Hunger (16 page)

Lisa straightened her spine.

"
We destroy," Pestilence says. "That's all we've ever done.
"

And she had, hadn't she? She'd destroyed the water that had blighted the crops. She'd destroyed the hunger that had been eating those children alive. She'd destroyed, and the people here would live.

She'd done that. She, Lisabeth Lewis, seventeen and anorexic and suicidal and uncertain of her own path—she'd done something that mattered. She'd ignored her own pain and had helped others.

Maybe she wanted to live after all.

Death's voice came, still and small, and so close it was as if he were right beside her:
Chin up, Black Rider.

Lisa lifted her chin, then turned around to face the fiery gaze of War.

***

The mouse looked as if she'd keel over and die.

War snorted, a sound echoed by the red steed standing to her left. How could Death have gifted such a weak-kneed girl with the phenomenal power of a Horseman? War shook her head. No matter how long she rode, she would never understand the Pale Rider.

Of course, most creatures didn't understand Death.

The two steeds faced off, posturing and challenging, as War waited for the girl to turn around (for even one such as she wouldn't stab an unarmed opponent in the back). She loomed over the girl. She didn't even need her Sword to kill her; she could lift the mouse by the hair and thigh and snap her spine over a bent knee. Or maybe she'd just twist the girl's neck until that sweet snap filled War's ears.

Yes. She'd do it quick. The girl was a Horseman, however unbelievable that was. Out of courtesy for the office, War would make it quick. She smiled, moved by her own magnanimity. All good wars had rules, after all. Even the Red Rider followed a certain decorum.

Something happened, then, as War flexed her hands and imagined the feeling of the girl's neck between her powerful fingers: the frail thing that was currently Famine paused in her quaking and sweating.

War arched a brow. Curious. Perhaps the girl was praying; her fear-stench had slowly given way to the subtle aroma of reflection. A smile flitted across War's mouth, hidden by her helmet. She had little patience for religion (although she approved heartily of the religious fanatics who sought to cleanse the world of heresy), and the only faith War had was in cold steel and hot blood.

Three heartbeats later, the mouse stood taller. And damned if now she didn't reek of the spicy scent of determination.

Most interesting. War waited to see what the girl would do.

The mouse turned around, her head held high, her hands fisted by her sides. She no longer looked like a victim, War noticed. She had an aura of confidence that hadn't been there before, a quiet acceptance of inner strength and peace.

War had no patience at all for peace.

"I'm helping people," the girl said in a voice that didn't waver, a voice that sounded nothing like that of the scared little thing War had found outside a restaurant in Sydney, sick from her own power.

"Are you?" War replied, bemused despite herself. She was still going to kill the impudent thing—she wasn't about to deal with another Famine who didn't know her place—but first she could amuse herself with talk; a game, appropriately enough, of cat and mouse.

Stroking the naked Sword that was her symbol of office, War regarded the newest Famine. Yes, the girl had found her backbone. War supposed she could respect that, however grudgingly. She found no sport in slaughtering the weak.

The mouse stared back brazenly, her power's black touch already leaking into her eyes. They glittered, birdlike, as she looked back at War. The Red Rider paused. For a moment, it seemed the girl was contemplating how War would taste.

Within her helm, War grinned. So the mouse thought she was a tiger, eh?

"I am," the girl said, as if in answer to War's thought. "And I'm afraid there won't be any fighting on the menu today."

The grin faded. "Is that so, Mouse?"

"It is."

No longer amused, War decided to end the game. "You think you know the fate of this flyspeck village? Another day or month of food, and you think you've saved them all?" War snorted her derision. "You're even more of an idiot than I'd thought."

The mouse flared her nostrils, but she didn't reply.

"I've been working here for decades," War growled, her voice dripping scorn like blood from a pierced heart, "slowly enticing the people here to give in to their primal natures."

"People have all sorts of natures," the girl said. "All sorts of appetites."

War chuckled, low and lush. "Yes, appetites. You weren't here for the food riots, Mouse. They were glorious. Shops looted. Cars burned. People died, ripped apart in the fray. The peacekeepers gassed the protesters, shot them with rubber bullets that left them battered and broken." War smiled at the memory. "People get violent when they're hungry."

"Sometimes," the mouse said, "they just get stupid."

War's mouth dropped open. "You
dare?
"

"You should leave now," the girl said, her voice dreamlike. "You're not welcome here."

War was too furious to be shocked. She bellowed, "You think you can reverse all I've done here? You think you can banish War from this place? Think again, girl!" With a snarl, War brandished the Sword, holding it high. "You can't banish
me.
The
world
is my domain. I own everything I look at!"

The girl had the audacity to smile. "Do you now?"

War's vision clouded in a red mist. She was going to kill the girl slowly. She was going to carve her like a turkey and feed chunks of her body to the red warhorse.

"I do," War growled. "I always have. War is every human's birthright. Man against man, man against woman, man against animal, man against nature—it's all war." She grinned, her teeth sharp, her lip pulped and bloody. "I am
everywhere
, girl. Who are you, to think you could ever threaten
me?
"

The mouse—no, not a mouse at all, War noted through the red fury of her vision, but the Horseman of Famine—spread her hands, and shadows crawled up her arms as if in answer to her summons, flowing over her shoulders and down her torso and legs and feet, clothing her in a coat and pants and boots of darkness. Beneath a wide-rimmed black hat, her obsidian eyes crackled with power. And in her black-gloved hand, the Scales shone brightly.

"I am Famine," the Black Rider said. "And I'm telling you to get your armored ass out of here before I suck you dry."

"Oh," War said with a laugh, smiling as she lost herself to the blood lust that would give her the power to kill and kill and kill. "You just made the last mistake of your feeble little life."

With a roar, War charged.

***

It was like something out of a dream. Lisa had decided she wanted to live, and she'd turned to face War. And as she'd stared up at the warrior woman—the one who'd promised her death, the one who criticized and controlled and sought to dominate through fear—she realized she was gazing upon the embodiment of the Thin voice.

Pestilence had told her so: "
War has been known to twist things her own way.
" Yes, that was the Thin voice.

Death had told her so, and more plainly: "
She can be brutal. She likes to draw it out. Slowly. And rather painfully.
" And that was the Thin voice, too.

And War herself, of course. From atop her red steed, War had decreed it:
Mind your betters.
Oh, that was the Thin voice, telling her again and again that Lisa was nothing, was worthless, was pathetic.

Lisa was sick of the Thin voice. She was sick of being bullied, of being told she wasn't good enough, of feeling horrible about herself and about her life, of being helpless.

Of being a mouse.

And with that, Lisa was no longer afraid of War, or of the Thin voice, or of life. Lisa spoke to War, telling her that she, Lisabeth Lewis, was helping people and that there wouldn't be any fighting on the menu today. (She'd thought that particularly clever, what with her being Famine.)

War hadn't thought Lisa especially clever. War had shouted, and blustered, and threatened. Blah, blah, blah. Lisa tried talking to her, but really, it was rather funny watching this looming presence be reduced to nothing more than Shakespearean sound and fury.

So Lisa had smiled.

And then War raised her sword high—her
Sword
, Lisa understood, War's symbol of office—and Lisa knew that War intended to cut her down where she stood.

"
You are fUll of fear," Death says, "when instead you should be comfortable with your own strength.
"

And she was, Lisa realized, her smile broadening. For the first time since the Thin voice had whispered to her, Lisabeth Lewis welcomed her own inner strength.

With that acceptance, she welcomed the power that flooded her. Black on black on black, Famine rippled over her, transforming her into a Horseman. In her hand, the Scales gleamed. Once again, the voices of the world opened up to her, but they were no longer screaming. They were humming, singing, filling her with energy. They were the voices of the hungry, beckoning to her like friends, compelling her to feed them.

Grinning madly at the Red Rider, Famine declared her challenge.

And War charged.

***

Later, the people would tell the tale of the Shadow and the Fire, the story of the two
loa
who fought for the souls of those living in the war-torn, hungry land.

The Mambo would recount the battle, and listeners would grip their white candles, heedless of the hot wax spilling onto their fingers, their bodies swaying to the rhythm of the Mambo's words and the drums thumping like a heartbeat.

The people would listen, enthralled. For when
loa
battle, the world stands still and all living things tremble as they wait for judgment.

***

War surged forward, the Sword high and already arcing to cut Lisa in two. Lisa threw herself to the side just before the weapon sliced down. She hit the muddy ground and rolled, clutching the Scales to her chest until she was back on her feet, her symbol of office held in front of her, glowing with power.

Lisa had time to notice three things.

One: She wasn't dead. Actually, she'd just moved like some sort of ninja superhero. How freaking awesome was that? If she weren't so busy trying to stay alive, she would have cheered.

Two: She was wearing a killer black outfit, complete with hat, gloves, and boots. Who knew that Famine could make such a fashion statement?

Three: The two steeds were fighting, all hooves and teeth, and if Lisa didn't want to get trampled to death she had better stay on the far left of what had turned into a battlefield.

Speaking of staying alive ... yikes. As Lisa had been fascinated over the various perks that came with being Famine, War regained her balance. She drew the large sword back two handedly, like a baseball bat, and whirled to knock Lisa out of the ballpark—in pieces.

Lisa dropped down, crouching and planting her left hand on the ground for balance, thinking,
Crap crap crap crap.
This part wasn't so cool. Actually, this part was scary.

Be comfortable with your own strength.

Lisa didn't know whether that was just her memory of Death or whether the man himself was speaking in her mind. It didn't matter. Clenching her teeth to keep from screaming, Lisa surrendered herself to her power, allowed herself to trust Famine. It welcomed her with a black embrace, sliding into her mind like a hot knife through butter.

The Scales
, Famine told her.

Scales. Got it.
Lisa held the symbol aloft like a shield as War brought her own weapon down in a killing stroke. Sword met Scales, the two clanging in death knells, the impact hard enough to make Lisa's bones vibrate.

But she was still alive.

She heard one of the horses shriek with rage and pain. Fearing for Midnight, Lisa glanced to the right. And then War's boot slammed into her, knocking her off balance and turning her belly to mush.

Lisa tumbled to the ground, her breath knocked out of her, her stomach throbbing. God, it hurt—even worse than when she'd woken up feeling as if there were a knife in her guts. She lay there stunned for a moment, just trying to breathe and to ride out the pain, thinking,
Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.

Then her eyes widened as War loomed over her, Sword raised high.

"Mouse-ka-bob!" War shouted happily. Her weapon speared down.

Roll!
Famine cried.

Lisa rolled. The Sword caught her coat, which let go with a meaty rip.

Get space between you
, Famine told her.
Back up.

Panting, Lisa scrambled to her feet, clutching the Scales to her chest as she backed away. Her black gaze was locked on War, who was yanking her weapon free from the muddy ground.

The mud
, Lisa thought. Mud was just waterlogged soil. And she had an intimate understanding of water.

Remembering the feeling of pulling water out of the rice plants, Lisa reached out with the Scales, focusing through the symbol of Famine, shaping her desire:
push
more water into the already wet soil. Power rolled out of her in an electric wave, sizzling as it touched the ground beneath the Red Rider.

"You missed," War chortled.

Lisa said, "Wait for it."

The mud beneath War's armored boots loosened. The female knight sank down in the wet ground until she was in mud up to her shins—and even then the ground pulled at her, hungry.

"Trickery!" War struggled to free first one foot, then the other. But as soon as she pulled free, the weight of her armor dragged her back down. Her ankles pinned, War bellowed in wordless rage.

Sweating from effort, Lisa concentrated on the mud, and War was pulled down until her thighs were covered.

Lisa was swaying on her feet now, and her head was pounding. She was lightheaded, dizzy. Her strength ebbed, and her stomach was a bundle of agony. Sweating, she knew she couldn't keep this up. And as soon as she stopped, War would break free and kill her. There had to be another way.