“Hey. It’s okay.” He kneels in front of me and gently touches my thin, child-like face. His rough thumb brushes over the long, bladed scar angling from beside my right eye and down across my pale cheek, wiping away a tear. “No one wants you to die like that. I don’t want to lose you at all. Which is why this isn’t fair and we should just run away. Contrary to local belief, there are other settlements in the Kingdom besides Rondo. You deserve better than this.”
“You know I can’t, Matthew. Not with Tracker, Jericho, Addison, or even Frank and Sadie, the only people in this town besides him who care about me. Condemning them to die would be selfish. They’re the closest thing to family I have.”
“But think about it, Rags. It would be a lot safer. We’d probably have to scrounge around for a while until things settle down, because of that bounty on you and all. Maybe get a dog. A nice dog though—not one of those Kingdom-bred monsters. It wouldn’t be a settlement like Rondo either. We could build a jumping course for Nigel and maybe even find you a nice boy to settle down with, if you want that sort of thing of course. Someone who will treat you like a respectable lady. Or you could even start your own life, you know, do your own thing. Make your own rules. Live your life the way you want to live it for once.”
I sigh. “That’s some dream, Matthew.” A wonderful dream.
“Not a dream, a future.” He reaches into his front flannel-shirt pocket. “Here, I have something for you that I was saving until we were out of this place, but I think now would be a better time to give them to you. Close your eyes.”
I do as he says and hear a soft clinking sound. He gently turns my left hand over until the palm faces upward; something rigid and smooth like stone presses into it.
“Go ahead. Open them.”
I glance at my palm. A petite trio of gray stone roses and a tiny pewter charm shaped like a rearing stag tethered together with elegant, braided leather cords rest in it. One rose in full bloom, one still a bud, and the third caught in-between.
“I’ve held onto these mythical bone roses for a long time. Sort of like a good-luck charm in a way. They hold the key to rare and powerful secrets, and well, I can’t think of anyone better I’d trust with them than you.”
I cradle the roses taking in the details in awe. “They’re beautiful, Matthew.”
“Not as beautiful as your freedom.” He rocks back on his heels with a confident smirk, the Southeastern Territory accent tangling in the dusty air. “So, what do you say? Leave here to find a safer place. No more getting shot at on raids or needing to look over your shoulder all the time. No more asshole Hunter and his posse. We can find someplace new and build you a real life for once. You deserve nothing less.”
A warm chill tingles through me. A safer place? But what about Tracker and the others? Losing a rustler will devastate Rondo. It’ll also fuel Hunter’s witch-hunt and drum up even more trouble for my family. I flinch.
“Matthew, I don’t know . . .”
“If you’re scared, that’s okay.” He brushes long strands of unkempt mahogany hair away from my eyes, letting them fall behind my ear. “I know you’re worried about Tracker and the others. Hell, I’m scared too. But we’ll come back for them and leave this place to Hunter and his followers to fade away from history. We could all start over somewhere fresh where no one knows who we are or where we came from and actually be a real family for once without the judgmental looks and rumors being thrown around town. You and I both know Sadie would love that.” There is absolute certainty in his words.
We won’t leave them behind to die. They’ll be safe too.
“After all,” he curls my thin fingers over the bone roses. “Deny all knowledge—”
“But leave no one behind. Never.” I smirk at the secret, rarely spoken words we coined shortly after Tracker found me in those snowdrifts and brought me back to Rondo three years ago. “You remembered.”
He snorts in amusement. “You really think I’d forget the unwritten code of Rondo’s rustlers when I spend so much time with them?”
“No, of course not.” I try not to think about my duties to Rondo. “Because if you ever do, it’s going to be a very long trip.”
“Seriously?” His hazel eyes widen and he places a hand on top of the pallet. “I know we won’t regret this, Rags. I promise we won’t. Let’s pack what little we need and get Nigel. The sooner we leave the less chance Hunter has to cause more problems.”
This beats being shot at in the middle of the Kingdom’s largest military base and possibly slaughtered like an animal, or worse—back in chains to be sold. And it will buy Tracker some time too, since he won’t be able to go on the raid without me.
“What are we waiting for?” Tossing the rest of my wild mahogany hair over my shoulders to shield my ears from the cold, I let it fall to a little above my waist where it’s grown out to since Tracker took me in, and smile at him. I place the bone roses and my goatskin gloves within the shelter of my buckskin pants pocket as I hurry to follow to the front room.
Above us the cobweb goes still and the lantern’s light flickers out. I pause and look at it. The moth isn’t there.
The metal front door’s little brass bell tings. Snowflakes swirl across the uneven plywood floor and under skeletal, bare metal shelves. Matthew steps into the trampled snow and holds the door open all gentlemanlike.
I cast a worried glance around for Hunter and his crew.
Matthew reaches into his pocket and pulls out another small clip to secure the chain better, pausing for a moment. The wind offers up a faint squeal, like a frightened horse somewhere uphill, making me jump.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” He blinks, head cocked to the side for a few seconds, listening for a sound lost already in the cold air.
“You know that sound Tamblin makes sometimes if the hothouse fans come on suddenly while we’re tilling the fields and scares her?”
“Yeah?” His eyes pan the street for a moment before he shrugs. “I don’t hear anything. But I think we may be in trouble.”
He nods to the right and gestures to the graded street twisting uphill to the village square. “Looks like Tracker decided to come find us about Hunter after all. Maybe if we explain nicely, he’ll—”
The tall, dark-skinned man runs toward us, frantically signaling to the ground.
Ground—
“Matthew, get down!”
Blood spatters my lower jaw, leaving dark-crimson trails across the buckskin of my jacket.
He reels backward. One hand slams against the tailgate. The other flies to his chest. His hazel eyes widen and close with a painful grimace, his shoulder striking the truck bed’s side.
“Matthew!” I reach for him, fingers grasping his flannel shirt.
A second gunshot cracks from the South Ridge.
He staggers, and his legs give out.
My knees hit the snow beside him, arms struggling to support his shaking body. His chest convulses in wild, panicked gasps, only managing to force a terrifying rasping sound through his lips as he leans against the truck’s chained wheel.
I grab for the clenched hands twisting deep into his flannel shirt. Hot blood bubbles up through his fingers. He turns his hazel eyes to look at me, fear hiding deep within and for a moment, I’m reminded that he’s not much older than I am. We’re still children in this village. Children with futures ahead of us. Children who can’t die right now. We just can’t.
“R-run,” he tries to wheeze, unable to hide the painful grimace.
“Not without you.” My fingers seize his, forcing both our hands against the first wound above his heart. His other hand violently twitches in frantic attempt to stop the second one under his ribcage.
“He’s . . . coming for us . . .” Matthew glances at me through clouding eyes. His heart pounds harder with each struggling breath. “To . . . finish this.”
The bleeding isn’t stopping . . .
“Don’t say that.” Black dots scu
rry along the South Ridge. “Look at me, okay. We’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”
He offers a frightened attempt at a smile and reaches up to clutch my left hand. Blood pours from the second wound.
“Matt—” A shiver washes through my body, fading hazel eyes stopping me from trying to help. His scarred right hand quivers around mine, lacking the strength of a boy who could easily drag Nigel around the barn during his most stubborn moments. With the other, he reaches up and tries to brush the hair away from my eyes, but his wrist goes limp. His once strong body crumbles against the snow.
“Please no.” I grab his flannel shirt. “Matthew. Please. Hold on.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Don’t die.” Images of those people back in Hydra flood my mind. Not him. Not Matthew. “Please get up. Please, Matthew. Open your eyes. Come on. Please. Don’t leave me here alone.”
Blood continues to flow from his wounds and into the snow. I’m powerless, clutching his flannel shirt in my bloody hands as his body quivers in a losing battle. Tears scald my pale flesh, dripping against his chin as I lean over him.
Please don’t take him. Please no. His heartbeat flutters under my palms and with a quiet gasp, his chest stops convulsing. Those once gentle, impish hazel eyes stare into the next world, the light gone.
“No.” Inhuman trembling seizes my thin frame. “No, no, no!”
Cold flashes over my flesh, scalding my lungs and tightening my throat, cutting off the raw, primal pleading. I—I can’t breathe. Not him. Not Matthew. My best friend. My brother. My family. I lean over him, unable to see the ridge through the burning tears, desperate to defend him as a set of hands grabs for me.
Chapter Five
Tracker’s strong arms sweep under my ribs, lifting me away from Matthew’s body. The hopes, dreams, any chance for a real future being torn away. I throw myself backward, snarling, biting and kicking, trying to break free. The grip tightens, carrying me behind an old hickory tree by the storehouse.
“Shhh.” Tracker’s deep voice struggles to soothe as he sets me down on legs that can’t seem to coordinate and immediately draws me against his pillar-like body to keep me from running back into the street. “He’s in a better place now, Rags. A better place.”
A better place. I turn inward, clinging to his old leather flight jacket and burrow my face against his broad chest. My shoulders heave and quiver, the sobs muffled against the soft material. None of this is happening. It can’t be happening. Matthew can’t be dead. Not him. Not here.
Tracker places a hand on my back, saying nothing, just holding me.
“We’re going to get out of here, okay?” His deep voice stays calm as he shifts a few inches to the left and leans against the storehouse’s clapboard wall for added protection.
I shake my head “no” through the tears. I don’t want to leave him. I can’t leave him.
“Look at me, Rags.” Urgency in his words now. “The Kingdom Corps is up on that ridge and we’re no good to anyone if we die.”
We’re no good to anyone now. Bitter tears sting my cheeks. I lift my head away from Tracker’s chest, trembling. The K. C . . . Those bastards did this—they killed him.
Tracker points to a string of rundown wooden houses with boarded-up windows and doors lining the street. “We’re going to run to those porches over there.”
I struggle not to stare at Matthew’s lifeless body and the pink snow growing around it.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. And you’re going to. Understood?”
“But—”
“Rags,” his eyes narrow, “this is not open for debate. Do you understand? It will be okay, but you need to not fall apart right now.”
A hesitant nod and I release his jacket. It’ll be okay. Tracker will know what to do. He always knows what to do.
“Good. When I say run, we are going to run.”
“What if—” What if we’re not killed outright by the bullets? They’ll skin us alive if they catch us.
I don’t want to die that way.
“Just like Hydra, Rags.” He tries to help me focus. “We just beat the ration train and they spotted us. One shot to make the fence.” His gaze softens at Matthew, but he turns his attention to the sagging porches. “And we are going to make that fence.”
More tears break free. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, only making it worse in the freezing air. Snowflakes blanket Matthew’s jacket as if God himself drapes a gentle cloak over him.
This isn’t good-bye, I want to tell him, but the words won’t come. He wouldn’t want me to cry. I can’t cry now. I need to find who did this. And when I do—
“Go, now.”
I draw a shaky breath and try to get my mind focused as if this really is Hydra and not Rondo. Cold air seers my lungs and throat. Those crumbling porches seem so far away. The graded street’s fresh snow coating looks slicker; the grade sharper.
I brace myself, my soft deer-hide boots pressing against the snow, the rustler part taking over with slightly bended knees and every muscle tense. I bolt into the open.
A single gunshot shatters the air. My eyes press shut, stride hitching, and anticipate being knocked down. It cuts wide and my feet strike the snow, carrying me forward unscathed.
“A little quicker, Rags.” Tracker’s strides cover the snow alongside me. I open my eyes and throw a glare back at the ridge.
Dark-green specks swarm the invisible hunting trails.
Tracker seizes my wrist, stern warning in his brown eyes not to look back. Never look back.
Gunfire erupts. It curtains around us and skips up the twisting, graded street to a tiny crossroad just below the square. Screams and shouts fill Rondo at a second wave materializing.
My back slams against a boarded wall. Tracker lets go and eyes the forces invading Rondo.
Soldiers cover the ridge as snow swirls around them. It clings to their faceless helmets and kisses their forest-green jackets where the bronze hare insignia leers. Empty eyes drift over our temporary shelter. My left hand rifles through the buckskin jacket’s pocket for my switchblade.
The aging dark-skinned man leans his towering frame against the wall beside me. His eyes narrow.
Don’t even think about it, they warn.
I draw the switchblade against my trembling fingers anyway.
He moves a gloved hand slightly to the left and balls his fist, signaling for me to pay close attention. I clench my right hand to tell him I’m listening.
He points to a narrow off road just below the square and then angles his thumb left. That will put us on the quickest route to Witherwood Lane and the snowfield where we might stand a chance. I mimic the gesture in confirmation.
He tips his thumb to the sagging wooden porch beside us.
The support rail creaks and wobbles but holds strong as I hoist myself upward.
“Hey you.” One of the closest soldiers raises a carbine. “Stop.”
My thin legs swing over the railing, the fringes on my pant legs not even touching the wood. Bullets shatter a rotten support pillar. I throw an arm up to parry the splinters and vault over another wobbly rail to a second, lower porch. Another shot splinters the railing.
Confusion reigns in the narrow, twisting street as the K. C. tries to set their cross hairs on the blue-eyed, wanted criminal-child from the posters.
Come and get me, you bastards.
I hook a weakened porch support and drop onto the snowy street.
Sparks fly from a metal lamppost as I dart past. My feet churn through the snow toward the off street where an abandoned brick factory building stained black with old soot from its smokestacks shields it from the square. Snowflakes sting my tear-stained face. Cold wind whips through my hair. I move faster, each breath searing my lungs.
Cover. Have to find cover.
The street banks sharply upward, dotted with cockeyed lampposts that sway against the flood of soldiers securing Rondo’s three st
reets and their unofficial districts. Up ahead, K. C. and villagers clash in Rondo’s broken wagon-wheel square.
I cut left.
Tracker runs by and points to a short alleyway tucked behind a pile of rusted scrap metal and a crumbling brick wall we used to tally the days between famine seasons. Our backdoor shortcut and the straightest shot back to our farmhouse.
Clay bricks explode under renewed gunfire from a pincer squad moving into position at the off street’s narrow exit to the snowfield. Tracker turns his attention to the alleyway’s wooden privacy fence and swings his body over it.
I plant a boot against the rickety, old fence, hook my fingers over its top, and spring up and over like a fleeing winter mountain deer.
“Rags, back!” I hear Tracker yell.
I’m still able to stick the landing, but then freeze in place at a fatal click no rustler ever wants to hear.
“Hands up where we can see them,” commands the closest soldier. Ten others flank him, securely pinning us. The pincer squad moves in behind the fence.
Tracker keeps his attention on the soldiers. His hands tip forward as he raises them to show he’s not armed. My eyes narrow at the nearest K. C., not about to do the same.
“You too.” Their self-proclaimed leader points his carbine at me.
My thumb ghosts over the small brass button on the switchblade. It emits a sharp click as the sleek blade extends and flicks through the air. A blow from my forearm knocks the barrel aside, the dangling fringes on my buckskin jacket swishing as I stab hard and fast.
The soldier goes down with a shout.
I guide the blade through the air, ripping through the fabric on a second’s uniform as it comes away slick with blood. My fingers flip the slippery handle around, and I drive my elbow into a third’s sternum as he grabs for my sleeves’ fringes.
Tracker grapples with the fourth’s rifle.
Sorrow and guilt channel into rage with each strike I land. Gloved hands seize my left wrist and wrench it back. The switchblade hits the snow underfoot as the same soldier grabs my other wrist and swings me around, staring me down through his faceless dark-green helmet.
The Bone Roses Page 4
