War (The Four Horsemen #2) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,140

the modern age.

“What is it?” War says, sensing my mood change.

“Giving birth can be dangerous.”

“How dangerous?” he presses.

I look him in the eye. “I could die. And your child could die.”

“Our child,” he amends, his hand still pressing against my belly. For the first time since we began this conversation, he smiles a little. “You forget wife—I can heal all manner of injury. As I said before, you and the baby are safe.”

Me and the baby.

I glance at War, and I almost want to laugh at the idea of domestic bliss with this horseman. It seems so preposterous. And yet, he’s clearly way into it. Way into it.

He kisses me. “All will be well. Trust me on that.”

The change in War starts small. So small I almost think I’m imagining it. He had promised me—no, vowed to me—that he would surrender. And yet I’m not sure I believed him until the proof starts rolling in.

Over the next several weeks, as we travel down the Nile, War stops attacking the small, satellite communities that speckle the land. Even more staggering, the horseman chooses to spare those few humans who manage to survive his raids.

It’s a shock to hear—after all, War takes his undead army into battle with him, and those killing machines leave no one unharmed. I’m having a difficult time believing that there is anyone left to spare.

But there are in fact survivors, and the proof of it comes the day after we leave Beni Suef.

War and I travel alone on our steeds, the Nile a short distance from us. The rest of the camp—the dead and all—trail far behind us, just as War has always arranged it.

As we come up to the city of Maghaghah, an arrow zings past me, so close I feel the air shift. I glance at War, a bewildered look on my face.

This has never happened before during our travels because people don’t know War is coming.

Another arrow zings by. Then another and another.

Or at least, they didn’t used to.

“Miriam, move!” The horseman sounds like a general, and instinctively, I obey him.

I pull on my horse’s reins, angling myself away from the line of fire. Another arrow whistles—

My body jerks as the projectile hits me in the shoulder. I grunt, pain and surprise nearly throwing me off my horse.

“Miriam!” War shouts. His eyes are locked on the arrow protruding from me.

I stare at my wound, warm blood pooling from it. The pain is there, but it’s buried under my shock.

Someone just shot me.

They knew we were coming and they shot me.

War steers Deimos in my direction, putting himself between me and the city ahead of us. There are more arrows coming our way. Most fall short or go wide, but several come right at us.

I have to duck to avoid another one.

The horsemen gets to my side, his flank exposed to the onslaught. His face is calm, but his violent, violent eyes give him away.

In one fluid movement, he grabs me by the waist and drags me onto his horse.

I bite back a cry as the action jostles my shoulder.

And then I’m on Deimos and we’re retreating, though I’ve never known War to retreat, ever.

As we ride away, I see a few arrows sticking out of Deimos’s side. The horse doesn’t so much as flinch from the pain, though it must hurt him.

This is what happens when you let people live. They pass warnings along to cities that haven’t been attacked, and those cities prepare. And then they fight with every last piece of themselves.

My heart beats a little faster, and I feel a thrilling sense of accomplishment, despite being on the wrong end of this fight.

This is because of me and War. Without the trades and the fights and eventually, that vow of his, this never would’ve happened.

War places his hand under the collar of my shirt, near the wound, trying to heal it.

“I can’t remove the arrow until we’re safe,” he says apologetically.

I nod, distracted by the warm drip of blood down my arm.

I chance a glance over my shoulder. The city is quickly growing small, but in the distance, I notice several riders coming after us.

“War …”

“I know.”

We ride for a minute more before the horseman pulls Deimos up short. We turn, so that we can see the men riding out for us.

War lets them come close. Not close enough to shoot us, but close enough to see that these men are wearing uniforms.

They’re not just civilians, which means the outside world