Page 181 of War

I almost relax. The explanation isnearlyplausible.

Just as I’m about to stand up, another loud thought drifts in. I try to shut it out. I try to ignore it, but it’s right there, sitting in front of me, unwilling to be overlooked.

How many times has War been in you?

My hands are beginning to shake.

Fuck, I think Iamstarting to panic.

The nausea, the awful way food tastes and smells, the fatigue that’s plagued me, and the missed period—none of it is normal.

I cover my eyes with a shaky hand.

How many times has War been in you?

Dozensof times. He’s been in me dozens and dozens of times.

Dear God, I-I might be pregnant.

Stress could be an explanation for the fatigue and the late period, but not the food aversions. Not the nausea.

I could simply be sick. I really could, but …

Pregnancy is a more logical explanation.

I drop my hand from my eyes. For a long time I sit there in the foliage at the edge of camp, caught between horror and laughter.

This is what happens when people have sex, Miriam. Particularly sex with super virile god-men.

I put my head in my hands.

Pregnant. I might actually be pregnant. With War’s kid.

Holy balls.

The longer I think about it, the more certain I grow.

A horseman of the apocalypse knocked me up.

A disbelieving laugh slips out of me … then another little laugh slips out. I begin to laugh in earnest. I don’t know when exactly my laughter turns into sobs, only that eventually I can feel tears slipping between my fingers and my body is heaving.

I’ve been crying for maybe five minutes when I hear those familiar, powerful footfalls approach me from behind.

“Wife,” War says, his voice shocked. “What are you doing out here?”

I want to curl in on myself and die. I can’t even have a moment alone to process this?

“Miriam,” he says, coming around to my front, his voice thick with concern.

He kneels next to me and pulls my hands from my face. His gaze passes over me, like maybe I might be injured.

“What happened?” he says. “Did someone hurt you?”

Now my sobs morph back into laughter—sad laughter. My mournful eyes go to his. What am I supposed to say?

War and I hadn’t really talked about children—not except for that one conversation that ended in a fight. We should’ve discussed this more, that’s for damn sure.

I place my hand on my stomach, my fingers drumming along it. The horseman follows the movement, but there’s no spark of awareness there. Not like there would be if he were born human. There are cues like this that he wholly misses.

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