God, the Reaper is an odd bastard.

I approach the man and crouch down in front of him. “That’s beautiful,” I say, touching the image of the Virgin, my manacles clanking. “Does it have a story behind it?”

“It was my mother’s—given to her by her mother,” the man says, daring to look from me to the horseman behind me.

“She must’ve loved it very much,” I say.

“Ana, get up.”

I look over my shoulder at Famine, who is signaling to the guards to take the man. I know what happens next.

I grab the man’s wrist, not getting up and refusing to let him get up either, even as Famine’s new recruits close in on us.

“This man is giving away a holy relic,” I say, staring at the Reaper. “Surely you see the sacrifice in that?”

Famine frowns at me. “It’s a shiny trinket dedicated to a false idol. It is less than useless to me.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Is it false?” No one in Brazil stopped believing in the Virgin and her benevolence, not even when the world was being ravaged. If anything, she’s the one thing we clung to most—proof that there’s some mercy to what otherwise appears to be a vengeful God.

Famine narrows his eyes and gives me a mean smile, the expression all but saying, Wouldn’t you like to know?

“Fine,” he says. His eyes move to the man. “I accept your gift.”

For a moment, I relax. But then the guards still close in on the man, one taking his offered jewelry and casting it to the ground. The rest grab the man’s arms and drag him away.

He’s begging to them now, though he leaves willingly enough.

I stare down at the scattered jewelry as the group of them leave the house. The Virgin and all her benevolence stare back up at me.

God is here, she seems to be saying, but even I can do nothing.

“I wonder,” I say, staring down at the small pendant, “if you were a woman who could bear children, if you’d still be so cavalier.”

“Man or woman—it wouldn’t matter. I am not a person, Ana. I am hunger, I am pain, and no thinly veiled attempts to stop me will work.”

He’s right.

I interceded and it did nothing.

I stand up, still feeling the eyes of both Famine and Our Lady of Aparecida on me.

I walk away from the both of them, heading back to my room, and this time no one stops me.

I stay in my room for the rest of the day. I can hear the pleading, the pained screams, and the rattling death moans. And if I look out my window, I can see the suffering as people are killed, their bodies dumped in an ever growing pile.

I’m hungry and thirsty, but I don’t leave the room, fearful that if I cross paths with Famine again, he’ll once again force me to stay and watch.

I consider fleeing—several times—but these damn manacles are a problem, and no one but Famine can get them off.

About an hour or so after the sun sets and the screams stop, a guard opens the door to my room.

“The horseman wants to see you,” he says.

“Fuckboy can live without my company,” I reply.

The man comes into my room and grabs me by the arm, lifting me up to my feet.

“I hate this too,” he admits quietly as he drags me out. Even as he says it, I notice the blood crusted on his hands and splattered on his shirt.

He clearly doesn’t hate the situation enough.

I follow after him, my arms heavy from wearing the shackles all day. In the living room, many of the guards are now milling about, clearly waiting for Famine’s next order.

The man himself sits at a table overflowing with all sorts of food, from steaming cassava to fruit cut into pleasing shapes and steak dripping in its own juices. There’s bacalhau and rice and a tray of assorted cheeses and another with various breads and crackers. There’s even a dessert platter, laden with cakes and custards, cookies and sugared candies.

The smells are enough to make my stomach cramp with hunger.

The guard releases me at the edge of the dining room, moving away to stand back at his post.

Famine doesn’t look at me when he gestures for me to come closer.

I narrow my eyes. Sex work has taught me a thing or two about reading people. Self-satisfied assholes like Famine—ones who expect me to be at their beck and call—are the cheapest of the lot. The value they place on you is next to nothing.

I walk over to him, stopping just to the side of his chair.

“Entertain me.” He still doesn’t look up.

Casually I reach out and upend his plate, scattering food everywhere. “Go fuck yourself.”

Now the horseman looks up at me, those cruel green eyes sparking with fire. I’ve issued a direct challenge in front of nearly half a dozen men; he’s going to do something.

I should probably care more.

Before the horseman can react, however, another guard of his closes in on me. He raises his arm and backhands me, hitting me so hard I fall against the table before crumpling to the floor.

The sting against my cheek feels perversely good, just like the manacles around my wrists. They remind me who exactly the Reaper is.

There’s several seconds of silence.

“Well, that was foolish of you,” Famine says.

I assume the horseman’s talking to me, but when I glance up, I see the Reaper’s blistering gaze is focused on the man who hit me.

The guard’s eyes grow wide. “My Lord, I’m sorry,” he stammers out.

“‘My Lord’?” Famine repeats. “I am no lord.”

The Reaper adjusts himself in his seat. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Ricardo.”

“Ricardo,” Famine echoes. After a moment’s pause, the horseman spreads an arm towards the food in front of him. “Care to try anything?”

Ricardo’s throat bobs. He gives his head a shake.

“Go on,” Famine encourages.

I push myself to my knees, my cheek hot and throbbing. I and everyone else in the house watch the two men raptly. It’s like seeing an accident happen in slow motion. You know it’s coming but you can’t stop it and you can’t look away.

The same hand that struck me not a minute ago now shakes as it reaches out and takes a thin slice of cheese from one of the platters. The guard brings it to his lips, and after only pausing for a moment, he takes a bite of it.

“Good?” Famine asks, raising his eyebrows.

Ricardo nods, though I’d bet a whole night’s earnings that the slice of cheese tastes like dust in his mouth.

Faster than I can follow, Famine grabs the steak knife in front of him and shoves it through the man’s sternum, rising to his feet as he does so.

Ricardo makes a noise, and the bit of cheese he was chewing comes tumbling out.

“Last I recall,” Famine says softly, holding the man in what appears to be an intimate embrace, “I didn’t ask you to hit the woman.”

Ricardo chokes in response.

“When I ask you to hit her, you hit her,” Famine continues. “When I ask you to guard her fucking ass, you guard her fucking ass.”

The horseman withdraws the blade, blood gushing out of the wound, and Ricardo staggers a few steps, nearly tripping over me.

“Someone, take care of him,” Famine says.

Up until now, none of the other men have dared to move, but at the Reaper’s order, men suddenly jump into action, closing in on Ricardo, clearly nervous about disobeying the monster beside me.