Famine pulls his steed up short. Carefully, he removes the bandages, then leans far enough in the saddle to get a good look at it.

He hisses in a breath while staring at the wound.

“What?” I say, getting nervous.

“It looks like it’s going to grow teeth and eat my face off.”

I let out a freaked out laugh. “What am I supposed to do?” I don’t really mean to ask the question, but shit, I am not a contingency planner. Nor a doctor. And we’ve poured alcohol on the wound twice already, and I was really hoping that was going to work.

Worry sparks in the horseman’s eyes. “You mean, besides find you a doctor? I don’t know. You’re the human,” he says accusingly. “I don’t get infections.”

The two of us stare at each other, and without meaning to, I audibly swallow.

“Motherfucker,” Famine curses. And then he jolts his horse into action, and the two of us ride like the wind.

Famine

Hunger makes men desperate, dangerous. It’s a natural state of mine, but I haven’t felt it for a while.

But now, with Ana swaying unsteadily in the saddle, that familiar panic courses through me. I realize that I hate it. Hate it with every fiber of my being.

I force my steed to ride as fast as he can, only slowing when Ana leans over to vomit.

It happens just once, but then I can feel her shivering. I hold her as close as I dare—as close as she’ll let me—but my armor is hard and rigid and it can’t possibly be much comfort.

This isn’t good.

I knew that from the moment I first saw that wound in the light of day, but I’m understanding now that the human body shouldn’t be shivering in this sweltering heat. Nor should she be retching.

With that thought, I urge my horse faster.

Someone will know how to heal her.

Ana

We’re on the road a surprisingly long time. Then again, maybe we aren’t, maybe the pain has just become so damn distracting that the minutes drag out. It feels like a lifetime.

Famine himself is so distracted that he doesn’t bother killing off the fields around us. I would be touched by that if I thought it was somehow for my benefit, but I think he’s simply forgotten, so focused on getting me help.

A hard knot forms in my stomach, and I feel real fear beginning to take root.

It can’t be that bad. I don’t even think the cut was all that deep. But it was long … and jagged … and there’d been mud all over me and who knows what on the knife itself.

You think I’d learn to clean my damn wounds better after my last experience with infection.

Even when the fever starts to get bad, I’m not too worried.

I remember this. Back in Laguna the wounds I sustained were so much worse. I laid in bed for some indeterminate amount of time, closer to death than I was to life. And still I survived.

I’m that cockroach you just can’t kill.

So I lean back against Famine’s jostling armor and let my eyes drift closed—just for a moment. It wouldn’t be so bad to escape myself for just a little while.

I wake to Famine pulling me off the horse, and only then because the movement jostles my neck.

I cry out at the pain. It hurts so goddamn bad—so, so goddamn bad.

I try to pry myself out of his hold, but I’m groggy and my mounting fever is making my limbs stiff and clumsy.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“I’m finding you that doctor, remember?” he says, an agitated edge to his words.

Famine strides forward with me cradled in his arms. I grit my teeth at the pain each step of his causes. And then my nausea is rising.

Just want to go back to sleep …

BANG!

My eyes snap open as Famine kicks down a door, and a moan slips from my lips as pain shoots through me.

The Reaper glances down at me, frowning deeply.

Something catches his attention and he looks up.

“I need a doctor,” he demands.

There’s murmuring, but I’ve already stopped listening.

I turn my head inward, nestling as best I can against Famine’s chest. In response, his arms tighten around me protectively.

He says something else, his angry voice coming out to play.

Going real well for you, I want to joke, but I feel too shitty to tease him, and besides, sleep is dragging me under again …

My eyelids flutter open and closed, open and closed, as I’m roused from sleep again and again. I can hear Famine’s disgruntled voice and a few of his threats, and then there are the alarmed voices of the humans closing in around us.

If this is his version of help, I’m as good as doomed.

But shortly after that thought crosses my mind, Famine is ushered somewhere. He carries me the entire time, and I can’t be light, but he doesn’t seem bothered by my weight.

I lean my forehead against his armor, weak and tired. In response, he presses a kiss to my hair.

Things are beginning to get bad for me. I can tell because my lips are cracking and my eyes feel like they’re cooking themselves and yet my teeth are chattering and I can’t stop shaking.

Famine’s grip has become almost painful, but I don’t have the energy left to say anything.

And amongst it all is the sensation of many, many curious eyes peering at me.

My eyes slip closed, and when they open again, we’re inside someone’s house, Famine carrying me down a narrow hallway.

Then he’s laying me down on a bed.

I cling to him. I have this nonsensical fear that the moment I let him go, I’m not going to be safe anymore.

“Little flower,” Famine says softly, so softly, “you need to let me go.”

Reluctantly, I do, opening my eyes long enough to see him. “Please don’t leave me.”

He takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “I won’t.” The Reaper says this like he’s swearing an oath to me.

Now that I have his word, I relax. The bed is soft and I feel so terrible that it’s easy to slip off to sleep.

I’m not sure how long I drift for. It could be minutes or hours …

“Why is she deteriorating so quickly?” Famine’s voice sounds far away.

I fall back to sleep before I hear the answer.

I wake to the feel of a wet cloth against my forehead. I crack my eyes open and see the Reaper peering down at me, his hands on the cool material. Over his shoulder someone else holds a basin of water. I give both of them a tired smile.

“Ana—” the Reaper begins, but I’m already fading away.

I wake again to the feel of foreign hands on me. They don’t feel right. They’re dry and calloused and they’re moving my body around like I’m a puppet.

I try to push them away.

“What are you doing to her?” Famine’s voice has me prying my eyes open.

A shrewd older woman leans over me. “I’m trying to help her—unless you’ve suddenly changed your mind.”

Before the horseman can respond, those hands take my chin and move my head to the side.

Pain explodes through my neck and temple.

“Well, this is why she’s so sick,” the woman says. Her voice sounds like her hands feel—scratchy but firm and full of authority. “It’s festering.”