War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 12

  Zara gives me a small smile, but it quickly falls away when cheering rises from the festivities.

  “Why are they happy?” she asks, listening to the sounds.

  “The fuck if I know.” I take another sip from my cup.

  I can feel her staring at me, weighing my words.

  “What?” I finally say.

  “If you hate them so much why were you fighting with them?”

  I glance at her, lowering my drink. “Why did you choose allegiance over death?” I ask.

  She doesn’t say anything to that. There isn’t anything to say. It’s all so very complicated.

  I slosh around the liquid in my cup. “I have been fighting,” I admit, “but I’ve been targeting the horseman’s army, not the civilians.”

  Zara gives me a sharp look. “You can do that?” She looks intrigued.

  “Not with impunity, no.” Eventually someone will catch me and I’ll have to face the consequences of killing War’s army. They don’t really like traitors here.

  “But you haven’t gotten punished for it?” Zara presses.

  I hesitate. “Not yet.” There it is again, that word—yet. Because it’s inevitable that something bad will happen to all of us.

  The two of us are silent for a bit, but eventually, I have to ask—

  “Where in God’s name did you find the courage to fire a gun?”

  I can’t tell if Zara’s smiling or frowning at the reminder. “I didn’t have a lot left to lose, and I was so mad. So, so mad. I’m still mad. I just grabbed my family’s gun and hunted that asshole down.

  Family.

  Oh God. I feel my horror spread through me. Of course she had family. And now I’m left to wonder what she saw before she picked up that firearm and decided that fuck it, I’ll take my chances.

  “How did you stop the horseman from killing me?” Zara asks then.

  It’s such a reasonable question, but there is so much to that question that I don’t want to answer.

  “I asked him to spare you,” I say, glad that the darkness shadows my face.

  There’s a pause. Then Zara says, “That’s not really what I’m asking.”

  I know. What she wants to know is why would War listen to me at all.

  I bring my drink to my lips and swallow almost all of it, wincing at the taste.

  Just tell her.

  “He thinks I’m his wife.”

  More silence.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Zara eventually says.

  “I think it might eventually mean”—my mouth dries—“sex, but for now, it’s an empty title.”

  I think of the times the horseman and I have kissed, and I am so conflicted. So, so conflicted.

  Zara’s silent, undoubtedly because I’m making no sense. One should either be married or not married, having sex or not having sex. Anything else deserves a larger explanation.

  One that I’m not really ready to give, partially because I don’t understand the situation much myself.

  “So you have some sway over him,” Zara eventually says.

  Sway?

  I mull that over. “Maybe for isolated incidents—like sparing your life—but no, he’s pretty unbending when it comes to killing us all off.”

  “Have you tried to convince him to stop?”

  I give Zara a look that I’m sure she can’t see in the darkness. “Of course I’ve tried.”

  It’s not good enough, that annoying little voice says in my head. Try again. And again. And try harder.

  Zara exhales. “Why is he doing this?”

  “Because his god told him to, or some bullshit like that.”

  “You don’t believe in his God?” she asks, sounding surprised.

  My eyes move to Zara’s headscarf. “Do you?” I ask.

  We’re both quiet.

  Like I said, it’s all so very complicated.

  Chapter 17

  That night it takes longer than usual to fall asleep. Between the battle today, the revelation that War can raise the dead, and the exciting possibility that I might’ve actually made a friend in Zara, my brain won’t shut off.

  It doesn’t help that following the camp’s festivities this evening, people are loud and obnoxious and they won’t go to sleep. I can hear several groups of women talking about this or that.

  Just go the fuck to bed and put us all out of our misery.

  Eventually, the voices do quiet down and I slip off to sleep.

  I feel like I’ve only been asleep for an instant when I wake to a tingling sensation on the back of my neck that something isn’t right.

  Rule Four of my survival guide: listen to your instincts. I’ve lived on the edge long enough to know they’re rarely wrong.

  Reaching under my pallet, I grab War’s dagger. My eyes scour the darkness, searching for the horseman, sure that he’s the one responsible for waking me. But my little home is horseman-free.

  I’m almost disappointed at the thought.

  Outside my tent, I hear several male voices whispering.

  This late at night, men shouldn’t be in this section of camp, especially after a day fighting and an evening drinking.

  For a split second I think that maybe some woman brought them here, or they made plans to meet up with someone here.

  I hear those voices again—there’s at least three of them—and they don’t sound confused, they sound devious.

  Listen to your instincts.

  I move to the back of the tent. The canvas wall is too taut to slip under, so I lift War’s dagger, pressing the tip to the sturdy material.

  If I’m wrong about this, and I cut a hole in my tent for no reason, I’m going to feel like a fool.

  Better a fool than anything else …

  With that, I pierce the canvas. As quietly as I can, begin to saw through the coarse fabric, creating an opening.

  I grit my teeth at the riiiiiiiip of material as I part the canvas.

  Outside, the whispers have gone silent.

  I bite my inner cheek so hard I taste blood.

  Faster! Faster!

  It’s the most agonizing sort of situation, trying to cut that tent as quickly and as quietly as possible. What sound I am making seems deafening to me.

  Finally, the hole is big enough. Clutching my dagger in my fist, I plunge through the opening headfirst—

  Behind me, I hear the slap of my tent flaps being thrown open.

  Dear God dear God dear God.

  I claw my way forward, forcing my torso out of the tent.

  A hand latches onto my leg. “She’s trying to escape!” one of the men whispers as loudly as he dares.

  I let out a shriek, not bothering to stay quiet. Hopefully that’ll wake up the entire camp.

  That hand drags me back inside my tent, and I feel more than see the group of men who have squeezed themselves inside.

  Now I’m trapped in here with them.

  I continue screaming like a banshee. Fuck if I’ll silently let this happen.

  “Shut the fuck up, you stupid slut,” another male voice says.

  I kick out, and I hear something crunch. One of my assailants cries out, releasing my ankle.

  I scramble once more for the opening I made, screaming the entire time.

  More hands catch my ankles and they drag me back in.

  One of them flips me onto my back, and another set of hands rips open my shirt. This time, when the material tears, it sounds like a gunshot.

  Oh God oh God oh God. This isn’t happening.

  Where is everyone?

  Why is no one helping?

  I scream and swipe my dagger in front of me, the blade catching someone’s chest. I feel their hot blood hit me, and the sensation only makes me scream louder.

  My attacker cries out in pain.

  Another hisses, “She’s got a weapon!”

  I’m kicking at them and fighting off their hands, which are busy trying to pin me down and immobilize me.

  I feel knees
on my thighs, hands on the bare flesh of my stomach.

  Oh God, please God, no.

  I scream louder.

  Where the fuck is everyone? We live in a city without true walls, and we are camping in a country that has a strong military background. There has to be at least one other person sober and brave enough to stop this.

  One of my assailants goes for my dagger, leaning in close to grab my wrist. With one last burst of energy, I plunge my blade into the man’s throat.

  I feel his blood spurt out from the wound, and even in the dark and even with the confusion, I’m pretty sure the injury is lethal.

  Now it’s the men who are shouting, panicking.

  “The bitch got Sayid!”

  “You filthy whore!”

  Someone kicks me in the ribs so hard my scream cuts off. Another booted foot kicks me again, this one just above my ear.

  I curl in on myself, covering my head as the men shift from immobilizing me to beating me. I feel the blows everywhere—my arms, legs, torso, head. The pain—

  The pain the pain the pain—I can’t breathe around it. It’s exploding from a hundred different places. I’m losing all my other senses to it.

  It’s blinding, screaming, choking agony.

  Suddenly, I hear a voice like thunder, speaking words I don’t recognize but still understand.

  “Jinsoi mohirsitmon dumu mo mohirsitum!”

  You cross God when you cross me!

  I would recognize that voice if I heard it in hell itself.

  War.

  The beating stops at once. Then there are more screams—high-pitched, horrible noises that animals make as they’re slaughtered—but they don’t come from me.

  I try to open my eyes to see what’s going on, but my eyelids won’t obey my commands.

  A minute later, hands are back on me, slipping under my body. I attempt to shout, to fight against those hands, but my mouth is full of blood and when I try to move one of my arms—blinding pain.

  “Miriam—Miriam.” War’s voice … I’ve never heard it sound like this. Soothing and agonized all at once. “It’s only me.”

  I cry out as he lifts me. “No.” The word comes out garbled as I try to push his hands away.

  “Ssssh. You’re safe.” War’s voice is deep and rough and terrible and—shaken. Or maybe my ringing ears are playing tricks on me.

  I still can’t see and I can barely move. I’m frightened of my own vulnerability, but I feel … I feel protected. For the moment. In his arms. It’s all so fucked up.

  War barks orders at someone, and I flinch at the wrath in his voice.

  “My wife, my wife,” he says, his voice soothing and shaken once again, “you are safe, you are safe.”

  Everything hurts. God, but everything hurts. As we begin to move, the pain goes from blinding to unimaginable.

  I’m helpless.

  Where is my mind going … ?

  I mean, where am I going … going … what was I thinking? Things are moving and fading so fast … so, so fast …

  And then that voice cutting through the darkness like a blade.

  “I vow to you, they will pay.”

  Chapter 18

  I wake to the feel of hands on me, and the touch is terrible and unwelcome.

  I gasp, beginning to struggle.

  Where is my dagger?

  Why can’t I open my eyes?

  The pain returns like an unwelcome admirer, and I sob at the blinding intensity of it.

  “Steady, wife,” War’s voice rumbles.

  It’s his hands that are on me, I realize. What is he doing?

  “Stop stop stop,” I moan, trying to push his hands away. “It hurts.” Everywhere. It hurts everywhere.

  “I’m sorry, Miriam,” he says, but a moment later, his touch returns.

  “No, no, no.” I begin to fight against him.

  Why the fuck can’t I see?

  These hands are not like the others. They hold me fast, and nothing I do seems to dislodge them.

  “I’m not going to harm you, Miriam. Please, I need you to hold still.”

  I don’t hold still. All I can remember is the sound of my shirt ripping and the feel of those unwanted hands against my skin, and then the pain. All the pain.

  I’m struggling, panting. And then my senses fade away …

  This time, when I wake, War’s blurry form fills my vision. He leans over me, his brow creased and his dark eyes heavy. I feel the warm press of his palms against my skin.

  “What’s going on?” I murmur.

  He frowns, his body close. Alarmingly close. I reach out to push him away. Instead my hand slides uselessly against his cheek.

  “Sleep, Miriam.”

  “No,” I say almost petulantly as War’s form shifts in and out of focus.

  When his features sharpen, I see him give me a whisper of a smile. “You have a fighting spirit, wife, and I am pleased beyond measure by it, but you don’t need to battle me. You are safe now.”

  Am I safe with a horseman looming above me?

  My head hurts too much for me to decide one way or another.

  I try to focus on him, but my eyelids are heavy and they keep closing.

  I don’t want to sleep. I really, really don’t. But the pain has worn me out.

  My eyelids settle shut and every last worry fades away.

  The first thing I notice is the warm touch against my brow. By now I recognize that touch. The horseman’s hands are defter and kinder than those that attacked me last night.

  War brushes my hair back, murmuring things too low for me to understand.

  I sigh at the feel of his hands on my skin. There’s no more pain with the sensation; if anything, it’s oddly soothing at the moment.

  In response to my sigh, his hand pauses, his fingers pressing into my flesh.

  I don’t yet open my eyes. I’m not ready to deal with the fallout from last night. Already the aches and pains are resurfacing. I’m not sure I want to face my current situation.

  But I’m not falling back to sleep, and I can only pretend for so long.

  I open my eyes.

  War sits next to where I lay, his thigh nearly pressed to my side. He stares down at me, his eyes looking light this close to me.

  “You’re awake.” His gaze searches mine. “How do you feel?”

  “Like shit,” I croak out.

  My lips are split and swollen, a headache is starting to pound behind one of my eyes, my torso feels like one throbbing ache, and my throat is raw—though that last one was probably from being throttled by a zombie, not my would-be rapists.

  This bitch just can’t catch a break.

  War’s hand flexes against my skin, but he doesn’t move it away from where it rests against my forehead.

  “How long have I been out?” I ask.

  “Just for the evening.” Slowly, he begins to brush my hair back again with his fingers, watching me like he’s sure I’m going to push his hand away the moment I get the chance.

  I think I was doing that a lot last night.

  Now for the harder questions. “My injuries—how bad are they?” Damn, but it hurts to speak. My teeth feel loose and my jaw aches.

  The horseman gets a dark look on his face. “They were … significant.”

  Were?

  “Can you tell me more than that?” I ask him softly. I’m scared to move and feel the pain ripple down my body.

  A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Wife, I am used to breaking things, not repairing them. I cannot tell you precisely what injuries you sustained, only that there were many of them. Your body was swollen and bruised and broken when I took you from your tent.”

  I shiver at the reminder.

  Now the hardest question of all. “My attackers …” I’m supposed to say more—there’s a question I need to get out, but I can’t seem to voice it.

  A look comes over War’s face, like he’s some wrathful god of old. “Captured, tortured, and left to suffer until their ti
me of judgment.” His voice reverberates, the sound of it causing my flesh to chill.

  If I took this situation any less personally, I’d almost feel bad for those men. But, I don’t, so let them fucking burn.

  I push myself up then, groaning as I do so. Everything—and I mean ev-ery-thing—hurts like a bitch.

  And it’s only once the sheets slip off my torso that I realize I’m still wearing my shirt from last night—my ruined shirt. It gapes open and nothing but the grace of God prevents my nipples from popping out to say hello.

  War and I are now sitting side-by-side, me on a cushioned pallet, him on the ground next to it, and our shoulders and legs touch. I must be doing better than I was last night because even though I’m hurting, I’m still aware of every point of contact between us.

  I force myself to note my surroundings.

  Today, I’m back in War’s tent. He must have carried me here last night, after he rescued me.

  Which means the pallet I’m sitting on … is War’s. My stomach drops. I was trying to avoid ending up in this very place.

  I try to focus on that, to hold onto the overwhelmingly bad situation I’ve found myself in with the horseman, but all I can think about was that he stopped those men and spent the night tending to me, and I’m fucking grateful to him.

  So fucking grateful.

  I wasn’t when he spared my life in Jerusalem, nor was I very grateful when he stopped the zombie attacking me, but I now am.

  Just then a soldier calls from outside the tent, “My Lord, there’s a matter with a new rider that needs—”

  “It can wait,” War says.

  My gaze flicks over him, lingering on the sensual curve of his mouth.

  Why am I thinking about his mouth?

  “You can go,” I say to him. “I’ll be fine.”

  War glances at me, and I see his hesitation.

  “Seriously. I’m not going to die—thanks to you,” I tack on.

  The horseman’s eyes deepen at that. His lips part, and I think he might respond, but instead, his gaze moves over my face, pausing here and there, his eyes getting more and more violent.

  I must look like royal shit for his mood to darken at the sight of me.

  “They will be fine without me,” he states.

  “I’ve lived on my own for seven years,” I insist, pulling the fabric of my shirt tight over my chest. “I’ll be fine while you’re gone.” I could use a little privacy.