War (The Four Horsemen #2) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,27
a demon.
“Earlier,” he says, “you wanted to know why I don’t speak the languages of men when I can,” he says.
I had asked him about this when he invaded my tent several nights ago; I’m still curious about it, especially since he can speak perfect Hebrew with me.
“I speak every language that has ever existed. Even the ones that left no record. They have long faded from mortal memory, but not mine. Never mine.”
War is quiet for another moment. “What people don’t understand frightens them.”
How many times had I seen proof of that fear? Dozens, at least. And now War has weaponized that terror.
“So I speak dead languages, and I let the humans piece together from it what they will,” War finishes.
“But you don’t always speak in tongues,” I say. There have been a number of times where he spoke Hebrew or Arabic to me and his riders.
“I don’t. There are times when it serves me to be understood.”
“And when you speak in dead languages,” I say, “why is it that I can still understand you?”
War gives me a patient look. “I told you, you are my wife. You will know me and my heart, whether you want that or not.”
Unease coils low in my stomach.
Again, he says it with such certainty that I wonder …
But no. I refuse to believe I’m supposed to be with this monster.
“What do you want with me?” I ask, toeing a nearby pebble.
I sense rather than see War’s eyes draw down my face. “Isn’t it obvious?”
My gaze moves to his. “No.” It’s not.
From the few stories I’ve heard, this man has bagged himself a city’s worth of women—a big fucking city’s worth—and yet he hasn’t done more than touched my cheek and claimed that I’m his wife.
“Would you like me to tell you then?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft.
My pulse picks up. “Yes.”
“I want you to surrender.”
A beat of silence passes.
I have no clue what that actually means, but I note that chaining me to a bed and feasting on my pussy were not mentioned. Shame. Under the right circumstances (a.k.a., lots and lots of booze), I could actually get behind that one.
“Surrender?” I echo. “I already have.”
“You haven’t,” he insists.
Are you kidding me? He’s forced me to leave my life behind because it suited him. If that’s not surrender then I don’t know what is.
The more I stew on my thoughts, the more indignant I become.
“We’ve talked about how different you are and how difficult you are to understand, but we haven’t talked about me,” I finally say. “I don’t want you as a husband, and I don’t accept you, and whatever your god thinks he wants to do with me and the rest of the world, I will fight it with my every last breath.
“Oh, and I’m not surrendering anything to you, motherfucker.”
War gives a malevolent laugh, and despite myself, it raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “Fight all you want, wife. Battle is what I’m best at—and I assure you, you won’t win this one.”
The second day of riding is both more and less miserable than the first. More, because I still have to ride alongside War, and less, because Thunder has only tried to kick me once so far, and that’s an improvement from the three attempts he made yesterday.
My terrible sunburn also seems to be much better today—the skin only slightly tight and tender—and my saddle-sore thighs don’t ache nearly as much as I expected them to. I don’t know what witchcraft is responsible for this, but I’m not going to complain.
Today we leave the arid mountain range behind us, moving towards the flatter ground near the coast. The moment those rolling hills fall away, I feel bare. I’ve lived with the mountains my entire life. The wide, flat expanse of land that stretches out in front of me now is foreign and it makes me painfully homesick.
I’m really not going back. My heart squeezes a little at the thought, even as a strange sort of exhilaration takes hold. For years I had been trying to save up enough money to leave Jerusalem. And now I’ve truly left it.
Not that this part of New Palestine is much to look at. It’s nothing but swaths and swaths of yellowed grass, interrupted every now and then by a struggling patch of farmland. Every so often we pass a dilapidated building or a seemingly empty town, and maybe there are still people living here. It doesn’t look like