War (The Four Horsemen Book 2)

by Laura Thalassa

When the first sounds of rousing men break the silence outside, War reluctantly withdraws his hand and sits up. I hear him sigh.

  According to the rest of camp, they’re invading Mansoura today. None of them know that Mansoura has already been taken and purged of its living. All that’s left is to raid homes and steal goods from the dead.

  I’m curious how War’s going to handle this. So curious, in fact, that once the horseman rises from bed, I stop pretending to be asleep and sit up myself.

  He lumbers over to his leather armor, which he’s arranged near the pallet. His enormous sword is laid out next to it, the monstrous blade sheathed in its crimson scabbard. I’m halfway surprised he brought the blade into the tent after the big production he made about removing all the weapons from this place.

  A dark, desperate thought grips me at the sight of that sword.

  Caught in the hooks of my own mind, I get up, padding over to the blade, drawn in by it.

  War pauses right in the middle of putting on his chest plate, his eyes locked on me. He removed all but one weapon from this room, and now his wife is approaching it. I’m sure last night’s worries about me trying to hurt myself are now rearing their ugly heads, but he doesn’t take the blade.

  I kneel in front of his sword. Grabbing the hilt, I pull the weapon out a little from its scabbard. Emblazoned onto the steel is more of that strange writing that decorates War’s knuckles and chest. These characters don’t glow, but I can tell the language is the same. The language of God.

  “Miriam.” It’s a warning.

  I glance over at War, and there’s an edge to his violent, violent eyes.

  “I’m not going to kill myself,” I say.

  He doesn’t relax, and I kind of enjoy his unease.

  Turning back to the blade, I run my fingers over the alien markings. Then, seemingly of their own accord, my fingers slide to the edge of the blade.

  “Miriam.” My last warning.

  I run my thumb over the sword’s edge, then curse when I feel the steel nick my skin. The fucker’s sharp.

  I stick my finger in my mouth just as the horseman snatches the weapon from my grip.

  “It likes the taste of blood,” War says, like his weapon might suddenly grow teeth and eat me whole.

  He finishes putting on his armor, keeping himself between me and his sword. Lastly, he secures his blade to his back.

  Outside, the noise is getting louder.

  “I need to go.” War steps in close. I can tell he wants to kiss me—or at least touch me—but he doesn’t. The horseman may not be human, but he understands enough about human drives to know to stay away from me. Still, his eyes look regretful.

  He waits a moment or two for me to say something, and I consider it—

  I hope you don’t come back.

  May your enemies cut you down.

  Rot in misery, asshole.

  But my white hot anger is long gone, and it’s hard to muster up the energy to stay mad.

  War lingers long enough to realize that I’m not going to give him any sort of happy goodbye. With a final, heavy look at me, he leaves the tent, the canvas rustling behind him.

  I never truly got an answer to my burning question: how will War handle today?

  I did, however, get an answer to a question I hadn’t intended to ask.

  I glance at the cut on my thumb. A drop of blood still beads there. I smile a little at the sight, then rub the blood away.

  Chapter 44

  I don’t see War again until that evening. By then the raiding celebration is in full swing, the war drums pounding out a hypnotic sound.

  It doesn’t matter that today’s raid was pointless. Every person out here tonight looks jubilant.

  I move along the edges of the crowd, people shifting out of the way as my undead bodyguards push their way through the throng.

  My eyes flick up to War, who sits on his throne, a frown on his face. War spots me from his throne, his eyes narrowing. He stands, and the whole crowd seems to react to that single action.

  I stare at him. I can’t not. And my heart, my stubborn, awful heart seems to stutter. It’s always love and war with us.

  He won’t stop. He won’t ever stop.

  I cut through the crowd, watching as it parts for me and my grotesque entourage.

  War leaves his dais, the two of us meeting halfway.

  Before I can say or do anything, he kisses me. It’s so, so brazen of him, considering where we left off. And now everything the camp assumed about us has been confirmed. In case it wasn’t already super apparent.

  “Where have you been?” War asks, breaking off the kiss. But it’s not really a question. His dead have been guarding me all day; War must’ve had some idea where they were—and thus where I was. Which was in the women’s quarters.

  “Do you love me?” I ask him.

  War’s brow furrows, his dark eyes moving between mine. He’s so severely handsome.

  His hand goes to the juncture where my shoulder meets my neck, and gently, he squeezes.

  “Do you?” I echo.

  “Can you really not tell?” he says, so quietly I almost don’t hear him.

  I take in a shuddering breath. “Then stop the killing,” I say. “Please. That’s all I ask of you.”

  “You are asking me to give up everything.” War actually looks pained at the thought of ending the killing.

  He is battle incarnate. I might be asking him to do more than stop a simple habit. I might be asking him to deny the core part of himself.

  “Please—”

  His expression hardens. “No.” His tone is absolute, unbending.

  I knew he wouldn’t capitulate. I knew it and yet it breaks my heart all over again.

  Without another word I leave him, his large hand slipping from my shoulder. I cut through the swarming bodies, my nostrils stinging with the smell of sweat and rot that seem to stifle the area. My guards swarm around me.

  I’ve made a lot of consolations with War. So many.

  Too many.

  Be brave.

  There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to escape these horrors. I don’t even have my own tent. I want to scream.

  I consider leaving the camp entirely—not that it would work, but I still consider it. I glance at my thumb, where the morning’s cut has healed over. Leaving would be foolish anyway; I already made plans for tonight.

  I head back to War’s tent, the only place my zombie guards won’t follow me. When I enter, my eyes sweep over the space. There’s still no weapons inside, including my arrows.

  Behind me I hear the tent flaps thrown open.

  “What was that?” War’s voice is low and menacing.

  My eyes widen. I didn’t actually think he’d leave the revelry early. He never does.

  I turn around as he stalks towards me.

  “You want to be with me, but you are unwilling to actually make any sacrifices,” I say. I’m ready to pick back up right where we left off.

  War steps in close. “I am not here to make sacrifices, Miriam. I am here to take. Whatever human notions you have regarding relationships, cast them aside; they will not apply to us.”

  My anger from last night is back, and it burns so hot that I’m all but shaking with it. The horseman is still challenging me with his eyes.

  Then I leave. I leave and I spend the rest of what will undoubtedly be a short life working to forget you.

  I bite back the words.

  Instead, I push his chest. His body barely sways.

  The horseman smiles darkly at me. “Even defeated, you have such fire in you. I have seen villages that burn less brightly.”

  I push him again … and again and again. I don’t stop until he catches my wrists.

  He reels me in, and then he kisses me, his lips fierce and unforgiving. This is the War I remember. He’s all power and possession.

  I fall into the kiss, trying not to think about anything beyond moving my lips. It’s hard to kiss him, hard to dance
this line between desire and anger.

  He’s an inferno—his mouth hot on mine, his deft fingers pulling at my clothing.

  War tosses me onto the pallet, then kneels between my legs. “There are a few sacrifices I can make.”

  He unbuttons my pants and pulls them and my panties off, taking my shoes and socks along with them. And then his mouth descends on my core.

  I thread my fingers into his hair, gripping his dark locks tight enough to hurt. I tilt his head up to face me. “I don’t want to see what you can give me,” I say, still angry—so very, very angry. “Show me the benefits of taking.”

  With a wicked smile, he does.

  I wait until War’s asleep.

  You’d think an immortal like him—one who supposedly doesn’t need rest—would learn to stay awake, living with a woman like me. But he hasn’t learned to—yet. To be fair, I did everything in my power to make sure he fell asleep this evening.

  Now I carefully disentangle myself from him, getting up to slip on my clothing and shoes.

  I head across the room and quietly open one of War’s chests. Inside, nestled amongst the horseman’s things, is some rope I discovered earlier. Quietly, I remove it and head back across the tent.

  My mother’s voice rings in my ear.

  Miriam, don’t do it … I can’t tell you how stupid this idea is.

  I set the rope on the table then walk over to the pile of clothing War left behind. Sitting on top of it all is the horseman’s sheathed sword. He probably intended to put the blade away, but sex then sleep distracted him.

  I pick the weapon up, and—

  Holy balls, this weapon is fucking heavy. I can’t believe he swings this thing around all day.

  Carefully, I remove the sword from its scabbard. The blade sings when it leaves its sheath.

  On the pallet, War stirs.

  Biting my lower lip to keep from making a noise, I watch the horseman resettle himself. His breathing evens out, and I relax.

  I quietly approach the horseman, using both hands to carry his mammoth weapon. War’s head is turned away from me, and for that I’m especially grateful. I don’t want to see his sleep-softened features. I’ll definitely lose my nerve.

  I approach the bed. The sheets only rise up to War’s waist; the rest of his naked body is exposed in the dim lamplight of the tent. The tattoos on his chest glow crimson against his olive skin.

  While I watch, he shifts in his sleep, turning back to face me.

  I stare down at his face, the sword in my grip feeling impossibly heavy. The kohl lining War’s eyes is smeared; I can practically see where my fingers ran through it, and right now his features are so soft. He looks very human.

  Too human.

  I can’t do this.

  Of course I can’t. It’s one thing to fight someone in battle or self-defense. Another to coolly calculate … this.

  My foot moves back a step, inadvertently kicking over a metal pitcher of water perched near the bed—the one I usually drink from when I get thirsty at night.

  The deep, reverberating sound of it is deafening in the quiet room as it tips over and spills across the carpet.

  Fuck.

  War’s eyes snap open, and it’s too late to back down now. His sword is in my hand and I’m looming over him. It’s too late to unravel my plans like I was about to.

  “Miriam,” the horseman says, his brow pinching as he takes in me, then his sword. He looks hopelessly confused.

  I would’ve thought he’d recognize treachery quicker than this. He’s plenty familiar with it.

  He trusts you, his wife, absolutely.

  Using both hands, I point the sword towards the horseman’s sternum.

  War’s grogginess is bleeding away, along with his confusion. “What are you doing, wife?”

  “You’re going to stop hunting us humans down. No more raiding, no more massacring. Whatever quest you’re on, it ends, tonight.”

  Now he’s awake.

  “What is this? A threat?” The horseman raises his eyebrows from where he lays. His gaze moves over me, and I can tell he’s searching for some reason—any reason—to explain away my behavior.

  I don’t move, just keep the blade steadily pointed at his chest, even though my wrists are straining from the effort.

  His mouth curves into a mocking smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And if I say no, then what? You’ll kill me?”

  Yes.

  He stares at me, and his expression changes just the slightest. I’ve seen this look on him before, when men dared to cross him.

  War sits up a little, propping himself on his forearms even though that brings the blade perilously close to his skin. He’s not concerned. At all. I’d forgotten that from the last time I threatened him with a weapon. Pain doesn’t frighten him.

  “Have you fully thought this through, wife?” he asks.

  I thought I had, but …

  “Because if you have,” he continues, “then you’ll know that I’ll only stay dead for a little while,” he says. “And when I’m alive again …” he gives me a hard look, “my wrath, once stoked, is unquenchable.”

  I can already feel that fury of his building behind his eyes, rising with every passing second.

  My breath hitches and my pulse is like a drumbeat in my ears. His words have me hesitating. But I tighten my grip on the hilt and press the tip of his sword to his skin, my resolve redoubling on itself.

  “Agree to it,” I demand. A drop of blood wells beneath the blade, marring that perfect skin of his.

  There’s no going back.

  “You would have me surrender,” War says the word like it’s an insult.

  “It’s what you asked of me.”

  Those eyes of his look as black as the night right now. “No.”

  That’s the second time this evening he’s said no.

  I knew I’d be working with no … and yet, still it’s a surprise. An unpleasant one. Maybe because now this means I have to follow through with my own plan. I wasn’t intending on that.

  My gaze goes to his flesh, where the tip of his blade presses down on him. I’ll have to pierce this skin, I’ll have to cause the horseman pain.

  I can’t.

  I’ve killed before—too many times have I taken lives. Lives of far better men than War. But now, at the thought of hurting this terrible immortal, my nausea rises.

  I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

  Oh God, I think I might actually care for the monster.

  My hands are shaking and I feel bile rising in the back of my throat.

  The two of us are staring each other down, and I can tell War is waiting.

  I have rope and a plan and fuck, I just need to do this.

  I can’t—

  I pull the sword away from War.

  His eyes narrow, but he relaxes. “That was a good decision—”

  —I can’t fall for this monster.

  I lunge, driving the weapon back at the horseman, aiming for his throat.

  War catches the sword by the blade, his hands wrapping around it. Blood wells beneath his fingers, slipping down his wrists and along the edges of his weapon.

  If War feels any physical discomfort, he shows no signs of it.

  Instead, it’s his eyes that are wounded.

  “You would’ve hurt me—with my own blade.” That last part is tacked on like it’s insult to injury.

  “It’s no less than you deserve.” I hate that my throat tightens as I say those words.

  “No less than what I deserve,” he repeats, his tone inflectionless. “Is that what you think? You kiss me and fuck me and breathe my name like a prayer, but you believe I deserve death?”

  I stare down at him unflinchingly. “You deserve worse.”

  The corners of War’s eyes tighten infinitesimally, and I can feel the breath of that wrath he spoke of. He was mad before, but now I’ve truly wounded him in a way that no one else can.

  This is where the horseman
grabs my head and twists it until my neck snaps. And unlike him, I won’t be coming back from the dead.

  Now it’s a matter of life and death.

  Fuck your feelings, Miriam, finish this.

  I lean my weight on the blade. “Surrender,” I command him.

  War’s upper lip curls, and his eyes flash with his rage as he holds the blade back. Blood is dripping down his wrist and onto the bed. Our bed.

  “I know you’re capable of it,” I say. He’s human enough. I’ve seen him change his mind and change his rules. Killing is a choice for him, no matter how intrinsic it is to his nature.

  “I’ll give you one last chance to drop my weapon, wife.” The title stings like a slap. “I will spare you some of my wrath if you do so.”

  “Surrender,” I repeat.

  With a deft yank, War jerks the sword from my grip and casts it aside. And then the two of us are left to stare each other down. His blood drips from his hands onto the packed sheets beneath him.

  Without his weapon, I feel acutely naked.

  I could’ve planned this situation … better. Instead I let my emotions carry it out, and it didn’t work.

  I don’t know if I truly thought it would, just as I didn’t know if warning Mansoura would work, but I had hoped that threatening him—then perhaps incapacitating him—might at least do something.

  Foolish, foolish girl.

  War stands, and even though he’s naked, he is excruciatingly menacing.

  “You betrayed me.” In the horseman’s eyes, that’s one of the worst crimes one can commit.

  He takes an ominous step towards me, his massive frame looming.

  For the first time since Jerusalem, I catalogue each thick bulge of muscle not as an aspect of his otherworldly beauty, but as proof of all the ways he can hurt me.

  I take an uncertain step back. All of my former bravado has left me.

  How to get myself out of this situation?

  War notices me backing up, and he laughs low, the sound terrible.

  “It’s too late to run, savage girl.”

  All at once, he’s closing in on me, and God save me, this is it.

  The horseman grabs me, his blood smearing onto my skin like war paint.

  “Did you really think that I could be so effortlessly dealt with? I created violence. You cannot outmatch me at my own game.”