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He just blinks. Then again, I guess a dude who exiled himself to the forest for god only knows how long might not exactly be brushed up on all the social niceties.
I drop my spoon in my empty bowl. “So what are you? ’Cause we both know you aren’t human either.”
His eyes flick my way, and not for the first time, I’m a little stunned by the piercing, translucent gray of them. Especially now that he’s more cleaned up.
Still, so much of his face is hidden behind his bushy blond beard that I feel like I don’t have an idea of what he looks like beyond those stunning, deep-set eyes peeking out from beyond the strong bone of his brow. “I told you. I am Famine.”
I arch an eyebrow. Is he serious? “You weren’t kidding with that whole Horseman of the Apocalypse thing?”
He shakes his head, and I let out a low whistle. I guess the whole staring at me while I eat thing makes a little more sense now.
“Can you control it or just everywhere you go—” I hold out a hand, gesturing vaguely.
“I stay away from people.”
Damn. And here I was, all caught up in my own shit, whining about how bad I have it.
“So you’ve, like, what? Been out in the middle of the forest all alone? For how long?” I blink, reaching to take a sip of the cup of cool spring water I poured myself before coming in. Maybe Horsemen of the Apocalypse are like my supernatural family and a new one gets born every twenty-five years?
“Two hundred years or so.”
“What?” I cry, doing a spit-take. “You were out there for two hundred years?”
He just shrugs as I swipe my forearm across my mouth and jump up from where I’m sitting at the roughhewn little table. “What about before that?”
Another shrug. “With my family.”
“Well, what the hell happened to them?” I cry, moving to sit beside him on the bed. He winces away from me, and I’m not sure if it’s because his body aches after moving for the first time in centuries or because he’s trying to angle the messed-up stumps on his back away from me so I can’t see them.
“Shit,” I pop back up to my feet. “Let me get you something to wear. You must be so cold just being in that towel.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “The fire is warm. Much warmer than I’ve been in a long, long time.”
I’m already walking toward the wardrobe of the small, one-room cabin, but I look back at him. Jesus Christ, how many winters did he spend in these mountain woods, covered feet deep in snow? Months every year just covered and waiting for the spring defrost?
How could anybody—any being—live like that?
“Where is your family now?” I ask as I pull open a dresser drawer. I yank out a slightly musty but otherwise clean, thick-knitted sweater. Another drawer produces some men’s work pants. They’ll probably be too big on him with as emaciated as he is, but we’ll find something to use as a belt. “Can they help you?”
“No,” he barks. “They’re no good to me.”
Okaaaaay. Touchy subject, obviously. But I get it; I really do. Talking about family is one thing that lights up all my buttons, too. I wonder if it’s just a supernatural thing or if most people’s families are super screwed up. Maybe when you add power into the mix, it just jacks it up to extra fucked levels. But I also note he didn’t say that he didn’t have a family. So he’s got someone out there, somewhere. Other creatures like him?
I carry the clothing over to him and set it on the bed.
His brow narrows. I try to make out what the expression on his face might mean, but it’s difficult with only a little skin beneath his wild hair and beard exposed to show what on earth he might actually be thinking.
So, I decide discretion is the better part of valor and all that. “I’ll be in the bathroom while you change.” It’s the only other room in the place. “Just knock on the door when you’re done.”
He gives a slight shake of his head that I interpret as a nod and head to the bathroom.
When I open the door to the little room, I find a closet barely big enough to close myself inside. Aha, I should have known. A house like this is really old school—no inside bathrooms. There must be an outhouse out back. Either way, I shut the door behind me as best I can to give my new friend as much privacy as possible while he changes.
I listen in case he tries to make a run for it after he’s got his new clothes on. I’m more gratified than I probably should be when I hear his light footsteps on the wood heading toward my little closet. His knock is light, and I all but tumble out on top of him.
He looks surprised but stays silent as I push past him, my elbow brushing his. He yanks his back dramatically, likely out of habit, and I wonder exactly how old he is.
Then again, I’m not sure what it matters. I don’t know how old I am. I mean, on my human birth certificate, it says I was born nineteen years ago, but secretly, I know that’s a lie.
