The cemetery will be our home for what will feel like a few nights. And I’m not convinced Rust won’t take another shot.
TWENTY-THREE
The boredom is getting to me again.
I turn to people watching, or in this case monster watching, and this time it’s the curious behaviour down at the captive part of camp.
Some of the warriors go down that way, when the camp is asleep and very few are awake.
Normally I’m asleep, I sleep through camp a lot. But this night, I sit against the headstone and watch warrior after warrior go down to the captives—
To the kept women among them.
The cleaner, tidier ones.
Evate.
Mate.
That’s what Mika said.
I don’t think she was lying to me.
Each warrior is different, but they all have something in common. Each one of them brings something for one of the women.
For their… mates?
I can’t go wrapping my head around what that even means right now. It’s too much. It’s insane.
But whatever anyone wants to call it, there is one captive human woman for one warrior that brings them a gift.
Some of them are wrapped in bags. Paper bags, satchels, glittering clutches—and so I know those were just looted from towns and cities the fae destroyed.
The distance between this campfire and the captives is too far to make out every single thing pulled out from the bags, no matter how I squint my eyes or lean forward until my knees press too hard into my chest, I can’t quite make out more beyond new socks, boots, a scarf, a jacket—and a lump of fluff that I think is either a plush toy of sorts, an animal maybe, or most likely, a hat.
Connie is the one to get boots.
Her warrior hands her the boots, not bagged, then drops some packets at her feet that I think are snacks, crisps, things like that, then he’s gone, stalking back to his place in camp.
Strange that he did it like that. Some of the others hang around for a minute or two, don’t just throw things at their mates then leave.
I watch all sorts of interactions, but most are longer than a quick drop off.
I watch warriors crouch down in front of the rigid captive, then offer their bagged gifts, or tend to wounds like sore ankles and scraped cheeks.
There’s even a warrior who risks touch. Gentle, swift strokes of her hair. Like genuine affection.
Disgusting.
Absolute fucking psychopaths with their pet women.
I hate them, I hate them all.
Evil has no purpose, no motivation, no story, no love. It’s just evil, and there’s no point in trying to understand it. Even if it’s all I have to fill all these quiet moments.
I should be focused only on Rust.
But he’s asleep a few campfires down, and Samick is sitting awake beside me on the grass.
