“It’s rude to stare,” I say without looking up from my bowl.
“You’re eating.” He sounds genuinely surprised. Confused, even.
I glance up at him, spoon halfway to my mouth. “You said you didn’t want any more yet.”
He waves a hand—a careful, measured gesture. “Humans usually don’t when they’re around me.”
“What?” I shove another spoonful into my mouth. It’s bland as hell, but filling.
“Eat. Humans don’t usually eat. When I’m around.” Each word comes out precise. Deliberate.
I swallow. “Well, I never said I was human.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What are you then?”
“That’s also pretty fucking rude to ask a girl on a first date, don’t you think?”
His eyes narrow in confusion, and I can’t help but roll mine.
“Jesus, you really need to learn to take a joke. Lighten up, man.”
He just blinks at me. Processes. Blinks again.
Right. He’s just spent who knows how many years laid up in a deep forest. His social skills are probably rusty.
I drop my spoon in my empty bowl with a clatter. “So what are you, anyway? You sticking to that whole Horseman of the Apocalypse schtick?”
His eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, I’m caught again by them. Those piercing, translucent gray irises. Like storm clouds with light bleeding through. Now that he’s cleaned up, they’re even more striking.
I catch myself staring and force my gaze down to my bowl.
“I told you,” he says solemnly. So serious. “I am Famine.”
I let out a low whistle. “Damn.” That explains the staring-while-I-eat thing, I guess. Been a minute since he’s seen that. “Can you control it, or is it just... everywhere you go...” I gesture vaguely.
“I stay away from people.” His voice drops. Like he’s... ashamed.
Something twists in my chest. Here I was bitching about Grandfather’s control. At least I can bearoundpeople without accidentally killing them.
“So you’ve been out in the middle of the forest all alone for how long?” I take a sip of water.
“Two hundred years. Give or take.”
Damn. “What about before that?”
“With my family.” A shrug.
“Well, what the hell happened to them?” The question comes out sharper than I mean it to. I stand and move toward the bed where he’s now sitting up. He winces slightly—probably from his back—and I catch myself. “Shit. Let me get you another pillow or something. You must be uncomfortable.”
“It’s fine,” he says, and there’s something almost reverent in his voice. “The fire is warm. The bed is soft. It’s...” He trails off, looking at the flames. “Much warmer than I’ve been in a very, very long time.”
I pause, staring at him.
Jesus Christ. How many winters did he spend out there? Two hundred I guess. Winters up here in the mountains are cruel. And just sat against that tree, covered in snow and ice for months at a time each year?
The thought makes my stomach clench.
“Where is your family now?” I ask, grabbing another pillow from inside a little chest in the corner. “Can they help you?”
