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.”
“Why has no one stopped them?” I say.
No one says anything, and I get the impression that no one actually knows why organized crime like this has been allowed to exist. It’s easy enough to imagine that this mostly deserted corner of the country is too remote to police well.
“Did they attack all your camps?” I ask, shifting a little to ease the pressure on my upper arms and shoulders.
The question causes another woman to whimper. The rest of the group is quiet. Finally, Cynthia says, “Yeah. Or, in Morgan’s case,” she nods to the brown-haired woman sitting next to her, “it was a bribe gone bad.”
There’s clearly more to all of this. And the fact that they know each other’s names …
“How long have you all been here?” I ask.
“He’s coming back,” Cynthia hisses, interrupting me. “Everyone, shut up.” She gives me a meaningful look.
I narrow my eyes at her, but turn to face the man with the whip. Alongside him is another man wearing a cowboy hat. The two don’t stop until they’re right in front of me.
The man wearing the cowboy hat crouches in front of me.
“Morning, sugar,” he says. As he speaks, I catch sight of a silver front tooth. “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”
I glare at him. Whoever this man is, he had something to do with Thanatos’s death and my capture.