War (The Four Horsemen, #2)(135)

“Die?” War clarifies. “Of course I can. I just have a tendency to not stay dead.”

Have faith. I take a deep breath. Have faith.

My eyes go back to his body, and I stare at the blood that rings his lower neck and chest. I stare and stare at it.

Suddenly it hits me, what looks so odd about the blood splatter. Halfway up the column of his throat, the bloodstain abruptly stops. Not a single drop mars the skin beyond that point. It’s as though the wound happened at War’s neck, and then everything above it …

Grew back.

I shouldn’t dare to hope for something like that, but I can feel it in every shallow breath I take.

I touch my scar, tracing it as I gaze at War. According to him, I drowned in the Mediterranean, and I was reborn there as well. This might be the horseman’s own rebirth I’m witnessing.

I take in the various explosives around him—the grenades and the IEDs. What happens if he survives decapitation? If he’s rebuilt and whole once more? What happens if I leave him in that pit to regenerate and he wakes and moves and every single one of those bombs go off? What if he’s blown apart, his body incinerated? Can he come back from that?

My breath catches.

A more important question: Am I willing to wait and let him suffer that fate?

No. Not in a thousand years.

I love him and I won’t let him face death again, and it’s my turn to believe in something bigger than myself.

I do have faith—in him and myself and this moment. Maybe even in God Himself.

I step up to the edge of the grave. “I surrender.”





Chapter 59


I’ve lost my mind.

I’m sure of it when I lower myself into the grave. One misstep, and it’ll be my boat explosion, part two.

Be brave, be brave, be brave.

Just as my feet are about to touch the bottom, I notice a grenade nestled in a deep shadow.

Holy balls, I was about to step on it.

Swallowing my yelp, I reposition my feet and land softly in the grave.

For a moment, I wait for the inevitable explosion. When it doesn’t come, I release a shaky breath.

For better or worse, I’m in.

My eyes move over War.

Now, how to get him out?

First I grab his sword, prying it out of the horseman’s grip as gently as I can. If I pull too hard, one of his arms might slide off his chest and into an explosive.

I manage to dislodge the hilt from one hand before quickly repositioning that hand back on his chest. Then I manage to dislodge and resettle his other hand.

Already, sweat is beginning to bead along my brow. My hands shake from fear, and right now, I really, really need them steady.

Holding the sword in my grip, I lift it up.

Fuck, this thing is stupid heavy.

Why does he need to have the biggest sword of all? So dumb.

My arms tremble as I raise it up. The top of the grave is right above my head. If I can just get it up there …

I get the tip of it over the edge of the grave, and I shove the rest out as best I can. It takes several agonizing minutes, and by the end of it, I have sweat dripping down my chest and back, but finally, I get the weapon out of the grave.

My attention returns to War. Now that his sword is off him, all that’s left is getting this giant of a man out of this pit without blowing both of us up.

I bite back crazy laughter. It’s an impossible task. I don’t know why I thought I could do this …

Deep breath.

I push away my worries and focus on the task at hand. Removing the explosives from the grave is out of the question, which leaves only one other option: getting War and myself out of the pit unscathed.

Only, there’s no way I’m going to be able to lug the horseman out with my own two hands.

I’d need something stronger to get him out of this grave …

Something like a horse.

“Deimos!” I stage whisper, like raising my voice might set off one of these explosives … which it might. You never know.

Last I saw, War’s horse was lingering nearby, but for all I know, it’s wandered off again … probably to eat the bones of the long dead, or whatever immortal war horses do.

Nothing happens.

“Deimos!” I call a little louder.

Still nothing.

Freaking horses.

“Deimos!” I shout.

I don’t blow up. Praise the heavens.

The horse ambles over, peeking over the edge of the pit at me. His reins slide forward, into the grave, the thin leather strap bumping into the shaft wall. I wince as it causes a little dirt to dislodge and skitter down, some of it dusting a nearby IED.

When nothing else happens, I sigh out a breath. Sweat is beginning to drip down my temples.

My eyes catch on the leather sword holster that wraps around the horseman’s torso. If I can loop my own belt around War’s holster and Deimos’s reins, and if I can manage to buckle the reins to the holster, then Deimos could hoist War from his tomb. Hypothetically.

Even if that part of the plan works, there’s still the issue of somehow incentivizing a horse to actually drag his master up and out of the grave … and then, of course, there’s the issue of the explosives.

It’s disheartening to think that this is the best plan I have.

Damnit.

Be brave.