War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 6

  The first thing I see is War’s massive frame sitting on a bench. He’s still clad in his red leather armor, still covered in dust and blood. His eyes catch sight of me just as he begins to remove an arm guard.

  “Miriam,” he says by way of greeting.

  I swallow.

  War’s tent is filled with a table and chairs, a bed and several chests that must contain all of his spoils of war. Brightly woven rugs and pillows are scattered throughout the space, and then there are the weapons. Swords and daggers, double-headed axes and bows and arrows sit on various surfaces. He’s clearly fond of sharp objects.

  It’s all so very lethal and luxurious, but it’s hard to take in when I can barely stand to look away from War himself.

  “Why am I here?” I ask, lingering near the doorway.

  War pauses in his work. Setting aside his loosened piece of armor, he stands, his kohl-darkened eyes moving to mine.

  My knees go a little weak, having the full force of War’s focus on me.

  God, but he’s handsome—handsome the way deadly things are. He has no soft edges, from his sharp jaw to his full, wicked lips. And then there’s his violent, violent eyes.

  “How are you, wife?” he says, not bothering to speak in tongues. “Enjoying yourself?”

  No, not fucking really.

  I have to fight myself from taking a step back, especially when he takes a step forward. There’s still meters and meters between us.

  “I heard you were adventurous this morning,” he says.

  He’s been keeping tabs on me?

  I swallow delicately. “And?”

  He removes his back holster, his sword and sheath coming loose. I stare at the blade that so recently slaughtered a man.

  “I was told that you make weapons,” he says casually.

  I close my eyes for a moment.

  That soldier must’ve told War everything, including the fact that the horseman supposedly okayed my being in those woods.

  I don’t mean to start shaking, but I do. I just saw this man turn a person into a human kabob for betraying him, and now he knows that I tried to defy him too.

  “Apparently, I approved these plans of yours.”

  This is why I have a rule against lying. It’s so easy to get caught.

  I open my eyes and defiantly raise my chin.

  He walks up to me, each footfall ominous. War steps in close—far too close. “Don’t ever use me in a lie again,” he says, his voice low.

  I hear the unspoken threat in his words.

  Or else I will punish you.

  And I’ve now seen War’s justice. It’s every bit as terrifying as I could imagine.

  The horseman’s eyes search my face. “You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you, wife?” He studies me some more. “Yes, definitely trouble,” he says to himself.

  War removes the last of the space between us, his leather armor brushing against my chest. He’s close enough for me to see the gold flecks in his eyes. Those eyes are terrifying. Beautiful and terrifying.

  “You’re wrong if you think that angers me.” His smile is menacing. “Everything you are has been made for me.”

  This arrogant bastard. I bet he thinks all humans were created for his entertainment. To fight, to fuck, to kill.

  The horseman reaches out and draws a finger over my collarbone, his gaze never leaving mine.

  “I saw you, and for the first time, I wanted.”

  His words pucker my flesh.

  “And so, I took.”

  Chapter 7

  War’s touch pauses on my skin. “To think you almost got away.” He backs away then, reaching for his vambrace, his fingers unlacing the arm guard. “It’s a good thing you didn’t.”

  He’s well and truly inhuman. Nothing of this earth could frighten me the way he does.

  I’ve now tried to escape the horseman twice within that many days—once through death and once through desertion. If he’s just as merciless as he’s made himself seem, then my actions will have consequences.

  “Can you really make weapons?” he asks.

  I pause, unsure where he’s going with this.

  “I’m not very good at it,” I say after a moment.

  He glances up. “Is that a yes?”

  Reluctantly, I nod.

  War’s gaze drops to my lips. “Good. Then you will make my army these weapons I commissioned.”

  Another fucking reason why I should never, ever break Rule Two and lie. Because now I have the job I made up only hours ago.

  “I can’t make anything without my tools,” I say. “And those are back in my flat.”

  War stares at me for several moments, perhaps trying to figure out whether I’m lying again. “Where did you live?”

  Did. Past tense.

  I stare at the horseman as that sinks in. As far as he’s concerned, my house is a thing of the past; this tented city is my home now.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I rattle off my address. I normally wouldn’t give it out, but … if War’s seriously suggesting that he’ll get my tools for me, then I’ll take him up on it. After all, I’m being watched too closely to escape this place anytime soon.

  “Can I go now?”

  War’s searching gaze is back on me. He takes me in for several seconds, then redirects his attention to removing his armor.

  “You don’t believe in God, do you?” he says.

  Guess I don’t get to leave yet.

  In spite of myself I raise my eyebrows. “Why do you ask?”

  The corner of his mouth lifts, like the answer is some inside joke that I wouldn’t get. “It’s curious.”

  “Why is it curious?”

  War’s eyes move back to mine. “Come closer and I’ll tell you.”

  He dangles the answer like bait.

  I take a single step towards him.

  Again, that smile, only this time it appears a little less humorous, a little more dangerous.

  “Cowardice doesn’t suit you, wife.”

  “I am not a coward,” I say from my safe distance away from him.

  His dark gaze is weighty on mine. “Then prove it.”

  Be brave.

  I haltingly close the distance between us, until I can smell the sweat and dust clinging to him.

  “Not a coward after all.” The horseman scrutinizes me. “As for your question—it’s curious that you don’t believe in God when I exist.”

  “Why should that be strange? You aren’t God.”

  I believe War is a supernatural entity. It’s everything else that I find hard to believe.

  The horseman is completely unfazed by my words and the challenge in them.

  “I’m not,” he agrees.

  The horseman breaks eye contact to remove a greave, and I exhale sharply at the loss of that gaze on me. I don’t know why it feels like a loss; every time his eyes fall on me, I tremble like a leaf.

  “I believe in God,” I say. “I just don’t believe in your God.”

  My mother was Jewish, my father was Muslim. I grew up believing in everything and nothing all at once.

  “That’s too bad,” War says, eyeing me, “because He seems to have taken an interest in you.”

  There are more days of raids, days where the pounding of hoof beats marks the beginning of the day, and the bloody parade that returns marks its end.

  It’s only on the fourth day when the sounds change.

  I blink my eyes open and stare at the worn wood poles above me. Outside, I can hear women chatting.

  I rub my eyes, stifling a yawn as I sit up. My knee knocks into a pile of branches that take up most of the room in my tent.

  War made good on his end of the deal—I’ve been allowed to gather wood for weapon-making. With a chaperon, of course.

  I give the pile an extra deliberate kick.

  Rolling off my pallet, I grab my boots and begin to shove them on. Once I’m finished, I run my hands through my dark brown hair. These days I sleep in my clothe
s—I’m not brave enough to risk anything else in a city with no true doors—so I simply smooth down my shirt before I head outside.

  All around me, tents are being broken down and packed up. I glance about in confusion. A woman bustles by.

  “Excuse me,” I say to her, “what’s going on?”

  She gives me a look like it should be obvious. “We’re moving.”

  Moving.

  Even now, when my tent is nothing more than a pile of sticks and cloth at my feet, the idea tightens my gut.

  I hadn’t anticipated moving. But naturally that’s what a terrorizing horde does. They move and raid, move and raid.

  “Miriam.”

  I nearly jump at the voice behind me. When I swivel around, two men wearing red arm bands stand at my back. War’s phobos riders.

  “The warlord wants to see you.”

  My gut clenches again. It’s been half a week since I last spoke to the horseman, and I can’t decide whether I’m now terrified or exhilarated at the thought of meeting with him again. I had convinced myself that whatever interest he initially had in me had passed. That perhaps he’d found another woman to pester and call wife for seemingly no reason at all.

  War’s palatial tent is still up. It’s one of the last structures left standing. And when I step inside, the man himself is in there, wearing black pants and a black shirt, a knife strapped to his waist. He kneels in front of an open chest, his back to me and my escorts.

  “My Lord,” announces one of the phobos riders next to me, “we’ve brought her.”

  War doesn’t react immediately, choosing instead to settle whatever item he’s holding into the chest. He closes the piece of furniture, running his hands along the lid.

  “You may go,” he says, not bothering to speak in tongues. I guess he saves his gibberish for the general announcements he makes to camp.

  On either side of me, War’s phobos riders retreat. I begin to leave with them.

  “Not you, Miriam.”

  I pause mid-step, the hairs along my arms rising. I want to say it’s because I’m spooked, but there’s a note to his voice … it makes me think of soft sheets and warm skin.

  I swallow, swiveling back around.

  War stands and faces me then, looking giant and magnificent and frightening all at once. The menace that rolls off of him in waves has nothing to do with his armor or his weaponry. There is something intrinsic about him that incites fear.

  He takes me in for several seconds. Long enough for me to think he definitely hasn’t replaced me with another wife. My heart rate ratchets up at the thought.

  “I have something for you,” he says.

  I raise my eyebrows. I don’t think I want anything that the horseman has to offer.

  When he just continues to stare at me, my eyebrows nudge up a little higher. “Are you going to go get this gift?” I ask.

  “I want to gaze at you first, wife. Will you deny me even this?” His eyes hold a heaviness to them, and I’m not sure what to make of it. Every time I think he’s going to go left, he goes right. For four days the horseman kept his distance. Now he’s making it sound like he’s been starved to see me.

  I can’t make sense of him.

  But I can deny him.

  Unfortunately, before I get the chance to do exactly that, War moves to the corner of his tent, grabbing a sack that rests there. He saunters over to me, his black shirt hugging his frame as he does so. He dumps the bag at my feet.

  It only takes a moment for me to recognize my old canvas satchel.

  But I’d left that back at …

  My eyes snap to War. “You saw my flat?”

  I try to imagine the horseman filling up my home, his sharp eyes moving over my space. He would’ve seen all the mementos I’ve kept of my family. He would’ve seen my messy workbench—made even messier by whoever raided the place—he would’ve seen the pictures hanging on the walls and the wall clock and the cluttered kitchen and my dirty clothes and my rumpled bed and a dozen other personal details.

  What must he have thought, looking at my things?

  When he doesn’t respond, I turn my attention back to my satchel. Kneeling in front of the bag, I open it.

  My eyes first land on my leather roll. I pull the case out and unravel it. My various wood-working tools are tucked into its soft pockets. I set it aside and return to my satchel.

  I catch sight of sandpaper and a couple clamps; it looks like he might’ve even packed one of my smaller saws and my axe.

  War really did it. He brought me my tools from my house. I didn’t expect him to.

  I still can’t believe he saw my place. It makes me feel oddly exposed, like he’s peered into my mind and seen its contents.

  The tent flaps rustle then, and a phobos rider enters. “My Lord, we need to begin packing your things.”

  War nods, and the rider moves to grab one of the smaller chests before leaving the tent.

  Once the soldier is gone, the horseman closes the distance between us, his body eclipsing all our surroundings.

  “You are to ride next to me.”

  “Do you order around all your ‘wives’?” I ask.

  War’s eyebrow arches. “You think there are others?” War gives me that smile of his, the one that’s fucking terrifying.

  More of the horseman’s men enter the tent, immediately getting to work packing his things.

  “Someone will see to your horse,” War says, backing away from me. “I look forward to our ride.”

  I don’t understand why we have to ride horses when bikes exist. Bikes don’t get hungry or tired, they don’t shit, and they definitely don’t try to kick you because they’re temperamental bastards.

  Though, to be fair, an army of soldiers on bikes doesn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of men.

  I stare down at Thunder, the horse I’m sitting on. I only barely managed to avoid getting punted by this beast, and now I have to ride him.

  Pretty sure the horse senses my inadequacy as a human being.

  It takes an eternity for camp to ready itself. By the time everything is packed up, the horde is now gathered into one giant procession made up of mounted soldiers, hitched wagons, and many, many individuals loaded with packs.

  The horseman is the last one to come riding out, looking portentous on his steed. He’s clad once more in his leather armor, his gigantic sword strapped to his back and his gold hair pieces glinting in the sunlight. He doesn’t look like anything that belongs to this century.

  War rides up to my side. “Ready?”

  Not like I have much of a choice. I nod anyway.

  “Follow me.”

  He rides off, his horse racing to the front of the line that’s formed. People cheer as he passes them by, like he’s their savior rather than some supernatural menace. I watch him for several seconds before I coax Thunder to follow the horseman.

  People don’t cheer when I ride by, but I feel their curious, questioning gazes.

  Who is she?

  Why is she following War?

  I make my way to the front of the procession, and then past it altogether.

  There, War waits. His eyes seem to dance as I get closer to him. Once I come to his side, he wordlessly begins to ride, setting the pace for us.

  No hi, no how are you? Just a quiet confidence that I’ll fall into line.

  I glance back at the horde, which is beginning to move. It’s clear from their pace that they’re not going to catch up to us. Never have I wanted such a faithless mass of people to save me as I do now.

  They follow behind us for half a kilometer before the horseman and I pass a bend in the road, and then the two of us are alone.

  The silence swarms in. I wait for War to break it—surely he’s going to break it—but he just rides on, those dangerous eyes of his fixed on the road ahead.

  I clear my throat. “Why did you want me to ride next to you?” I ask, finally breaking the silence.

  “You’re my wife.”


  I’m not your wife, I want to insist. Not in any way that matters.

  The words are right there on the tip of my tongue, but then I study War’s profile, and there’s something so … certain about the way he handles me. I take him in for a bit longer, from his dark, shoulder-length hair to his curving lips and sharp jaw.

  “Why do you think I’m your wife?” I say.

  War’s eyes flick to just beneath my chin.

  “I don’t ‘think’ it,” he says. “I know it.”

  Chills. There it is, that certainty. You’d think that if I was supposed to make a husband out of War, I’d know it too.

  “If I’m your wife, why don’t I sleep in the same tent as you?” I say. “And why don’t—” I stop myself before I can say more.

  The horseman glances at me. Now I’ve caught his interest.

  “Go on,” he says. “Tell me, Miriam, all about the rest.”

  I don’t.

  “Why don’t I fuck you raw and feast on your pussy and keep you chained to my bed like a proper husband?” he finishes for me.

  Chained to the bed like a proper husband?

  I glance over at him. “Who the hell educated you on marriage?”

  Seriously, what the fuck?

  Forget God. This dude has to be a demon.

  War takes one look at my face and laughs. “Is that not what proper husbands do?”

  I have no clue if he’s actually kidding.

  Holy fucking balls.

  “Who says I’m not already married?” I don’t know why I say it. It’s certainly not true.

  For a moment, War doesn’t react. Then, ever so calmly, he glances over.

  “Are you?” he asks softly. “Do you have a husband, Miriam?”

  His voice, those frightening eyes … it sends a chill down my spine, and I remember all over again that this isn’t a man; War is some preternatural creature who kills without remorse.

  “No.” I couldn’t lie under that gaze even if I wanted to.

  War nods. “That’s fortunate for you—and for him.”

  Another chill.

  I suddenly have no doubt that if I were married, this horseman wouldn’t think twice about ending it. I sway unsteadily in my saddle at the thought.

  War is most definitely a demon.

  It’s quiet for a few moments, then while he takes in our surroundings, War asks, “Do you have any family?”