War (The Four Horsemen Book 2)

by Laura Thalassa

  “Did.” I have to force the word out. “But then you already knew that, didn’t you?” The horseman had been inside my flat—or at least I assume he was the one who went there to retrieve my tools. He would’ve seen the pictures of my parents and the childhood photos of me and my sister.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  You happened, you crazy bastard.

  I glance down at the hamsa bracelet I wear. It’s nothing more than a single metal charm shoved onto a leather cord—the red string it was originally threaded around has long since broken. But that simple metal charm was the last gift my father gave me.

  To protect me from harm.

  “My father died the day you and the other horsemen arrived.” He’d been crossing the street, on his way back to the university after having lunch with another professor. The bus hit him and his colleague, and neither had survived.

  “My mother and sister—”

  The gunfire is deafening. The three of us run out of the city with nothing more than a backpack each. We’re the lucky ones. But then, that boat, that ominous boat—

  “There was war in New Palestine long before you came around.” For as long as people have lived in this corner of the world, there’s been war. “We were escaping it …”

  I can feel the horseman’s eyes on me, waiting for me to finish, but I can’t talk about the rest of it. This loss is fresher than the other one.

  I shake my head. “They’re gone too.”

  We ride west, away from Jerusalem, along the lonely road. It’s shockingly quiet, like the very earth doesn’t have words for what’s happened to this land.

  I glance over my shoulder, looking for some sign of the horde traveling behind us, but for the last twenty minutes I haven’t been able to see any sign of them.

  “They’re back there,” War says.

  I’m not sure if he’s reassuring me or warning me—probably both.

  “How do you get them to follow you?” I ask. “Not just right now, but in battle?”

  One small oath of allegiance cannot possibly be enough to earn an army’s devotion, especially not after the atrocities we’ve all witnessed.

  “I don’t get them to do anything,” the horseman says. “My job isn’t to earn their loyalty, it’s to judge their hearts.”

  That response sounds … biblical. Biblical and worrisome.

  “And what about my heart?” I ask. “Have you judged it?”

  War stares at me for a beat before he says softly, “Your heart is largely an enigma to me. But we shall find out the truth of it soon enough.”

  Chapter 8

  We don’t pass a single soul while riding along the mountain road, and after a while the lack of people becomes alarming.

  My skin pricks.

  Are they all dead? And if so, how?

  How could War and a few thousand men at most take out an entire region? Not just cities, but everything in between as well? Something about that doesn’t add up.

  I glance at the horseman, and his calmness only further unnerves me. None of this bothers him. It should bother him.

  Not human, I remind myself.

  And whatever beast War truly is, I have the pleasure of being his plaything for the moment.

  You’ll get through this, Miriam, just as you have everything else.

  The problem is that for the first time in a very long time, I don’t think just getting through this is good enough.

  I just don’t know what is good enough.

  Not yet.

  We pass by the burnt remains of a large structure that could’ve once been a mosque or a Jewish temple.

  I’ve heard of the horrors that happened in some other areas of New Palestine during our civil war, but this is the first time I might be seeing evidence of it outside of Jerusalem proper. No one and no religion was spared.

  That was my first lesson in war: everyone loses, even the victors.

  One mountain leads to another, which leads to another. It’s beautiful and all, but—

  “Where are we going?” I ask War.

  “Towards the ocean.”

  The ocean. My heart skips a beat.

  There’s water and fire and … and … and God the pain—the pain, the pain, the pain. The sharp bite of it nearly steals my breath.

  I haven’t seen the ocean in seven years.

  War glances at me. “Is everything alright?”

  I nod a little too quickly. “I’m fine.”

  He stares at me for a beat longer, then faces forward again. “Over the course of human existence, your kind has come up with hundreds of thousands of words for everything imaginable, yet somehow none of you have figured out how to actually speak your mind.”

  “I’m fine.” No way am I sharing my true thoughts on the ocean.

  Overhead, the full brunt of the midday sun is frying my skin to a crisp. My face feels tight, and I can see the dusty red flush of my forearms.

  I’m also sweating like a cow.

  I glance over at the horseman, eyeing the maroon armor that he wears over his clothing.

  “Aren’t you hot?” I ask him, changing the subject.

  If I were him, I’d be effing miserable.

  All that leather just locks the heat in. If I were him, I’d be bathing in sweat. Instead he appears irritatingly unaffected.

  “Is my wife concerned for my wellbeing?”

  I fix my gaze on a horse stall up ahead. “I forgot—you’re used to hotter climates,” I say. “I hear hell is particularly warm this time of year.”

  I can feel the weight of the horseman’s eyes on me. “You think I’m a demon?” he asks skeptically.

  “I haven’t ruled it out …” My words fall away as I squint a little more closely at another structure ahead of us.

  These days you can find newly erected stables and inns and general stores speckled along roadways. They’re the sorts of places you stop at to refuel and rest. It looks like we’re coming up to one such place.

  But as we get closer, something appears … off.

  Birds circle overhead and there must be more on the ground because I can hear them calling out to one another.

  I stare at those birds. Despite the heat, a chill slides over my skin.

  It’s not until we pass the general store and the abandoned horse stalls that I see what’s caught the birds’ attention.

  Close to a dozen birds—eagles, vultures, crows—all swarm and fight over some unmoving thing on the ground.

  A few moments later, it registers that the thing on the ground is a human.

  I stare and stare and stare and then I’m halting my horse and hopping off.

  The birds take flight as I near the body. I use the corner of my shirt to cover my mouth as I peer down at the corpse. I can’t make sense of exactly what I’m seeing, and I don’t try to. The individual is dead. That’s all that matters. Anything else is just nightmare fodder. About a stone’s throw away rests a pile of discolored bones, the grinning mouth of the skull smeared with blood.

  I furrow my brows. This looks less like a mass murder and more like some ritual sacrifice.

  “Miriam.”

  I turn and face War. He hasn’t dismounted. In his hand he holds Thunder’s reins.

  “You killed even all the way out here?” I ask. It seems excessive. We’re in the middle of nowhere. This is no bastion of humankind; there can’t be more than a handful of people who live in this particular patch of hills.

  “I kill everyone,” War responds smoothly.

  Everyone except for me.

  I glance at that body again, the body that was once a person with hopes and dreams and friends and family.

  “Remount your steed, Miriam,” War says, completely unfazed by our surroundings. “We have a long way to ride.”

  It’s not personal. I can tell it’s not personal. None of the suffering War’s inflicting is personal.

  My gaze flicks back to the corpse.

  Only it is personal.


  I take all of this very, very personally.

  I don’t want to get back on that horse, and I don’t want to ride next to the horseman. I don’t want to pass more horse stalls with more fresh corpses.

  The horseman narrows his eyes, like he can hear my thoughts.

  Be brave, Miriam.

  I force myself to take that first step forward. The second one comes easier. I take another step and another and another until I’m taking the reins back from War and staring into his wicked eyes as I pull myself onto my horse.

  He doesn’t try to offer an explanation, and I don’t tell him my thoughts. I mount, and we resume. That’s all.

  By the time the sun is setting, we’ve passed more dead bodies and circling birds than I care to admit. It’s clear that those raids War went on were more than a little successful.

  There’s no one left.

  I frown at the thought, the movement pulling at my tight skin. After a day of riding, my face is more than a little sunburnt. I’m beginning to feel feverish, and my exposed skin is painful to the touch. There’s not much I can do about it at the moment. I don’t have a hat or a headscarf to shield my skin with.

  The horseman glances at me and frowns. “You do not look well, wife.”

  “I don’t feel so good,” I admit.

  He curses under his breath. “We’re stopping for the evening.”

  I glance behind me at the empty road. “What about the rest of your army?”

  “They’ll be fine. We’re not camping with them,” he says.

  “We’re … not?” That takes a minute to filter its way in.

  My gaze moves back to the setting sun.

  Oh dear God.

  It’s one thing to ride alone with War, another to spend the night next to him and only him. And now that I’ve been reminded of what he can do, I’m doubly nervous.

  About a hundred meters ahead there’s a water pump, a basin, and a pile of hay. We stop long enough for Thunder to drink his fill from the basin and eat a little of the hay before War steers us down one of the sloping hills.

  War smoothly dismounts his steed, grabbing the horse’s reins.

  Gingerly, I slide off Thunder, wincing as my inner thigh muscles scream in protest. God’s left nutsack, that hurts.

  I take a shaky step, then another, cringing at all my aches and pains. It’s not just my legs. My skin feels too hot, my stomach is churning, and I’m a little too lightheaded.

  “I don’t feel so good,” I say again. Maybe it was the cured meat someone had packed for me; maybe the water I drank earlier was contaminated.

  Or maybe this is heatstroke.

  I stumble a little, then sit down hard.

  I don’t hear War approach—the fucker is quiet—but he crouches in front of me, his brow pinched just a touch. I think that’s about as much concern as hardened War ever shows. He reaches out.

  “You touch me, and I’ll cut you with your own blade,” I say.

  War cups my face anyway. He’s such a bastard.

  I go for my dagger, but my hand has barely grasped its hilt when the horseman’s free hand closes around mine. He twists the blade out of my grip and tosses it aside.

  “Miriam, leave the battle on the battlefield.”

  “Oh, that’s rich of you to say.”

  His eyes meet mine, and my breath catches. God is he annoyingly attractive. And the longer I stare at him, the more I notice every single inconvenient detail that makes him that way—like the fullness of his lips and his tiger’s eye irises, and the sharp, high cheekbones that make him look so exotic.

  “You should’ve said something about the sunburn,” he says.

  “I didn’t think you’d care.”

  He studies me. “I do.”

  “Why?” I say.

  “We’ve been over this,” he responds.

  Because I’m his wife, he means.

  We stare at each other for a little longer.

  After a moment I take a deep breath and tear my gaze away. “I feel better.”

  I really do. Now that I’ve sat down, I don’t feel so feverish anymore, and I swear my skin doesn’t throb nearly so much as it did a few minutes ago.

  Now that I’ve had enough time to regroup, I want the horseman to stop touching me. A few kind words, a gentle touch, and I’ll start to believe he’s not a heinous demon spawn.

  War drops his hand and gets up, heading over to his horse, who tosses his head about as his master approaches.

  “Steady, Deimos,” he says to his steed, placing a hand on the beast’s dark red coat.

  Deimos? He’s actually named his horse?

  He reaches into the creature’s saddle bags, withdrawing water and food. The horseman heads back over to me and hands the items over to me.

  I take them from War and give him a brief smile. His eyes linger on my mouth for just a moment, then he moves away again to deal with the horses—or maybe to unpack.

  I take in his form. He’s been oddly kind to me today, and I have to remind myself that I’ve seen him cut down many, many people—I was almost one of them. I can’t let his concern and a few gentle touches overshadow that.

  “Do you feel anything?” I call out to him. “When you kill?”

  It’s time for my hourly reminder that War is a bad dude.

  He pauses, his back to me. “Yes.”

  I wait for him to say more. The silence stretches out.

  “I feel bloodlust and excitement, and a deep satisfaction at a job well done.” The horseman says this like he’s talking about something mundane, like the weather and not the wholesale slaughter of innocents.

  He turns to face me. “I am yours and you are mine, Miriam—”

  I quake at those words.

  “—but I am not like you, and you should never forget that.”

  Chapter 9

  The stars twinkle above us when War lays out our pallets. One is just a mat and a thin quilt, but the one he’s working on now is lavished with blankets.

  Which one is his, and which one is mine? I sort of hate the fact that he made them so obviously unequal. If he takes the pimped out pallet, I’m going to know that on top of being depraved, the horseman is also kind of a dick. But if he gives that one to me …

  I squirm a little uncomfortably at the possibility. I don’t like excessive kindness; it makes me feel like I owe someone something in return. And I really don’t want to think about what War might think I owe him.

  At least he made two beds to begin with. I guess I should be glad we don’t have to share one.

  After the horseman finishes, he comes over to where I sit by the fire we made a little while ago. He unfastens his armor piece by piece, setting them at his side. There’s something terribly confident and unhurried about his movements, like the world and everyone in it waits on him.

  I am not like you.

  I watch the horseman for a bit, trying not to focus on the fact that beneath all that armor is a wicked, wicked body.

  “Your bed is the one with the blankets,” he says, unfastening his leather breastplate.

  Damnit. Definitely going to feel like I owe him something now.

  “Your accommodations seem a bit rough,” I say, nodding to his pallet.

  War takes off the last bit of his armor. “I wouldn’t be a proper husband if I couldn’t make my wife comfortable.”

  Him and this proper husband business.

  I glance around. “Where are the chains you’re supposed to shackle me with?”

  Pretty sure that was on the list of things a proper husband should have.

  “Packed with the rest of my tent, unfortunately.” War says it so calmly that I think he may not be kidding—until a sly smile creeps up on his face.

  “Next time then,” I say.

  “I’ll hold you to that, wife.”

  The two of us actually get along when I want us to. How troubling …

  War removes his shirt, his markings glowing in the night. They give off eerie red gl
ow.

  Definitely a demon.

  “Earlier,” he says, “you wanted to know why I don’t speak the languages of men when I can,” he says.

  I had asked him about this when he invaded my tent several nights ago; I’m still curious about it, especially since he can speak perfect Hebrew with me.

  “I speak every language that has ever existed. Even the ones that left no record. They have long faded from mortal memory, but not mine. Never mine.”

  War is quiet for another moment. “What people don’t understand frightens them.”

  How many times had I seen proof of that fear? Dozens, at least. And now War has weaponized that terror.

  “So I speak dead languages, and I let the humans piece together from it what they will,” War finishes.

  “But you don’t always speak in tongues,” I say. There have been a number of times where he spoke Hebrew or Arabic to me and his riders.

  “I don’t. There are times when it serves me to be understood.”

  “And when you speak in dead languages,” I say, “why is it that I can still understand you?”

  War gives me a patient look. “I told you, you are my wife. You will know me and my heart, whether you want that or not.”

  Unease coils low in my stomach.

  Again, he says it with such certainty that I wonder …

  But no. I refuse to believe I’m supposed to be with this monster.

  “What do you want with me?” I ask, toeing a nearby pebble.

  I sense rather than see War’s eyes draw down my face. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  My gaze moves to his. “No.” It’s not.

  From the few stories I’ve heard, this man has bagged himself a city’s worth of women—a big fucking city’s worth—and yet he hasn’t done more than touched my cheek and claimed that I’m his wife.

  “Would you like me to tell you then?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft.

  My pulse picks up. “Yes.”

  “I want you to surrender.”

  A beat of silence passes.

  I have no clue what that actually means, but I note that chaining me to a bed and feasting on my pussy were not mentioned. Shame. Under the right circumstances (a.k.a., lots and lots of booze), I could actually get behind that one.