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there really was no need to rush. Starvation was a slow process. Taking an extra minute to collect Famine wouldn't make any difference at all.
    Besides, if the new Famine had a heart attack, that would put a damper on his entire evening. Better to let the girl calm down.
    Whistling, Death put away his guitar.

Chapter 5
    Leaning against the front door, Lisa blew out a shaky breath and mopped her forehead. She was having a truly terrible night, and she couldn't even blame PMS; she hadn't gotten her period in two months. (Last month, she'd quietly freaked out when she'd realized she was late, but two over-the-counter tests had proven she wasn't pregnant. She figured it was just a blip in her menstrual cycle, probably due to stress. God knew, she had more than enough stress to deal with.)
    Yes, tonight was right up there on the suckascope, as Tammy would have said. Between the instant ashing of the food at the diner and James asking her if she was secretly making herself vomit, it was all Lisa could do not to scream. Her heart was jackhammering in her chest, and she was finding it hard to take a full breath.
Maybe I should take one of Mom's Lexapros
, she thought, yanking her hair away from her face,
or a cup of tea. I have to calm down.
    From upstairs: "Princess? That you?"
    "Hey, Dad." The sound of his voice was enough to kick Lisa into routine. She stripped off her jacket and hung it in the front closet, even though she was cold. She would have kept her jacket on, but she didn't want her father to worry. He was a man who liked everything in its place. Dishes belonged in the cupboard; jackets belonged in the closet. She closed the closet door, deciding that a hot cup of chamomile would be divine. And maybe it would even get her warm again.
    "You're home early," her father called down. "Everything all right?"
    "Not feeling so great, so James brought me back."
    She headed into the kitchen, and a minute later, her father joined her. As she stood by the sink to fill the kettle, she noticed that her dad was clearly well into his third glass of vodka on the rocks—his eyes were beady and red rimmed, and he looked like a breath of air would knock him over. Lisa didn't begrudge his drinking; heck, it was Saturday night, and he wasn't driving anywhere.
    "What's wrong, honey? Boy, you look pale." Her father touched a hand to her forehead, and she did her best not to flinch. Lisa wasn't a touchy-feely sort of girl. Hugs were rare in her family. And it had taken her weeks of dating James to get comfortable with his casual touches. Lately, being physical with him was an exercise in method acting. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy what they did together, but rather that she simply couldn't believe that he
wanted
to be together with her. Every time James touched her, Lisa had to pretend that she was worthy of his affection. It was exhausting.
    "A bit of a stomach thing," she told her father, setting the kettle on the stovetop.
    "Mmm. No fever." Mr. Lewis removed his hand, and Lisa released a breath. "Well," he said, "'tis the season for the flu. I'm sorry your night got cut short."
    She turned the fire on the burner. "It's okay. I'm going to go to bed early."
    "Smart. Want some of the evil pink stuff to coat your stomach?"
    Lisa made a face.
    "Yeah," her dad said, laughing, "I don't blame you. Still, it might help."
    Meh.
"Pass, thanks."
    "If you change your mind, it's in the medicine cabinet."
    She was about to comment along the lines of
Where else would medicine be?
when the phone rang. Lisa grabbed it before her father could blink. "Hello?"
    "Lisabeth," her mother said, sounding surprised and, unless Lisa was mistaken, a little put off. "I'm surprised you're home."
    In other words, Lisa was a loser. Shrinking from the quiet accusation, Lisa mumbled, "Not feeling well."
    "I'm sorry to hear that, dear."
    A pause followed as Lisa waited for her mother to ask what was wrong and Mrs. Lewis waited for Lisa to ask how her trip was. After a full