And then he crushes the man’s windpipe.
For several seconds, I don’t move, my breath coming in heavy pants. Almost immediately the crackle of thunder and the flashes of lightning fade away. It’s only then that I realize how ominously quiet it is.
Famine comes over to me then, and lifts me into his arms. My bloody body meets his unyielding one.
“Fuck,” I say, my voice shaky as my arms go around his neck. I lean my forehead against his breastplate.
The horseman’s grip tightens.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
I nod against him.
After a moment, I say, “You’re good too?” I ask.
“Now I am.”
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me. He cares about me, and damn, it feels so good to be cared about—and to be held. Whatever closeness the two of us forged out in the fields around us, it hasn’t left.
When I open my eyes again, I look around at the dead bodies that lay scattered.
“Are they all dead?” I ask.
He stares down at me, his gaze growing distant. After a moment, he says, “Now they are.”
Once I’ve fully caught my breath, Famine sets me down and approaches the overturned cart. He uses his plants to right the thing, and then spends a minute soothing the spooked horses still hitched to it.
After he seems to have calmed them, Famine moves back to the cart itself and hoists himself into the driver’s seat.
He pats the empty space next to him. “C’mon, Ana, let’s go find Heitor and have a little chat with the bastard.”
The ride back to the estate seems much shorter than the one out. Above us, the sky continues to lighten, turning a blue-grey color.
At the sound of our cart rolling in, I see several men walk forward. It’s still dark enough that most of our surroundings have a deep, shadow-y hue to them; that must be why it takes them so long to recognize us.
The moment they do, Famine’s plants sprout from the ground, snatching the men. A chorus of screams arise as our cart makes its way up the circular drive.
Ahead of us, the front door opens and a familiar form steps out.
Heitor.
I shrink back a little at the sight of him.
The Reaper glances over at me, taking in whatever expression I wear. When he turns his attention back to Heitor, Famine’s gaze lingers on the bloody wound at the man’s temple.
“What in all the devils …” His voice dies away and he blanches at the sight of the horseman. “How are you … ?” His eyes move over the Reaper. He staggers back. “But I saw you die.”
Famine stands, then slowly makes his way off the cart, his footsteps echoing in the early morning air.
“You clearly forgot what I told you earlier,” he says, “so let me remind you: I cannot be killed, and—more importantly—attempts on my life will be met with vengeance.”
Rocha turns then, presumably to flee back inside his mansion. With a violent crack, the paved walkway beneath him parts, and a thorned bush grows up and up, its spindly branches blocking the doorway, even as they reach for the cartel boss.
Heitor stumbles back, then spins to face the horseman.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Famine says.
I can’t see the horseman’s expression as he closes in on the man, but just by the rigid set of his shoulders I can tell he’s seething.
“I’m going to ask this once and once only,” the Reaper says, his voice sinister, “what did you do to Ana?”
My eyebrows lift at the mention of my name.
Heitor stands in place, hemmed in by Famine’s plants on one side and the horseman on the other.
“Who?” Rocha says. Then his eyes dart to me, and I swear something angry passes over his features for an instant. “Do you mean that bitch you’re with?” he says, jerking his chin in my direction. He gestures to his temple. “She attacked me.”
It’s the wrong answer.
The Reaper steps up to Heitor, his scythe holstered at his back.
“Most of the time, I don’t give a shit about the humans I kill,” the horseman says. “But you—you I’ll make an exception for.”
My breath catches.
“Please,” Heitor says, raising his hands placatingly. “I swear this is all a misunderstanding. Tell me what you need, and I’ll do it—it’s as good as done.”
I see Famine tilt his head. “You and I are evil men. Let’s not lie to one another—we are beyond words now.”
Famine reaches his hand towards Rocha. Something in the air shifts, and I wait for one of the horseman’s terrible plants to grow from the ground.
But the earth doesn’t crack open, and no supernatural flora rise from its depths. And yet, as I watch, the rancher seems to choke on his own breath.
“What are you doing to me?” Heitor gasps out.
“Did you never stop to wonder just how I killed crops?” the Reaper says. “If you had, you might’ve considered the fact that what I do to them I can do to you as well. Humans are just another sort of crop, in the end.”
A chill races over me.
“What you’re experiencing,” Famine continues, “is the sensation of your body dying, little bits at a time. But it won’t happen right away. That I’ll make sure of.”
I’ve seen firsthand how Famine makes crops wither. I can’t imagine him doing the same thing to a human—or that he might prolong the experience to make it as agonizing as possible.
And it does seem to be agonizing. Heitor curls in on himself, crying out at some pain I can’t see.
“Please,” he rasps. “I can … still help … I’m … sorry … misunderstanding.”
There’s a pause, then I hear the Reaper’s low laughter. “A misunderstanding? No, no, my friend. It was one thing to try to hurt me. But then you went and tried to hurt her.” Famine glances over his shoulder, casting me a look. In the lavender glow of the morning, the horseman stares at me with a fervent sort of intensity.
At that look, unbidden warmth spreads through me. The horseman has now defended me multiple times, and I can’t help but feel … cherished.
Does Famine realize that’s my weakness? For a girl who’s never been truly beloved, this is how you ensnare me.
“The moment you touched her,” the Reaper continues, “you were a marked man.” As Famine speaks, the earth shakes. More of the pavement around the two men fissures open, and several insidious vines grow out of them. The plants glide with sinister ease over the dying man, wrapping themselves around his ankles and his hands. “But then you came for her—”
Famine’s words are punctuated by a sickening crack, and Heitor cries out.
“Tell me, evil man,” the Reaper says, “what did you intend to do to her?”
Heitor’s only response is to whimper as the vines coil tighter around him.
“Did you intend to recite her poetry?” Another snap, another agonized cry. “Or to pledge your loyalty to her?” Another crack, followed by a moan. “Did you come to bring her food or clothing or shower her with praise?” Snap, snap, snap.
Heitor is openly weeping.
“Or to tell her how unworthy of her time you were?” Crack.