We pass through a nondescript door. On the other side of it is an enormous kitchen.

Unlike other houses we’ve been in, there’s no soul to this kitchen. It’s clear from the unadorned walls and the bare countertops that only servants lingered in this space.

“There’s no one left to prepare you a meal,” Famine says. “We’re on our own, I’m afraid.” He actually sounds vaguely concerned about that.

“I think I can manage,” I say. Unlike some people I know, I’ve had to cook for myself for the last several years. A twinge of sadness hits me when I realize I won’t ever get those campy meals again, where I and some of the other girls at the bordello would pile into the kitchen, all of us talking and laughing while we cooked and cleaned.

Life at The Painted Angel wasn’t all bad. It really wasn’t.

Connected to the kitchen is a walk-in pantry where it looks like most of the food is stored. There are huge bags of rice and flour, jars of various fruits, dried salamis and herbs that hang from the overhead crossbeams—and on and on. There are even some pre-made items, like the basket of cheese bread that sits untouched on the shelf and the small sack of cassava chips.

Famine moves towards a wheel of cheese and peers at it. “This smells like death. I’m immensely intrigued.”

I glance at the horseman. I hadn’t realized he was planning on eating alongside me. This … might actually be fun.

“Give me a second,” I say to him.

He looks over at me just as I leave the pantry and re-enter the kitchen. I’m only in the room long enough to grab a knife, and then I return to the horseman’s side.

Stepping up to the wheel of cheese, I cut out a wedge and hand it to him.

“You’re welcome,” I say, throwing his earlier words back at him.

He takes the cheese from me, a playful spark in his eyes. Peeling back the wax, he takes a bite.

“Ugh.” He makes a face. “Tastes like death too.” With that he drops the rest of his slice of cheese onto the ground, his gaze moving along to the next food that piques his interest.

“What is that like?” I ask, watching him move around the space.

Famine heads to the back of the pantry, where a door is set into the wall. He opens it and disappears into what looks like a wine cellar.

“What’s what like?” he calls out. “Death?” I can hear him rummaging around. “He’s a dour asshole, that’s what—

“Aha!”

Famine returns a moment later with a bottle of amber liquid in one hand and wine in the other, holding them up like war prizes.

“Not Death,” I say, shuddering at the thought of the fourth horseman, the one Famine clearly knows a little too well. “Being Famine and eating food.”

He comes in close to me. “You know, for a girl who made it her profession to lie on her back, you have a very curious mind.”

I try not to get my panties in a bunch over Famine’s description of what a prostitute does. Lying on my back! I wish. Fulfilling fantasies is damn hard work.

Instead I say, “Curiosity is also a handy tool for sex work.” Very handy.

“Mmm,” the Reaper responds, removing the liquor’s corked lid as he does so. He takes a drink straight from the bottle.

“Ah,” he sighs out. “This tastes like death too—but a much better version of it. Death at his most appealing.”

That’s the second time Famine has mentioned the horseman within that many minutes.

“Does he actually have a personality? Death?” I ask, intrigued.

Famine gives me a look that plainly states I’m an idiot. “Do I?” he asks.

I take the bottle from him. “Anger isn’t a personality,” I tease.

I don’t point out that not so long ago Famine was the one who was insisting he lacked a core personality.

He takes it back from me. “But attitude is.”

And the Reaper has boundless attitude.

“Alright,” I concede, “you made your point.”

“Hmm,” he says, scrutinizing me as he takes a drink of the liquor.

I realize as I watch his throat work, that I really want those lips back on me. And those hands—hands that have cut down so many—I want them to slide over my skin.

I want them to relieve this growing ache I feel when I’m around him.

Famine lowers the bottle, giving me a suspicious look.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

Hell no am I going to admit my true thoughts.

“Just thinking about Death,” I reply.

Wrong response.

His sharp gaze grows sharper still. “Whatever you think of him,” he says, “he does not deserve that look on your face.”

“What look?” I ask, touching my cheek.

“Like you want to fuck him.”

It’s not Death I want to fuck …

Oh God, I really shouldn’t want that. Because Famine has issues.

But I’ve got issues too, I guess. They just don’t happen to be the murderous kind.

“So where is Death?” I ask.

Famine’s expression darkens. “No.”

“No what?” I ask, taking the bottle from him.

“No I’m not going to tell you where he is while you still have that expression on your face.”

I still look like I want to bone Famine? Not good.

And the fact that the horseman cares about who I’m attracted to—also not good.

I bring the bottle to my lips and take a distracted pull from it. The spiced rum slips down my throat, taking the edge off of my nerves.

I swallow, then lower the bottle.

“Trust me when I say that I want nothing to do with Death,” I tell him.

The Reaper must believe me because, after a moment, he looks somewhat mollified.

After a moment, Famine says, “He sleeps.”

I give him a confused look. “You mean Death?” I say. “Death sleeps? What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“I mean that he hasn’t returned to earth yet. Two of my brothers came before me. Death will follow.”

Rapidly my mind is trying to piece together what he’s saying. I’d heard tales of the first two horsemen, Pestilence and War, killing off far away nations. But they never came here.

“So you guys come in waves?” I ask.

He cracks a nefarious smile at my words. “Something like that.”

“And Pestilence and War—the two that came before you—are they gone now?” The tales I heard of those horsemen are old and weatherworn. “Is that why you’re here … awake?”

“Essentially,” Famine says.

I furrow my brows. “And Death … is asleep?”

The Reaper nods. “Deep beneath the earth.”

That’s not unsettling or anything.

“Why didn’t all four of you come at the same time?” I ask. “Why draw out the process of killing us?” If there’s one thing humans are good at, it’s saving our own skins. It seems as though it would be infinitely easier to eradicate us all at once than little by little.

“Why indeed?” Famine agrees. “I’ve asked myself the same question. Let me ask you this: why don’t birth and death happen at the same time?”