I don’t move back into War’s tent.
I can’t, not after my punishment. I could barely wrap my mind around being close to the horseman after he wiped out Mansoura. And now, when I tried to gut him with his sword and he killed off most of camp for the offense, it feels like the two of us have finally crossed some hard line.
It’s easy enough to move out; I simply choose one of the thousands of abandoned tents. I pick the one next to Zara, even though in her words—
“Your dead stink.”
Still, she puts up with my decaying guards who haven’t stopped guarding me. They aren’t the only dead either of us has to put up with; War’s now undead army still lingers along the outskirts of camp, the mass of them waiting for the horseman’s next orders.
Eventually I get my things back from War—a zombie drops them off at my tent’s entrance and walks away. Amongst the pile, there’s my tool kit and my half-finished arrows, the aged picture of my family, my romance novel and the dinged up coffee set that I never use. I even get the horseman’s old dagger, the one he gave to me shortly after we met.
I guess he’s no longer worried about me harming myself …
The world moves on. One day turns into two, two into four, then it’s a week, then weeks.
What’s left of camp packs itself up, moves, then resettles—packs, moves, resettles. Life takes on a kind of predictability to it. I ride with the other humans, and I live alongside them too. There are more children per adult than before, so we take turns watching them, and at night, we have them sleep in several of the larger tents.
We pass through Damanhur, then Alexandria, then Tanta and Banha, slowly making our way south through Egypt. The dead now fight and protect the camp, so the living no longer have to bloody their hands (phobos riders aside).
War never comes to visit.
There are no midnight drop-ins, there are no convincing arguments about why I should be sleeping with him. There’s no pissed off make-up sex.
He doesn’t even try to get close to my tent. The last time I saw him, he was riding back in from a raid with his phobos riders. His undead army came running in behind him, their bodies sick with decay. A few of them got blown up that day after a mishap with some explosives they’d run into in the city.
War’s eyes passed over mine, but there was no pause, no deep look, no spark of familiarity.
It’s as though our relationship never was.
The entire thing is crushing.
I’m still angry at War, but then I’ve always been angry at him. It’s him who’s decided to keep his distance. As crazy as it is, I actually resent that he’s still mad, even though I understand his anger—I tried to kill him, after all. But still, there were so many times when he crossed a line with me, I assumed it went both ways.
Then again, he’s made it clear that I’m not to die, while I made it clear that I wanted him dead. That’s pretty difficult to come back from.
As the weeks tick by, that numbness I felt in Mansoura begins taking over me. After seeing so many deaths, the faces start to blur together. And then there’s that terrible human quality of getting comfortable with a habit. We travel, we camp, we siege, we move on. Over and over again. I might hate my reality, but at some point the abnormal becomes horribly normalized.
Maybe this is how War feels—like this is simply normal. I thought for so long that he was incapable of feeling—that his mind didn’t work like that—but I think it does. He may be a heavenly creature, but he seems to love and fight and rage and grieve just like the rest of us humans do.
God, I am so tired. So unbelievably tired. The fatigue is a physical thing, and nothing I do seems to shake it. I go to bed drained, I wake up drained, and I drag myself through the day drained.
That’s the first sign that something isn’t right. The next is my loss of appetite.
Food no longer tastes right. First it was simply the smell of meat cooking. I’d have to stay away from the center of camp, where meals were served because the smell would make me gag. I chalked it up to seeing and smelling too many dead bodies, but now I’ve lost my appetite for coffee and alcohol as well.
None of it, however, alarms me. I’ve endured so much trauma and sadness, something like this was bound to happen.
It’s not until this morning that I truly worry.
I wake to a horrible churning in my stomach. I catch a whiff of my undead guards, and immediately, I scramble off my pallet, frantically shoving my way out of the tent.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth.
Going to be sick.
I don’t make it more than several meters before I retch. My guards stand idly by, and the smell of them—
I vomit again and again, that fetid scent caught in my nose.
Need the guards to move away.
Behind me, I hear another set of tent flaps thrown open.
“Miriam?” Zara’s voice is groggy. “Are you okay?”
I can’t answer, not until my stomach is completely empty. Even then I lean on my knees, breathing heavily.
“Stay away from me,” I rasp, turning around and heading back to my tent. “I’m sick.”
Zara doesn’t stay away. She comes over and brings me water and bread and fruit and fresh yogurt. I manage to choke down some of the bread and a bite or two of a dried apricot. The sight of the yogurt makes me gag, so she takes it away.
“Really, Zara, you need to stay away from me. I could get you sick—or Mamoon.”
“We’ll be fine. I do need to get back to my tent, but I’ll come back later,” she says. “I expect you to finish off all the water I’ve left for you.” She sounds like my mother. “And try to eat. You haven’t been …” Her brows furrow, and for the first time, I see that she’s worried about me.
I wave her off. “I’ll be fine.”
With a final, worried look at me, she slips out, and I’m left to drift back off to sleep.
I wake to the sound of heavy, familiar footfalls outside. They reach my tent, then stop.
I blink my eyes open just as the tent flaps are thrown back.
War stoops inside, and I have to suck in a breath at the sight of him. I’d forgotten how inhumanly handsome he is, with his olive skin and dark eyes, his black hair hanging wildly about his face.
He takes one look at me. “Miriam.”
At the sound of his voice and the concern that furrows his brows, I close my eyes. I thought I had lost whatever it was we had. But it’s still right there. He’s right there.
War kneels at my side. His hand goes to my hair, the tattoos on his knuckles glowing red, and he strokes my dark locks back just as he has so many nights before this.
I open my eyes again. “I missed you.”
That was not supposed to come out of my lips.
His face softens. War studies my features, like he’s trying to memorize them. He frowns, the concern back on his face. “Are you sick?” There’s a sharp, almost frantic look to his eyes.
“The dead—” I begin. Just the thought of them has me gagging. “The smell—can you get rid of them?”
I hear footfalls moving away from my tent, and I know without asking again that War sent off his zombies. It takes a little longer for their scent to fade away, but once it does, I relax a bit more.
War is in my tent. And he’s just as I remember—gold pieces in his hair, kohl ringing his eyes, vast expanses of muscle. Even his black on black attire is exactly how I remember it.
I try not to stare at his devastating face and his thick arms. I’m feeling too miserable to do anything more than eye-bang the crap out of him.
“Need my brother for this,” War comments, still studying my face.
“What?” I ask, alarmed.
“If you’re sick,” he says, “Pestilence would be able to help.”
I don’t want any of his brothers anywhere near me. But the way War says it, it’s more a wish than anything else. Wherever his brother is, he’s not going to be coming to my aid.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re not,” War insists. “You look far too pale and tired—and skinny. Have you not been eating?” Worry pinches the edges of War’s eyes, and he still has a wild edge to his features.
“Why do you care?” I ask him, not meanly, just curious. He hasn’t shown any interest in so long.
“Wife, I have always cared.”
That title! I didn’t realize how badly I missed hearing it until now.
“It’s you,” War continues, “who never cared.” There’s an edge of bitterness to his voice.
He thinks I was the one staying away? I mean I was, but only because he seemed to have written me off completely. My wounded ego can only take so much bruising.
“If only.” I look away from him.
At my side, War stills. He takes my chin and turns my face, forcing me to stare him in the eye. “What do you mean by that?” he demands.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I say miserably, half aware that Zara can probably hear every single word. Oh well.
“Speak plainly, Miriam,” War says, his features sharp and his gaze intense, hopeful.
Am I really going to do this? Shit, I think I am. I’m too exhausted to pretend away the truth.
“I care about you, War,” I admit. “More than I want to—much more. It’s been hell, not seeing you.”
War stares at me for a long minute, and then he smiles so big it seems to reach every corner of his face. It’s still a ferocious look on him with his sharp canines—not even happiness makes him look less dangerous—but my heart skips a beat at that smile.
“I’ve missed you too, wife. More than I have words to express.”
I flash him a shy grin of my own. Right now, he’s making me forget that I feel like roadkill.
“I’m still angry with you,” I admit.
“And I’m furious that you tried to gut me—with my own sword no less.”
I think it’s that last part that really got to him.
He leans in. “But from my wife,” he adds, “I expected no less.” The horseman leans down then and kisses me.
I’m tired and sick, but there is nothing, nothing in the world that could stop me from kissing the shit out of this man. He is the one thing that still manages to taste good. His lips devour mine, and his arms pull me in close.
The two of us make out for a long, long time. Eventually, War breaks away to slide his hands under my body.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He lifts me up. “I’m taking you home.”
Chapter 47
Now that War has kept his zombies at bay, I find I’m hungry. Very, very hungry. As soon as I see the platter of fruits, nuts, cheeses and breads laid out, I descend upon it. There’s a bowl of hummus nearby, and I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted anything so good in my life.
“You have an appetite?” War asks, coming to my side.
He looks upsettingly eager at the thought.
I guess it’s been more than just meat that I’ve been turning down lately.
“I don’t know, this hummus just tastes really good.”
Immediately, War strides out of the tent long enough for me to hear him barking out orders for more hummus.
War comes back inside. Grabbing a nearby pitcher, he fills up a glass of water.
“I’m going to bring a doctor over,” he says, handing the water to me.
“No,” I say too quickly, grabbing the warlord’s forearm. I accidentally smear a little hummus on it in the process. Whoops.
His brows come together as he stares at my grip on his arm.
His eyes rise to mine, and he looks suspicious. “What are you not telling me, wife?”
I shake my head. “I just don’t like doctors.”
Is that really it though? There’s been a ball of worry in the pit of my stomach. Something isn’t right, but I don’t really want to know what that something is. Not yet. This all might simply resolve itself.
“Sometimes, Miriam, we must endure things we do not enjoy. I’m sending for a doctor.”
“Please don’t, War,” I say. “It’s just the flu. Humans get it all the time. It’ll be gone in a few days.”
Just then, one of the horsemen’s men comes in with more hummus.
The rider sets the platter down on War’s table, then leaves.
“Your body is sick, wife. Don’t pretend otherwise. I should have been more vigilant with you because it’s clear you’re not eating as you should. And I know you’ve been more fatigued than usual lately.”
He’s noticed? I should probably be concerned that he’s been somehow keeping tabs on me, but instead I’m oddly touched that he’s been so aware of my existence.
I’m fucked in the head.
War continues. “And that’s not to mention the fact that only this morning you were physically sick.”
“I feel better now.” Sort of. I mean, I’m still nauseous, and the sweltering heat today is doing nothing to help it, but still, I feel well enough to eat and move around a little.
The horseman gives me a long-suffering look. “We may have been apart for some time, wife, but make no mistake, I won’t let you die. Not by the blade and not by illness either.”
I exhale. “A doctor won’t be able to do anything other than tell me to rest and drink lots of fluids.”
War doesn’t look nearly so convinced.
“Please, I promise you, I’m not dying,” I insist, drinking down the cup of water he gave me.
Behind me, the tent flaps rustle, and one of his phobos riders steps inside. “My Lord, we need to talk to you about”—the rider’s eyes flick to me, and he doesn’t quite manage to hide his surprise—“the next raid.”
“Not now,” War says, refilling my glass of water. He only has eyes for me, and it feels embarrassingly good to be the center of his world.
“Go,” I say. “I’m fine.”
War’s jaw tightens subtly. “You’re not.”
“I am,” I insist.
“And the undead?” he asks accusingly.
I get his unspoken meaning. He sent away all of his zombies. If he leaves, there will be no one to guard me.
I’m ashamed at how much my heart soars, hearing his concern. I thought he didn’t care. There were days when I was sure of it. Only now am I aware of how much that hurt me.
“You’re going to have to have faith that I’ll be alright,” I say. Even as I speak, I feel my nausea begin to rise once more.
“Faith is for humans,” War mutters, but after a moment, he nods to his phobos rider.
The horseman comes over to me and takes my face in his hands and kisses me long and hard. “We will continue to discuss your health when I return. Until then, arm yourself, wife.”
War releases my face, and then he leaves.
“So you’re back with him.” Zara’s voice drifts in from outside my tent.
I’m back inside my old quarters, gathering together my things. I left War’s tent shortly after he did so that I could pick up my belongings … and muster the courage to tell Zara I was moving back in with the horseman. That’s how easily War swayed me. One visit from him and a single request that I live with him again, and I capitulated to it all.
Apparently, I have shockingly weak willpower when it comes to him.
I make my way out of my tent and face Zara. “You heard my conversation with War?”
She nods, her hijab fluttering in the breeze. “I’m going to miss having you as a neighbor … even if your zombies stink.”
I laugh a little at that before my expression turns serious. I stare off behind her, where Mamoon is playing soccer with several other little boys.
This moment and everyone in it seems so fragile. I’m afraid of my own happiness; it’s usually the quiet before the storm.
“Do you love him?” Zara asks me, interrupting my thoughts.
My gaze snaps to her.
I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say. There’s so much
not to love about War.
Zara searches my features. Before I can scrape up some sort of answer, she says, “I gave him updates on you, you know.”
My eyes widen. “What? When?”
“While you two were apart,” she says. “He wanted to hear about how you were doing. If you were safe, happy, healthy.”
My heart stutters a little at that. So that’s how he learned I wasn’t eating. I assumed that he’d somehow gotten the information from my guards, but it was Zara who informed him.
“I’m sorry I kept it from you,” she adds—not that she sounds sorry.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask her. I don’t think I’m hurt, but … I can’t say what I’m feeling, knowing my friend was secretly passing along information to War.
“He asked me not to,” she says.
“But I’m your friend.”
“He forced my loyalty the day he saved Mamoon.”
I remember. I just never assumed he would make use of that loyalty.
Zara’s gaze goes to my tent. “Here, let me help you with your things.”
Normally, I’d turn down her offer, but I’m still feeling massively fatigued, and my nausea has returned. I’ll take all the help I can get.
The two of us gather up my few items, only leaving the coffee set behind. We fit most of my belongings into my canvas bag, which I then sling over my shoulder.
“You better come visit me,” Zara says.
I scoff at her. “Like I have anything better to do.”
She gives me a look that says, I wasn’t born yesterday. “I can think of one activity you might prefer over me …”
The two of us break into laughter, and I give her a playful shove. “Zara!”
“What? Don’t act like it’s not true.”
We snicker a little longer.
Eventually, Zara’s face smooths. “Seriously though, Miriam, get better. And one piece of friendly relationship advice: if you truly like the guy, try not to kill him again.”
I don’t end up seeing War until later that evening. He comes striding into the tent, looking just as imposing as he’s always been. My heart speeds. I still haven’t gotten used to being around him again.
His gaze immediately finds mine. “Wife.” His eyes heat. “I cannot tell you what it does to me, seeing you in our tent. It drove me mad, living here without you.”
War (The Four Horsemen Book 2) Page 33
