Page 168 of War

The horseman’s gaze narrows. He laughs then, that deep, chilling sound raising the hairs along my arm.

He cups my jaw. “The earth is full of so many bones,” he whispers.

I don’t know what to make of those words, only that I should be frightened by them.

War releases my jaw. I can feel my skin smeared with his blood.

His hand moves to the hollow at the base of my throat. He traces my scar, the shape now smeared with his blood. “This is the Angelic symbol forsurrender.”

Where is he going with this?

His raging eyes rise to mine. “I am not the only one who can resurrect the dead,” War says. “You were brought back to life and marked just as I have been,” he says.

The water rushes in—

Ihadthought I died that day. A chill sweeps down my spine.

My eyes drop to War’s tattoos, and now that I look for it, the shape of them is eerily like my scar. I never noticed the similarities. Not until now.

War runs a hand over his glowing tattoos. “This is my purpose, written on my flesh.” He nods to my scar. “That, is yours.”

I shake my head.

“Deny your vow all you want, but it won’t change the truth: you were made to surrender to me.”

Chapter 45

War leaves shortlyafter his final words.

In his place are zombies, lots and lots of zombies. I can sense them outside the tent, but it’s the ones who are inside—the ones War sent in—that capture more of my attention.

Most of these ones are a bit more decayed than usual, and their ripeness has me covering my mouth.

I’m sure the horseman picked these corpses on purpose.

Proof that War can be just as petty as the rest of us.

The long hours of the night tick by, and I have nothing to fill them with. Sleep eludes me, and my toolmaking kit and arrows were confiscated with the rest of War’s weaponry, leaving me nothing to do with my hands. There’s still that well-worn romance novel …

The thought of reading it twists my gut. I couldn’t bear to hear about someone else’s great love life when mine is such a mess.

I almost killed him.There was a moment when I was leaning on War’s sword where I was putting my full weight into the thrust. Only the horseman’s sheer strength prevented that blade from piercing his skin.

I rub my eyes, feeling a thousand years old.

Violence doesn’t fix violence. I know that, and I knew it before I devised my plan. Yet nothing else had worked. I had been angry and tired of watching too many innocents die. And in the end, at least War had that same wounded surprise in his eye that so many of these doomed civilians had. If nothing else, my horseman got a taste of his own punishment.

By midmorning, the sounds of camp are in full swing. People are laughing, bickering, shaking out dusty clothing, sharpening their blades, or smoking cigarettes and kicking balls around the tents. I’ve already heard the war drums herald in one execution, and breakfast has come and gone. In all that time, War hasn’t returned.

I’m busy staring at the photo of my family, my thumb rubbing over my father’s face when the zombies around me straighten. Then, as one, they approach me.

They close in until it’s clear they’re going to grab me.

“If you want me to follow you,” I say quickly, setting the photo aside, “I will. Just please don’t touch me.”

The guards stop just short of me, flanking me on all sides. Then, as one, they begin walking towards the door of the tent, and I’m swept along with them. Together, the group of us leave War’s quarters and head towards the center of camp.

Somewhere in the distance, the war drums start up again, the sound making my skin prickle. The farther we walk, the louder they get, until it’s clear the drums are pounding forme.