My gaze lingers on one of these fountains. Running water means pipes and infrastructure that most cities don’t have the money to bother with.

The buildings around us look sturdy, and well-tended to. There are stores that sell tinctures and herbal remedies, flower shops, jewelry shops, stores that sell woven blankets and rugs.

The people who live here are still nowhere to be seen, but every now and then I hear a murmur of muffled conversation or the cry of an unhappy baby.

We move out of the city, the buildings thinning out on either side of us. Honestly, part of me thought there was no end to this place, it was so big.

The respectable shops we passed earlier have given way to gambling halls, taverns, and massage parlors. I even spot a bordello with the logo of a bare-chested woman painted onto the sign.

The moment I notice it, I feel a dip in my stomach, like I should be in there rather than out here, riding around in breeches and a shirt rather than a dress, my face dirty, and my hair wild. This is the longest I’ve gone without working, and I feel guilty about that.

Maybe because I’m so damn happy to be free of The Painted Angel. Free to not have to pleasure men with sweaty bodies and smelly dicks and bad breath. Or to listen to their mean words and put up with their rough—sometimes sadistic—ministrations. And oh God am I happy to no longer have to fake it from dusk to dawn. The false moans, the forced laughter and the contrived looks of lust. I’m so happy to be rid of all of that.

We come to the edge of the city, and the buildings are replaced on one side by farmland, and on the other by a huge, fortified wall. Armed men watch us from guard towers stationed along it. The moment I see them, I understand why this city is so wealthy.

Drugs.

Of course, a major city like São Paulo would be a foothold for cartels. And by the smell of it, they’re growing those drugs here, too.

My eyes linger on the guards we pass, bows and arrows loosely held in their grips. They stare at us, unsmiling. No cheers, no cowering, no surprise or any other emotion. I see one of them spit out some chew, but that’s the extent of their reaction.

At least they haven’t shot at us yet. That would suck.

As Famine sweeps by, the farmland that I can see begins to wither, just as it always does when the horseman passes through a place.

One of the armed guards shouts, pointing to something on their side of the wall. Then several of them are yelling at each other—then at us. A few point their weapons in our direction.

“Flower, I don’t think our company was adequately warned about me,” Famine says.

No sooner has he spoken than the Reaper turns his punishing gaze on them.

The earth revolts, shaking the ground violently. The wall seems to weave back and forth before collapsing altogether, and the men come toppling down with it.

Now that the guards are on the ground, several plants break through the surface of the earth, growing in a matter of seconds, their vines coiling around the men.

I turn my head away before I can watch the rest. I still hear their agonized screams.

“Can I admit something to you?” Famine says conversationally. “I like it when they fight.”

In front of us, our escort’s horse rears back. The man manages to stay in the saddle, but before either horse or rider can get their bearings, another plant bursts from the ground nearby. It lashes out like a whip, wrapping itself around the rider and dragging him off the beast. He screams, even as more spindly shoots follow, overtaking him until he’s entangled completely.

Famine passes him by without a second glance. Ahead of us there are more fields and more guards and, once we pass them, more death. So much more death. The men fall in droves, along with the wall they were defending.

Just when I think the Reaper has wiped everyone out, more appear. And with each death, I swear the horseman at my back grows giddier and giddier.

Eventually, I catch sight of a thick gate to our left, barring us entrance. As we get close, I notice strange shapes dangling from the wrought iron archway. It’s not until we’re about ten meters away, however, that I realize those shapes are dismembered men, their heads on pikes, their cleaved torsos hanging from the blockaded gate.

At the sight, my stomach heaves.

“I think I’m going to be …”

Famine barely has time to slow his horse before I’m leaning over the side of the saddle and puking my guts out.

I’ve seen countless deaths at the horseman’s hands; why these corpses would be the ones to make me retch is beyond me.

“Please don’t tell me this means you’ll need another meal,” the Reaper says.

“Jesus,” I say, catching my breath, “you are an asshole.”

I right myself just as the horseman hands me the canteen I’ve taken to carrying around with me. Wordlessly, I take it from him, and swallow down enough water to wash the taste of sickness from my mouth. Even as I do so, my eyes return to the wall of their own accord. My stomach pitches again at the sight, but I manage to hold myself together.

As I stare up at the corpses, I realize that I recognize one of the faces. It’s the man from the last city, the one who chatted with me at the dance right before all hell broke loose.

Unease drips down my spine. These are Famine’s men. They must’ve warned the people of São Paulo of the horseman’s arrival and made demands on Famine’s behalf. And … someone didn’t take that news too well.

I lower the canteen, absently capping it.

“Better?” the Reaper asks.

I nod, shoving away my thoughts.

“Good.”

Famine raises his hand towards the thick gate. Already most of the wall around it has been toppled over, the men dragged from their posts.

Overhead, the clouds darken to the color of a bruise, and the already humid air seems to grow even heavier.

That’s all the warning I get.

A bolt of lightning streaks down from the heavens right in front of us and—

BOOM!

I scream at the deafening sound as the lightning strikes the wrought iron archway. The barred doors beneath blast open with a metallic shriek, shards of wood splintering off in all directions. The displayed bodies are blasted from the wall as well, disembodied limbs flying in all directions.

In the distance, I hear panicked shouting.

“Ah, much better,” Famine says, a smile in his voice.

He clicks his tongue and his horse starts up again, walking over the smoking remains of the gate.

A long, palm-lined driveway cuts between fields of marijuana plants, leading up to an expansive mansion. Between here and there, people are yelling out orders. Several men are running towards the gate before stumbling to a stop when they see us.

I can see them processing the scene before them—the felled gates, the rider, the scythe, the horse …

All at once they reach for their weapons.

The Reaper wastes no time dispatching them, his plants rising from the ground and twisting themselves around the men until bones break and blood flows. And then we’re riding over these men too, and I have to physically stop myself from retching again at the wet sounds of flesh being crushed beneath hooves.

We travel the rest of the way like that, with a carpet of flesh lining our way. There are a seemingly endless amount of men, and for all of the horseman’s power, I’m nervous about the cartel boss we’re squaring off with.