“You are filthy,” I breathe.
In response, he presses his finger in farther.
Jesus. I feel impossibly full like this, and having him work me from both sides is causing sensation to rapidly build … and build …
“Thanatos—”
It’s too much.
With a cry, I shatter, my orgasm exploding through me.
He groans as I come, and then his hips are pumping feverishly against mine. Moments later, I feel him thicken inside me. Death bellows my name as he comes, his cock slamming into me again and again.
Our climaxes seem to go on forever, but eventually, I feel him withdraw his finger so he can clutch me close.
I go boneless in his arms, my body shaky and spent.
Slowly, Thanatos lowers us back to the ground, landing at the foot of our makeshift bed.
He lays me out on the sheets before draping himself against my side.
Death looks at me and my breath catches. For an instant, a strange feeling passes through me, like everything I thought I understood was all a mirage, and that the curtain that separates life from death is so thin I might actually catch a glimpse—
“Lazarus.”
My gaze focuses on Thanatos. The markings on his skin glitter like stars and they seem ancient—he seems ancient. Ancient and otherworldly.
“You are exquisite,” he says. He leans forward and kisses the pulse at my neck, his dark hair tickling my skin. “Exquisite and troublesome and curious and alive.”
“I thought you didn’t like the fact that I was alive.”
He gives me a soft smile. “Even angels can be wrong.”
Chapter 55
Interstate 10, Arizona
August, Year 27 of the Horsemen
I wake to the sound of echoing howls.
I sit up, my eyes scanning the darkness for whatever animal might make that noise. I can’t see past the wall of carts and the revenants around us, though those strange cries seem to be close.
Wait, howls?
But all animals flee death …
The wooden carts shake and now I can make out whoops and bellows, and fuck, those aren’t wolves.
They are the battle cries of marauders.
I suck in my scream just as Thanatos rises next to me, his hair mussed. I don’t have time to read into that before, around us, dozens of figures materialize from the darkness.
They descend on our camp like a swarm of locusts. One man jumps on a cart, causing it to nearly overturn. Another smashes through a skeleton.
Death lifts his hand, but before he has a chance to unleash his lethal power, an arrow pierces him through the heart. A split second later, another slams into his head.
“Thanatos!” I scream, lunging for him as, all around camp, the remaining skeletons crumple, their bones clattering against the ground.
I catch the horseman as he falls back and cradle him in my arms, even as our attackers stream towards us.
“Death,” I say again, cupping his face.
I know he’s dead, I know the self-persevering thing to do is drop his body and fight, but I’m seized by a paralyzing panic at the sight of my horseman limp in my arms. A sob slips out.
How many times have I seen him die? A dozen? More?
Never have I felt this way before. Like the world is collapsing around me. I can barely breathe around it.
Another arrow whistles by, grazing my shoulder. I cry out, reaching for the wound. That snaps me out of my grief.
Get up, Lazarus.
I force myself to my feet, my hands and forearms slick with the horseman’s blood. It’s a small favor that I actually decided to slip on an oversized shirt and a pair of underwear. I don’t always when I lay with Death.
“Do not harm the woman!” someone shouts.
That’s when I really notice the men approaching me, weapons drawn and aimed.
I have stopped wearing blades on me. What’s the need when I’m now bedding my mortal enemy? He was the only person I ever kept them for.
Only now, as I see dark figures dismantling our camp, I regret it. I can hear them going through our things and whistling as they find this or that.
“Is the creature dead?” a deep male voice calls.
“He better be,” another responds.
“Grab the woman!” yet another orders.
I shift my weight, readying myself as I watch those forms in the darkness. I may not have my blades, but I’m not entirely defenseless.
The first man to reach me grabs my forearm, but just as soon as he’s touched my skin, his hand falls away, and a second later I hear the thud of his body hitting the ground.
I glance his way in confusion, but then another man reaches for me. I lash out, slamming my fist into his nose.
“Motherfucker!” he shouts, his hand slipping from me.
Another tries to grab me from behind, and I shove my elbow into his stomach. He grunts, stumbling away. I spin and approach him. I can see the hilt of a holstered blade at his side, and I make a desperate lunge for it.
My fingers brush the hilt of it for a split second before another man tackles me from the side.
I hit the ground hard, my teeth clicking together as my head whips back against the earth.
Still I struggle. Better to fight to the death than endure whatever plans these people have in store for me.
My attacker grabs one of my arms, but then he falls away from me, limp. I have no time to worry about him before another man kneels down on me, and I thrash about, trying to throw him off of me.
“Stop—fighting—bitch,” he says, bringing his face close to mine.
I slam my forehead into his nose as hard as I can, smiling when I hear a crack. He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a howl and a groan.
I don’t see his fist move, but I feel it slam against my face. My head snaps back, and the pain is so intense it robs me of the breath I need to scream. Before I can even process that hit, his fist connects with my cheek again—and again and again. I try to cover my face but it’s useless, that fist keeps hitting me.
“Don’t kill her! Don’t kill her!” somebody shouts.
The man doesn’t respond, nor does he stop. Not until someone pulls him off of me.
Another man drags me onto my feet. I sway there as all around me, the night gives way to a deeper darkness, one I happily fall into.
I wake to pressure at my shoulders and dull, throbbing pain. Wincing, I try to move my arms, only to encounter resistance. Blinking my eyes open, I take in my surroundings.
There are tents all around me, some made from canvas, some made from hides. Beyond the tents, I can just make out an old, worn-down building, though I can’t say what it is. And the heat, it presses in on me from all sides.
Still in the desert.
In front of me is a dirt pathway that cuts between tents. Lining the pathway are nearly a dozen other women, their hands bound and tied to nearby wooden stakes. A couple of them are crying, several others appear catatonic. The rest are sharp-eyed, but they all look sunburned and miserable.
People—mostly men I notice—are moving about this strange outpost. They wear blades and bows and quivers, and there’s a vicious, uncompromising look to them.
I glance down at my overly large shirt that’s now covered in blood splatter and dirt. My last memories come back to me all at once.
Marauders attacked our camp last night. They looted our belongings, and Death … Death …
I make a small noise at the memory of Thanatos getting shot. My throat closes up, and something that feels a lot like grief wells up in me.
He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine, I try to tell myself. He was probably left for dead, and it’s just a matter of time before he wakes up.
But the sun is making its way up in the sky and the morning air is already uncomfortably hot and Death should be awake by now, shouldn’t he?
Unless they have him. Unless they’ve been hurting him. Nausea rolls through me, foll
owed by anxiety.
I have to push away the sheer terror I feel for Thanatos. It’s silly to fear for a horseman who cannot die and who is, in fact, killing people by the thousands. Yet my anxiety rises all the same, eclipsing my own dire situation.
Another troubling thought pops into my head: These people were able to get close to Death.
I assumed it was effortless for Thanatos to kill—his very existence beckons people to their deaths. It’s keeping humans alive that he struggles with.
Yet when we were attacked, he had been awake, at least for a few seconds, and no one had fallen down dead. That should’ve happened—that’s how it always used to play out.
It was almost like what was once natural to him now took actual intention.
Why would that be?
And what, for that matter, was Death doing when they attacked? Because if I didn’t know better, I would’ve said that the horseman had fallen asleep next to me.
I pull at my restraints. None of my questions much matter at the moment. Not when I’m tied up and held captive.
My head still pounds, my throat is parched, and my skin has a tight, prickly feel to it like I’ve been sitting out in the sun for too long—which I likely have been.
At least I have clothes on. I mean, it really could’ve been worse.
My eyes return to the women, who are bound and bloody.
“Where are we?” My voice comes out as a croak, and I have to clear my throat as my gaze moves from face to face. None of them will look at me.
Two men pass by, one of them leering down at us, like there’s something inherently sexual about dirty, battered women.
I glare at the man. “Who are these people?”
“Will you shut up?” whispers a woman across from me. Her eyes dart down the pathway to a man I didn’t notice before. He sits on an old foldable chair outside a nearby tent, his arms folded over a generous gut as he leans back and chats with another man. At his hip is a wicked looking whip. Another riding crop is propped against the tent behind him.
Jesus.
“Cynthia, be nice,” someone else says.
“Do you want to get lashed again?” Cynthia hisses back. “Because I don’t.”
My stomach churns. Violent midnight raids? Plundered goods and women held hostage? All in the middle of a desolate desert? I’ve heard of highwaymen, but this is far more complex and organized.
“What are they planning on doing with us?” I say softly.
A woman whimpers at my question.
Cynthia, who looks thoroughly annoyed, says, “Shut up.”
“Hey!” the heavyset man in the chair barks. His seat squeaks as he stands up a moment later, his hand moving to his whip. He’s got a bland face, but there is something about his eyes that makes me think he enjoys hurting women.
The man saunters over, glaring at Cynthia before his gaze lands on me. He eyes me up and down, then wordlessly, he turns back the way he came.
We all watch him leave. He heads past his chair, down the row of tents, until he disappears from sight.
Once he’s gone, the whole group of women seems to relax.
“We might as well talk now,” the woman next to me says. She has dirt-streaked hair and vivid green eyes.
“Yeah, now that we’re all going to get beaten,” Cynthia mutters, casting me another glare.
One of the women across the way says, “You wanted to know what this place is, right?”
Warily, I nod.
Taking a deep breath, she says, “These guys are a part of the Sixty-Six.”
When my expression doesn’t change, the woman exhales. “They’re a group of outlaws that patrol the highways in this part of the country.”
“Why has no one stopped them?” I say.
No one says anything, and I get the impression that no one actually knows why organized crime like this has been allowed to exist. It’s easy enough to imagine that this mostly deserted corner of the country is too remote to police well.
“Did they attack all your camps?” I ask, shifting a little to ease the pressure on my upper arms and shoulders.
The question causes another woman to whimper. The rest of the group is quiet. Finally, Cynthia says, “Yeah. Or, in Morgan’s case,” she nods to the brown-haired woman sitting next to her, “it was a bribe gone bad.”
There’s clearly more to all of this. And the fact that they know each other’s names …
“How long have you all been here?” I ask.
“He’s coming back,” Cynthia hisses, interrupting me. “Everyone, shut up.” She gives me a meaningful look.
I narrow my eyes at her, but turn to face the man with the whip. Alongside him is another man wearing a cowboy hat. The two don’t stop until they’re right in front of me.
The man wearing the cowboy hat crouches in front of me.
“Morning, sugar,” he says. As he speaks, I catch sight of a silver front tooth. “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”
I glare at him. Whoever this man is, he had something to do with Thanatos’s death and my capture.
“Why don’t we start with the easy stuff—I’m Shane,” he says.
I just continue to glare at him. The women around me are ominously silent, although I can hear one of them making soft noises, like she’s trying to stop herself from crying.
When the silence stretches on for too long, Shane flashes me an easy smile, showing off that silver tooth.
“Now don’t be rude,” he says. “Introduce yourself.”
Well, now that I know that manners mean so much to him …
I spit at his face.
He’s fast—I’ll give him that. I don’t see his hand move before the back of it connects with my cheek.
Smack.
My head snaps to the side, my skin throbbing. My already pounding head feels like it’s going to explode from the pain and pressure.
“We don’t let our cunts act out here,” he says conversationally. “Unless, of course, that’s the sort of thing we’re into.” The man behind him laughs.
I work my jaw as I glare at both of them, my cheek on fire.
“So, tell me,” he continues, squinting as he sizes me up, “how is it that a woman like you comes to be with a horseman of the apocalypse?”
He knows who Thanatos is?
Shane must see something on my face because he says, “I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen those wings with my own eyes.”
My pulse pounds between my ears. What have these people done with my horseman?
“But that still doesn’t answer my question,” Shane continues.
I give him an unfriendly smile. “You can die confused.”
Smack.
My head whips to the side as he strikes me again. I have to bite back a cry.
“Do you know how many men it took to bind you up?”
I stare at him passively.
He leans in conspiratorially. “Five.” He shakes his head. “I wasted five good men to capture you.”
It takes me a moment to realize that he means five men died in their attempt to capture me. I remember how last night some of my attackers had fallen away right after they grabbed me by my forearms … forearms that were coated in the horseman’s blood. My eyes widen.
Even Death’s blood is lethal.
“So,” Shane continues, “you will answer my questions, starting with how it is that you can touch that creature and live.” His eyes flick over me again, and I can see him asking himself, who are you?
I already know I don’t look particularly special.
I lift a shoulder in response to his question. “I don’t know how—or why. I just can.”
“Is he really dead?” Shane presses.
“Who?” I ask. “Your men? Yeah, they really fucking are—”
Smack.
This slap is lighter than the others, but I still taste blood in my mouth as my teeth cut my cheek.
“Don’t act stupid, girl,” Shane
says. “The horseman. Is he dead?”
I scowl at him. “Of course he’s dead,” I respond hotly. “He had an arrow through his face.”
“An arrow that later came out all on its own,” he says, watching me carefully.
I try not to react, though I feel alarmed.
“He can regenerate, can’t he?” Shane presses.
Around us, the heavyset man and captive women have all gone quiet, listening in to our conversation.
“Until you untie me, I won’t tell you a damn—”
Crack!
I cry out as the man backhands me with his full weight behind him, the hit snapping my head to the side. I have to grit my teeth as I ride out the throbbing pain. The skin around my eye is starting to swell, and the pounding in my head is making me queasy.
“You’re not in a position to make demands, sugar,” Shane says. “Now, you can either cooperate, or I can make you cooperate. The choice is yours.”
I raise my eyes to his, letting him see just how little fear is on my face. Then, without meaning to, I crack a smile, and a little laugh slips out. Around us, it’s ungodly quiet.
“Do you really think you frighten me?” I say. “I have seen entire cities fall and everyone I love die. I have been hurt more times than I can count, and I’ve been forced to live through it all. I have met the devil and he really is a fallen angel. So go fuck yourself, your threats don’t scare—”
Shane slams his fist into my face, and I black out.
When I wake again, I’ve been untied from the post, though my hands are still bound behind my back. Two men are each gripping me by my upper arms and hauling me forward, my feet dragging against the ground. My loose hair dangles around my head, and I can see droplets of blood dripping from my aching nose onto the dirt.
I moan. It’s not the worst pain I’ve endured, but it still hurts like a mother.
“Shane! Shane!” a man shouts in the distance.
I lift my head a little just to see what all the commotion is.
A man in his mid-twenties is pushing people out of his way as he races towards us, his eyes locked on the man in front of me—Shane, presumably.
The runner stops, sweat beading on his brow as he tries to catch his breath.
“Shane,” he says, drawing in a deep breath, “he’s gone.”
Death (The Four Horsemen Book 4) Page 32