“And what about Death?” I ask, switching topics a little.

“What about him?” the Reaper asks.

“You mentioned how you were worse than Pestilence and War,” I say, “but what about Death?”

Famine holds my gaze for a long minute, then gives me a slight nod, like he’s conceding a point to me. “Nothing is worse than him.”

Chapter 24

We leave the next day, long after Famine’s men have already headed out.

I use the extra time to find a more reasonable outfit for myself—a pair of jeans that actually fit (I’m keeping them forever) and a black shirt. I even have enough time to make myself a pot of coffee. I hum away as I heat up water over the stove.

“You seem inappropriately happy.”

I scream, whirling around and clutching my chest just as Famine strides into the room, his scales in hand.

“Oh my God, give a girl some warning,” I say leaning back against the stove for a split second before the hot metal has me jerking away from it.

“Is that what you say to all your clients?” Famine says, setting his scales on the table.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Is that another sex joke?”

The corner of his mouth curls up.

I look at him curiously. “But I thought … ”

I thought that Famine didn’t do sex. Of course, you don’t have to bang a human to poke fun at the act.

Rather than finishing my question, my gaze moves over the Reaper’s face. Right now he’s particularly destabilizing, mostly because he seems so … not horrible. I don’t really know what to make of it, just as I don’t really know what to make of his gentleness last night.

My gaze goes to the scales on the table. Unlike his armor and his scythe, the two metal pans look old and worn.

“Why do you never keep those out?” I ask. In the time I’ve traveled with the horseman, I’ve only seen his scales a few times.

“I have them out now.”

I give him a look. “You know what I mean.”

He glances down at the scales, considering them. “Perhaps I care more about death than I do justice.”

“Is that what they’re for?” I ask. “Justice?” I assumed they were for weighing shit.

He jerks his chin to the stove behind me. “Your water is boiling.”

I turn back to the pot, cursing under my breath. I feel flustered and off-kilter, and Famine is to blame.

“Drink your coffee,” the Reaper says at my back. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

He begins to walk away, then pauses. “Oh,” he says over his shoulder, “and while you’re at it, pour me a cup.”

Throughout our ride, I keep looking over my shoulder at Famine.

“What?” he finally demands, his gaze moving down to me.

I shake my head.

He sighs. “Whatever’s on your mind, just say it.”

“You’re different today.”

He arches one eyebrow, his green eyes glittering. “Different how?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, studying his face as though it holds the answers. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Could it have simply been what I said last night? Famine has made an exception of me since we reunited, but when I explained a bit about my own troubled past, his demeanor shifted, and it hasn’t shifted back.

And now he’s been acting … not nicer, necessarily, but—I don’t know—more relatable maybe?

We spend the whole day traveling. Long after the sun has set, we’re still in the saddle. Just when I’m sure Famine is going to make me sleep on his horse again, he turns off the highway.

“What are you doing?” I yawn.

“Finding a place for you to rest.” He doesn’t sound particularly pleased by this.

My stomach drops at that. “I don’t want to stop.” Not if it means Famine might kill someone else.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “I know you’re tired.”

“I’m fine, I swear.”

There’s a long pause, then—

“Whatever stranger you seek to protect, they will die anyway. The moment we pass them, their lands will blacken, the soil will turn unforgiving. A quick death is kinder.”

I shake my head. “Please. Just ride on.”

But he doesn’t. A mere fifteen minutes later the horseman directs his steed to a dark structure. Famine rides up to what appears to be a home and hops off his mount.

I’m not getting off the horse, I’m not.

But then Famine grabs me by the waist and pulls me easily off his steed.

Setting me down, he holds me close, and I stare into his eyes.

“Please don’t, Famine.”

He sighs. “While I appreciate that you always assume the worst of me, you’re wrong this time.”

I frown, confused. “I don’t understand …”

“Go inside and see for yourself.”

I glance at the ominous structure, and I almost say, you first. But then, I know how that story ends.

With lots and lots of dead bodies.

Swallowing down my fear, I head towards the door. It’s only once I’m standing on the stoop that I understand what the Reaper meant.

Overgrown shrubs press against the doorway, almost completely blocking it from view.

Famine steps up next to me and brushes the plants aside with his hand. It’s too dark to see anything clearly, but the plants seem to be curling back in on themselves to reveal the rotted front door.

Wow, uh, super uneager to touch that doorknob …

I end up not having to. The Reaper steps past me and turns the knob. The door swings open, and then falls off completely

“Charming,” Famine says.

I give the abandoned house a skeptical look. I really don’t want to go in. The sexual favors I’d commit right about now for a nice damn bed.

With a sigh, I step inside.

Dead leaves crunch under my boots, and in the distance I hear something scuttle.

It smells like mildew and rot, and the few things my hands brush feel sticky, like the process of this house unmaking itself is messy.

Can one sleep standing up? Because right now I’m sort of tempted to try.

Famine enters behind me, and I hear him kick something aside with his boot. I hear a squeak and a scampering sound as some unseen creature slips away.

I wander into what must’ve been the kitchen. There’s an old icebox in the corner, its surface banged up and tarnished. The cupboards are peeling paint and a couple of them lie on the floor.

I leave the room and wander into another, where an old washing machine rests on its side, the door of it hanging open. Pretty sure there’s a nest of some sort inside the thing …

Seriously, fuck this place.

Famine toes a broken pot. “Still want to sleep here?”

I glare at him. “You did this on purpose.”

The horseman kicks the pot out of the way. “Did what? Pick an abandoned house for you to sleep in? Little flower, don’t insult me—this was all your idea. But if you don’t like it, I’ll get my horse—” He begins to walk back towards the door.

“Wait,” I call out after him. If it’s between this and another death, I can do this.