“How? A tracker?”
“Dad was too good to be caught by a tracker.” I lift my chin and glare at him before I remember that I’m supposed to be gaining his sympathy. Dropping my eyes, I say, “He was trying to hide the device—the controller that Marcus had given him. The Cursed One attacked my dad and two Tree People who were helping him. He led the beast away from them and died saving their lives.”
The silence between us stretches out, long and fraught with tension. Finally, Samuel says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“You aren’t sorry he’s dead.” The words are out before I can think better of them, but I don’t want to take them back. I can accept sympathy from Logan. From Quinn. Maybe even from Willow. But I can’t sit here next to a man who would’ve killed my father the moment he laid eyes on him and pretend his condolences mean anything.
“He committed treason against Rowansmark.”
“It only counts as treason if he was actually a citizen,” I snap, and then close my lips before I can say anything else. If I’m not careful, I’m going to alienate the only person who might be useful to me. “But yes, he ended up with stolen tech. However, he didn’t know what Marcus had given him until we were already a day’s journey away from Rowansmark.”
“We?” Samuel’s voice is sharp.
“I was with him.”
“He was training you to be his apprentice?”
I choose my words carefully. “I’m a girl. From Baalboden. We weren’t allowed to learn how to read or how to handle a weapon. We weren’t even allowed to walk our city streets without a male Protector in case we got the crazy idea that we could somehow be independent. So no, I wasn’t his apprentice. I was simply his daughter.”
My words are both true and utterly false. A Baalboden girl wasn’t allowed to read, use a sword, or leave her house unattended, but my father never thought education was something to be feared. The fact that I’ve been trained to fight isn’t something Samuel needs to know, though. The more he thinks I’m a typical Baalboden girl, the faster he’ll drop his guard.
Unless Ian has already convinced him that I’m dangerous—a scenario that makes sense. Which means it’s even more important for me to play up my injuries, my weakness, and be alert for Quinn’s arrival.
“Dad got packages to deliver to the Commander all the time, but something about this one made him uneasy. Usually, he received his deliveries from James Rowan or from the state department. But that time, we were stopped in an alley just before we left the city, and a man gave him the package. So once we made camp for the night and Dad thought I was sleeping, he opened it.”
When I don’t continue, Samuel looks at me, his dark eyes glittering. “Did he know what it was?”
I shrug. “I don’t think he knew for sure. Instead of delivering it to the Commander, we took a detour the next day so he could hide it near one of his safe houses in the Wasteland.”
“Why not return it to Rowansmark?”
“And be late for his expected return to Baalboden?” I shake my head. “Have you met the Commander? He’d have been instantly suspicious, and in his eyes, suspicion is proof of guilt.”
“But later? On his next trip to Rowansmark?”
Something moves in one of the maple trees to my left. A bough shakes gently and the leaves shimmer in the starlight. I look to the right in case Samuel is watching me and hope the movement I just saw was Quinn.
“The Commander never sent him back to Rowansmark. He got suspicious—I don’t know how. Maybe he sent someone else to check in with Marcus and realized the tech had been given to my dad already.”
My next words are rushed as I try to distract Samuel, who is staring intently into the thick copse of maples.
“Anyway, Dad was supposed to go to Carrington, but he never returned. I went to find him—”
“You?” Samuel’s voice is sharp.
I curse myself for forgetting that I’m trying to seem harmless and inexperienced.
“Not by myself. The Commander sent me out with another Baalboden tracker because I knew where my dad’s safe houses were on the journey to Rowansmark.” I swallow against the sudden dryness in my mouth at the memory of Melkin’s dark eyes burning into mine while he demanded that I give him the package or he would take it from me by force. “And because I told the Commander that I’d seen someone give Dad a package on his last trip to your city, and that Dad hid it instead of bringing it back.”
“You said this even though you knew it would compromise your father in the Commander’s eyes?”
His words arrow through me, but what hurts worse is the approval in his voice. He thinks I’m like him. Like Ian. That I would sell out my loved ones for the sake of civic duty.
He’s wrong.
I told the Commander because if I hadn’t, he’d have killed me before I had a chance to escape the city and look for my father.
The soft thump-thump of flapping wings echoes from the tree where I saw movement. Seconds later, a small animal shrieks—a piercing cry of pain that’s cut off in seconds. I swallow my disappointment that the only creature inhabiting the trees near us is an owl. Quinn isn’t here. Yet.
Turning to Samuel, I say, “My dad didn’t steal from Rowansmark. He was used by the Commander and by Marcus McEntire. He died before he could make it right. How is it fair that I’m being punished for that?”
“You won’t be punished unless James Rowan decides your actions make you guilty.”
My laugh sounds wild and desperate. “Ian will punish me every chance he gets.”
“You will arrive safely in Rowansmark.” Samuel’s voice is stiff.
“Will Ian be held accountable for destroying my city? For murdering my best friend along with many of the other Baalboden survivors?”
“Ian will be held accountable for completing his mission.”
“For returning the controller.” I wrap my arms around my chest as a gust of cold, damp air shivers through the trees. “No matter how many lives he took to get it back. No matter that he’s using me as bait to destroy his brother, even though Logan hasn’t done anything wrong. Where is the justice in that?”
Samuel looks at me, his expression carved in stone. “Justice requires sacrifice.”
“But you can’t possibly agree that killing innocent people—”
The tracker’s voice is unforgiving. “Innocence is a relative term, Ms. Adams. Did you have the opportunity to return the controller to Ian before people died?”
“No.” I lift my chin and glare at Samuel, all thoughts of pretending to be afraid vanishing beneath the tide of white-hot anger that surges through me. “He sent the Cursed One into our city while our gate was locked and killed thousands of people without ever once identifying himself or asking for the tech to be returned. And then he pretended to be one of the survivors and murdered our people—poisoning newlyweds and slitting the throats of children—across the Wasteland. All while leaving cryptic messages that made little sense. He never said who he was. He never demanded the tech. He played games with people’s lives because he is sick, crazy—”
“You knew the tech was from Rowansmark when you found it in the Wasteland, did you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“You understood, based on your father’s actions, that the tech didn’t belong to the Commander. You knew about the bounty James Rowan placed on your father’s head. You knew your father was wanted for treason against Rowansmark. You had all the information you needed. And yet you and Logan McEntire didn’t return the controller to Rowansmark. You took what wasn’t yours and because of that, Marcus McEntire’s treason was discovered, and he died. Horribly.”
For the first time since I met him, Samuel’s voice trembles.
“I didn’t know—”
“You knew enough.” Samuel stands abruptly. “You can blame Ian all you want, but I know that boy. I’ve known him for his entire life. He’s brilliant and driven and, up until a few months ago, wanted nothing more than to foll
ow in his father’s footsteps and make everyone proud of him. What he had to do to expunge the stain on his family’s honor broke him. Do you understand me? It broke him. And he would never have broken if you and Logan McEntire had returned the controller.”
Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks off to do a perimeter sweep.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER EIGHT
RACHEL
Heidi took over the watch at least two hours ago. I spent the first thirty minutes sitting near her, trying to start a conversation so I could build a possible alliance, but I might as well have been talking to the log I leaned against for all the response I got. Finally, I gave up and wandered over to lie by the ashes of our campfire, close enough to Samuel to feel marginally safe getting some rest but far enough removed that I feel cocooned in my own little corner of darkness.
I’m under no illusions. Heidi never looks my way, but she’s aware of me just as I’m aware of her. Besides, an hour after Heidi took up the watch, Ian joined her. He never looked my way either, but Ian knows me. He’ll be ready for anything I try.
So I lie on my back and watch the stars slowly drift by while Samuel curls up inside his bedroll and snores. Heidi and Ian stand beside the log Samuel used as a post for his watch, their heads close together. It looks like they’re arguing about something, but only the occasional echo of their words reaches me. Either they’re being quiet to preserve their ability to be alert to dangers approaching the camp, or they don’t want me to hear what they’re saying. Or both.
I’ve tried to sleep, knowing I’ll need to be ready for anything once we start traveling in the morning, but I can’t seem to manage it for more than a few minutes at a time. My chest feels hollowed out, and everything in me longs to crawl away from this camp, disappear into the Wasteland, and make my way back to Logan. Missing him feels like something I was born to do. I breathe. I blink. I miss Logan. I couldn’t stop it if I tried.
I don’t try. I want the hurt. The ache that threads through my body until I can’t separate the pain in my arm from the pain in my heart. Ian was right about one thing—pain reminds me that I’m still alive. Still here. Still moving forward even when it would be so much easier to stop.
I’m exhausted and on edge. Sleep feels impossible. I can’t stop circling around the thought that once upon a time, Ian was a boy with dreams not so very different from mine.
He deserves to die for destroying Baalboden. For murdering innocent people. Nothing will change that. But the boy with dreams also deserved to have his family remain whole. To follow in his father’s footsteps instead of being the one responsible for ending his father’s life.
I know all about the cruel ways life poisons the dreams we have and plunges us into darkness instead. I understand losing sight of the right choices because the wrong ones feel like the only salvation from pain that is too terrible to bear.
Something hot and wet slips down my face and drips onto my neck. I raise my good arm and wipe my cheeks. I’m crying. Again. This is all Quinn’s fault. Ever since he pushed me to crack the wall of silence inside and start feeling bits and pieces of the grief and guilt that belong to me, tears just . . . happen. It’s like my body knows I need to grieve and refuses to wait for me to give in to it.
I sit up and blink away the tears, even as more form in their wake. This is ridiculous. I can’t even think about Ian—the boy I want to kill—without feeling emotional and weepy. I scrub my face dry and glance at Samuel.
Still asleep. At least I don’t have an audience for this. Even if it would reinforce my image as the girl who must be protected, I can’t stand the thought of feeling raw and vulnerable in front of him again. Especially when I now know he blames me for Ian’s brokenness.
Before more unwanted empathy for Ian can swamp me, I begin to count all the ways in which he and I are different. True, we both lost our fathers because of the treachery set in motion years ago by the Commander, but my father died a hero. Ian killed his father because his leader told him to. Before I can feel vindicated that I would never have obeyed orders like that, I remember watching Oliver die in front of me because I was too scared of the Commander to fight back.
A sob tears through me, and I shove my cloak against my mouth to muffle the sound.
Comparing my situation with Ian’s is getting me nowhere. I need to take action and fix this before the entire tide of pent-up loss inside of me breaks loose. I glance toward Heidi and Ian. They’ve moved away from the log and are standing just inside the eastern edge of the Wasteland, facing away from the campsite. Whispered snatches of their conversation float past me.
“. . . other technicians . . .”
“. . . don’t need it . . .”
“. . . Logan . . .”
That does it. I need to know what they’re saying. I lean toward them and hold my breath, straining to hear more.
As if Ian can feel the weight of my gaze, he turns his head in my direction. Quickly, I lie back down and hold perfectly still. My pulse thrums against my ears. My hands itch to grab the knife in my boot. My tears, thankfully, have dried. Nothing like a little spike of adrenaline to shove a girl into a warrior’s mindset again.
I count to one hundred, my back pressed against the rough dirt of our campsite, and then count to one hundred again for good measure. A breeze tangles with the oak leaves that surround us, and something skitters across a branch to the left of me. Samuel snores softly to the right.
When I finish counting, I slowly turn my head and look. Heidi and Ian are gone, though faint snatches of conversation still ghost through the night. They must’ve moved farther into the Wasteland. Apparently, they’re willing to compromise their ability to guard me in order to keep me from overhearing them.
Now I really want to hear what they’re saying.
I could take this opportunity to disappear in the opposite direction. Quinn should catch up soon. I wouldn’t be alone for long. And then we can get Logan, Willow, Frankie, Adam, and anyone else who wants to join us in hunting down Ian and stopping Rowansmark from destroying anyone else.
I roll into a crouch and freeze, watching Samuel intently for any sign that he heard me. Once I’m satisfied that he’s still asleep, I stand carefully, wincing as my right arm brushes against my side and working hard not to let my smoke-scarred lungs breathe too harshly. Trying to escape three Rowansmark trackers in this condition would be difficult. I can’t run. I can’t climb a tree and leap. I’m not even sure I can stay on my feet for more than an hour.
Not that I’m averse to taking on nearly impossible tasks. Especially since I know that even if they caught me, the trackers are committed to keeping me alive until Logan arrives in Rowansmark with the device. What’s the worst they would do to me?
I think of Ian, of the terrible desperation in his eyes, and shiver.
Taking a second to let the searing pain in my arm abate, I look around to get my bearings. The log is about twenty yards east of me. Heidi and Ian are somewhere beyond that. I could go north and put a decent amount of distance between myself and the camp before daylight and then cut east toward Lankenshire. I could pray that Quinn finds me. I could bank on the fact that the trackers want to keep me alive and won’t punish me too severely if they reach me first.
Or I could keep the promise I made to myself as Ian carried me away from the clearing where Quinn supposedly lay dying. I could be the warrior my dad raised me to be and head east to eavesdrop on the two trackers who seem awfully committed to making sure no one listens to their conversation.
In my head, I hear Logan’s voice telling me I can’t jump headfirst into things without an exit strategy. If he were here, he’d have already considered every possible combination of things that could go wrong and come up with a way to handle it. I don’t have the time or the clarity of thought to do that. Not when my head sw
ims with exhaustion and pain crashes through me. If I get caught, I’ll do what I do best—improvise.
Besides, it’s not like they’re going to kill me.
Moving as soundlessly as possible, I skirt the campsite and edge into the trees that line the northern side of the road. Moonlight pierces the canopy of branches above me in scattered pieces. I put my left arm out, my palm in front of me to keep from walking face-first into a tree, and then slowly start moving east, sliding my boots forward with care as I search for an unobstructed path.
I’ve walked at least ten yards when my toe catches the edge of a rock, and I pitch forward. My left palm smacks into a tree trunk, and I dig my hand into the rough bark for balance. Motionless, I wait for a sign that Heidi and Ian heard me. When all stays quiet, I take a deep breath. The air is rich with the pungent smell of dogwood trees in bloom and the loamy scent of the forest floor. Releasing the tree trunk, I take a few more steps forward, and hear a whisper of sound ahead. Crouching, I slowly move another five yards through skinny tree trunks and rock-strewn dirt until the words Heidi is saying become clear.
“. . . too risky, Ian.”
“What’s the risk?” Ian sounds furious. “She deserves it. You know that.”
“Keep your voice down,” Heidi whispers. “I’m not saying you don’t have a point. But our orders are clear—”
“Our orders were to recover the device and punish the ones who stole it.”
“Which we haven’t done yet.” Heidi sounds edgy. Like she’s already explained this to Ian and isn’t happy about repeating herself.
“It’s as good as done. There’s no way Logan will fail to bring it to us. He’d never leave Rachel behind. We don’t have to worry—”
“I’m not worried. I’m just saying that I’m not walking into Rowansmark with nothing to show for our trip but your assurances that your brother will show up.”
“We don’t need Rachel anymore. He’ll show up no matter what, don’t you see that?” Ian’s voice is impatient. “We can punish her now, and—”
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