The only real way I can tell we’re making progress is by the few landmarks we pass—an abandoned house, a barren outpost, a trough of water next to a hand-pump well. Oh, and of course, the few fishing villages we pass by, a cluster of carrion birds circling above them.

Eventually, the sun dips down ahead of us, and War chooses a place for us and our horses to rest.

After the two of us get a fire going, I begin to fry up dinner. This trip, War’s packed a skillet and some salted meat to cook. I stare at the strips of meat after I lay them out. The sight of them twists my stomach. It looks too much like all those humans whose bodies were ripped open during battle.

Next to me, the horseman sits on his haunches, staring at the fire.

“Why do you have an army if you could simply use your dead to kill off humans?” I ask him while I work.

It seems to me that, with the sweep of his hand, War could annihilate us all, and it would be a whole lot faster and more thorough.

“Why don’t you sing all the time if you have the ability to?” he responds, his eyes flashing. “Why not run everywhere if you can? Just because I have the power doesn’t mean I always want to wield it.”

So he doesn’t want to kill us off that efficiently? I don’t know whether that’s merciful of him or just cruel.

“Besides,” he says, “I rather enjoy camp. It reminds me of who I am and who I have always been.”

Battle brought to life, he means.

“That’s a bit odd, don’t you think?” I say. “You want to remember who you are by gathering humans around you and enjoying their company.”

“No, I don’t think it’s odd at all,” War says, getting up to grab a bottle of wine he’s packed. He comes back with it and two glasses. Sitting back down, he says, “I am borne of men, and I am here to judge them. Naturally I want to be amongst them.”

“So there’s a part of you that likes humans,” I say.

“Of course I like humans.” War uncorks the wine and begins to pour us each a glass. “Just not enough to spare them.”

That is so twisted.

He hands me one of the glasses, and I take a deep drink from it.

“I am a commander of men,” he continues. “Not even death can stop my reach.”

Not even death can stop my reach.

War is right. Even in death he can weaponize us. I remember the revenant who led me back to camp. His eyes were mostly gone, his skin was mottled and sloughing off, and yet he moved as though he were alive.

“How do you control the dead?” I say.

The horseman levels his gaze at me. “We are talking about the powers of God, Miriam. There is no human explanation I can give you.”

“Could you do it, right now, if you wanted to?”

War raises his eyebrows. “You want me to raise the dead?”

That’s not exactly what I asked, and yet now that he’s broached the subject, I’m perversely curious. I don’t know why. It’s ghoulish and frightening.

I nod anyway.

The horseman reaches out, and I feel the ground around me shiver, like it’s ticklish. Several meters away the arid earth shifts, and the partial skeleton of a horse pulls itself from the sandy soil. The creature is missing many of its bones, but it stands as best it can.

It’s hard to say that this is anything other than magic.

The skeletal horse begins to move as though it were alive, even though it looks long dead.

“It’s … not human,” I say.

“I can re-animate both people and creatures.”

The horse ambles up to me, and instinct is telling me to get up and flee. But damnit, I’ve faced worse. So I sit there and let it get close.

The horse bumps its muzzle against my shoulder, and part of me is disarmed by this poor thing that moves like a horse and acts like a horse even though it’s long since breathed its last.

“Are you satisfied?” War asks.

I nod, maybe a little too quickly.

The horse takes several steps away from me, then all at once, it falls to the earth, nothing more than a scattered pile of bones.

Chapter 35

The night sweeps in and the fire burns itself down. Just when the evening air is starting to get a chill to it, the horseman gets up from the fire. I can hear him at my back, removing his weaponry. I still hold my empty glass, and all that wine in my stomach is churning.

This is the first time I’ve traveled with the horseman since our agreement, and out here, without an army around us, my universe feels very small. It’s only big enough to hold me, War, and this uncomfortable feeling that rises in me every time we’re together.

The horseman comes back to me and reaches out a hand. “Come, wife. It’s late and I want to feel your warm flesh against mine.”

That same uncomfortable feeling rises in me. Right now it’s giddiness and a thrill that comes with giving in to the horseman. We’re either all or nothing, enemies or lovers. It’s dizzying. Our bodies get along much better than our mouths.

I take War’s hand and let him lead me to the pallet he made us. There’s just one bed tonight. My abs clench at the sight.

The horseman reels me in close, his hands going to my dark hair as he leans in and kisses me. And the kiss is all it takes to break me wide open.

I’ve shored up all my desire for him during the long day, but now I gasp as his heavy hand moves down my neck and along my collar bone. My own hands find his abs, and God was clearly biased when he made this man because War is perfect. Every hard ridge, every sloping muscle and lean edge—perfect, perfect, perfect.

As he strips me down, I try not to think about the fact that I’m so very obviously not perfect. I have scars from that long ago accident, I have scars from all the skirmishes I’ve fought in since, and I have scars from all the nicks and cuts I’ve given myself for my job. And then there are all the imperfections that I was simply born with.

I’m crudely fashioned compared to this horseman.

But as War lowers me down, removing the last of my clothing, his hands and lips move over me like I am perfect. The horseman slips between my thighs, and as I stare up at the stars, a stupid, awful tear slips out. Because I feel so cherished. So cherished and so goddamned perfect.

It shouldn’t be this way. It shouldn’t.

But it is.

After the two of us have exhausted ourselves, I lay with War on his pallet. Our pallet, I guess—if I’m being honest with myself.

I don’t bother telling the horseman that this feels right. That his ridiculous body somehow fits mine like a puzzle piece.

War runs his fingers through my hair. “Tell me about yourself,” he says.

“What do you want to know?” I ask, glancing over at him. I wish I could see his face in the darkness.

“What makes you love being a human? What are your favorite things? I want to know it all.”

“I like art,” I say carefully, turning back to gaze at the sky. “I like repurposing junk into beautiful objects.”

“You mean your weapons,” he says.

I stretch myself out along his body. In response, War pulls me in close to him.

“That’s just how I was able to make money off of my art,” I say. “But yeah, my weapons are part of it.”