And yet you’ll still get them.
He eyes me over. “Huununu ia lupu, upu. I fu ua fu ipe huy.”
Clean yourself off, wife. You will not die today.
He throws his dagger at my feet, the thin blade sinking into the earth, and then he walks away.
After War leaves, no one seems to know what to do.
I react first. Kneeling down, I grab the hilt of War’s discarded weapon and yank it out of the earth. On the horseman’s arm, it had looked more like a hairpin than a dagger, but in my hand, it’s heavy and big. Quite big.
Spinning, I point the blade at anyone and everyone. Someone laughs.
Time to get the fuck out of here.
Clutching the blade, I stride out of the clearing, elbowing my way through the crowd. I expect someone to attack me, but it never comes.
I only manage to walk a short distance before a woman grabs my arm.
“This way,” she says, beginning to direct me through the maze of the camp.
I glance down at her. “What are you doing?”
“Leading you to your new accommodations,” she says, not missing a beat. “I’m Tamar.”
Tamar is a petite thing, with greying hair, tan skin, and olive green eyes.
“I’m not planning on staying.”
She sighs. “You know, most people I greet here say that to me. I’m tired of having to tell you all the brutal truth.”
“And what’s that,” I say as she winds us through rows of tents.
“Everyone who leaves, dies.”
Tamar leads me to a dust-stained tent that looks identical to the dozens of tents erected to either side of it.
“Here we are,” she says, gazing up at it. “Your new h—wait.” She calls out to another woman four tents down. “This is one of the one’s we’re giving out, right?”
The other woman nods.
Tamar turns back to me. “This is where you’ll be staying from now on.”
“I already told you, I’m not staying.”
“Oh, hush,” she says, shrugging off my words. “You’ve had a harrowing day. Tomorrow will be better.”
I bite back a response. I don’t need to convince her of my intentions.
She pulls the tent flaps back and gestures for me to peer inside. Reluctantly, I do so.
It’s a small space, hardly big enough for the rumpled pallet that lays the length of it. In one corner rests a dog-eared book and a Turkish coffee set. In another corner rests a comb and some costume jewelry.
It’s clearly someone else’s home.
“What happened to the last person who stayed here?” I ask.
Tamar shrugs. “She left on her horse this morning … but she never came back.”
“She never came back,” I repeat dumbly.
My eyes sweep over the furnishings again. Whoever this woman was, she’ll never pick up that book again. She’ll never sleep on this bed, wear this jewelry, or drink from those cups.
“They weren’t all hers,” Tamar says, staring at the items alongside me. “Some belonged to others who passed on before her.”
If that explanation was meant to give me any comfort, it missed its mark.
So I’ve inherited the dead’s possessions. And when I die, someone will inherit what few items of mine remain.
That is, of course, assuming I’ll stay. Which I won’t.
Everyone who leaves, dies.
I swallow a little at that. The thing is, I really don’t want to die. And I’m still bent on figuring out how to leave this place, but I can already tell that’s not going to happen just yet.
My eyes sweep over the sparse furnishings. So I guess this is home for now.
Tamar turns to me. “What can you do?” she asks.
My brows furrow before she adds. “Can you fight, cook, sew, … ?”
“I make bows and arrows for a living—or I used to anyway.”
“Wonderful,” she says, like I gave her the answer she was seeking. “We could always use more craftsmen. Very well, I’ll tell the administrative staff to keep that in mind when they assign you your duties.
“My duties?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
Our conversation is interrupted by several women who come over carrying a basin full of water.
“Ah,” Tamar says, perfect timing. “Go ahead and put it inside the tent,” she says to the women, who then proceed to march the basin into my new home.
To me, she says, “Enjoy the bath. We’ll be back in fifteen minutes with clothes and food.”
Before I can say anything else, Tamar and the rest of the women are gone, presumably to situate other newcomers.
I turn back to the tent. After a moment, I take a deep breath and step inside.
I chew on the side of my lip as I stare at the bath water. It’s reddish brown and murky. Next to it, one of the women left a wet bar of soap and a towel.
Dare I actually get in?
I almost don’t. It’s not that this is anything unfamiliar. We have to hand-pump most of our water these days, so I’m used to sponge baths and sharing bath water. It’s just usually not this filthy.
Still, I can feel the drying blood on my jeans, fusing the material to my legs, and that, in the end, is enough to drive me into the bath, murky water and all.
I wash myself quickly and towel off. Once I’m done, I go to work on my clothes, using the bathwater to wash the blood from them.
You can never fully get bloodstains out …
Midway through, one of the tent flaps pulls back and Tamar and the other women cram inside, bringing with them several items—most notably a plate of food.
My stomach cramps at the sight of it. I haven’t eaten for most of the day. Up until now, I’ve been too wired to feel much hunger, but now that I’ve had time to rest, my hunger has swarmed in.
Tamar takes one look at me, wrapped up in the towel they left me. She holds up the items draped over her arm. “Your clothing—and some shoes,” she says, handing me the gauzy clothing and a pair of sandals.
The outfit is a two piece ensemble, and all I can say about the top and skirt is that both are flimsy, the black and gold material gauzy and transparent in most places.
I shift a little in my towel. I want clean clothes badly, but I’m also not too eager to prance around this camp in that filmy outfit.
“Um,”—How to not be a dick about this?—“do you have anything more substantial to wear?”
Tamar frowns at me, clearly feeling unappreciated for helping out. “The horseman likes his women to dress up,” she says.
The horseman?
His women?
The fuck?
“I am not his woman,” I say defensively.
You are my wife.
This is the first time Tamar has even brought the horseman up to me. I set aside the fact that she just confirmed that War is in fact War and focus on the fact that Tamar has been grooming me for the horseman.
“Better his woman than someone else’s,” one of the other girls says. Some of the other women murmur their agreement.
I’m going to enjoy you later, that soldier had said to me only hours ago.
I suppress a shiver.
Is that how this place works?
Reluctantly, I take the silks from Tamar, the material seeming to slide through my fingers.
Do I put them on?
My only other option is to slip back into my wet clothing and shoes.
I eye the items again.
I’m no more War’s woman than I am anyone else’s, and wearing these items doesn’t change that. But the horseman’s interest in me is another matter.
There are things he wants from me, things that have nothing to do with my fighting abilities and everything to do with the fact that he calls me wife.
My grip tightens on the silks.
There are things I want too. Answers, information, a solution to this monstrous apocalypse.
Who knows, maybe tonight I’ll get some of them.
&
nbsp; I just have to put on the damn outfit.
Chapter 5
Battle drums fill the night air. Outside my tent, torches blaze, their smoke curling into the inky sky.
I spin my hamsa bracelet round and round my wrist as I follow the women back to the clearing, my dark skirt rustling about my legs.
In the time since my near death, the place has been transformed. I can smell meat sizzling, and there are tankards of some sort of alcohol already set out. The sight of all that liquor is somewhat shocking. Most people in New Palestine don’t drink.
Around me, people are talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. It’s strange to think that earlier today, they were raiding and slaughtering a city. There’s no sign of all that depravity now.
My eyes move from person to person, trying to read their sins in their eyes—until I catch sight of War.
He sits on his dais just as he did earlier. He watches me, the smoke and firelight making his brutal features mesmerizing. I don’t know how long he’s been staring, only that I should have noticed. Those eyes of his feel like the touch of a hand against my skin; it’s hard to ignore the sensation.
Some part of me reacts to the sight of him. My stomach tightens as fear twists my gut. Beneath that, there’s another sensation … one I can’t put my finger on, only that it makes me feel vaguely ashamed.
One of the women next to me catches my hand. Fatimah is her name. “He cannot die,” she tells me conspiratorially, leaning in close.
I glance at her. “What?”
“I saw it myself, two cities back,” she says, her eyes bright as she retells the story. “A man had gotten angry over something—who knows what. He pulled out his sword and approached the horseman.
“War let the man drive his blade straight through his torso—right between those tattoos of his. And then he laughed.”
An unbidden chill slides down my spine.
“The horseman pulled the weapon out of himself, and then he snapped the man’s neck like it was tinder. It was awful.” Fatimah doesn’t look all that distressed by the story. She looks eager.
I glance at War again, who’s still watching me.
“He doesn’t die?” What sort of creature is deathless?
Fatimah leans in and gives my hand a squeeze. “Just do as he wants and you’ll be treated well.”
Yeah, that’s not going to happen.
“What about the others?” I ask her. Someone has come up to the horseman with a platter of food, dragging his attention away from me.
Fatimah’s brow crinkles. “What others?”
“His other wives.” There must be others.
“Wives?” Fatimah’s forehead creases. “War doesn’t marry the women he’s with.” Now she gives me a weird look. “How did he find you?” she asks. “I heard he rode straight out of battle with you on his horse.”
I’m picking my words when War’s attention returns to me. For the second time today, he gestures for me, the scarlet markings on his knuckles glowing menacingly in the gathering darkness.
Guess someone got tired of waiting.
For a moment, I stay rooted in place. My stubborn side kicks in, and I’m having dark fantasies about what the horseman would do if I simply ignored his command.
But then Fatimah notices and nudges me forward, and I begin to walk, feeling the weight of the crowd’s mounting gazes.
I move through the throng of people, only stopping once I’m a short distance away from the horseman.
He rises from his seat, and a ripple goes through the crowd. The drums are still pounding, but it seems as though we have the whole camp’s attention.
War steps forward one, two, three steps, leaving his makeshift throne and closing the distance between us until he’s right in front of me.
He studies my features for several seconds and his gaze is so intense I want look away.
Torchlight burns deep in his eyes. Torchlight—and interest.
He doesn’t say anything for so long that I finally break the silence between us. “What do you want?”
“Meokange vago odi degusove.”
I thought you already knew.
He throws my earlier words back at me.
And yeah, I still think I do.
War’s eyes drink in my face. He’s wearing the same strange expression he gave me back in Jerusalem.
After several seconds, he reaches out and brushes a knuckle over my cheekbone, like he just can’t help himself.
I bat his hand away. “You don’t get to touch me,” I say softly.
His eyes narrow.
“Sonu moamsi, mamsomeo, monuinme zio vavabege odi?”
Then tell me, wife, how do I get to touch you?
“You don’t.”
He smiles at me, like I’m charming and quaint and extremely ridiculous in the most endearing way.
“Gocheune dekasuru desvu.”
We’ll see about that.
I back away from the horseman then. He watches me avidly but doesn’t try to call me back to his side. At some point, I turn on my heel, my filmy skirt swishing around my ankles, and melt into the crowd.
I’m almost disappointed. After all that fanfare the women made about presenting me to the horseman, I would’ve thought the mighty War would’ve done more than mutter a few words and gaze at me.
But it’s that gaze that I can still feel against my back like a brand.
I glance over my shoulder and meet those inquisitive, violent eyes. The corner of his mouth curls into a challenging smile.
That’s all it takes for me to do the one thing I hate the most: flee.
I sit like a fool in the near darkness of my tent for several hours. Even from here I can hear the party raging on, and I can smell food cooking.
I would slip out and grab a bite to eat, except that I would then have to show my face. It’s bad enough that I ran, but at least it was some sort of exit. To show back up as though nothing happened …
I can see War’s challenging, taunting gaze. He would enjoy that. He’d think of it as another opening. That’s really what stops me.
The world might be coming to a bloody end, but damn it if I don’t skip a meal just to save face.
So I ignore the smell of meat, and after lighting the small oil lamp Tamar gave me, I read the dog-eared romance novel left in my tent and idly debate how horrible of an idea it would be to burn the camp down.
Amongst all the distant conversation, I hear footsteps approach. Instinctively, I feel my muscles tense.
After everything War said to me, I expect to be carted away to his tent, so I’m not surprised when the flaps to my own tent rustle, and Tamar enters my borrowed residence.
“I’m not going,” I say.
“Going where?” she asks.
I frown. “You’re not taking me to his tent?”
“War’s?” she says, raising her eyebrows. “There are plenty of willing women the horseman can choose from if he wants to enjoy a warm body tonight. He doesn’t need for it to be you.”
Other women? I imagine those heavy, assertive hands settling on other flesh, and I scowl.
“That’s not why I’m here,” Tamar says, changing the subject.
She sits down next to me. “I heard you two talking earlier,” she says, her words hushed. She leans in close. “How do you know the horseman’s language?” she asks, her voice hushed.
I shake my head.
I’m about to deny it when she says, “We all saw you communicate with him,” she insists.
I hadn’t realized anyone was watching the exchange that closely.
I take Tamar in. “I don’t know what I heard,” I admit, “or why he spoke with me at all. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I’ve got. I don’t understand any of this.”
Tamar searches my face. Eventually she nods and reaches out to squeeze my hand. “War goes through women.” She says this like it’s some sort of confession, and I feel a little sick. I really don’t want to know about War’
s personal relationships.
“If you want to be over and done with him,” she continues, “just give in for a night or two.”
What is with the women here and giving me unsolicited sex advice?
“It’ll gain you some measure of protection,” she adds.
Last I checked, a blade protected me just fine.
“And if I don’t give in?” I say.
There’s a long pause, then Tamar grabs my chin. “This is a dangerous place to be a woman—particularly a pretty one.” Her eyes drop to where War’s blade rests next to my oil lamp. “Keep that knife close. You’ll probably need it.”
Chapter 6
I take Tamar’s final piece of advice—I sleep with War’s dagger beneath my head.
It’s a good thing I do, too.
“Wake, Miriam.” A deep voice drags me from sleep.
My eyes snap open.
Sitting next to my pallet, his arms loosely slung over his knees, is War.
My hand goes for my blade, and I sit up, brandishing my weapon.
War’s eyes gleam as he takes me in, blade and all.
“Enjoying my dagger?” he asks.
I start at his words. He’s speaking fluent Hebrew.
“You can talk,” I state. And you know my name, I realize.
He grunts.
“I mean, I understand you.” I’m used to hearing him speak in tongues, his meaning overlaying the words. It’s unnerving to actually hear him speak the same language as me.
Which means this entire time, he’s been able to understand me.
I keep my blade pointed at him. “Why do you speak in tongues?” I ask.
Wrong question, Miriam. The correct question is: What the fuck are you doing in my tent?
The horseman gets up and comes closer. In response, I lift my weapon.
He utterly ignores the threat. War sits down on the edge of my pallet, even as the tip of my blade presses into his skin of his throat.
War’s black eyes drop to the blade, and the corner of his mouth curves up. He looks darkly amused.
There’s obviously no point threatening him. If anything, I’m getting the impression that he finds the whole thing endearing.
“How is it that I can understand you when you’re speaking in tongues?” I ask.
“You are my wife,” he responds smoothly. “You understand my nature and my gifts.”
War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 4