Famine hops off the horse.

“Wait here,” he says over his shoulder.

I don’t.

Gingerly, I slide off his steed, biting back a cry when the action tugs at my wound. Not so long ago I struggled to get off this very horse after the Reaper accidently pierced my shoulder with his scythe. The horseman hadn’t fretted over it like he was fretting over this injury. And sure, it was a cleaner wound, and maybe it wasn’t as bad, but still.

Things really are different between us.

Famine sighs when he notices me following. “Ana, you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Two words I will never again believe from you.”

I enter the store behind him, wincing a little at the sight of the very obviously dead man who was working behind the counter.

“It’s just a scratch,” I say, moving down one of the aisles.

It’s not just a scratch. I got to look at it in the mirror this morning, and it’s bigger and uglier than I imagined.

Famine guffaws. “Why are you pretending it’s not a big deal?”

“Have you seen my stomach?” I say. “Compared to that, it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me,” the horseman murmurs, his voice so quiet I almost miss it.

I find the first aid section before Famine does. Sitting right there on the top shelf are needles and surgical thread.

“Got it,” I say, grabbing the items. Now I just need to stitch myself up.

This should be fun.

I nibble my lower lip, looking at my wound using a hand mirror I found.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” I say.

The cut looks like it’s still a little dirty, and parts of it appear to have already started to scab over. I don’t know a lot about mending wounds, but I think that sealing up something that could be contaminated is a bad idea.

Famine studies the wound. “So we should do nothing?” He’s clearly displeased at that thought.

“I don’t know. I think if we can douse the cut in alcohol that might help.”

Already, I’m cringing at the thought.

No sooner have I said it, then the horseman heads for the small collection of wines, beer, and some more potent liquor behind the counter, not sparing the dead man next to him a passing glance.

While he’s back there, I grab a glass container of rubbing alcohol from the shelf. I take a deep breath while I look at it.

This is going to hurt.

Famine comes back, holding a bottle of rum and a corkscrew. I let him open the bottle and hand it to me.

Rather than pouring it over my neck, I take a long drink from it, my stomach churning at the taste.

Too soon—much too soon—for more liquor.

I set the rum on a nearby shelf then unstop the rubbing alcohol in my hand, passing it to Famine.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Rubbing alcohol—to pour on my wound.”

The horseman looks confused. I guess he’s never realized there was a difference between the alcohol human’s drink, and the stuff used purely to disinfect.

“Why are you giving it to me?” he asks.

“I need you to do it. I—I don’t think I have the courage to do it myself.”

Famine scowls at the bottle, then looks at me. Faster than I can follow, he tilts my chin and dumps the rubbing alcohol on the cut.

“Fuck!” I hiss out, my legs nearly folding. “Motherfucking fuck!”

I gasp out a few breaths, eyes pricking at the excruciating burn. It feels like my wound is on fire.

I glare at him. “You could’ve warned me.”

“You’re overestimating how nice I am.”

I make a face, but honestly, the man has a point.

I stare at the now-empty bottle in Famine’s hand. Hopefully that does the trick.

I take a deep breath. “Let me just grab some gauze, and then we can get going.”

“Get going?” the horseman says. “Not while you’re hurt. Tonight, we’re staying here.”

Chapter 43

My neck wound is not fine.

Not at all.

I first realize that shortly after I wake up the next morning, my body coated in sweat.

My cut throbs, and when I prod at it, pain lashes through me. More than that, I feel a little unwell.

It … might be infected.

I get up and find the compact mirror I used yesterday to get a good look at it. Once I remove the gauze bandages, I angle the mirror towards the cut.

I suck in a sharp breath. The skin is red and swollen, and the wound itself is a grisly sight, the flesh a mottled mess of colors.

Definitely infected.

Before I can think twice, I grab another bottle of rubbing alcohol and, uncapping it, I douse the wound with the disinfecting liquid.

The pain is instant and intense. A sharp cry slips out of my mouth, and I nearly drop the glass.

The door to the trading post bangs open, and Famine rushes to my side. He takes in my trembling form and the liquid dripping from my angry wound. The horseman grabs the bottle from my hands and glances at the label before his attention moves to my neck.

His brows furrow. “Is it supposed to look—?”

“I don’t think so.”

I see a myriad of emotions pass across the horseman’s features, too fast for me to make sense of them.

He scowls, looking down at the bottle. “Will this help?” he asks.

“I hope to hell it does,” I say.

The Reaper’s gaze flicks back up to me. “What happens if it doesn’t?” he asks.

He has no experience with this, I realize. The horseman maims and kills, but he doesn’t know much about healing and the complications that come along with it.

“Let’s not worry about that, Famine,” I say, trying to reassure myself just as much as I’m trying to reassure him. “I’ve survived too many horrors for a simple neck wound to take me down.”

Not that there’s anything simple about it.

He stares at me for too long. Finally, he says, “I’m finding you a doctor.”

I swallow.

“Okay,” I capitulate.

If I’m being honest with myself, I’m a little scared at what might happen if things continue to get worse.

I finish packing, ignoring my festering injury as best I can.

Riding is another story.

As soon as we begin to move, the horse’s gait jostles my injury. It happens again and again and again with each step the steed takes, and there’s no ignoring the pain.

And now my nausea is rising. At first I try to ignore it, mostly because I don’t want to deal with it. But then I’m beginning to sweat, even as a shiver courses through me. It’s hot out; I shouldn’t be shivering.

Famine’s grip around my midsection tightens, and I let out a small noise at the pressure. My nausea is suddenly right-here-and-it-won’t-be-ignored-oh-God-free-my-midsection-from-this-torment-Amen.

“Are you alright?” he asks, a vague note of concern in his voice.

I force down my bile and pull at his hands. “I will be if you relax your damn hand.”

After a moment, he does so, and I take a few bracing breaths.

“I’m getting sick,” I say. “The cut on my neck,” I gesture vaguely to it, “it’s not doing too well.”