War (The Four Horsemen #2) - Laura Thalassa Page 0,44

little jealous of you for it.”

Zara gives me a small smile, but it quickly falls away when cheering rises from the festivities.

“Why are they happy?” she asks, listening to the sounds.

“The fuck if I know.” I take another sip from my cup.

I can feel her staring at me, weighing my words.

“What?” I finally say.

“If you hate them so much why were you fighting with them?”

I glance at her, lowering my drink. “Why did you choose allegiance over death?” I ask.

She doesn’t say anything to that. There isn’t anything to say. It’s all so very complicated.

I slosh around the liquid in my cup. “I have been fighting,” I admit, “but I’ve been targeting the horseman’s army, not the civilians.”

Zara gives me a sharp look. “You can do that?” She looks intrigued.

“Not with impunity, no.” Eventually someone will catch me and I’ll have to face the consequences of killing War’s army. They don’t really like traitors here.

“But you haven’t gotten punished for it?” Zara presses.

I hesitate. “Not yet.” There it is again, that word—yet. Because it’s inevitable that something bad will happen to all of us.

The two of us are silent for a bit, but eventually, I have to ask—

“Where in God’s name did you find the courage to fire a gun?”

I can’t tell if Zara’s smiling or frowning at the reminder. “I didn’t have a lot left to lose, and I was so mad. So, so mad. I’m still mad. I just grabbed my family’s gun and hunted that asshole down.

Family.

Oh God. I feel my horror spread through me. Of course she had family. And now I’m left to wonder what she saw before she picked up that firearm and decided that fuck it, I’ll take my chances.

“How did you stop the horseman from killing me?” Zara asks then.

It’s such a reasonable question, but there is so much to that question that I don’t want to answer.

“I asked him to spare you,” I say, glad that the darkness shadows my face.

There’s a pause. Then Zara says, “That’s not really what I’m asking.”

I know. What she wants to know is why would War listen to me at all.

I bring my drink to my lips and swallow almost all of it, wincing at the taste.

Just tell her.

“He thinks I’m his wife.”

More silence.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Zara eventually says.

“I think it might eventually mean”—my mouth dries—“sex, but for now, it’s an empty title.”

I think of the times the horseman and I have kissed, and I am so conflicted. So, so conflicted.

Zara’s silent, undoubtedly because I’m making no sense. One should either be married or not married, having sex or not having sex. Anything else deserves a larger explanation.

One that I’m not really ready to give, partially because I don’t understand the situation much myself.

“So you have some sway over him,” Zara eventually says.

Sway?

I mull that over. “Maybe for isolated incidents—like sparing your life—but no, he’s pretty unbending when it comes to killing us all off.”

“Have you tried to convince him to stop?”

I give Zara a look that I’m sure she can’t see in the darkness. “Of course I’ve tried.”

It’s not good enough, that annoying little voice says in my head. Try again. And again. And try harder.

Zara exhales. “Why is he doing this?”

“Because his god told him to, or some bullshit like that.”

“You don’t believe in his God?” she asks, sounding surprised.

My eyes move to Zara’s headscarf. “Do you?” I ask.

We’re both quiet.

Like I said, it’s all so very complicated.

Chapter 17

That night it takes longer than usual to fall asleep. Between the battle today, the revelation that War can raise the dead, and the exciting possibility that I might’ve actually made a friend in Zara, my brain won’t shut off.

It doesn’t help that following the camp’s festivities this evening, people are loud and obnoxious and they won’t go to sleep. I can hear several groups of women talking about this or that.

Just go the fuck to bed and put us all out of our misery.

Eventually, the voices do quiet down and I slip off to sleep.

I feel like I’ve only been asleep for an instant when I wake to a tingling sensation on the back of my neck that something isn’t right.

Rule Four of my survival guide: listen to your instincts. I’ve lived on the edge long enough to know they’re rarely wrong.

Reaching under my pallet, I grab War’s dagger. My eyes scour the darkness, searching for the horseman, sure that he’s the one responsible for waking me. But my little home