My fear and panic dissolve away; all that’s left is grim resolve.
I spin to face the man—
“You,” the guard says, recognizing me. He reaches out to grab me.
Before, I was all hesitation. Now, I’m all action.
I lunge at him, knife gripped in my hand. It’s all too easy to sink my blade into his throat.
I can see the whites of the guard’s eyes as he reaches for his neck.
Holy … holy shit.
I withdraw the blade. When I do so, a river of blood gushes from the wound.
Oh God. I take a step back as the man staggers forward, then falls to a knee.
I stare at the knife for a moment, then at the man’s neck. The wound is messy, blood dripping everywhere.
I suck in a breath, and the momentary shock passes, replaced by sheer survival. Knife still gripped in my hand, I rush to the front of the cart, lifting myself into the driver’s seat. Grabbing the reins, I give them an agitated flick.
The horses jerk into action. The sound of the wagon rolling over the gravel drive is noisy and our progress is painfully slow. I slap the reins again and again until the horses’ pace picks up.
We leave the driveway and head towards the estate’s ruined front entrance.
I glance over my shoulder. In the huge house I think I see men moving about, but no one tries to stop me. They’re distracted at the moment, but even so, I doubt I have more than a few minutes of lead time. Then the men will soon notice that the cart is gone, and they’ll head after us.
My mouth dries at the thought.
Facing forward again, I drive the horse onwards. We head down the long drive, dead crops to either side of us. The corpses and man-crushing plants that littered this road earlier have now been cleared away, making the ride relatively smoother.
My heartbeat is so loud it’s almost all I can hear. It feels like it takes an eternity, but eventually we pass under the ruined archway, and I steer the horses back onto the main road.
My panic is building again. There’s no way we can outrun Heitor’s men, not while Famine is this badly injured.
What we need is time. Time for the Reaper to heal. All at once I jerk on the reins, pulling the horses up short.
Hopping out of my seat, I slip my knife into my boot, and once I’m sure it’s not going to slice my ankle up, I head to the rear of the cart. Opening the back of the wagon, I grab Famine under his arms and begin to heave, gritting my teeth against the way his weight tugs at my bad shoulder. I force myself not to focus on the wet feel of his blood or his many grotesque injuries as I drag his body out of the cart and set him gently down on the ground.
Walking over to the front of the cart, where the driver’s seat is, I grab the reins and flick them. Immediately the horses begin to move, and I release the leather strap from my grip as the cart jolts forward, the horses pulling it onwards.
Hurrying back over to the horseman, I grab him under the arms and heft him up the best I can.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. Sorry for what was done to him and sorry for the pain I’m about to inflict, hauling him away.
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 always have cared 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 and bits. 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
I pause to press my mouth against my shoulder.
You can do this, Ana. It’s almost out.
Forcing down my nausea, I pull, wiggling the arrow shaft back and forth. With a final slick, sucking sound, the projectile slides out.
I have to swallow my cry—which is half relief, half horror—as I cast the arrow aside.
Need to check the rest of him.
God, I hate this. I hate it even more than the discovery that I actually care for this insufferable creature.
I force my hands back on Famine and, starting with his head, I run my fingers over him, looking for other injuries. One of his arms ends at his wrist, the other at his elbow. I also find gaping wounds at his neck and one of his legs, as though Heitor’s men tried and failed to remove the appendages.
The entire process is awful. Famine is so still that there’s no mistaking that he’s dead.