The way the Reaper’s eyes shine in the darkness, I’m half sure that if he had hands at the moment, he’d reach out and pull my lips to his. Instead the two of us drink each other in.

“What happened to you after you left me?” I ask gently.

I know it’s going to ruin the moment, but I can’t not ask. He’s been brutalized.

His eyes slide away from me. “I was ambushed.” That’s all he’ll say on the issue.

Did it hurt? I want to ask, but of course it hurt. It clearly still hurts.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, because that’s the only thing I can think to say.

Famine’s eyes move back to mine. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m not apologizing for me. I’m apologizing for humanity.”

At that, Famine is quiet.

“Does God really hate us?” I ask softly. Now seems like an appropriate time for that question.

“Not as much as I do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Famine’s face sobers up. “Your kind is running out of time,” he says.

Of all the frightening things I’ve seen and heard tonight, that might honestly be the most terrifying. Whatever celestial test humanity has been given, we’re failing at it.

The Reaper lets out a groan.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my heart jumping at the sound.

“I will be. It’s just some brief pain. It’ll pass soon enough,” he says, his voice strained. “But, distract me, flower. Tell me about your life.”

My gaze moves down to him. “You want to know about my work at the bordello?”

“I want to know about you,” he replies, and not for the first time this evening, Famine’s words send a pleasant heat through me.

“How far back should I go?” I ask.

In response, the horseman sighs, like I’ve taken a simple thing and made it overly complicated.

“Oh my God, calm your tits, I’ll start back at the very beginning.”

I can’t be sure in the darkness, but I think I see him smile, just for a moment.

“I never knew my mother,” I begin. “I mean, I knew her—I just don’t remember it. When I was two, she died giving birth to my brother, who also passed along with her—or maybe he passed before her, I still don’t know the full story on this.

“My father raised me alone, but he was a good dad. He called me his little princess and I remember he’d stop by my school to drop off treats from the grocery store he worked at.” I hadn’t remembered that story until now, and the thought of it fills me with an aching warmth.

“What happened to him?” Famine asks.

“He died of complications from diabetes when I was still a young girl.”

There, I’ve covered close to the first half of my life. The better half, if I’m being honest.

“After his death, I moved in with my aunt.” Now I pause.

Famine is waiting for me to continue.

I begin to stroke his hair, more to comfort myself than him.

“Life with her was …” I search for an appropriate word that won’t dishonor the dead, but then I can’t find any. Finally, I shake my head. “Unpleasant.”

“Why?” The Reaper’s tone is carefully neutral.

“She used to beat me—for everything.” She had a horse whip she kept around for this very purpose. “I couldn’t do anything right.” I still feel an old, dull burn of shame when I remember her constant disappointment.

“Most of the time, I’m relieved that she’s gone,” I admit, the words making me feel guilty.

“You mean to tell me you feel something other than relief?” Famine says, and I can hear the surprise in his voice.

I frown. “Of course. She was my aunt.”

“So?” Famine says. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“She cared about me … in her own way.” She gave me a place to sleep, food to eat, and clothes to wear. It wasn’t a joyful experience, but it was something.

The horseman makes a disbelieving noise.

“What?” I demand. “You don’t think she did?”

“Not enough, flower, not nearly enough,” he says. “Then again,” he adds, “I shouldn’t expect any better from the likes of humans.”

“People aren’t all bad,” I say.

The Reaper readjusts himself a little, groaning as he does so. “Clearly you’ve never been tortured by them.”

I press my lips together. He has a point. We’re in the middle of a field hiding for our lives, and the men after us don’t just delight in death—they enjoy a good dose of suffering too.

The two of us fall to silence, and we stay that way for a long time. I continue to stroke his hair. In the distance, I hear the pound of more horses’ hooves. The two of us go utterly still. But, like the first time I heard the noise, these riders don’t stop to check the field.

Once the hoof beats fade away, Famine says, “You never finished telling me about your life.”

I glance down at him. “I know you like stories, but I’m not sure mine is what you’re looking for.” There’s no justice, no peace and harmony, and except for the cameos Famine makes, there’s nothing particularly supernatural about it.

“It’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

I try not to read into that statement, or the way he’s looking at me as he says it. I’m going to start thinking that this man is really, truly interested in me, and that’s a dangerous assumption to make when it comes to the horseman.

I exhale. “I don’t want to tell you about it,” I admit. I give myself a little credit for being honest.

“Why?” the horseman asks curiously.

I look away. “I’m not ashamed of what I did for a living, but …” But in some ways I am.

“Elvita found me shortly after I arrived in Laguna.” I was hungry, destitute and full of so much guilt. In my mind, I had destroyed Anitápolis. “She had an eye for desperate, broken girls.

“She took me back to the bordello, gave me food and a bed … in return for work.” I pause. I enjoy talking about sex when I’m the one wielding it over others; I don’t particularly enjoy discussing it when I’m the one who’s the victim. “She … trained me for a couple weeks,” I say.

Famine has grown awful quiet.

“It’s a shock to see sex like that.” I wasn’t completely sheltered, but I’d never been in a brothel before either. “And at some point, I joined in …” I take in a deep breath. “And that’s what I did for the last five years. I serviced men and women in most ways you can imagine—and some you probably can’t.”

Next to me, Famine says nothing.

“I … don’t know what else to tell you.” I don’t think the horseman is particularly interested in a detailed account of my many sexual encounters. “I made friends with the women I worked with. Some of them died too young, and some of them left the bordello, either for another job, or to get married or—”

“How about you?” the Reaper interrupts. “Did you ever think of leaving for another job … or to get married?”