The fever. The way the Raven’s Flesh started.
“We must contain her and make her well,” he says.
The murmur is louder, uproarious. I shout over them, tell them it’s not true, tell them he’s lying. They don’t seem to hear me. They don’t seem to know I’m there at all. They only see my father, the tear in his eye, the scratches on his face from me. They hear his lies and they believe him, a facade that they don’t know they shouldn’t trust.
I hate him. I hate him and the Elders.
“As much as it pains me,” Father says, and the people are quiet as soon as he speaks, “the Troopers are going to escort her to the safehouse. She will be there for a few days. I only ask that you forgive her harsh words against you. She is not in her right mind, but she must receive the punishment for her lies.”
I scream when they pull me backward. “This isn’t true!” I yell. I fight against them, but they’re stronger than me. Frantically, I look around to the crowd. “It’s not true!” In my search, I watch Kai pulling Sara into the house, and then Xenith disappears. The crowd comforts my father. They don’t look my way at all.
The last thing I see before they lock me away in the safehouse is the beach. The waves are out of control, thrashing and beating against each other and against the sand. They’re so fierce they could wash over the shore and straight into the Compound. They could pull everyone and everything out to sea. The hatred rolls off of me in waves like them, toward everyone. It rushes and traps the unexpecting in the undertow and drowns everything. Them. This place. My father. Myself. Everyone. There are no survivors of the wrath. There is no absolution. No redemption. No hope. There are only lies and hatred, both caused by the Elders.
If I wasn’t so angry, I’d almost be glad they were locking me away. The Troopers drag me from the courtyard, past the beach, to the outskirts of the boundaries and the inhabited spaces. I hear a Trooper laughing as they lock me in, as they wander back to headquarters, back to the center.
I’ve never been to the safehouse before, but it’s horrible. It’s not safe at all, but a place for punishment. It’s as small as my closet, a dark room with a small, barred hole. It’s big enough to fit a hand in or out, maybe some food. Three of the walls are covered with nails, barbed wire, and broken glass. The ceiling is the same, jagged and deadly. The other small wall has the window, and a bench where I can sit is across from that. The window looks out at the ocean, too far to smell or enjoy but close enough to haunt.
I can’t do anything but stare out at it, wait for sunrise, and listen to the waves escort me to freedom.
DEADLINE: 17D, 6H, 4M
SOMEWHERE IN THE DESERT
THE THREE MEN ESCORT US toward the buildings until we’re closer to the people we saw. Except they’re not real people; they’re statues. A ploy. They are shaped like people, from nose to feet. Up close, parts of them are chipped and discolored with age. The man that smells like onions pushes me through some doors, and all I see is stairs. Hundreds of stairs.
I try to struggle away from my captor, but he’s still got a grip on me and his fingers dig into my arms. They push me forward to keep us both going.
When we make it up the stairs, the doors lead us back outside, but we’re high up in some sort of mountain fortress. It’s a whole complex of small holes, like windows and doors, and Remnants move in and out of them. They’ve built their camp in an impenetrable location.
My captor tosses me down on the ground. Thorne follows, and we wait. I catch as much breath as I can and watch as a gray-bearded man comes out of the crowd of Remnants. He’s tall, rail-thin, and his beard looks too heavy for him, as if he may fall over.
They all speak in their language, eyes drifting over to us. Thorne is as close to me as they will allow, but he feels closer as our emotions flow together. We each carry some of the other’s fear and offer reassurance however we can. I scan the area. The Remnants all watch us back, eyes raking first over us and then over the men who brought us here. I notice a boy standing behind his mother’s leg, and when he sees me look at him, he cowers. They’re afraid of us.
One of the men who dragged us here leads me by my hair. He’s too strong to stop, and my body is twisted around so everyone can see the branding on my neck. Someone gasps in the crowd. A word is yelled, but I’ve heard it before and I know it means-Elders.
The gray-bearded man looks appalled, then pleased. His eyes meet mine, and he nods before turning away. The ones who brought us follow the man into one of the houses. More men jerk me to my feet and Thorne to his.
“We’ll get out of here, Neely!” Thorne yells. His voice is frantic as he’s pulled in the opposite direction of me. I fight the men who hold me back, who pull me somewhere I don’t want to go, but it doesn’t help. Thorne’s worry rushes over me, and I do nothing to hide my own fear. We can’t be separated. But we are, and they shove me into some kind of room with no windows and a small space. It reminds me of a bigger version of the safehouse.
In the corner, balled on the floor, there’s a bundle of sheets that I don’t plan to touch, let alone sleep on. A slot in the door opens, and a bucket appears. Who are these people? Why have the Remnants captured us? They were supposed to be on our side. Safe. The Remnants are supposed to help us, not lock us up.
I pace around the four walls of the room, looking for a crack, a door, something to show me some light or some reason for hope or explanation.
There isn’t one.
DEADLINE: 17D, 4H, 11M
SOMEWHERE IN THE DESERT
THE SUN MUST BE SETTING because warm golden light fills the cell. A silhouette forms in front of my eyes.
“Food,” the silhouette says.
It’s hard to see her in the light, but I hear the sound of china clattering against each other and then against the floor.
“Where’s Thorne? What are you going to do with us?” I ask.
Her feet moving across the floor echo back to me. She sighs, hesitates near the door, and hides the sun from my view.
“It will all be over soon,” she says. The door creaks closed, stealing the light with it.
I make my way to the door and pound my fists against it. Pound, pound, pound, and yell, “What will be over?” No one answers me except silence.
I sink to the ground and pick up the metal tray. There’s a chipped bowl filled with something brown. It sticks together like porridge, but it doesn’t smell like anything at all. A piece of bread. Some water. I pause and tune in on Thorne. Feeling him, wherever he is, has been the only reassurance of this place. We’re both alive.
I nibble on the bread and take a sip of water before dipping the spoon in the brown dish. It’s tasteless, but I eat all of it in case they decide not to feed me again.
It’s only minutes before I feel wrong. Before my stomach starts to whirl and I’m so tired.
The room tilts, and no matter what I do, I can’t fix it. My head spins. All I want to do is lie down.
I don’t even make it to the blankets on the floor.
I lean my head against the cold rock wall and slump. I know Thorne can feel this wrongness, but I can barely notice whatever he’s sending me. Instead, I hear the song. The soft song in my head and the melody like the rolling waves. It’s vague, but I know it from a dream-or a nightmare.
I hum along with it in the darkness until everything fades away and I forget.
20 DAYS BEFORE ESCAPE
I FEEL FORGOTTEN OUT HERE. The sun has set, and I can’t see anything beyond my hand. I know the stars are up, shining on the water. I can’t see them from my angle, though, which only adds to the loneliness. Thorne must be home now. His anger billows through our connection. I want to comfort him, but I know if I reach out to him now, it will only upset him more.
“Neely,” a voice whispers. I jump from my seat at the sound. My heart speeds up, hoping. A light shines on me. I have to squint, but then I see that it’s Xenith. All my hoping ceases, even though my heart surprisingly doesn’t. “Are y
ou okay?”
“I’m fine,” I whisper. But I feel completely lost, overwhelmed, angry, upset.
His face appears in the little hole. “I thought you might be hungry,” he says. He slides me a bag of food. Bread, water, cheese, crackers. “It’s not much.”
“It’s perfect.”
I tear off a piece of the bread to quiet the ache in my stomach. Xenith stares at me, not speaking. The light still shines in, and he looks over my face. His brow furrows, and creases appear etched around his face. Is that worry? Concern?
“Is it bad?” I ask.
Xenith shrugs. “Not really.” But there’s more emotion in his eyes than his words. Something in the way he tenses says otherwise.
“I’m the example. He told me that before he dragged me outside,” I say. “Do they all think I hate them now?”
“Some.” Xenith stares at me, oddly quiet while his eyes pore over me. I shift and take a bite of a cracker.
“He ruined our plan,” I say.
“He didn’t,” Xenith says. “He made it stronger, as did you by yelling about the lie.”
I shake my head. “But our plan will make his lies look like truth.”
“Or his lies have made our plan look more believable,” he says again.
I’m quiet. He’s right. My father will be esteemed because of my death, but our plan won’t be questioned. Who would question the death of a girl with the fever? No one.
“I’ll stay with you for a while,” he says.
Part of me doesn’t want him there, but the other part doesn’t want to be alone in here. I try to get more comfortable. I can’t lean against the walls, but I can sit on the floor and rest my head against the bench. He tells me stories about his parents, about the Mavericks and the Old World.
At some point, I ask him how long I’ve been in here now. He says it’s better not to know.
The next days pass the same. I watch the sun rise and set, and store away the loneliness as much as I can. I try not to think. Eventually, Troopers pull me out of the safehouse without a word or a glance. They hold back my arms and drag me across the beach. My legs won’t work since they haven’t moved in four days. I’ve eaten every day, since Xenith brought me food in the night.
The Troopers aren’t gentle when they thrust me into a metal seat. I know we’re at headquarters. I recognize the scent of musty sweat and the low whir of the machines, the white walls and the dim lighting that somehow illuminates my father in the corner.
Lucian Ambrose looks well-rested. His cheek is healed, the scratches I left on him gone. He probably cheated and went to the Healers for medicine while I rotted in a hole. He has a mug in his hand and a large plate of pancakes. Those are my favorite-and he knows it. That’s the reason he’s smiling at me.
“Hungry?” he asks. I shake my head. Right. I should be hungry. No one should’ve fed me while I was trapped. No one knows how to cross the outskirts, and if they did, they never would. Except Xenith. My father raises an eyebrow in my direction, hopefully reacting to my constraint. Maybe he will see this as rebellion. Rebellion I can play.
“I’m hungry. You’re the one who made me hungry,” I say. “I won’t eat it. Not from you.”
He moves toward me and slides the plate down the table. It lands promptly in front of me. He’s probably had lots of practice. “Why on earth not? I’m your father. I’m looking out for you.”
I look up at him. “You’re not. I’m the example. Examples don’t have fathers.”
He clicks his tongue. “Oh, Cornelia, you are so dramatic.” He touches my forehead. “I do hope the fever is gone if I’m releasing you.”
“Releasing me?”
“Of course. You’re my daughter. I think the message has been received, don’t you?”
I hate him. I hate him so much I can barely stand to look at him.
“You should eat that before you leave. I want you to make it home safely.”
I don’t pick up the fork or move toward the food at all. The smell is sweet and bitter, the perfect mixture from the coffee and the sugar. I don’t look away until the door closes and a Trooper comes in with my shoes. He sets them on the seat next to me and looks past me at nothing. When he leaves, a gush of cool air tickles across my skin.
DEADLINE: 12D, 15H, 31M
SOMEWHERE IN THE DESERT
SOMETHING COLD PRESSES against my forehead, and when I open my eyes, Thorne is staring down at me. His eyes are rimmed in red, glassy. His hair is a ratty mess, sticking out in different directions, and his face is covered in dirt.
“Thank God you’re awake,” he whispers, pulling me against his chest. Everything aches. The world around us is still spinning slightly, but his hand is on my face, his lips on my cheek, grounding me. I start to speak, but my throat is dry. He hands me water and I sip it quickly, but then I’m thirstier and my hollow stomach growls. I try to stand, but Thorne stops me.
“Take it easy,” he says. “No standing yet.” He leans me up against the wall. He’s saying I should feel weak, and though I’m thirsty, I don’t feel weak. Somewhere in my brain I feel like I should.
“What’s happened?” The question comes a few more times, quickly and on repeat. I glance down at my watch, and there’s only twelve days left. Twelve days…
Before he can answer, vaguely familiar light devours the room. A woman enters our slab prison, dressed in a long, thin, brown robe that touches the ground. Her hair is pulled back from her face, tied together, and she carries a small jar and a big bowl decorated with black spots. She sets them both on the ground and looks at Thorne. By the time her eyes make it to me, leaning in the corner of the room, they’ve doubled in size and her face is pale.
“Awake,” she says.
Thorne puts a finger over his lips, as if to silence her. “Please…” he whispers.
She watches him for a second, then her gaze drifts toward me again. And she races out the door, yelling the word over and over. Thorne curses.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I was hoping you would stay out through the day so they’d be stuck with us.”
“Stuck with us? What?”
“We’re a pair. They won’t separate us,” he says.
“A pair of what? What is this place? How long-” I look back at my watch. Twelve days. “Five days have passed?”
Thorne looks at me, his voice dripping with something regretful. “Neely.”
I shake my head. This can’t be happening. We’ve lost five days.
“We have to go!” I yell. “We have to leave!” He pulls me up in his arms so I can stand, and I try to fight away, to not need his support, but he won’t let go. I’m yelling, and my head has an ache again. Things are spinning, and vomit builds up toward my throat. And then, I feel better. Ready, energized. Like I could run forever and never stop.
“Calm down,” Thorne says. He pulls me away just far enough and looks in my eyes. “I promise, I promise we will get where we need to be. They won’t keep us here. I have a plan.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. He promises, plans, whispers his love for me, vows to get me there. I don’t hear his words. I hear the clock, ticking in my head, matching the sound of my heart. Five days I was asleep. That leaves us with too few days now. Twelve days. That’s not enough. It doesn’t feel like enough. We’re too far away for only twelve days.
The door opens again, and the same girl from before points toward me. Her lips quake, as if she’s afraid, and then behind her is the gray-bearded man. He’s taller now that I’m standing on his level, his limbs long and lanky like his beard. He leans on a stick, and his steps make a click, scratch, tap noise as he trails along the room.
“I see she is awake. How fortunate for you, young sir,” he says. His eyes rest on me. “Your boy was nervous. Demanded to be put with you. Offered to throw himself off the top of this rock if we denied him.”
I look at Thorne. Offered to what?
“Wouldn’t have been necessary if you hadn’
t kidnapped us and poisoned her.” Thorne’s arms tense up around me. Poisoned? I was poisoned? Why would they do that?
“Such a strong word, poison. I call them necessary measures, especially when we get people who are a little too wild, like yourself. We can’t afford risks in times like these, but we didn’t assume she’d eat all of it.”
Click, scratch, tap. Around the room he goes, watching us with each step. The frail, paper-thin appearance of his skin puts me on edge. He steps toward me, and Thorne pulls me behind him a little more.
“Pretty girl,” the man says. He reaches a hand out to me and puts it on my chin. “Thank you for falling right into our trap.” He smiles and steps away. “A pair of enemies. That gets us a good profit. He asked for one, and he gets two.”
Click, scratch, tap.
Click, scratch, tap.
And the door closes behind him.
I stare at Thorne, at the rise and fall of his chest. He’s panicking. “What does he mean by profit?”
“Those men who took us? They were Snatchers. This whole camp thrives on trade.”
“And they’re trading us-selling us?”
“To the highest bidder.”
“Why did he call us enemies?”
Thorne touches the branding on the back of my neck. The branding. Is this because of the Elders? They must think we’re a threat. “Do you think it’s the Elders who want us?”
“They’d take us, not buy us.”
Thorne walks across the room and listens through a small crack under the door where the gray-bearded man exited. He puts a finger up to me and presses his body flush with the door. In the stillness, my head pounds. We have hundreds of miles that stand between us and San Francisco. How long will that take? What if this person who’s buying us never lets us go, or worse?
There’s a crash as Thorne trips over the bowl on the floor. His face is white, and he stumbles to regain his balance. He can’t hide his emotions quick enough. They course through our connection, and his nerves rush over me. It’s more than that. It’s fear. He’s afraid.
Follow Me Through Darkness Page 20
