“My mother knew it was dangerous, that something could go wrong, but it was our only option.”

Europe had closed its borders. They didn’t want foreigners—particularly not ones from the east and south. In their minds we’d steal their jobs and eat their food and overwhelm their precarious economies.

If we wanted to get through their borders, we were going to have to do it illegally, and this treacherous boat ride was the only way to do that.

“The boats were … bad. They were narrow and rickety, but worst of all, they relied on motors for propulsion.

“I didn’t want to get in ours. I was so afraid the motor was going to give out right in the middle of the open ocean. I was afraid I’d die at sea.”

War listens, rapt, his eyes searching my face as I speak.

“In the end, my mother and sister shamed me into stepping into the boat. They knew I didn’t really want to leave Israel—or New Palestine as it was starting to be called.” That was where my father died, where I grew up. It held all my memories. I knew we needed to leave, but I didn’t want to. It seemed cruel that I had to give this up too. We’d already lost everything else.

“We made it off the beach. The engine was making funny noises, but we got away from land at least.”

I pause.

Some memories are lost to the sands of time, but others, like this particular one … I could live to be a hundred and I’d still never forget.

“The explosion was a surprise.” I didn’t know engines could explode. “One moment I was sitting there, alongside my mother and sister, and in the next I felt heat and pain as I was thrown into the water.

“My backpack had been wrapped around my ankle.” That bag was full of the last of my earthly possessions. “I remember it dragging me down.”

My lungs pound. The sunlight above me grows dim even as I struggle.

“I tried to get it off, but I couldn’t. I was sinking, and I couldn’t get back to the surface.”

I open my mouth to cry for help.

The water rushes in—

I glance down at my fingers. “I don’t know how I survived. I really don’t. I thought I drowned in those waters.”

“But you didn’t,” War says, his voice soft.

I nod. “When I came to, I was onboard a fishing boat. The fishermen said they saw me floating in the water alone, far from any wreckage.”

“I don’t know what happened to either my mother or sister. I don’t even know if they’re alive.” My voice breaks.

War leans forward, cupping the side of my face. “I vow to you, wife, we will find what’s become of your family.”

I nearly stop breathing.

It’s what I’ve always wanted. What I could never quite attain when I was just a weapons dealer in Jerusalem.

War couldn’t give me a more precious gift.

Does he realize it?

My gaze slips down to his lips. I lean forward and kiss him. “Thank you.”

And then I show him I mean it.

Chapter 41

It’s been a while since I stopped in to see Zara. A big part of my hesitancy has been trying to explain to her that I’m now banging the horseman that wiped out her hometown and most of her family. I can’t imagine that conversation going over too well. But I’ve put this visit off for too long.

As soon as I leave War’s tent, the dead congregate around me, smelling like a demon’s asshole and looking even worse. Death does no one favors.

I frown at them.

I begin to walk, and the zombies fall into formation around me like some sort of undead security force.

I pause. “War!” I call out behind me.

Several seconds pass, then the horseman steps out of his tent, his trousers slung low, his dark hair sex-tousled, his rippling torso highlighted by the morning sun. A cup of coffee is in his hand, and he wears a loose smile on his face, his white teeth stark against his olive skin. It’s gross just how gorgeous he is.

“Reconsidering seconds?” he asks, his eyes laughing at me as he takes a small sip. He’s not talking about breakfast.

I give him a reproachful look. “I have to be friends with the dead now?” I gesture to the zombies.

His smile widens a little at that, his eyes bright. “Consider it a working relationship.”

I huff, walking back to him, the revenants at my heels. “No one’s going to kill me.”

“I know,” he agrees. “Because no one’s going to want to come within five meters of those men.” He nods to the zombies.

Ugh. “I just want to visit my friend.”

War’s expression darkens. “The one who tried to kill me? The same one whose boy you forced me to save?”

I look heavenward for patience. “It doesn’t matter who I’m visiting. I need your word that the dead won’t come into any tents I enter—or hover too close by.”

The horseman scrutinizes me. “What is the point of having guards if they cannot be around to protect you?”

I want to tell him that the bodyguards were his idea, not mine, and that I don’t give a flying fuck whether I even have guards. But knowing War, that kind of logic would land me with twice as many zombie nannies, all of whom would insist on entering Zara’s miniscule tent.

I rub my face. “Please War.” I drop my hand. “I’ll go along with your bodyguards. Just give me a little freedom. I need friends.”

He stares at me for a long time, then turns his attention to the undead who’ve congregated around me. Finally he inclines his head. “For your soft heart.”

I release a breath. “Thank you.” With that, I turn on my heel.

I feel those violent eyes on me as I walk away, the dead closing ranks around me once more.

The phobos riders that live in War’s area of camp stop and stare (somewhat hostilely) at me and my macabre bodyguards as I pass them by. But the real looks come when I enter the main area of camp.

Men and women openly gape at me, their eyes darting from dead man to dead man. And the same children who I’ve seen handle weapons now scream and flee at the sight of the walking dead.

I’m regretting this trip already.

By the time I get to Zara’s tent, she’s already standing outside of it, her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“Why is it that I always hear about you before you arrive?” she says by way of greeting.

“I think I’m just unlucky.”

She eyes the dead men. “They’re not coming in my tent,” she warns.

I glance at them, suddenly unsure how I’m supposed to get them to beat it. “I’ve arrived,” I tell them. “You can back off now.”

In response, they spread out, flanking the area and causing a nearby woman to scream and drop the clothing she was washing. The rest of the women loitering along this row of tents watch us curiously.

Zara jerks her head towards her home. “Why don’t we chat inside?”

I follow her in, and in the dim, warm confines of her tent, I see Mamoon playing with some faded plastic toys and a well-loved teddy bear.

“Mamoon, say hi,” Zara says.

“Hi,” he replies without looking up.

Zara purses her lips together, and she looks a little like she wants to cry.