The Bone Roses

by Kathryn Lee Martin

  “I have to agree with that.” Jericho leans on his makeshift pulpit. “We’re not dealing with normal Kingdom Corps this time either.”

  Frank clenches and unclenches his hands. “Then what do you suggest we do? We can’t fight them.”

  “Give him what he wants.” Hunter gestures at me again. “He came for her.”

  Jericho’s eyes cut to him. “That’s enough out of you, Lawrence.”

  “It’s true. He was looking directly at her. Demon spawn recognize their own and that one’s as evil as they come. Give him what he wants, and he’ll go away. Or are you going to let her get away with murdering your son?”

  “That’s it,” Jericho slams a hand down on the pulpit. “Out. Now.”

  Hunter feigns surprise. “She’s corrupted you good, Jericho. And here I thought you were a man of God. You’re not supposed to side with the dark—”

  “Leave.” Jericho continues to point to the stairs, brow knitted, face flushed. I’ve never seen him this angry before.

  Hunter hasn’t either apparently and scurries from his chair lest a Bible be hurled at him or something.

  I can’t help but feel somewhat accomplished as he storms by, throwing a wicked glare my way. His footsteps thunder against the stairs like a frustrated child.

  The door bangs shut.

  Jericho wrinkles his nose trying to regain his composure. “That went better than I thought it would. I’m open to suggestions.”

  “We outsmart them with fire,” Tracker offers.

  We all look at him.

  “What?”

  “We use fire.”

  Tracker wasn’t senile before but he certainly looks it now.

  “Fire,” Jericho deadpans. “Really.”

  You’d swear Tracker just asked him to make all the snow go away and that rumored thing called the sun to shine.

  “Yes, fire.” Tracker seems awfully convinced of this. “Fighting blind is not a Kingdom Corps strength, least of all Henny’s. If we could create a smoke screen large enough, we’d be able to bolster our forces and take control of the confusion to buy us some time.”

  I sit straighter. To us rustlers, fire can be invaluable, especially when it creates a smokescreen. It’s helped us liberate a few livestock from Hydra’s slaughter pens a few times. Still, the kind of fire he’s talking about, here?

  “Where are we going to get a fire like that?”

  A cold shiver sweeps through my body as Jericho looks to Frank.

  The burly man cringes. Sweat coats his brow. He wrings his hands like Sadie does when someone asks her about the rooms behind those numbered doors down here.

  “We can’t,” he says as he shakes his head.

  “We may not have a choice.” Jericho’s not backing down. “Hyperion came to collect us and we all know what happens if we will not bow to him.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You keep it in town, right?”

  “Well, sure, but that isn’t the point. People—”

  “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” I stifle a growl.

  “Something you won’t like,” Tracker assures me.

  Something I won’t like? What could possibly—my senses sharpen in a mixture of terror at what could possibly cause fire that powerful.

  Sadie gives me a sympathetic look and turns to Jericho with one of pity.

  My hands quiver. There’s only one force capable of causing a fire like that. The kind Frank uses to rearrange Rondo’s mines by collapsing tunnels in an effort to counter the Centralia fire and continue his mining practices.

  “If we use the chaos to our advantage, we might just be able to send him running and buy us some time. How fast can you get everything into position? The storehouse side is unoccupied.”

  Running won’t solve our problem. Tracker’s scowl warns me not to interfere.

  Frank nods. “I’ll need an hour.”

  “It’s yours.” Jericho eyes me. “As for you—”

  “Will be staying out of this,” Tracker says matter-of-factly.

  “What? That’s not fair—” He can’t just keep me away from Henny like this. Especially not when I can be useful.

  “We had this discussion already. I have my reasons.”

  “But—”

  “Rags.”

  “Yes sir.” I slump in the chair, trying to pretend I’m okay with this.

  Jericho cocks an eyebrow at the exchange. He doesn’t seem too happy with Tracker’s verdict. After all, I’m a lot faster than Tracker and can climb better than the K. C. can aim.

  “Then it’s decided. When morning dawns, we’re going to give the Kingdom Corps a day they won’t soon forget.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The K. C. launches an all-out assault on our front door shortly before dawn. The hinges rattle and wooden panels shake. The deadbolt groans and clacks. Our little brass bell jingles wildly as it bounces back and forth. Dust creeps from the hairline cracks forming in the wall. The door buckles inward, tan splinters spider-webbing across the dark wood.

  Any second now they’ll take us. Even if I could retrieve the rifle concealed under the living room floorboards and get a few decent shots off, there’s no way I could take them all down. From what I saw from the upstairs guestroom window overlooking Witherwood Lane, the streets are swarming with K. C.

  The loud crack rattles the cabinets as the hinges pop free. The wooden door gives up and collapses, striking the linoleum with a loud, clattering thud.

  Soldiers rush the kitchen, throwing our dishes onto the floor and casting our wooden chairs against the cabinets and chicken-patterned wallpaper. Our pine table overturns. Tracker’s favorite coffee cup clunks to the floor and rolls under the still-standing curio cabinet.

  “Hands in the air.”

  A carbine’s barrel looms in front of me; the soldier behind it quivers, faceless helmet catching our reflections in the early morning darkness. Another gestures with his flashlight to his posse, sending them scurrying throughout the kitchen until the living room doorway is secured and we’re pinned in the kitchen.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. One soldier grabs my raised hands and shoves me at the broken door. A carbine barrel presses against my spine. I try to steady my breathing and trembling hands. No one said we’re needed alive.

  Fresh snow spreads a sterile white sheet over the world. The cold morning wind whispers across the snowfield. Snow squalls tumble high into the air against dreary gray ridges.

  A firm jab of the rifle forces me through the K. C. mob and across the front yard, past the dead willow and to Witherwood Lane’s entrance.

  Thick black smoke billows from the square. It stalks Witherwood Lane, snaring our bodies with an evil leer. The K. C. shuffles through the narrow streets, crowding us on all sides. Shoulder to shoulder. Jostling and slipping over the uneven ground, trying not to knock each other over as they herd us through the living K. C. cattle chute into one big community herd for the slaughter.

  The bone roses in my pocket silently assure me that I can do this. The memories of Hydra, though, make me shiver and say otherwise.

  No one looks at me as we’re driven into the square where a fire roars. I skirt to the front before they can trample me and try not to let the worry show.

  Tracker doesn’t follow this time, instead melting into the crowd to find Jericho and Frank.

  “Rags.” Sadie waddles over to me, wringing her delicate hands. Dark circles rim her eyes. Poor woman probably never even bothered trying to get any sleep last night. She sways on trembling legs, faded pink skirt rumpled and lacking its usual tidiness.

  I offer a pathetic attempt at a comforting smile, but I don’t at all feel confident this morning.

  “You think this will actually work?” she asks.

  “It has to.”

  Tense quiet falls between us. She doesn’t approve of any of it. Right now it’s not up to her, though.

  Their footsteps trample the icy stones and slush.
A soldier, arms laden with books, stops beside the fire. With a cold, mechanical motion, he dumps them. Hungry, crackling snaps and pops flood the square. The flames twist upward in demonic praise, fingers stretching outward, flicking sparks and ashes at us.

  Villagers shy back as though the very touch of a spark will turn them to dust. Some whisper prayers, others clutch their loved ones’ hands.

  I try to ignore them—all that matters are the next few moments.

  Sadie shifts her weight, dark eyes on two glowing irons in the fire. They trail down to her right hand where a small, perfect star mars her flesh. It’s a Laborer’s Star, the only mark that can possibly save her today if we fail to take Rondo. Her child won’t be as fortunate.

  I study the dilapidated Victorian-styled buildings surrounding the square. The fire’s shadow leaps across the broken windows and crawls between loose boards, falling upon a group of soldiers setting up elaborate microphones to record today’s events, no doubt for the weekly radio broadcast as a message to the other settlements that Rondo will be “purified” of those who refuse to bow down and worship Hyperion.

  I heard the radio whispers in Hydra through an open library window a while back. Hyperion purges those who won’t serve his Kingdom and their public sacrifice will be broadcast across the territories both to inspire fear and cement his place as “provider” to them all. Just like the rustlers they caught and charged with treason, so we’ll face similar fates if we fail to take Rondo. There’s no doubt in my mind that many will cast off everything they have just to be welcomed back with open arms and “saved.” Hunter is probably grooming them on that even while we all stand here.

  Our answer to the Kingdom could come from anywhere. That old gray Victorian with the collapsed tower overlooking the storehouse street. The old brick, soot-stained factory near Witherwood Lane. Even the crumbling wooden house with the large, cracked glass windows and an elaborate porch marking the entrance to Rondo’s inhabited side.

  The fire’s heat makes me shiver. I wish Matthew were here. He’d give me that reassuring little nod and tell me not to worry. But he’s not, and that feeling stings. I can’t be thinking about him now. There is work to be done, lives to save—our existence to be won.

  The stallion’s hoofbeats snap against the ice.

  His coal-black hide glows crimson in the firelight. Sparks dance in his silken mane. Heavy iron-clad hooves stir the ashes and snow. Even the smoke shies away from the mighty beast.

  Henny sits tall in the saddle. The stallion bobs its head at an invisible tug on the reins, drifting away from the flames. Beside the fountain, a few feet from the fire, he halts, stamping a hoof and swishing his long tail.

  Henny drops the reins and swings a leg over the horse’s rump. Both feet land on the ground with a graceful crunch.

  The wind toys with his ponytail. Ashes and snow swirl around his tall, lean frame. He adjusts the rifle over his shoulder and strokes the horse’s neck with an almost human smile. A stony frown immediately replaces it.

  He turns to face us. At first, he doesn’t move, just stands there, awful amber eyes watching the crowd. They pass over Sadie and me like we don’t exist. He turns his head to the old gray Victorian with the collapsed tower. His brow furrows and he waves a soldier over to him.

  Whispering, he points to the crowd and scowls. The soldier hurries to the human fence. A few peel away from their posts and vanish into the crowd.

  That’s not in the plan . . . I shift my weight and brush Sadie’s elbow with mine in silent warning to move back. He knows.

  A familiar smirk tugs at the young man’s lips.

  My blue eyes lock with amber ones, fighting down panic.

  He places a hand on his hip.

  “Good morning.” His soft words harbor deceptive gentleness. “I hope it finds you well.”

  I stay silent. His smirk grows stronger.

  “Today marks the rest of your life. I trust you will choose wisely how you’ll spend it.”

  Nervous shuffling takes hold behind me. Villagers step back, silently offering me up in hopes that he’ll accept the trade and go away.

  Henny keeps one eye on me as he strides by.

  “Who is going to be first to rejoin the glorious Kingdom?”

  They huddle away from me.

  “It won’t hurt,” he says with a sinister glint in his eyes. “It will be over in seconds.”

  Yeah. Except the only choice being offered today is death. And that will be dragged out according to the crime.

  “I would take the deal.” His brow furrows. “After all, your rumored rustlers won’t protect you. And seriously, look at your once glorious city, Rondo. Reduced to a miserable scrapyard. Surely, you are starving, miserable, broken, and defeated. So, come back to Hyperion and accept his mercy.”

  Cold glares singe my back.

  “And here I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this the hard way.”

  He walks a few feet past me and halts, looking to the sky.

  The switchblade bumps my fingertips. I draw it to my palm, thumb ghosting the button, every nerve jumping into rustler-mode.

  “Her.” Henny is quicker, an amber eye glinting at me, and points to Sadie. “She’s first.”

  She pales and clasps her hands protectively over her belly. A soft whimper mingled with a frantic prayer passes her lips. Backing away, she attempts to force herself into the crowd’s safety.

  They’ll have none of it, forming a barrier against her.

  “I don’t have all day.” Henny raises his right hand and makes a swift, short cutting motion like tightening a lasso.

  Two K. C. move to retrieve the terrified woman.

  You took Matthew from me, but I’ll be damned if I let you take the closest thing to a mom I have . . . I’m in front of them before they can lay one hand on her.

  “You want to take someone’s soul,” I fix my eyes on him, “then you should have the balls to take mine.”

  Henny holds his right hand higher.

  His soldiers halt.

  Murmurs sweep through the crowd as they widen the distance between us.

  “Yeah, I’m looking at you, you cocky son of a bitch.”

  He bristles. “You’re a bold one, rustler.”

  “My name is Rags.”

  He turns his full attention on me with a predatory smile. “Is that so?”

  The fire hisses.

  “Damn right it is.” Sweat pricks uncomfortably against my palms and forehead. “Now come on. I’m waiting.”

  Henny walks closer until he stands directly in front of me. He’s taller than he looks, more than a few inches taller than Matthew, and he was almost six feet tall. Firelight casts shadows across his pale face.

  Lavender and hickory scents coat his cinnamon flight jacket as he tilts his head down until his nose almost touches mine. His eyes bore into my blue ones.

  “Show me your mark, Rags.”

  I stare back and make him blink. “No.”

  His lip twitches. “I said, show me your mark.”

  “And I said no.”

  “Last chance.” His jacket rustles as he raises his left hand to summon his men.

  I feel my muscles tense, every instinct warning me to run while I still can. I don’t move. To move is to die.

  His voice drops to a lethal whisper. “You don’t want me to use force.”

  Behind me, Sadie flees. The crowd has no problems with her joining them now.

  “Why don’t you show me your mark?”

  The K. C. advances, rifles raised.

  “My mark is the same as all Kingdom Corps.” He continues to stare into my eyes.

  “Prove it.”

  I feel the cross hairs sweep my shoulders.

  His smooth words linger closer to my ears. “Make me.”

  A soldier crouches on the gray Victorian’s porch.

  Those same eyes focused on Matthew and pulled the trigger, my mind warns. Rage burns away the fear in my blood.

  �
�You’re not worth my time, Blondie.”

  His eyes narrow. His jaw tightens.

  “Heathen.” His hand comes down across my right cheek.

  Mine sweeps up.

  A sharp click from my blade shatters the air. Henny reels backward in frantic retreat, halted by my fingers wrapped deep into his front jacket collar. His hand hovers over my flesh and doesn’t move.

  A tiny blood droplet creeps over the blade’s narrow point and down his pale flesh.

  He quivers, neck muscles rigid. Terror flashes through haunting amber eyes and for a brief moment, he’s not the high-and-mighty conqueror he appears to be.

  A gunshot rings through the square.

  Molten wind clips my hair as the bullet passes over the back of my neck and strikes the fountain’s second tier with a mighty crack. My grip tightens.

  “Don’t shoot.” He raises his left hand. “Lower your rifles.”

  “Smart man.” I struggle to steady my wrist. It’s not the first time I’ve “dealt” with an enemy up close. Rival rustlers. K. C. soldiers. This shouldn’t be any different—but it is. The sickening feeling from Hydra returns and something holds me back before I can force the blade into his throat and end this.

  The K. C. obeys.

  “Heh. You’re just full of surprises.” His voice barely cracks a whisper. “Just like the farmer boy.”

  My fingers twist the light brown, fur jacket collar, making him squirm. Fury burns through every vein against the dreadful feeling.

  “He had a name.” The blade presses deeper into his flesh, a snarl tearing through my lips.

  “Go ahead.” He draws a sharp breath. “Kill me. It will make no difference in his fate or yours.”

  “I beg to differ—”

  Timber and glass shatter, the large gray Victorian erupting in a violent fountain of flames, hot bricks, and burning boards. The ground bucks. Fiery wind slams against my body, burning and stinging my throat and eyes. The force sweeps the blade from my hand.

  Henny and I crash together into the sparks and ashes.

  Chapter Thirteen