“If I’m your wife, why don’t I sleep in the same tent as you?” I say. “And why don’t—” I stop myself before I can say more.

The horseman glances at me. Now I’ve caught his interest.

“Go on,” he says. “Tell me, Miriam, all about the rest.”

I don’t.

“Why don’t I fuck you raw and feast on your pussy and keep you chained to my bed like a proper husband?” he finishes for me.

Chained to the bed like a proper husband?

I glance over at him. “Who the hell educated you on marriage?”

Seriously, what the fuck?

Forget God. This dude has to be a demon.

War takes one look at my face and laughs. “Is that not what proper husbands do?”

I have no clue if he’s actually kidding.

Holy fucking balls.

“Who says I’m not already married?” I don’t know why I say it. It’s certainly not true.

For a moment, War doesn’t react. Then, ever so calmly, he glances over.

“Are you?” he asks softly. “Do you have a husband, Miriam?”

His voice, those frightening eyes … it sends a chill down my spine, and I remember all over again that this isn’t a man; War is some preternatural creature who kills without remorse.

“No.” I couldn’t lie under that gaze even if I wanted to.

War nods. “That’s fortunate for you—and for him.”

Another chill.

I suddenly have no doubt that if I were married, this horseman wouldn’t think twice about ending it. I sway unsteadily in my saddle at the thought.

War is most definitely a demon.

It’s quiet for a few moments, then while he takes in our surroundings, War asks, “Do you have any family?”

“Did.” I have to force the word out. “But then you already knew that, didn’t you?” The horseman had been inside my flat—or at least I assume he was the one who went there to retrieve my tools. He would’ve seen the pictures of my parents and the childhood photos of me and my sister.

“What happened?” he asks.

You happened, you crazy bastard.

I glance down at the hamsa bracelet I wear. It’s nothing more than a single metal charm shoved onto a leather cord—the red string it was originally threaded around has long since broken. But that simple metal charm was the last gift my father gave me.

To protect me from harm.

“My father died the day you and the other horsemen arrived.” He’d been crossing the street, on his way back to the university after having lunch with another professor. The bus hit him and his colleague, and neither had survived.

“My mother and sister—”

The gunfire is deafening. The three of us run out of the city with nothing more than a backpack each. We’re the lucky ones. But then, that boat, that ominous boat—

“There was war in New Palestine long before you came around.” For as long as people have lived in this corner of the world, there’s been war. “We were escaping it …”

I can feel the horseman’s eyes on me, waiting for me to finish, but I can’t talk about the rest of it. This loss is fresher than the other one.

I shake my head. “They’re gone too.”

We ride west, away from Jerusalem, along the lonely road. It’s shockingly quiet, like the very earth doesn’t have words for what’s happened to this land.

I glance over my shoulder, looking for some sign of the horde traveling behind us, but for the last twenty minutes I haven’t been able to see any sign of them.

“They’re back there,” War says.

I’m not sure if he’s reassuring me or warning me—probably both.

“How do you get them to follow you?” I ask. “Not just right now, but in battle?”

One small oath of allegiance cannot possibly be enough to earn an army’s devotion, especially not after the atrocities we’ve all witnessed.

“I don’t get them to do anything,” the horseman says. “My job isn’t to earn their loyalty, it’s to judge their hearts.”

That response sounds … biblical. Biblical and worrisome.

“And what about my heart?” I ask. “Have you judged it?”

War stares at me for a beat before he says softly, “Your heart is largely an enigma to me. But we shall find out the truth of it soon enough.”

Chapter 8

We don’t pass a single soul while riding along the mountain road, and after a while the lack of people becomes alarming.

My skin pricks.

Are they all dead? And if so, how?

How could War and a few thousand men at most take out an entire region? Not just cities, but everything in between as well? Something about that doesn’t add up.

I glance at the horseman, and his calmness only further unnerves me. None of this bothers him. It should bother him.

Not human, I remind myself.

And whatever beast War truly is, I have the pleasure of being his plaything for the moment.

You’ll get through this, Miriam, just as you have everything else.

The problem is that for the first time in a very long time, I don’t think just getting through this is good enough.

I just don’t know what is good enough.

Not yet.

We pass by the burnt remains of a large structure that could’ve once been a mosque or a Jewish temple.

I’ve heard of the horrors that happened in some other areas of New Palestine during our civil war, but this is the first time I might be seeing evidence of it outside of Jerusalem proper. No one and no religion was spared.

That was my first lesson in war: everyone loses, even the victors.

One mountain leads to another, which leads to another. It’s beautiful and all, but—

“Where are we going?” I ask War.

“Towards the ocean.”

The ocean. My heart skips a beat.

There’s water and fire and … and … and God the pain—the pain, the pain, the pain. The sharp bite of it nearly steals my breath.

I haven’t seen the ocean in seven years.

War glances at me. “Is everything alright?”

I nod a little too quickly. “I’m fine.”

He stares at me for a beat longer, then faces forward again. “Over the course of human existence, your kind has come up with hundreds of thousands of words for everything imaginable, yet somehow none of you have figured out how to actually speak your mind.”

“I’m fine.” No way am I sharing my true thoughts on the ocean.

Overhead, the full brunt of the midday sun is frying my skin to a crisp. My face feels tight, and I can see the dusty red flush of my forearms.

I’m also sweating like a cow.

I glance over at the horseman, eyeing the maroon armor that he wears over his clothing.

“Aren’t you hot?” I ask him, changing the subject.

If I were him, I’d be effing miserable.

All that leather just locks the heat in. If I were him, I’d be bathing in sweat. Instead he appears irritatingly unaffected.

“Is my wife concerned for my wellbeing?”

I fix my gaze on a horse stall up ahead. “I forgot—you’re used to hotter climates,” I say. “I hear hell is particularly warm this time of year.”