We head up the circular driveway, my gaze taking in the palatial home in front of me. Men are moving to defend the house, bows nocked and at the ready.
An arrow hisses by, then another. I lock eyes on an arrow headed straight for me—
Quick as lightning, Famine reaches out and catches the projectile, the point centimeters from my breast.
The Reaper makes a sound deep in his chest. “That was the wrong thing to do.”
Beneath us, the ground rumbles, splitting wide open. Thick, fast growing plants burst from a dozen different places, ensnaring whoever they manage to get ahold of.
Amongst the panicked cries, someone begins to clap. I glance towards the sound. An older man, his hair heavily streaked with white, is among the men caught in Famine’s snares. He doesn’t, however, look concerned about his predicament.
“I am not easily impressed,” the man says, looking first at me, then at the Reaper, “but you, my friend, have impressed me.”
This must be the home’s owner. I can’t imagine what sort of man he is if he can take in all this carnage and not be afraid.
“How is he still talking?” I whisper to Famine. The horseman is more of a kill first, ask questions later type of guy.
“I’m letting him,” the Reaper replies smoothly.
“I’ll admit,” the man continues, sizing me up, “I assumed you’d have smaller tits.”
Behind me, the Reaper snorts. Smoothly he dismounts, crossing the cobblestone driveway towards the ensnared man. Famine’s scythe is strapped to his back, an open warning about who he is and the sort of violence he can wreak.
If, you know, the dead crops, the toppled wall, and the bloody bodies weren’t warning enough.
“Insulting me is not going to do you any good,” Famine says, casually removing his scythe from its holster as he strides towards the man.
“So you’re going to kill me?” the man says.
“No,” the Reaper says, “I’m going to torment you, then I’m going to kill you.”
The older man sizes him up. All at once, he laughs. “You’re bad for business, Reaper, but you would make a damn fine lieutenant. If the situation were different, I might’ve even tried to hire you myself.”
“You killed my men,” Famine jerks his head behind him, towards the remains of the gate. “Not to mention that your men tried to kill her.” I hear the icy chill of the Reaper’s anger as he jerks his head towards me. “So fuck your compliments and fuck your opinions.”
“Am I supposed to apologize for defending my life and property, Reaper?” the man says. “Because if I am, then fuck you.” He flings the oath right back at Famine.
In the wake of his words, there’s a hollow, haunted silence. I swallow, preparing myself for the horseman’s wrath.
Famine steps in close to him. “Men like you are the reason everyone is dying. You are the reason I kill.”
At the Reaper’s words, I feel an echo of his old pain, and my mind flashes back to the day I found his mutilated remains.
Famine brandishes his scythe, and I am bracing myself for more decapitations.
“I can help you,” the man rushes to say. Now he doesn’t sound quite so calm.
The Reaper pauses.
What is Famine doing?
I can’t see much of the horseman’s face, but I assume he’s assessing the man.
“Tell me, scum,” Famine says, “what use could a monster like you possibly have right now?”
“Your men are dead. Mine are not.”
Yeah, the three men who are left. The rest of them lay scattered in heaps behind us.
“I can find my own men,” the Reaper says. Still, he doesn’t bring his blade down on the man’s throat.
What is he waiting for?
“I bet they can’t get things done the way my men can,” the man says. “People may know who you are, but you haven’t earned their trust. Not like I have.”
“Is that so?” Famine says, amused.
“You need something? I can get it for you. You want something done? I can snap my fingers and make it so. All my men have to do is mention my name, and people make themselves useful.”
“And what is this name of yours?” the horseman asks, derision dripping from his voice.
“Heitor Rocha.”
I start at the name. Even I have heard of Heitor Rocha. He’s not just part of Brazil’s southeastern cartel; he is the southeastern cartel.
My heart begins to drum in my chest.
How the fuck did we end up here of all places?
Famine doesn’t react to Heitor’s words, but he also doesn’t bring down his scythe on Heitor’s head.
Good God, surely he’s not taking this offer seriously?
The Reaper’s eyes sweep over the circular driveway, past an elaborate gurgling fountain where fish swim beneath lily pads, over the last of Rocha’s men, who are still caught in the grips of Famine’s plants.
“Where’s your wife, mortal?” the horseman asks. “Where are your children?” Where is my leverage? Famine seems to be saying. And if he thinks Rocha won’t pick up on this, he’s wildly underestimating how clever we humans are.
“Both of my wives and my only child have all passed on—but you, being all-powerful, would already know that, wouldn’t you?” Heitor challenges, staring at the horseman.
The Reaper is unruffled by the accusation. He stares at Heitor a little longer, then, coming to some sort of decision, says, “I can’t be killed, and any attempts on my life will be met with my vengeance.”
Wait—what?
The Reaper’s unearthly plants loosen their hold, releasing Rocha’s men across the yard.
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.