The Reaper sits so still that if it weren’t for those fingers, I would’ve assumed he was just another pricey decoration put on display in this house.

For a moment, I wonder if this is some sort of trap. There aren’t any guards posted in here, and there probably should be. And Famine is right there, alone and seemingly unaware of my presence.

I wait in the shadows for a long time, staring at his broad back and his caramel colored hair. Long enough for the teeth of any trap to close on me. The seconds pass and nothing happens.

Eventually, I begin to creep closer, cutting through the living room, my steps silent.

I reach for one of the knives sheathed at my side, drawing it out as quietly as I can.

Kill him and leave unnoticed. That’s the plan. I know it’s no permanent solution. After all, he cannot die.

That’s one of the first things I learned about Famine long ago. There is no ending him.

It doesn’t really matter at this point. Killing him—no matter how temporary—is the only solution any of us humans have left. So I push my misgivings aside. I’ve come too far to stop now.

As I round the couch in the living room, I nearly trip on a body.

I have to bite down on my lip to stifle my yelp.

Dear God.

Just when I thought there were no more surprises.

The man at my feet has been gutted from navel to collarbone. He stares blankly off in the distance, laying in a pool of his own blood.

Bile rises up my throat, and I have to choke it back down. The whole time, I’m sure that Famine is going to hear me.

And yet he doesn’t, so far as I can tell. He just continues to drum his fingers on the table and gaze out the windows.

Skirting around the corpse, I make my way to the dining room on silent feet. My heart, which was beating madly just minutes ago, has now slowed. I feel eerily calm. Gone is my fear, my nerves, and that terrible anger that’s churned inside me for weeks.

This is what it must feel like to live without a conscience.

I step up to the back of Famine’s chair, and in one smooth movement, my dagger makes it to his neck.

I hear the horseman’s sharp, surprised inhalation.

Threading my fingers into that pretty hair of his, I jerk his head back, my blade pressed tightly against his skin.

“You made an example of the wrong girl,” I whisper into his ear.

Beneath my touch, the horseman feels rigid.

“You are either very brave or very foolish to cross me,” he says, his jade green eyes staring straight ahead.

“You bastard,” I say, tightening my grip on his hair. “Look at me.”

He does, his gaze moving to my face, his neck brushing against my blade as he turns his head. The Reaper wears a smirk as he meets my eyes, though he’s in no position to find this funny.

“Do you remember me?” I ask.

“Forgive me, human,” he says, “but you all look so very similar.”

It’s supposed to be an insult, but I’m beyond insults. So far beyond them.

After a moment, however, a spark of recognition sharpens his features and his brows lift. “You were the girl whose flesh was offered to me—weren’t you?” he says. “My, what a difference face paint makes.”

Another insult.

My grip on his hair tightens, and I press the dagger a little deeper into his neck. He doesn’t react, but I swear he’s agitated—very, very agitated.

His gaze scans over my body. “And you’re still breathing,” he notes. “Did one of my men succumb to your pitiful wiles and spare you?”

My blade bites into his skin now, drawing out a line of blood. After years of enduring men’s demands of me, it is awfully nice to push my will onto someone else, and I cannot think of a more deserving creature to endure it.

The Reaper takes in my expression. After a moment, he laughs.

“I’m sorry, am I supposed to be scared?” He sounds so calm that I almost believe him. But his arms are tense, his muscles taut. And then there’s the memory of the last time we met. For all the suffering he inflicts, I don’t think he has much taste for it when it comes to himself.

“You still don’t truly remember me,” I say. “Think further back.”

“What is the point of this exercise?” Famine says, exasperated. “I don’t make it a habit of remembering humans.”

I loosen my hold on his hair just a fraction. “I saved you once, back when no one else would.”

“Did you now?” Famine says, amused. But unlike his expression, his eyes glint with anger. I sense that he’s biding his time, waiting for me to screw up before he pounces.

“It’s a mistake I’ve regretted every day since,” I admit, my throat tightening.

“Is that right?” he says, and now I swear he is entertained. “And tell me, brave human, how did you save me?”

“You don’t remember?” I say, actually somewhat shocked. How could he ever forget? “It was raining when I found you. You were covered in blood and your body was missing … pieces.”

Slowly, Famine’s shitty little smile melts away.

Finally, the reaction I was looking for.

My grip on his hair tightens again. “Remember me now, motherfucker?”

Chapter 8

Five years ago

Anitápolis, Brazil

I don’t believe the rumors. Not until I see him.

For the last couple years, there had been whispers in my town of the immortal man who raised the seas and split the earth. The horseman who came to our land and tried to cross us humans. Rumor was that he was caught and, as punishment, locked up somewhere in the vast Serra do Mar. Somewhere near our town.

I hadn’t given the rumor much thought until now.

Through the torrential downpour, my eyes snag on a lump laying off to the side of the dirt road.

Don’t look too hard.

I know I shouldn’t. I know that once my mind pieces together what I’m seeing I’m not going to like it. But it’s impossible to look away. My shoes squish against the mud as I close in on the thing. Eventually I realize I’m staring at a muddy, bloody torso. One that’s been mutilated nearly past the point of recognition.

My breath comes fast, and I nearly drop my basket of jabuticabas, the dark fruit rolling perilously around.

Who could’ve done this to another human?

Get home—now.

Whoever attacked this person, they could still be out here, and this poor soul who’s been left for dead, there’s no sense helping them now. They’re clearly dead.

As I walk past the body, I can’t help it—I slow, my curiosity getting the better of me. That’s when I notice something odd. The skin that rings what must be the person’s neck and chest … it glows.

Is it a necklace? What piece of jewelry glows? I stare at the bare torso, noting absently that it’s a man.

Stop staring and go home. Whoever he is, he’s dead, I’m soaked to the bone, and if I arrive home late again, Aunt Maria will have my hide.

Not to mention that a killer might be hiding in the forest that presses up against the road. He might be watching me at this very moment.

With that spooked thought, I push myself to my feet and reach for my basket, the rain still pelting down on me. Just as I start to walk away, I hear a ragged, broken sound at my back.