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.