by Tarah Benner
Soon after Lark reached the low window she was using to get inside, Bernie caught up with her and gave Lark a boost.
Lark coaxed the window open and pulled herself half inside. The metal lip of the window sill dug into her abdomen, but Lark wriggled down until she was hanging inside the building and pushed off against the wall.
She tumbled forward in a graceless somersault, landing in a heap on the floor. Fighting the surge of pain in her neck, she pulled herself up and looked around the darkened den.
Rough wooden furniture padded with hand-sewn cushions was spread around the kiva fireplace. The floor was covered in rag rugs, and the walls were decked out with trinkets that had been stolen from other inmates.
A surge of anger swelled in Lark’s chest, but she forced herself to stay focused. It would do her no good to get worked up about Mercy’s reign of tyranny. She just had to find the key and get the pitchfork so Soren could make another grappling hook.
Lark followed a door into another room that looked like a communal bedroom. Cots were scattered around the room, and the walls were covered with personal photographs. This had to be where Portia and the other daughters slept.
Off to the right of the den was another large sleeping area, but beyond that, Lark found a door that led down a wide hallway.
Tingling with excitement, she followed the hall until she reached a heavy wooden door. She pushed it open and realized at once that she had found her way into Mercy’s private suite.
Despite the grand furnishings of the den, Mercy’s living space was bare and simple. She had a large bed made from two standard-sized cots and a rustic-looking wardrobe. Off to the side was a cramped office space, and on the wall hung a short row of keys.
Lark’s heart pumped faster. All of the keys looked nearly identical. The little round tags hanging from the tops were worn and faded, and whatever had been written on them was now completely illegible.
Lark turned each key over, searching for any distinctive marks, but she couldn’t remember a thing about the key Maureen had loaned her to retrieve tools from the shed.
Frustrated, Lark grabbed all the keys off their little hooks and shoved them into her pocket. Then she turned and jogged down the hallway back toward the den.
Suddenly, a door creaked open and ricocheted off the wall. Lark froze. Somebody had come in through the front door, but she must not have heard Bernie’s signal.
In a frenzy of panic, Lark turned and headed back toward Mercy’s suite, but a delighted cackle from the next room made her stop.
“Oh, Laaaaark!” called a familiar voice.
Lark’s heart almost leapt out of her throat. She knew that voice. It belonged to Portia, but Lark had no idea how Portia knew she was there.
Then she heard a whimper.
“I found your little friend outside . . .”
“Let go of me!” squealed Bernie.
“So I know you have to be close by.”
Lark didn’t speak. She didn’t move. It sounded as though Portia was alone, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
There’d be no explaining her presence in Mercy’s compound — much less in her private office. Mercy would think she’d been stealing from her, and as soon as they emptied Lark’s pockets, she’d have proof.
Mercy did not tolerate thievery.
“Oh, Laaaark,” Portia sang in a taunting voice. “Come out, come out, wherever you are . . .”
By the sound of her footsteps, she was drawing closer. Lark clenched her fists and braced herself for a fight.
“Walk away, Portia,” she growled. “You don’t want to do this.”
Portia let out a cold, airy laugh. “Walk away?” She took another step forward, and Lark could see her shadow against the wall. “Now why would I do that?”
“Because I know something you don’t want Mercy to find out — something a lot worse than stealing from her office.”
Portia didn’t say anything right away. Then, finally, she whispered, “You’re bluffing.”
“You wish I were,” said Lark. “Because no matter how far you shove your head up Mercy’s ass, you can’t hide this for long, can you? The truth is going to come out eventually. Why not tonight?”
“You fucking bitch,” Portia snarled.
Lark heard a soft shriek, and as she rounded the corner, she saw Portia holding Bernie by the hair.
With a murderous cry, she launched herself at Portia and pushed her back toward the door.
Portia didn’t go down, but she hit the wall with a violent thud and released Bernie out of surprise.
Lark didn’t waste any time. She threw out a fist and decked Portia with all the force she could muster. Portia cried out in pain, and Lark took the opportunity to shove a hand in her pocket and pull out the mess of keys.
“Get out of here!” she cried, tossing them to Bernie.
Lark’s moment of inaction cost her. Portia reached up and grabbed a fistful of her hair. She tugged — hard — and Lark let out a stifled yelp of pain.
Portia yanked her hard to the side, and they both tumbled to the ground in a clash of skin, hair, and bone. Lark rolled on top of her and shoved a hand in her face to gain some distance. She threw out a nasty right cross, and Portia screamed in pain.
As Portia flailed underneath her, Lark caught a glimpse of silver. Her mother’s bracelet had fallen off Portia’s wrist and clattered to the floor.
Lark reached out and grabbed it triumphantly. Then, fist still clenched around the dainty silver cuff, she swung out her arm and hit Portia again for good measure.
At that point, most inexperienced fighters would have covered up to protect themselves, but Portia didn’t. Instead, she slapped Lark across the face and bucked her hips wildly to dislodge her.
Lark lowered her center of gravity, but it was no use. Portia dumped her over with an animalistic yell and dug her hands into her throat.
Lark coughed and spluttered, fighting to keep Portia from sinking into the choke, but the girl was stronger than she looked. Lark bucked and flailed momentarily beneath her, and the front door banged open again.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” Mercy bellowed, filling the entire doorway with her magnificent frame.
“Mother!” Portia cried, pinching her nose to stem the bleeding. “Mother, it was her!”
Mercy didn’t respond right away. She was staring openmouthed at Lark, who was desperately trying to keep Portia’s hands from crushing her windpipe.
Mercy shook her head slowly, but whether she was confused or simply disgusted, Lark couldn’t tell.
“Mother!” Portia screamed, drawing Mercy back to the moment. “I told you! I told you it was her.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She can’t be trusted!” Portia yelled. “Lark is the one who got Zachariah killed. I caught her stealing from your office, and then she attacked me!”
Lark, who was still struggling under Portia’s weight, managed to pry her hands away long enough to speak. “It wasn’t me.”
“Don’t listen to her, Mother!” said Portia, slapping Lark and shifting her weight so that she was crushing Lark’s chest.
“Let her up!” barked Mercy.
Portia gave a reluctant huff but tumbled off of Lark’s torso. Lark coughed and sat up slowly, her mind racing for a good excuse. As she did so, she slipped her mother’s bracelet into her pocket so Mercy wouldn’t see.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” asked Mercy.
“It wasn’t me,” said Lark. “I’m not the one who killed your son.”
Mercy shook her wild head of hair, a dark cloud of rage blowing over her initial shock. “Portia warned me about you.”
“She’s lying,” Lark cried. “I’m not the one who was seeing Zachariah.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“You shouldn’t,” snapped Portia.
“Why would Portia lie about this?” asked Mercy. “What could possibly be gained by —”
>
“It was her!” Lark yelled. “That’s why she worked so hard to convince you that it was me. Portia betrayed you. She’s been sneaking off to see Zachariah for months.”
Portia’s face had gone stark white, and Mercy looked as though she’d just swallowed a golf ball.
“That is a very serious accusation,” said Mercy.
“I can prove it!” Lark yelled, her voice trembling with excitement.
“You don’t actually —” Portia began.
“How?” barked Mercy.
“She’s pregnant!” Lark screamed, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “Zachariah got her pregnant, and she tried to get rid of it!”
“She’s lying!” Portia screamed, her face contorted in panic and rage.
But the damage was already done. Mercy was staring at Portia with a look so ferocious that it made Lark question her decision to tell her.
“This is ridiculous,” said Portia in a shaky voice. “Mother, she’s lying.”
“I saw you,” said Lark. “In the woods. You were looking for mistletoe.”
Mercy’s eyes flickered to Lark, and Lark knew she had to explain.
“Mistletoe is poisonous. It’s been used for abortions for thousands of years.”
A chilling silence settled over the room. Lark was watching Mother Mercy, who was staring at Portia with a look so cold that it rendered her speechless.
Her eyes were scanning Portia’s body, taking inventory of all the same markers Lark had noticed after finding the mistletoe: swollen ankles, swollen chest, and the queasy look of morning sickness.
Mercy sighed. She knew Lark was telling the truth.
“The healers couldn’t help you, could they?” said Lark. “They knew if Mercy found out —”
“You killed my son, and you tried to get rid of my grandchild?” Mercy growled.
“N-no.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“I didn’t!” Portia cried. “I didn’t want to! I wanted to keep the baby. I kn-knew that once he was b-born you would be so happy . . .”
“Happy that my son risked his life to knock up some — some — backstabbing whore?”
“I wanted to keep him,” sobbed Portia. “But I — I — I couldn’t!”
At that moment, Portia broke into a fit of sobs, groveling on the floor at Mercy’s feet.
“Why should I believe you?”
Portia shook her head, too overcome by tears to speak.
Lark didn’t know what to do. She just stared at her.
Portia’s beautiful face was streaked with tears. Her hair was mussed, and she looked almost childlike curled up on the floor.
“I knew I couldn’t tell you what happened!” she choked. “The healers wouldn’t — so I . . .”
Lark waited to hear what Portia was going to say next, but Portia never got the chance to speak. Mercy took three gigantic steps forward and swung out her mighty arm like a club. She clobbered Portia in the side of the head, and Portia hit the floor with a wounded cry.
A second later, four of Mercy’s daughters trickled in, and two strong sets of hands grabbed Lark under the armpits.
She realized Mercy was speaking to her again, but she never heard a word. Lark was staring down at Portia with a sick feeling in her stomach.
Mercy was going to kill Portia, and it was all her fault. Portia had backed her into a corner, it was true, but Lark had lashed out without thinking of the consequences.
Finally, Mercy’s voice reached her brain. “You may not have killed my son, but you still betrayed me.”
Lark looked up at her, her vision clouded with tears.
“You lied to me . . . You manipulated me . . . And you threw Portia’s betrayal in my face.”
“N-no.”
Mercy cut her off with one hateful look. Lark knew she should try to explain — show remorse to save herself — but she couldn’t be bothered. She wasn’t afraid or angry anymore. All she felt was emptiness.
“Am I going to the pit?” she asked finally.
Mercy’s face darkened. “Not today.”
Lark looked up, a small surge of hope fluttering in her chest.
“Serving time in the pit would imply that you are still a member of this community who deserves a chance to repent.”
Lark’s breath caught in her chest as her brain latched on to Mercy’s meaning.
“Liars and thieves have no place here,” she said.
A sudden terrifying realization floated to the surface of Lark’s brain. Mercy wasn’t setting her free, and she wasn’t going to kill her. Mercy was banishing her from the colony — the only fate worse than death.
Mercy didn’t give a verbal order, but Lark knew instantly when she’d signaled her daughters. Daya’s evil, twisted face flashed in Lark’s periphery just before she got a sharp jolt to the back of the head.
Lark hit the ground — hard — and the rest of them swarmed her like a pack of jackals.
Panic surged through her body, and Lark threw out a sharp kick that caught Daya squarely in the gut. It was no use. No matter how hard she fought, Lark was powerless to stop them as they held her down for a beating.
One daughter struck her in the side of the face; another knocked her head to the ground and caused little stars to erupt in her vision. After that, all the painful sensations began to blend together in a mind-numbing rush of misery.
The one thing the daughters’ fists couldn’t numb was Lark’s mental anguish. Her tortured brain kept replaying the look on Portia’s face when she’d realized it was all over. She thought about Soren and his crazy scheme, and it hit Lark that she was never getting out of there. She was going to die in San Judas.
Lark reached a thousand dark depths as the daughters beat her into oblivion. She prayed that her brain would shut down and let her float away, but her body held on, clinging to her tortured thoughts.
Finally the punches stopped. Lark’s body was a broken mess of pain, and her mind was in anguish. Mercy’s voice was the only thing strong enough to break through her misery. She seemed vaguely surprised that Lark was still alive, but her voice was cool and detached as she handed down her sentence.
“Take her away,” she muttered. “We’re done.”
seventeen
Soren
By nine o’clock, the rain had stopped, but an ominous cluster of storm clouds still hung over the colony. The air was unseasonably cold, and high winds shook the trees and scattered fallen branches over the square. If the storms continued through the next afternoon, they’d have the window they needed to get over the electric fence.
Soren was nursing a cracked rib and a broken nose, but he’d come out of his confrontation with Hudson better than he’d expected. The guys didn’t understand why the Peterses had let them go, and Soren didn’t explain his arrangement with Hudson. He couldn’t risk a smug look from Axel or Simjay’s big mouth spoiling their agreement.
The nervous energy inside their shanty was palpable, and Soren was relieved to escape after curfew. Simjay had spent the day scribbling diagrams of the prison grounds on scraps of paper and muttering to himself. Finn jumped out of his skin whenever anyone spoke to him, and Shep seemed to be more sweaty and out of breath than usual.
Soren couldn’t stop thinking about Lark. Despite his injuries, he felt positively buoyant as he jogged across the colony and into the woods. Hudson’s men were out in full force, but that night Soren felt untouchable. He crashed through the underbrush without care and sprinted to the edge of the gorge without bothering to check that the coast was clear.
Soren scrabbled down the steep cliff as if he were skiing, sliding every now and then on patches of loose rock. He reached the bottom in record time, pulled off his jacket, socks, and boots, and swam across the river with his clothes in a bundle.
He was so anxious to see Lark that he didn’t scout the opposite bank, and when he climbed onto shore, he was startled to see the outline of a girl just a few yards away.
She was standing
stock still in the shadow of a tree, and she was looking right at him. Soren’s heart skipped a beat.
Breaking into a grin, he dropped his clothes on the muddy bank and walked toward her along the fence. It wasn’t until he was right in front of her that he realized the girl wasn’t Lark.
Soren froze, caught between the impulse to run and his own nagging curiosity.
“I know who you are,” said the girl.
Soren didn’t answer.
“I know what you’re planning.”
Soren’s pulse sped up. Up until then, he’d been extremely careful to scour the woods for spies before revealing himself to Lark. He never thought that someone could have been eavesdropping on their conversation, but clearly this girl had.
“What do you know?” Soren asked.
“I know you promised Lark freedom,” she said. “I know you told her whatever you needed to to get her to steal a pitchfork for you.”
Soren recoiled. Who was this girl, and how did she know so much?
“Who are you?” he asked, taking a step toward her.
“Me?” The girl let out a sharp, angry laugh. “I’m your worst nightmare.”
Soren hesitated. He had a bad feeling that this girl might be crazy enough to blow the lid off the whole operation.
Suddenly a cloud shifted, and the girl was bathed in a sliver of moonlight. She was small and very pretty, with a heart-shaped face, big brown eyes, and wild blond hair.
“I’m the best friend, you asshole,” she said. “Bernie?”
Soren felt a surge of relief at the sound of Bernie’s name, followed immediately by panic.
“You’re Bernie?” He shook his head. “Wait. Where’s Lark? Is everything okay?”
“No, everything’s not okay, shithead.”
Soren froze. This girl might be Lark’s best friend, but at that moment she was staring at him as if they were mortal enemies.
“What’s wrong?” he croaked. “Where’s Lark?”
“She’s been banished,” said Bernie. “Mercy and her bitches beat her to a pulp and left her to die.”
Suddenly it felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the forest. In both the men’s and women’s colonies, banishment was worse than death. Banishment meant being cut off from the community — all rights revoked and all relationships terminated.
