War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(12)

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.