Page 19 of War

His women?

The fuck?

“I amnothis woman,” I say defensively.

You are my wife.

This is the first time Tamar has even brought the horseman up to me. I set aside the fact that she just confirmed that War is in fact War and focus on the fact that Tamar has been grooming me for the horseman.

“Better his woman than someone else’s,” one of the other girls says. Some of the other women murmur their agreement.

I’m going to enjoy you later,that soldier had said to me only hours ago.

I suppress a shiver.

Is that how this place works?

Reluctantly, I take the silks from Tamar, the material seeming to slide through my fingers.

Do I put them on?

My only other option is to slip back into my wet clothing and shoes.

I eye the items again.

I’m no more War’s woman than I am anyone else’s, and wearing these items doesn’t change that. But the horseman’s interest in me is another matter.

There are things he wants from me, things that have nothing to do with my fighting abilities and everything to do with the fact that he calls mewife.

My grip tightens on the silks.

There are thingsIwant too. Answers, information, a solution to this monstrous apocalypse.

Who knows, maybe tonight I’ll get some of them.

I just have to put on the damn outfit.

Chapter 5

Battle drums fillthe 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.