The Bone Roses

by Kathryn Lee Martin

  Wooden boards bounce and scatter across the thawing ground. Bricks crack and shatter. Stifling heat blisters the air. I scream and bury my face against the rapidly melting snow, unable to even hear myself over the roar and fiery hell raining from every direction.

  I whimper but can’t hear anything.

  Make it stop. Please, make it all stop. Only it doesn’t. The silence presses all around me, silent screams rivaling the flames from the terrified people in a desperate battle for their lives.

  A muffled popping noise breaches the silence.

  Gunshots.

  I force both eyes open wider. The heat stings and assaults them. Sparks spin through the air joining the wind as it whips the flames into a frenzy. I push myself to my knees and plant both hands against the cold, slushy ground, trying to regain my bearings and returning senses.

  How long was I down for? A dull throbbing in my skull makes me wince as I look up at the chaos.

  Villagers spook like a panicked deer herd and clash with the K. C. A soldier collapses, vanishing under their feet.

  K. C. not caught in the stampede fire wildly into the crowd. Their olive-green-clad legs churn through the growing flames and ashes, wrestling against a more than hundred strong, terrified Rondonian force that grows smaller with each trigger pull.

  Villagers collide, their hands grappling and shoving for a clear path. People stumble with painful screams. They shove each other out of the way, desperation in their wide eyes.

  Please, God. I sit up, squinting in hopes that maybe, just maybe Sadie escaped. Let her be okay.

  I can’t see her anywhere in the thickening smoke.

  Henny groans and rubs his forehead. His hair hangs free from its clip, cascading around his shoulders in a flaxen wave. Blood drips down his nose and smears against his gloved fingertips as he wipes it away.

  He narrows his amber eyes.

  “You—” A thick cough rattles his body.

  I lunge to my feet; the heat intensifies.

  He rolls to his feet and swings the rifle from his shoulder in one swift movement.

  Thick smoke prowls around us. The flames lick a body in the street. The ashes fall like snow. More gunshots spark from carbines somewhere in the smokescreen.

  I bolt in Witherwood Lane’s direction, keeping my head down. Not more than ten feet into the smokescreen, molten, fiery pain scalds from my Crops number to the elbow, paralyzing the muscles and knocking me off-balance. A shout tears free from my lips, my right hand flying to the ragged tear in the buckskin. Dark, hot blood overtakes the already stained buckskin, seeping down into the fringes.

  Damn he’s good. I throw a frantic glance over my shoulder and shiver.

  Firelight illuminates his face. No mercy, only cold frustration lingers in those amber eyes. A murderer’s stare meets mine.

  His rifle’s cross hairs settle over my spine. Damn. I throw myself to the ground, the hard stones and icy sludge catching me. The bullet grazes a direct line up the buckskin jacket’s back. Son of a bitch he has good aim.

  His thick leather boots splash through the slush as he moves closer, slow and deliberate.

  I scramble over another body and sense those cross hairs again. Tracker wasn’t kidding about this guy . . . I have got to get out of here.

  A second bullet cracks through the air, grabbing my jacket’s right-side collar in midcrawl to my feet. My trembling legs catch me, and I stagger only a few steps before a third bullet grabs the left side.

  Drawing a sharp breath, I reach up and touch the flesh. No blood. No pain.

  “You can’t run from me.” He approaches, his soft words still difficult to hear but growing stronger the closer he gets. “And I really don’t want to take away your ability to walk, so I advise you surrender.”

  I want to turn and face him, to do to him what he did to Matthew, but the Damascus in his hands keeps me from acting on those thoughts.

  He aims the rifle at the ground and fires. The force sends slush splashing up and over my left deer-hide boot and up the pant leg.

  “Next time I won’t miss.” He cocks the rifle again. “What’s it going to be?”

  Every instinct warns to run but my legs refuse.

  His hot breath creeps over the nape of my neck. The scent of lavender and hickory overpowers the smoke. He turns the rifle sideways; the stock touches my back.

  I quiver.

  “That’s a smart little Ragamuffin.” He whispers the words near my right ear.

  I grit my teeth. “M-my name is Rags.”

  “I prefer Ragamuffin,” the word rolls off his tongue in a purr, much clearer now, “and if you don’t run away from me, I can promise that your place in the Kingdom is a special one.”

  “I-I’d rather die than go with you.”

  “Now, now,” he continues to purr. “No one ever willingly chooses to die. He’s got a nice spot set aside for you. A beautiful, warm, and safe place. You’ll never go hungry or have to worry about anyone trying to kill you ever again. All you have to do is take it and this all goes away.”

  “Never.”

  His body tenses but he doesn’t move away.

  “Look around you, Ragamuffin.” He keeps his voice soft. “All I have to do is say the word and the slaughter ends. You have the power to stop it. They don’t have to end up like Matthew.”

  Everything feels cold.

  “How do you know that name?”

  “Hyperion knows everything.” His words are sickeningly calm. “And if you play nice, I’m sure he’d be more than happy to tell you the truth about our dear Matthias Brisby.”

  The words nip at my soul. Both names . . . No. He’s not theirs. He never was.

  “Y-You’re lying.”

  Henny snickers. “If you knew the real Matthew, you wouldn’t think so highly of him. I can only imagine what filthy lies he told someone like you—”

  I swing my left leg back and hook his; my elbow slams into his chest.

  He goes down. The rifle strikes the ground and discharges with a sickening crack.

  None of it’s true. I flee into the smoke. Liar. Murderer. He doesn’t know Matthew.

  The smoke sears my lungs and stings my eyes. My arm throbs, hot blood running over the trembling fingers struggling to stop it.

  Shelter. Safety. The words play through my mind. Shelter. Safety. Escape.

  Survive.

  A surprised K. C. soldier doesn’t have time to see who hits him as I twist by and shove him into Henny’s path.

  “Stop running.” He knocks the man to the ground.

  Witherwood Lane’s familiar, crumbling buildings rise around me in the thinning smokescreen. Bodies litter the street, some theirs, most ours. Shadows creep over the small path between the collapsed garage and the crumbling brick house leading to Sadie’s home.

  Fence. Barrier. Safety.

  K. C. struggle to regain control as I run by, eyeing the chain-link gate Frank put up to keep marauding wildlife at bay. Several soldiers shout and try to aim through the smoke. I knock their barrels aside and aim for the gate.

  Fence. Run. Get over the gate.

  His body towers over mine. A hand hooks my shoulder, his entire weight falling on me.

  Planting both feet against the icy path, I give up on the wound, spin and grab the Damascus’s ebony stock with both hands. My right shoulder rams his. Together we crash into the collapsed garage’s splintered wooden wall.

  Ugly red paint flakes our clothes and tangles in our hair. Our boots scuff and slide as we grapple for the rifle. It’s like wrestling with a six-foot-tall mule.

  My back slams the wall, pinned by the rifle’s stock.

  “There now. That wasn’t so har—”

  My left fist hooks his jaw at an angle, an entire childhood worth of wearing heavy iron shackles knocking him back. I break free and lunge for the rusted chain-link gate at the path’s end.

  It rattles and shakes, threatening to collapse under the sudden weight. Clutching the unsteady top,
I swing both legs over it. Henny’s strong fingers dig deep into my left calf and seize my jacket’s dangling fringes. Instead of landing on the other side, I’m wrenched backward.

  A single gunshot deafens the alleyway. Sparks fly from the gate.

  Henny lets go, swiftly moving backward and raises his Damascus.

  A second bullet almost clips his shoulder before he can return fire.

  Slipping over the fence, I see Frank standing on his back porch in the smoky haze, .22 aimed, and one eye closed like a mighty winter bear about to defend his territory.

  Henny backs away. His lethal eyes dart from me to Frank before settling back on me.

  “Oh, you’re a smart one. But you can’t hide, Ragamuffin,” he warns. “You won’t be able to do a damn thing about it either. Rondo is lost. Make peace with your god because when we come for you again, you won’t have a prayer.”

  He continues to back away, never breaking eye contact.

  “Fall back,” he calls when he reaches the end of the path and steps into Witherwood Lane. No second-guessing. No hesitation. Only frosty certainty that this isn’t over between us.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’ve seen enough to know what happens when the enemy leaves alive.

  They always come back. Once Henny gets back to his base, he’ll call for reinforcements and make this morning look like a poorly planned training mission. Rondo won’t survive another hit like this.

  I sink my fingers into the rusty chain-link. I need to stop him. That rifle though . . . Damn him.

  “Rags, are you okay?” Sadie’s frantic voice stops me from climbing the fence.

  The painful jolt from my wound makes me flinch. A heavy weight lifts from my mind when I see she’s alive and a tear sneaks down my face. Henny’s shadowy form draws my attention just as quickly as he whistles for his horse at the path’s end.

  “Rags?” This time Frank addresses me.

  I eye the lopsided porch. He still aims the .22 at the gate. Sadie stands beside him, ankle deep in the snow, one hand on the splintered porch rail, the other clutching her shawl. Her curly caramel hair frazzles everywhere, and soot stains her floral-patterned skirt. A rip unravels her lavender shawl and a bruise highlights her right eye.

  If I don’t go now, I won’t catch him. Henny’s loyal stallion gallops over the carnage and slides to a spirited halt, tossing his head back and rearing onto his haunches to paw the air.

  Sadie steps into the deeper snow. “Come here right this instant. It’s not safe.”

  I chance another glimpse at the path.

  The young man plants a boot in an iron stirrup and swings astride the stallion.

  “Rags.” Frank’s voice makes me think twice. “Come here.”

  Henny looks straight at me, twists the reins, and the horse bolts into a strong, confident canter away from this place.

  Frank moves to the porch step. “Don’t make me come get you.”

  I grip the fence tighter, my left arm trembling as the blood drips onto the snow. He’s serious.

  Giving the fence a stern kick, I abandon my chance to pursue and trudge across the small backyard to the tiny, crumbling cabin.

  One can hardly call it a real yard. It’s an old intersection from Rondo’s Kingdom days that was barricaded from the outside world by the addition of several other now-abandoned brick factory buildings. It’s eerily quiet here, the buildings providing adequate protection from the hell taking place just down the pathway. If I listen closely enough, I can hear the K. C. finishing off the stragglers and preparing for Henny’s next assault.

  Frank took full advantage of the seclusion and repurposed some fence from the snowfield to create a safe place where his future children would be able to play without fear of being picked off by rival rustlers and wildlife. It’s probably the safest place in Rondo.

  Two old stop signs hold up a clothesline where I often help Sadie with laundry. A woodpile that Matthew and I often worked alongside Frank to keep well stocked because it’s too difficult to haul enough coal the whole way from the mountains blocks an alleyway.

  “Good heavens.” Sadie hurries into the yard, her eyes fixed on the ragged tear concealed under my blood-coated hand. “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s nothing.” I grimace at the glaring burgundy patch making its way down my arm. Not half as bad as the time I got caught up in Hydra’s razor-wire but damn does it hurt.

  “It is not ‘nothing,’” she shrieks. “Frank, go boil some water.”

  “Please tell me I didn’t do that.” He lowers the .22, stark, onyx eyes wide-open.

  “No,” I assure him. “It wasn’t you.”

  He shakes his head and opens the back screen door, grumbling something about a “blond-haired bastard” and what he’d like to do to him. The flimsy door closes behind him with a soft click.

  Sadie continues studying the wound and my bloodstained jacket. Her dark-brown eyes widen at the roughed-up collar and scuff marks where the bullets grazed. “Good heavens, child. In the house, now.”

  I frown. “I’m fine, Sadie.”

  “House. Now. If Matthew could see this,” she tsks and opens the door, shaking her head. “Always tangling with the Kingdom Corps. Making stupid choices. Going to end up dead one of these days you are.”

  An ache creeps into my chest. Dull throbbing creeps into my skull. “Sadie, please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I want to go after the one who did this. I have to go.

  “Rags.” Her voice turns gentle.

  I stop, eyes burning at the wound and Matthew’s name. “I’m fine.”

  She shakes her head. “No, you’re not.”

  The tears threaten to spill. I’m not sure if they’re from anger or the pain throbbing up and down my arm. A part of me wants to run from Sadie. Go back home and just lock myself in my room. Stretch out in my hammock, bury my face in the pillow and cry it all out. The other longs for her to just tell me that it will “be okay.”

  I rest a hand on the snow-covered porch railing. The cold provides a decent distraction.

  Sadie steps onto the porch and opens the door. “Let’s go inside and get that wound tended, okay?”

  I tip my chin down and attempt to glance behind me. Ashes drift over the buildings, turning the backyard a sickening gray. I shiver and grab the rail to keep from stumbling.

  “You can’t do anything if you bleed to death.” She gives me that knowing look. “I promise I won’t keep you long.”

  “Okay.”

  We step across the threshold and into the warm living room. Bookshelves overflowing with colorful binders lean against three of the four walls. Each one has a number assigned to it as well as a blue, red, or black bar across the top.

  I saw one lying open on the coffee table two years ago. It had little spiral diagrams that looked like colorful, twisted stepladders all over the pages. I couldn’t read Sadie’s handwriting though.

  Tracker and Sadie wouldn’t say what it meant, but I got the feeling that it had something to do with Rondo’s Kingdom days. Whatever it was must have been important, because Sadie hasn’t left another binder open since.

  We walk past the coffee table and into a kitchen half the size of ours.

  The woodstove in the left corner takes up what little room remains. A table fits into the far-right corner, two chairs packed under it. Frank stands by the stove, his burly frame making him look like a giant wedged into a fox burrow.

  Sadie doesn’t seem to mind as she maneuvers past him.

  “Thank you, dear.” She offers a smile before rifling around in a cabinet beside the stove. Withdrawing a small sewing kit, she reaches over and taps her hand against the table for me to sit.

  The needle in her hand makes me freeze. Nothing good comes of those. Nothing good at all.

  Sadie pauses and slowly puts it down when it becomes more than clear that I want no part of being jabbed with a sharp pointy object.

  “It’s okay, Rags,” she coaxes. “I ne
ed to tend that wound.”

  The sooner she does this, the sooner I can stalk Henny. I wring my cold hands together and force myself to step into the kitchen. Just a little stab or two. It won’t hurt . . . much, maybe. Do it so you can track Henny.

  A wooden chair grates against the floorboards.

  “Take off your jacket.”

  I slip the jacket from my shoulders. Pain scalds through my arm. My stomach churns and I draw a sharp breath, the adrenaline wearing off and reminding me how human I am. Fighting back the sickening feeling, I crane my neck for a better look. The sweater’s gray goat hair turns black.

  Tracker’s going to kill me when he finds out . . .

  Her disapproving glare turns sympathetic. Frank’s isn’t.

  “That son of a bitch got you good.” He examines the wound.

  “It could be worse.” That angry feeling seeps back. I could be dead.

  He says nothing but I know he’s thinking it. When Tracker finds out he’s going to be disappointed with what I did. He probably already knows anyway. It’s not like it was a secret. The whole town saw it happen. Hunter’s going to have a hell of a time with this one. He’s probably telling what few survivors there are about these new “magic” powers that are capable of leveling entire buildings that I no doubt have now . . .

  “Now Frank, language.” Sadie shuffles by and sets the sewing kit on the table along with some of the precious rubbing alcohol I lifted from that widow in Hydra.

  “Sorry honey.”

  She removes the kettle from the stove and retrieves a ceramic bowl. Steam rises from the water. Her gentle fingers walk over my left arm, prodding at the bloodstained goat hair. The fibers part and tear, sticking to the wound. She reaches for scissors and cuts away the sweater, revealing a glaring wound below the stoic 2046-13 inked into my flesh.

  She hisses and exchanges a glance with Frank.

  “Would you be a dear? I’d like to speak with Rags alone.”

  “Sure thing.” He gives her this sort of dumb, half-puzzled look, but doesn’t move.

  “Frank.” She fixes her dark-brown eyes on him.

  “Okay.” He holds up his hands and lumbers from the kitchen. “Okay, I’m going.”