I don’t have to wait long before I hear the pounding of hooves in the distance. Peering over the hood of the car, I see a mounted rider. They’re too far away for me to make out their features, but I can already tell it’s not War. The steed is black and not red, and the rider’s stature is not nearly as staggering as the horseman’s.

I keep my arrow trained on the rider and wait until he gets close. Then, I pull the bowstring back.

Inhale. Exhale. Aim. Release.

My arrow strikes the rider square in the chest, throwing the rider back in his saddle.

Another arrow is in my hand in an instant. The man is only just righting himself when I step out of my hiding spot and release the bowstring.

The shot clips him in the arm—not where I was intending, but hell, it hit him. That has to count for something.

“Miriam!” he bellows, closing in on me. “What the hell are you doing?”

It’s weird to hear my name on his lips when I don’t know who this man is. Or to hear him shout his indignation when he must know exactly why I’m shooting him.

The rider slows his horse as he gets close to me, then he hops off it. Only now do I see that it’s the burly, bearded man who entered my tent this morning. He now has a sword sheathed at one hip and a battle axe at the other. Roughly, he grabs the arrow embedded in his arm and rips it out, tossing the weapon aside.

I nock another arrow, aiming it at him. “What are you doing?” I’m impressed that my voice is as steady as it is.

He walks towards me, giving me a disdainful look. “I’ve seen you march about camp for the last few months like you’re some kind of goddamn queen.” His hand touches the top of his battle axe.

“Touch that weapon again, and I’ll shoot.”

“But you’re not a queen,” the phobos rider continues, his hand falling to his side. “You’re just a cheap whore who got herself pregnant.” His eyes meet mine. “You put that weapon down now, and I’ll give you a quick, clean death. Otherwise, I’m dragging you back to the rest of the men, and we’ll each enjoy fucking you a few—”

My arrow hits him cleanly in the throat, and his words cut off with a choke.

I’m not in the mood to listen to this shit.

He takes an unsteady step back, looking more surprised than actually pained. They always look surprised. I don’t know why. I already shot this man twice, and I threatened him a third time.

The rider tries to draw the arrow out as blood cascades down his neck. He sways a little, then staggers to his knees, reaching an arm out to brace himself. More blood spurts onto the ground.

I step up to him, readying another arrow. “Where is my husband?”

The rider does the best he can to look up at me, considering there’s an arrow running through his throat. He smiles cruelly as he tries to speak. The sound bubbles out his throat instead.

It doesn’t matter. I saw the words form on his lips anyway.

War’s dead.

Chapter 57

The phobos rider slumps over shortly after that. I lean down and pry his axe from his hand. I use his pants to wipe the blood from the weapon, and then I thread the wooden handle through my belt loop.

The rider’s horse has only ambled away a short distance. Stepping over a pile of bones, I reach the horse and pull myself into the saddle. It only takes another few moments to turn the beast around, towards Karima. And then I ride like demons chase me.

War’s dead. The words replay themselves over and over again. Maybe that’s why his zombies fell all at once. Maybe he didn’t release them, maybe his power over them died with him.

He can’t die, I have to keep reminding myself. Not permanently at least. But then, with every corpse I pass I feel a little less certain.

What if God turned His back on my horseman now that War’s decided to end the fighting? What if He’s decided that this time dead means dead?

I can’t catch my breath. The thought is absolutely terrifying.

I don’t know how long I ride before I register the wet, thumping noise coming from one of the saddle bags. I reach for it out of irritation. The moment I touch the canvas, my hand comes away wet. I glance at my fingers.

Crimson.

I jerk the horse to the stop, a bad feeling coming over me. Swinging off the horse, I loosen the saddle bag and—

I only catch a glimpse of familiar dark hair and a bloody, golden bead before I turn and retch over the side of the horse.

Whatever my eyes saw, they were mistaken. I shouldn’t look again. I shouldn’t.

I open the saddle bag further.

“No.” The word slips out.

War’s face is bloody and it looks all wrong. I have to lean over to vomit again.

“No,” I sob. My entire body is trembling.

He told me he couldn’t permanently die. He told me that.

But he never told me what would happen if someone did something this drastic, something like removing his head from his shoulders.

I sit there on the horse for close to a minute, aware that time is slipping by.

I don’t much care.

A choked sob slips out of me. I press the back of my hand to my mouth, a tear slipping out, then another.

War’s gone.

My husband, my love—the man who awoke everything in me.

The man who left a part of himself inside of me.

All I can remember now are the nights he held me beneath the stars, and the feel of his lips against my skin as he whispered his love for me.

He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone. I wanted that so badly once—to be free of him. It’s such a cruel irony that now that I want my horseman, someone’s taken him from me.

I never got the chance to tell him I loved him.

Another muffled sob slips out. I can feel myself beginning to tremble. I’m about to lose it completely. I can sense myself standing on that precipice, ready to fall headfirst into my sorrow.

I glance towards the horizon and force myself to pull it together.

There will be time to mourn War—endless, yawning amounts of time. I know that all too well.

But for now, while I can still claim it—

I want my vengeance.

I gallop down the road at full speed, anger driving me onwards. My thoughts are one continuous scream in my ears.

I can’t think about him or about the corpses that decorate the road like confetti.

I’m being held together by revenge and revenge alone.

Why must everything I love be taken from me?

I push the thought away before I slip down that rabbit hole again.

I spot a crumbling building off to the side of the road, and on a whim, I steer the horse towards the structure. Before the steed has fully stopped, I dismount, stepping over two piles of bones so I can slip inside the abandoned construction. I bring the horse in with me.

The phobos riders have to take this road back if they want to return to camp; it’s the only one that leads back there. And they will return to camp. They’ve left their possessions behind, and then there’s still me to kill.

I hold my bow in my hands, an arrow loosely fitted against it. It takes every last ounce of sheer, iron will not to slide my gaze back to that saddle bag, which is currently dripping onto the floor. I can hear the terrible sound of it.

Drip … drip … drip.

I grind my teeth together and stand at the window that overlooks the street. I pause briefly to knock out the glass pane, before I train my gaze and my weapon to the road.