Page 215 of War

His forearm is about to bump right into—

BOOM!

BOOM—BOOM—BOOM!

Chapter 60

War

I wake,asthough from sleep, my eyes wincing open. The mortal sun bears down on me, and the ripe musk of the earth is in my nostrils, along with the scent of spilled blood.

It’s the smell of my first memory, the one that formed me. That and anger. Back in my infancy, I was all cunning and anger. I’ve learned since then some of the finer points of men and war.

For a moment, I cannot place where I am or how I got here. I’m lying in some sort of hole and my skin feels new. This is one of those sensations that I doubt humans have much experience with. New skin.

It all comes back to me then—how I was struck down. My riders lured me into a trap.

I feel my rage, like a spark, catch and grow.

They closed in on me and held me at bay and slit my throat damn near to the bone.

My rage doubles and doubles again. How much time has passed? How long did it take for my body to reform? That is the trouble with skin and bones and blood and muscle. They can only repair themselves so fast, even on one like me.

I begin to push myself up, my body feeling new and old all at once.

A thick mass of flesh slides off of me.

This too, is a familiar sensation. How many fields have I watered with lifeblood and fertilized with flesh? How many men have clawed their way out from beneath such death?

Countless.

I’ve given this way of life up, and yet it will always be there as my first memories of existence.

I push away the body as I sit up.

But then my eyes catch on the delicate wrist and the two hamsa bracelets—

Everything within me stills. Everything but fear. Cold rolled fear.

I let out a noise.

No.

“Miriam?” My hands go to the body, but the limbs—the two that are left—are cold.

I don’t believe it.

It’s not her. She wouldn’t be this foolish. She wouldn’t. Please God, she wouldn’t.

I flip the corpse over, trying to wash away the sight of the soft, feminine limbs. Most of the body has been blown away, but there’s some skin remaining around the neck.

My eyes move to the throat, to the holy scar at its base.

Surrender.

“No,” it comes out as a plea. “Miriam.”

There’s not much of her face remaining. There’s not much ofanythingremaining.

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