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 is horseman-free.

I’m almost disappointed at the thought.

Outside my tent, I hear several male voices whispering.

This late at night, men shouldn’t be in this section of camp, especially after a day fighting and an evening drinking.

For a split second I think that maybe some woman brought them here, or they made plans to meet up with someone here.

I hear those voices again—there’s at least three of them—and they don’t sound confused, they sound devious.

Listen to your instincts.

I move to the back of the tent. The canvas wall is too taut to slip under, so I lift War’s dagger, pressing the tip to the sturdy material.

If I’m wrong about this, and I cut a hole in my tent for no reason, I’m going to feel like a fool.

Better a fool than anything else …

With that, I pierce the canvas. As quietly as I can, begin to saw through the coarse fabric, creating an opening.

I grit my teeth at the riiiiiiiip of material as I part the canvas.

Outside, the whispers have gone silent.

I bite my inner cheek so hard I taste blood.

Faster! Faster!

It’s the most agonizing sort of situation, trying to cut that tent as quickly and as quietly as possible. What sound I am making seems deafening to me.

Finally, the hole is big enough. Clutching my dagger in my fist, I plunge through the opening headfirst—

Behind me, I hear the slap of my tent flaps being thrown open.

Dear God dear God dear God.

I claw my way forward, forcing my torso out of the tent.

A hand latches onto my leg. “She’s trying to escape!” one of the men whispers as loudly as he dares.

I let out a shriek, not bothering to stay quiet. Hopefully that’ll wake up the entire camp.

That hand drags me back inside my tent, and I feel more than see the group of men who have squeezed themselves inside.

Now I’m trapped in here with them.

I continue screaming like a banshee. Fuck if I’ll silently let this happen.

“Shut the fuck up, you stupid slut,” another male voice says.

I kick out, and I hear something crunch. One of my assailants cries out, releasing my ankle.

I scramble once more for the opening I made, screaming the entire time.

More hands catch my ankles and they drag me back in.

One of them flips me onto my back, and another set of hands rips open my shirt. This time, when the material tears, it sounds like a gunshot.

Oh God oh God oh God. This isn’t happening.

Where is everyone?

Why is no one helping?

I scream and swipe my dagger in front of me, the blade catching someone’s chest. I feel their hot blood hit me, and the sensation only makes me scream louder.

My attacker cries out in pain.

Another hisses, “She’s got a weapon!”

I’m kicking at them and fighting off their hands, which are busy trying to pin me down and immobilize me.

I feel knees on my thighs, hands on the bare flesh of my stomach.

Oh God, please God, no.

I scream louder.

Where the fuck is everyone? We live in a city without true walls, and we are camping in a country that has a strong military background. There has to be at least one other person sober and brave enough to stop this.

One of my assailants goes for my dagger, leaning in close to grab my wrist. With one last burst of energy, I plunge my blade into the man’s throat.

I feel his blood spurt out from the wound, and even in the dark and even with the confusion, I’m pretty sure the injury is lethal.

Now it’s the men who are shouting, panicking.

“The bitch got Sayid!”

“You filthy whore!”

Someone kicks me in the ribs so hard my scream cuts off. Another booted foot kicks me again, this one just above my ear.

I curl in on myself, covering my head as the men shift from immobilizing me to beating me. I feel the blows everywhere—my arms, legs, torso, head. The pain—

The pain the pain the pain—I can’t breathe around it. It’s exploding from a hundred different places. I’m losing all my other senses to it.

It’s blinding, screaming, choking agony.

Suddenly, I hear a voice like thunder, speaking words I don’t recognize but still understand.

“Jinsoi mohirsitmon dumu mo mohirsitum!”

You cross God when you cross me!

I would recognize that voice if I heard it in hell itself.

War.

The beating stops at once. Then there are more screams—high-pitched, horrible noises that animals make as they’re slaughtered—but they don’t come from me.

I try to open my eyes to see what’s going on, but my eyelids won’t obey my commands.

A minute later, hands are back on me, slipping under my body. I attempt to shout, to fight against those hands, but my mouth is full of blood and when I try to move one of my arms—blinding pain.

“Miriam—Miriam.” War’s voice … I’ve never heard it sound like this. Soothing and agonized all at once. “It’s only me.”

I cry out as he lifts me. “No.” The word comes out garbled as I try to push his hands away.

“Ssssh. You’re safe.” War’s voice is deep and rough and terrible and—shaken. Or maybe my ringing ears are playing tricks on me.