Get up, Lazarus.
I force myself to my feet, my hands and forearms slick with the horseman’s blood. It’s a small favor that I actually decided to slip on an oversized shirt and a pair of underwear. I don’t always when I lay with Death.
“Do not harm the woman!” someone shouts.
That’s when I really notice the men approaching me, weapons drawn and aimed.
I have stopped wearing blades on me. What’s the need when I’m now bedding my mortal enemy? He was the only person I ever kept them for.
Only now, as I see dark figures dismantling our camp, I regret it. I can hear them going through our things and whistling as they find this or that.
“Is the creature dead?” a deep male voice calls.
“He better be,” another responds.
“Grab the woman!” yet another orders.
I shift my weight, readying myself as I watch those forms in the darkness. I may not have my blades, but I’m not entirely defenseless.
The first man to reach me grabs my forearm, but just as soon as he’s touched my skin, his hand falls away, and a second later I hear the thud of his body hitting the ground.
I glance his way in confusion, but then another man reaches for me. I lash out, slamming my fist into his nose.
“Motherfucker!” he shouts, his hand slipping from me.
Another tries to grab me from behind, and I shove my elbow into his stomach. He grunts, stumbling away. I spin and approach him. I can see the hilt of a holstered blade at his side, and I make a desperate lunge for it.
My fingers brush the hilt of it for a split second before another man tackles me from the side.
I hit the ground hard, my teeth clicking together as my head whips back against the earth.
Still I struggle. Better to fight to the death than endure whatever plans these people have in store for me.
My attacker grabs one of my arms, but then he falls away from me, limp. I have no time to worry about him before another man kneels down on me, and I thrash about, trying to throw him off of me.
“Stop—fighting—bitch,” he says, bringing his face close to mine.
I slam my forehead into his nose as hard as I can, smiling when I hear a crack. He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a howl and a groan.
I don’t see his fist move, but I feel it slam against my face. My head snaps back, and the pain is so intense it robs me of the breath I need to scream. Before I can even process that hit, his fist connects with my cheek again—and again and again. I try to cover my face but it’s useless, that fist keeps hitting me.
“Don’t kill her! Don’t kill her!” somebody shouts.
The man doesn’t respond, nor does he stop. Not until someone pulls him off of me.
Another man drags me onto my feet. I sway there as all around me, the night gives way to a deeper darkness, one I happily fall into.
I wake to pressure at my shoulders and dull, throbbing pain. Wincing, I try to move my arms, only to encounter resistance. Blinking my eyes open, I take in my surroundings.
There are tents all around me, some made from canvas, some made from hides. Beyond the tents, I can just make out an old, worn-down building, though I can’t say what it is. And the heat, it presses in on me from all sides.
Still in the desert.
In front of me is a dirt pathway that cuts between tents. Lining the pathway are nearly a dozen other women, their hands bound and tied to nearby wooden stakes. A couple of them are crying, several others appear catatonic. The rest are sharp-eyed, but they all look sunburned and miserable.
People—mostly men I notice—are moving about this strange outpost. They wear blades and bows and quivers, and there’s a vicious, uncompromising look to them.
I glance down at my overly large shirt that’s now covered in blood splatter and dirt. My last memories come back to me all at once.
Marauders attacked our camp last night. They looted our belongings, and Death … Death …
I make a small noise at the memory of Thanatos getting shot. My throat closes up, and something that feels a lot like grief wells up in me.
He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine, I try to tell myself. He was probably left for dead, and it’s just a matter of time before he wakes up.
But the sun is making its way up in the sky and the morning air is already uncomfortably hot and Death should be awake by now, shouldn’t he?
Unless they have him. Unless they’ve been hurting him. Nausea rolls through me, followed by anxiety.
I have to push away the sheer terror I feel for Thanatos. It’s silly to fear for a horseman who cannot die and who is, in fact, killing people by the thousands. Yet my anxiety rises all the same, eclipsing my own dire situation.
Another troubling thought pops into my head: These people were able to get close to Death.
I assumed it was effortless for Thanatos to kill—his very existence beckons people to their deaths. It’s keeping humans alive that he struggles with.
Yet when we were attacked, he had been awake, at least for a few seconds, and no one had fallen down dead. That should’ve happened—that’s how it always used to play out.
It was almost like what was once natural to him now took actual intention.
Why would that be?
And what, for that matter, was Death doing when they attacked? Because if I didn’t know better, I would’ve said that the horseman had fallen asleep next to me.
I pull at my restraints. None of my questions much matter at the moment. Not when I’m tied up and held captive.
My head still pounds, my throat is parched, and my skin has a tight, prickly feel to it like I’ve been sitting out in the sun for too long—which I likely have been.
At least I have clothes on. I mean, it really could’ve been worse.
My eyes return to the women, who are bound and bloody.
“Where are we?” My voice comes out as a croak, and I have to clear my throat as my gaze moves from face to face. None of them will look at me.
Two men pass by, one of them leering down at us, like there’s something inherently sexual about dirty, battered women.
I glare at the man. “Who are these people?”
“Will you shut up?” whispers a woman across from me. Her eyes dart down the pathway to a man I didn’t notice before. He sits on an old foldable chair outside a nearby tent, his arms folded over a generous gut as he leans back and chats with another man. At his hip is a wicked looking whip. Another riding crop is propped against the tent behind him.
Jesus.
“Cynthia, be nice,” someone else says.
“Do you want to get lashed again?” Cynthia hisses back. “Because I don’t.”
My stomach churns. Violent midnight raids? Plundered goods and women held hostage? All in the middle of a desolate desert? I’ve heard of highwaymen, but this is far more complex and organized.
“What are they planning on doing with us?” I say softly.
A woman whimpers at my question.
Cynthia, who looks thoroughly annoyed, says, “Shut up.”
“Hey!” the heavyset man in the chair barks. His seat squeaks as he stands up a moment later, his hand moving to his whip. He’s got a bland face, but there is something about his eyes that makes me think he enjoys hurting women.
The man saunters over, glaring at Cynthia before his gaze lands on me. He eyes me up and down, then wordlessly, he turns back the way he came.
We all watch him leave. He heads past his chair, down the row of tents, until he disappears from sight.
Once he’s gone, the whole group of women seems to relax.
“We might as well talk now,” the woman next to me says. She has dirt-streaked hair and vivid green eyes.
“Yeah, now that we’re all going to get beaten,” Cynthia mutters, casting me another glare.
One of the women across the way says, “You wanted to know what this place is, right?”
Warily, I nod.
Taking a deep breath, she says, “These guys are a part of the Sixty-Six.”
When my expression doesn’t change, the woman exhales. “They’re a group of outlaws that patrol the highways in this part of the country.”