I’m enjoying this.
Famine lets out a frustrated growl, but doesn’t respond.
I smile for the rest of the ride.
Chapter 23
Eventually, we come to an enormous warehouse, something made of corrugated iron sheeting and small, smudged windows. It’s clearly a structure from before, when large quantities of goods needed to be stored and processed.
Now, however, soft candlelight glows from within, and dozens and dozens of people are streaming into the building. By the looks of their formal attire, Famine’s men didn’t round them up so much as they got the word out that the horseman was hosting some sort of celebration tonight.
I don’t know just how many of the city’s residents were actually foolish enough to come. It looks like a lot, but then again, Registro is a large city; perhaps this is just a small portion of its citizens. I hope the vast majority of the town knew better than to fall for this horseman’s tricks. I hope they’re fleeing now, using this time to pack up their things and run.
Still, a wave of nausea rolls through me at the sight of all of the people who did decide to come here tonight, either out of curiosity or misplaced faith.
Have none of them noticed the burning bonfire at Famine’s new estate, or the fact that the people who went to see the horsemen haven’t been heard from since?
“What are you planning?” I say to the Reaper as he rides us up to the front of the building.
“Always so fearful of me,” he muses, pulling his horse to a stop. “Perhaps I simply want to enjoy myself the way humans do.”
He slips off his steed, his scythe at his back. I stare at the curving blade; it looks so much more threatening here amongst all these people.
Famine turns and reaches up for me.
“What are you going to do to them?” I whisper.
“That is not for you to concern yourself with.”
“Famine,” I say, my eyes pleading with him.
His expression is merciless. “Off.”
“I can’t watch any more bloodshed,” I say. “I won’t.”
The horseman grabs me roughly then, dragging me off his steed. I wince a little as my bad shoulder is jostled.
He sets me down, but rather than letting me go, he steps in close. “I’ll do what I want, flower,” he says softly.
And now my earlier trepidation blooms into full-bodied dread.
Famine steers me towards the building, his hand on my uninjured shoulder. I move forward like a prisoner walking the plank.
We head inside, and the people around us move out of our way.
Someone has tried to make the massive warehouse look less like some old pile of corroded metal and more like a ballroom. Bright cloth has been draped around the room and hung from the rafters. Wood and iron chandeliers hang from metal crossbeams, their candles already dripping wax.
Platters of food lay along tables lining the room, and there are basins of water and huge barrels of what must be wine resting next to a pyramid of cups.
Across the room, a lavish chair has been set up—it’s the only seat in the entire building, so it’s clearly meant for Famine.
The horseman steers us towards it. Nearby, several guards loiter. The horseman gestures for them, and several hustle over.
“Get me another chair,” the Reaper demands.
A couple of the men’s eyes go to me, and I can see their confusion. Why does she get special treatment?
Sorry guys, I wish I knew the answer.
They hurry off to do Famine’s bidding, and within minutes another chair is dragged inside and placed next to Famine’s.
“Sit,” the horseman tells me, releasing my shoulder.
I frown at him but take the seat.
The Reaper moves to his own chair, removing the scythe from his back before he sits. He lays his weapon across his legs, lounging back.
“Why are you doing this?” I say, staring out at the sea of people who are quickly filling the room. They keep to the edges, standing in nervous groups. A few brave souls have dared to serve themselves some food, but most people seem to be of the opinion that it’s better to leave the food alone.
Fools! I want to shout at them. Why did you stay when you could have fled? The horseman won’t take pity on you. He doesn’t know what pity is.
Famine arches an eyebrow at me. “I thought you would want me to do something more human. Don’t you mortals love parties?”
That answer only causes my heart to pound harder.
“Look,” he says, gesturing to the tables laden with hors d’oeuvres and drinks. “I haven’t even destroyed the food.”
Yet.
We both know he will. He always does.
Whatever this is, it’s another one of Famine’s cruel tricks.
A band begins to play sambas, and it’s an awful pairing—this joyful music with the frightened faces of Registro’s citizens.
I sit in my seat, beginning to squirm the longer nothing happens.
People—mothers, fathers, friends, neighbors—all of them are beginning to relax. Slowly, the noise in the room rises as people talk to each other.
Without warning, the Reaper grabs his scythe and rises from his throne, his bronze armor glinting in the candlelight.
All at once—silence. I’ve never seen a crowd go quiet that quickly.
He raises his arms. “Eat, dance, be merry,” the horseman says, his gaze sweeping over them.
If Famine thought that his words would somehow jumpstart the evening, he thought wrong.
No one moves. People were eating—some were even being merry—but now no one is budging a centimeter. Even the music has stopped. If anything, I think the horseman reminded everyone that this celebration is a little too surreal to be trusted.
Famine sits back in his seat, clutching his weapon like a scepter, a frown on his face. The longer people stay pinned in place, the angrier his expression becomes.
“Damn you all,” he finally says, slamming the base of his scythe down against the cracked concrete floor. “Eat! Be merry! Dance!”
Frightened into compliance, people begin to move, some shuffling towards the tables of food, a few creeping towards the open space in front of the band. I can see the whites of a few people’s eyes.
It’s still silent, so the Reaper points his weapon at the musicians. “You useless sacks of flesh, do your jobs.”
They scramble together, some discordant notes drifting off their instruments as they rush to make music. Once they begin playing a song, people move to the dance floor, woodenly beginning to dance.