The silence stretches on.

“Well?” Famine says. “What do you think I want?”

There’s another long stretch of silence.

“My daughter—” the man finally says, “is yours, if you’ll have her.”

Daughter. The word is ringing in my ears.

It was easy for Elvita and me to approach the Reaper. I was a prostitute and Elvita was the madam who managed my clients. But offering up your daughter to be used by some vengeful stranger? The thought has my stomach churning.

Famine’s eyes flick to mine, and he gives me a look as if to say, See? I do this all the time, and it tires me.

“Humans are so terribly predictable, are they not?” he says.

Now that I actually think about it, this must happen to him all the time. In city after city he opens his doors to people who give him gifts. For a poor family, a woman’s flesh might be the most valuable thing they have to offer.

I shouldn’t have a problem with that—it’s been my currency for the last five years.

But right now it sickens me.

Famine’s gaze flicks over my face, drinking in my reaction before he casts a lazy glance back at the man. “So you didn’t come to me empty-handed after all.”

The man shakes his head. The girl is beginning to tremble; she looks visibly frightened by the horseman.

“She’s not much to look at,” Famine notes, his gaze moving over her. “Too short and her skin is blemished.”

Because she’s still a teenager, I want to shout. Never mind that I, too, was a teenager when I first started sleeping with strangers. I don’t have to want that life for anyone else.

“And her teeth …” the horseman makes a face.

There’s nothing wrong with this girl’s teeth—or the rest of her looks for that matter—but that’s beside the point. Famine is aiming to hurt.

Just like the plants he kills, Famine has his seasons. Sometimes he’s light and happy, like spring. And then other times, like now, he’s cruel and cold like winter.

Abruptly, he turns to me. “Tell me, Ana, what would you have me do?”

What … the hell?

I stare at him like he’s gone mad.

“Should I fuck her?” he asks me. “Or would you prefer I make an example out of her as I did you?”

I curl my upper lip, repulsed by him. “You are a monster.”

“Mmm …” The corner of his mouth lifts and he turns his attention back to his guests.

Once again, Famine eyes the girl up and down. She stares back at him, still visibly shaking.

All at once, he stands, setting his drink aside. I think that maybe he means to hurt the pair, but he doesn’t reach for his scythe. Instead, he closes in on the girl.

Reflexively she takes a step back. I can’t see his face, but I can see hers, and she’s terrified.

“I have enough enemies,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at me. “I’ll spare her the worst of my torments.” To one of his men, he says, “Put her in one of the bedrooms.”

Chapter 16

I stare after the now crying teenager, my stomach churning. The entire time I feel Famine’s eyes on me.

Don’t do this, I want to tell him. Don’t use that girl the way men have used me. If it’s sex you’re after, I’ll give it to you. If it’s resistance you want—trust me, I’ll make sure you know how unenthusiastic I am.

I don’t say any of those things. I have a prickly, uncomfortable feeling that the horseman would happily acquiesce and kill the girl instead. The true question is why Famine did decide to keep her around to sleep with when he’s been pretty aggressively against sex with me.

Not a minute after his daughter is carted away, Famine’s men lead the father through the house and out the back door.

“Where are you taking me? Where are we—let me go—” A door opens, then shuts, cutting off the older man’s words.

It doesn’t take much longer for his cries to start up. I pinch my eyes shut, willing away the sounds.

I made a mistake hunting down Famine. A terrible, terrible mistake. I thought I could exact my vengeance—or die. But neither of those options have happened.

“Now, now, little flower,” the horseman says, his voice low and lethal, “closing your eyes won’t make it any less real.”

“If you let me go, I’ll leave you alone,” I whisper.

I don’t want to listen to all this suffering. I don’t want to see it either.

“Will you now?” the Reaper says. I hear his footfalls as he comes up to me. “Just when you started growing on me, too,” he whispers against my ear, his breath warm.

My eyes snap open. The horseman stands unnervingly close, and as I watch him, he runs a finger down my bare arm, the touch drawing out goosebumps. He stares at my puckered flesh.

What the fuck is he doing?

A guard clears his throat, breaking whatever weird thing came over the horseman.

Another person is ushered in, and Famine shifts his attention to them, returning to his chair.

I know the Reaper brought me out here to make me uncomfortable; he seems to relish his cruelty. Two can play that game.

I might be frightened by the horseman, I might even be cowardly in the face of death, but damnit, I have been and always will be a bold motherfucking bitch.

Just as a man approaches Famine, I casually leave my post and sit myself down on Famine’s legs like this is just something I do. And it is. I often sat myself down on men’s laps in the tavern next to The Painted Angel, and plenty of those men were only slightly less revolting than Famine.

Beneath my ass, the Reaper tenses.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, too low for anyone else to hear.

I ignore the way my heart pounds or the fact that this monster has rejected me several times over. I shake my hair out, the long, wavy locks brushing against his face.

“Making myself comfortable,” I say.

I adjust myself on his lap, the manacles jangling, and I make sure to cause a little extra friction.

Much to my delight, he sucks in a breath.

I can’t fight Famine, or appeal to his sensibilities, but I can drive him mad. I’m actually pretty good at that.

The horseman grabs me by the waist. He’s about to push me off, I can feel it, but for whatever reason he decides at the last minute to keep me pinned in place, his fingers digging into my skin.

The man waiting in the foyer now approaches us, fear—and perhaps a little hope—visible on his face. His clothes are tattered and patched up, and the sandals he wears look worn thin. Whoever he is, he doesn’t have much, yet still he came here intent on giving the Reaper something.

When he gets close to us, the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out several rings, a dainty gold bracelet, and a necklace with the image of Our Lady of Aparecida dangling from it. The man bows his head and kneels, his hand outstretched.

“What is this?” Famine asks, disdain dripping from his voice.

“This is the only true wealth my family has,” the man says. “It’s yours.” He looks up, and I can see in his eyes he wants to beg for someone’s life, but he bites back the words.

I move to stand. For an instant the horseman resists, but eventually he releases me.