My power is really quite simple—I can make things grow and I can make things die. It’s not quite War’s ability to heal, and it’s not quite Death’s ability to give life, but somewhere in the murky waters between the two.

The infection that’s racking Ana’s body is just one more living thing that’s doing a really, really good job of surviving. It just so happens to be killing its host in the process.

I close my eyes and allow myself to expand.

I can feel the life moving all around me; it’s everywhere—in the air, on the ground, in the ground. The earth is teeming with living things.

Turning my attention from the array of life surrounding me, I focus on Ana. Sick, weak Ana. Immediately I sense how much closer to death she is than life, but I knew that before. I set the fear aside so I can make things right.

I hone my focus not just on Ana, but in her. Immediately, I sense the bacteria overwhelming her system. It’s entered her bloodstream and is busy invading every little corner of her body. Not that the bacteria is all to blame. My little flower’s immune system is wreaking havoc in its attempt to fight the infection.

I take a moment to appreciate the sheer magnitude of this infection. All because of a single swipe of a knife.

My moment of appreciation passes, and just like every other time I’ve encountered a hated lifeform, I begin to destroy it.

Ana once asked me why I was so good at dancing. The truth is that while killing is easy, miracle-working is a more complicated process. The human body is a symphony of actions and reactions all tangled together, and right now, my job is to listen to her body’s symphony and move in time with it.

And that’s exactly what I do.

It feels like it takes a lifetime to heal her, but it must only take mere minutes. And then it’s done.

And I bring Ana back to me.

Chapter 45

Ana

When I wake, I’m alone.

I glance around me at the room, which is bare save for the sculpture of Our Lady of Aparecida and the glass and pitcher of water resting on the bedside table.

I sit up, feeling weak and hungry, but otherwise … not too bad. After a moment, I reach for my neck. It’s covered in soft gauze, which I pry away.

Last I remember, this cut had been badly infected.

The bandages and poultice fall away, and I begin to probe around my wound. It doesn’t feel swollen and angry. In fact, it feels … it feels mostly healed.

How is that possible?

I take in my surroundings again. Vaguely I remember Famine carrying me into this place, and then there was that fun pee incident outside, but everything else seems like a hazy fever dream. I think I made some pretty proclamations because I’d been sure I was going to die.

My lips are chapped and gummy, and discreetly I wipe them off before grabbing the glass of water next to me. In five deep swallows, I finish the thing off.

For a good few minutes, I sort of just sit there and let my mind catch up.

I didn’t die.

Can’t kill this cockroach.

I take a dainty whiff of my formerly clean dress and cringe. This outfit is the thing that needs to die.

Kicking off the damp bedsheets, I slide out of bed. My legs are shaky and honestly, I feel a little woozy, but I power forward anyway, slipping out of the room. A man passes by the hallway, and he gasps when he sees me, making the sign of the cross.

“Is this your house?” I ask.

He nods. “My wife treated you.”

I give him a soft smile. “Thank you both for the care and the bed.”

Still giving me a strange look, he nods.

I point towards the back of the house. “Is this the way out?”

Again, he gives a shaky nod.

“Thanks.” I leave the startled man there, a little unnerved by his reaction.

Outside, the sky is full of big, billowy clouds. I breathe in the wet, earthen smell of the land. Something innate pulls me past the scattered buildings and towards the fields beyond.

The sugarcane here is a bright, blinding green. And there, right in the middle of it, is the horseman.

I’ve seen this before, in my dreams. Famine stands among the crops, scythe in hand, and it’s like a premonition.

This is where he unmakes the world, one blade of grass at a time.

As though he senses me behind him, the horseman turns.

Right now, I see clearly that Famine is a what rather than a who. He doesn’t look human. Not even a little bit. He’s painfully, achingly beautiful, but he’s no mortal man.

“You know,” he says softly, “this entire field was dead only hours ago.”

I don’t bother looking at the crop in question.

“I can’t bring people back from the dead,” he continues. “Not without Death’s help—or God’s.” He reaches out a hand to touch the green stalks near him. “However, I can control the flow of life and death in all things, like this sugarcane.”

I move towards him, picking my way through the shrubs that brush my ankles.

“Did you … do something to me?” I ask.

I don’t know how I know, but I feel like maybe he did. The wound is too healed, and then there was that older man’s reaction back at the house; he looked at me as though I should’ve been dead.

I come right up to Famine, gazing at his face, trying to read his features. At first, he won’t meet my eyes, but when he eventually does, I go still.

He’s looking at me like I’m his one weakness.

“Did you?” I ask again. “Heal me?”

He takes a deep, audible breath as he stares down at me, like he’s drawing the life back into himself. He lets go of his scythe, letting it fall to the earth.

Famine cups my face, searching my gaze. “Yes,” he says simply.

In the next instant, his lips are on mine. The kiss is fierce, almost desperate in its intensity. I kiss him back, even as I let his words sink in.

Famine healed me.

Famine, the horseman who hates humans. Famine, who loves killing and suffering. He is responsible for me being alive right now.

He places a hand against my cheek, bringing my forehead to his.

“I love you,” he says.

I stare at him for a long moment, my point forgotten.

I love you.

Those words are ringing in my ears. I’m sure I’ve misheard him.

Famine looks just as wide-eyed as I know I must look.

“What?” I breathe.

“I love you, you foolish little flower.”

My heart begins to hammer against my ribcage.

“It’s rather an unfortunate realization,” he says, his breath fanning across my cheeks, “but despite every one of my convictions, I do.”

He loves me.

He loves me. Me.

Only now is it really starting to sink in.

Famine’s green eyes, which I once found so unnerving, now stare intensely at me.

“I love you,” he repeats. No longer does he seem shocked by those words. That driving certainty that rules him is back.

He leans in to kiss me again.

At the last moment I bring my fingers to his lips. “Wait.”

His eyes focus on me.

I smile, first at his mouth, then up at his eyes.

“I love you too,” I say softly. My grin widens, even as his eyebrows lift. I drop my hand. “Just thought you should hear that when I’m not running a fever,” I whisper.