Peterson stood aghast, his eyes wide, arms spread. He seemed frozen, in shock. Then, incredibly, he laughed. The look of joy spreading over him seemed hideous.
“I’ve done your work! Haven’t I done it well?” he demanded of the figure.
Cormac somehow found the strength to prop himself up. Not quite standing, but enough to lean toward Peterson and point at him in accusation. “You wanted to be a god. You came up with some fucked-up ritual to do it, but you needed dead bodies. Starved bodies. What the hell kind of god did you think that would make you?”
“Famine,” Peterson said simply. Cormac was taken aback. “Famine, here, just like this, yes!” He was still smiling, with such a look of triumph.
“No,” a voice said. A deep, resonate voice, much like the clomp of a giant hoof on soft forest ground. At that, everything went still. The wind vanished, trees stilled. Cormac held his breath. He could feel Amelia with him, close as she’d ever been, with a mental gesture that was much like gripping his hand.
Peterson, gormless as he was, had the nerve to chuckle, confused, and ask, “What?”
Famine tapped his mount with his heel, and the horse stepped forward, closer to Peterson. It was such a human gesture, such a normal set of movements, Cormac was startled. That the Four Horsemen of Biblical legend might actually exist didn’t shock him—he’d seen some unbelievable shit in his time. What shocked him is that they—or at least this one—should be so human-like. With weight, with physicality. The fabric of the cloak rustled as the Horseman moved.
Peterson’s ecstasy seemed to be fading. The back of the horse was taller than he was, and the rider loomed over him. He maybe didn’t quite realize the powers he’d been messing with until just this second. Like the Donner Party, when the snow began falling.
“I. . .I thought it was just a myth. A story. I mean, it’s the Bible, no one takes it literally. . .do they? I was going to turn myself into the story—”
Peterson grappled with his pockets a moment, turning out some familiar items—matches, string, a piece of slate. Charms and scraps of spells. A couple of pieces of rib bone. Famine ignored them all.
“You think this suffering belongs to you,” the rider said in that rumbling voice, like a trumpet sounding from far away. “It doesn’t.”
The historian stammered, “I. . .I only wanted. . . .”
The Third Horseman grabbed Peterson by the throat. The man didn’t have a chance to cry out before he began to shrink, to desiccate. Skin turning bloodless, cheeks growing hollow, skeletal. Peterson clawed at Famine’s arms with increasingly bony fingers, but had no effect on his captor. His movements slowed, slackened, stilled. His shirt billowed over a gut that had gone concave. The fabric of his clothing disintegrated, fell away until the man was naked. The same curse, the same progression—starving, happening here in seconds. The pain must have been dire. He was gulping for air like a fish.
When Famine let go, the historian was a skeleton with a covering of skin, his hair dried up and falling away in clumps. He might have been dead for years and mummified.
But he still moved. Ghastly, yellowed eyes still blinked. The laddered rib cage drew in air. A leg twitched. A shaking arm reached. Somehow, Peterson was still alive, imploring his god and idol.
Peterson had tried to make himself something from a powerful legend, but he hadn’t believed enough to recognize: The job was already taken.
Offhand, Cormac wondered what the Fourth Horseman, Death, could do just by holding someone by the throat.
The black horse snorted, stamping a front leg a couple of times—right on top of Peterson’s body. That ended him, collapsing the rib cage, smashing the brittle skull. He lay still, a pile of bones and dried-up skin. He was done.
Cormac wasn’t sure if Famine had seen him. He wanted to run—he really ought to get the hell out of here. But he also didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He waited. . .waited. . . .
The rider shifted the reins; the black horse turned, pivoting on hind legs. The pair paused a moment, appearing to study this stretch of forest. Cormac couldn’t be sure; he couldn’t see the rider’s eyes. The horse wuffed a breath as if he’d smelled something he didn’t like.
Barely breathing, Cormac remained still, thinking over and over, he had nothing to do with this. He meant nothing to the Third Horseman. They could go their separate ways, no harm. Maybe it wasn’t magic, some kind of spell to turn away the evil eye. But maybe the hope would be enough.
Amelia added to the hope. Please, look away.
And then, they did. The horseman gave another nudge with his heel, and the horse moved off at a jog, weaving through the trees and vanishing in what might have been fog, or light, or a crack in the air, or nothing at all.
Cormac heaved out the breath he’d been holding. It echoed among the trees, dead quiet in the still air. His next inhalation smelled of pine, thick with vegetation and life. It was a good smell.
Peterson’s body lay crumpled, not ten yards away. Cormac looked away.
I think the sun is rising.
Looking up, squinting past the canopy of trees, he tried to see what she was seeing, and sure enough, the sky was the muffled gray of predawn. He hadn’t been paying any attention. But this—this was hope. In the growing light he held up a hand, turned it this way and that to study it. It wasn’t gaunt. It didn’t hurt. He tested more movement, pushing himself to his knees, pausing to take stock. Then, he stood, without dizziness, without trembling.
How do you feel? Amelia waited tensely for the answer.
“I feel. . .tired. But normal tired.” Not dying tired. He knew the difference now.
His stomach rumbled. He was still hungry. But not starving. That could wait, though. “We’ve got to find Annie,” he murmured.