Remnant (The Slave Series Book 3)

by Laura Frances

  Cash pulls back, and his eyes barely lift to mine.

  “I heard he was close from one of the men.” He looks at me head on, and his gaze hurts. “I had to try.”

  “You have to live. Cash, he’d kill you.”

  My heart pounds, screaming at him from the inside.

  There's a long pause between us, and he studies me. I am wounded and bleeding, and my face is marked from burns. I am tired and hungry and unclean. But he looks at me the same way he did on the roof in the beginning, before this.

  I gesture to his jaw with a flick of my eyes and quietly say, “How did you get that?”

  “Sterling. Ran into him on my way out.”

  My chest tightens. “How'd you get away?”

  “You should have more faith in me.” Amusement smooths his features. I raise an eyebrow.

  “But Sterling—”

  “Was alone. Caught off guard as much as me.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  He glances to the street, where the men wait.

  “Nothing important. The ravings of a losing man.”

  “He threatened you.”

  “He threatens everyone.”

  A pause. I ask, “Did you hurt him too?”

  He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. It’s not often Cash shows arrogance. I’m not even sure that’s what it is, but whatever he did, he isn’t sorry.

  “Good,” I murmur, though deep down I know I’m wrong for it.

  The rebels on the street have moved away from the wall. They will leave soon.

  Cash straightens, and the air around us changes. Heavier. Tense. “There's something I should tell you.”

  Not another thing. No more grief. Before my worry can show, I say, “What is it?”

  “I love you,” he says, and my chest fills with heat. His eyes soften, a little smile brightening the night, light breaking through the cracks, a sudden ease. “I need you to know.”

  My heart hammers, sending shock waves to every part of me. Why are we different, this Watcher and I? It is pain that connects us...and loss. But every soul in the valley has suffered. I don't know why we're different, but I'm glad.

  “I love you,” I murmur.

  And I mean it.

  13

  My gun presses against my back, but it doesn't make me feel powerful. When I've fired a weapon, the target was a soldier, a pawn. When we fight in the dark streets, pressing through freezing wind or snow, scrambling up mountain slopes—when we kill in the shadows and call it a revolution—we aren't reaching the real threat.

  My gun does not make me feel powerful, but this anger does. All their voices resonate in my head. Faces flash in my memory: our soldiers and the ones they stayed to protect. A scream echoes inside my skull, and it is mine. Inside, I'm screaming, and the sound is deafening. Soon the rest of me will shatter.

  A new thought assaults me, crushing my chest. Norma is hidden on the mountain. Were the explosions within reach of her?

  Soldiers pour from the factory as we arrive. The majority were Watchers, still armed with their Council-issued weapons. But many others have lean, gangly bodies. They stand next to muscled men who were once their greatest enemy.

  Solomon runs to meet us. His eyes shift to my face, and he pulls a cloth from his coat pocket. Without a word, he presses the cloth to my cheek, just below the eye. Pain burns at the contact, and I wince. When he pulls the cloth back, it's bloodied.

  “We've received word,” Solomon says, turning his attention to Cash. He shifts the cloth into my hand, and I continue pressing it to the wound. “The South is moving. They'll be here in a matter of hours.”

  The news should make me smile. There is a flicker, somewhere deep, but how can I be glad when the Council are destroying what's left of us? Give them a few hours, and they'll wipe the valley clean.

  “It's too long,” I say, meaning the words to be private, just a thought passing through my mind. But I'm tired, and I can't control my mouth.

  Solomon's gentle eyes meet mine. “I know.”

  We move in a group toward the factory, but unease settles over me. My own words, and Solomon's response, knot my stomach. I fall behind the others, watching the way Solomon rubs at his forehead. We reach the crowd of rebels, and I see the same fear that's festering inside of me. It's different now that our paths out through the mountains are gone. Now we're trapped, and that truth has stolen something.

  Aspen runs from the crowd and throws her arms around me. The impact is jarring.

  “I thought you were dead...again.” She backs away, eyes wide.

  I smile for her. “Not yet.”

  “Not ever!”

  From behind us, a breathless Help! carries on the breeze.

  A small group of rebels emerge from the shadows of an alley. My heart lifts, then plummets when I see Takeshi hauling Meli's wounded body in his arms. Seeing her cradled changes everything; she is always fierce.

  Brookes runs with them, clutching a bleeding wound behind his shoulder. When they reached the open street, he drops to his knees. We rush to meet them.

  “The bleeding,” Takeshi says between breaths. Cash takes Meli, and Takeshi hunches, filling his lungs. “I couldn't stop the bleeding.”

  Meli mumbles something, her head bobbing, disoriented.

  Takeshi growls, a rumbling deep in his chest.

  “What’d she say?” Aspen asks.

  Takeshi glares at Meli. “She's refusing a tourniquet. Turned a gun on me to keep it off.”

  Meli's head rolls until she's matching his glare. “I want my leg.”

  “You will die,” Takeshi shoots back.

  “Fine” she says, her voice slippery, like her consciousness.

  “Not to me!” Takeshi shouts. He steps closer, meeting her unsteady gaze head on. Quieter he says, “That is not fine with me. I will not lose you too.”

  His gaze shifts to Cash. “Get her inside. Do whatever you have to! I don't care what she says about her leg!”

  He growls again, pacing a five-foot stretch and rubbing his face. “She's being so stupid!”

  I've never seen this side of Takeshi; all the sensible parts of him have come unglued.

  Solomon steps in his path, his hands pressing to the prince's shoulders.

  “They will do the best they can for her,” he says. “Right now, I need you to tell me what happened.”

  In a flash, Takeshi's eyes refocus. It's a talent to be able to put your feelings away on command, one I have never possessed.

  “We hit them all,” he says. “They'll have no air assault unless they've got more hidden somewhere.”

  “Let's hope they don't,” Solomon mutters. Deep circles sit under his eyes. Takeshi releases a hard breath, fingers digging into his hair, leaving it disheveled.

  “And my father?”

  “On his way.”

  He clenches his jaw and nods, angry eyes shifting back and forth, looking over the scene around us. Full to the brim with tightly packed fury.

  We move indoors, Aspen at my side. I find Ben first, then Sam. When I know they're safe, I can keep moving.

  People congest the halls. They stand in clumps, venting their fears, raging over tonight's tragedy, red-faced and teary. The flashlights are running low on power, so visibility is dim at best.

  I weave among the crowd, aimlessly walking. I listen to their words and wonder if some of them might be right. They echo the Watcher on the mountain.

  “We won't get out,” they say, then someone chokes on a sob.

  “What did we do to deserve this?” another voice asks. No one has an answer.

  There's a constant swirling in my chest, an anxious anticipation. I'm anticipating more attacks. I'm waiting, because they won't draw this out much longer. If the South is almost here, and the Council's goal is to bury us, what comes next will be catastrophic. We can only hope they're running out of resources like we are.

  I spot Cash ahead, the shadow of his form moving my direction. His presence ge
nerates a strong reaction. People shift away, the crowd parting, their wary eyes following. He pretends not to notice, eyes fixed downward, but I see the tension on his face when he steps through a beam of light. Pain hits my chest, a blow like a fist. They know nothing of who he is.

  Cash's eyes flick up, connecting with mine. I stop walking, waiting in the center of the hall as he reaches me. It isn't hard holding his gaze, trying to distract him from the way they glare. It is easy to protect him, because unlike the others, I know the depth of his character.

  Only eight steps remain when a large figure moves between us, his back to me.

  “So it is true,” a deep voice says. “He's your father?”

  Cash squares his shoulders and matches the man's stare.

  “Yes,” he says. I wish he would say more.

  Yes, Titus is my father. But you have my loyalty.

  Yes, I was born to a man I hate.

  But no explanation leaves his lips. Nothing. Just a word of confirmation.

  Without warning, the man slams his fist to Cash's face, sending him staggering to the side. Static fills my ears, and I lunge forward, but the soldier is aware of me. His arm swings back, and I take the full impact of his elbow. I’m tossed like a rag, thrown into the crowd of onlookers. Hands catch me and lift me to standing, but the pain hunches me over.

  My gaze lifts, and the man is swinging again at Cash. But Cash is faster this time, and he catches the man's forearm. The two struggle, until they're locked in each other's grasps, reddened faces only inches apart. Blood slips from a swelling cut on Cash's temple.

  “This is not the way,” Cash says, straining to keep the upper hand. “Believe me.”

  The soldier shoves free, stepping back a few feet. He rubs at his knuckles.

  “Maybe not,” he says. “But your daddy stays well hidden.” A shrug. “Felt like the next best thing.”

  He stalks off without another word, slamming Cash's shoulder on his way by. Cash stands silent, glaring at the floor. I wouldn't blame him if he turned to attack the man. With all the anger burning through my body right now, it's what I would do if I were him. But instead he lets out one long, measured exhale, and the tension falls away.

  In three steps he's sliding a hand across my shoulders, guiding me away from the peering eyes. I turn my face to those who helped me and nod a thank you before the shadows make it too hard to see.

  14

  He winces when I touch the cloth to his temple. Cash presses his back to the wall where we stand along the east side of the factory. The sun is rising, still only a faint promise of light. I wish it would hurry; I'm ready for this night to end.

  “Sorry,” I murmur. Our eyes meet, and my hand stills, hovering.

  “Are you hurt?” he asks quietly. I shake my head.

  A smile tugs on his lips, but the eyes are sad. “You're lying.”

  I focus on his injury again, reaching to dab blood from his skin. I want to smile too, but my lips won't let me. It doesn't matter; his smile was forced. It's gone as quickly as it appeared.

  “Maybe,” I whisper.

  Cash takes my wrist in gentle fingers, slowly guiding my hand back down. For a long time, we stand silent, my glare on the wall. I feel it everywhere; this fear is so much stronger than all the others. The Council is destroying what's left. How many will walk out in the end?

  Cash is the first to break the stillness. When his gaze drops, so do his shoulders. I don't like seeing him this way.

  “What do we do now?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, eyes distant. “I don't know.”

  He presses a palm to the rough, brick wall. Head hanging. Eyes closed. The weight of the father's sins crushing the son.

  He settles on the ground, knees bent, rubbing his face. I stare at the way he hunches, his hulking form sagging. It isn't right. But what can I say to fix him? How can I help when I'm feeling it too?

  I sit next to him and lean my head to his shoulder. A sob lodges in my throat, and I turn, squeezing my eyes closed and pressing my forehead to his arm. I don't want to cry when I’m meant to comfort him. I swallow, gritting my teeth and refusing the next wave. But it's too late; his shoulders are shaking.

  It hurts watching him weep. My jaw aches, and my whole body screams, begging for him to stop. But I have learned there is relief to be found in tears. Maybe he'll be stronger when they're through.

  I turn and pull him against me, and his forehead falls forward onto my shoulder. My hand slides behind his head, trying to make him feel safe. When his arms wrap around me, we are entangled, a mess of sorrow.

  “I'm sorry,” I whisper, because I can't think of anything else big enough. And I am sorry. It's not a lie.

  He quietly cries to relieve the pain, but I can still feel the strength in his body. The arms that hold me are not likely to quit. My eyes close, and I pretend we’re somewhere else. I draw up images from the pictures I was given, and my heart calls out to be free now. I don't want to do this anymore. Can't we be done?

  Cash calms. I don't want to open my eyes yet; when I do the illusion will fade. His forehead presses to mine, and his breaths are warm. The kiss that comes next is different; this kiss feels like a secret, like he's showing me his pain and trusting only me to protect the fragile places he keeps hidden.

  “You're not alone,” I whisper, the words brushing his mouth. This closeness is addicting. I know we can't linger, but I want to.

  His fingers fiddle with my hair, and I feel the places where they catch on knots. Our eyes wander, memorizing lines and freckles and scars. It's just us now, but that won't last. Maybe someday. Maybe soon. I slide my finger along a small scar stretching beneath his eyebrow. It's the first time I've noticed it.

  “I'll take you on a date,” he whispers. “When this is done.”

  “What's a date?” I say. He smiles.

  “You'll see.”

  “By the ocean?”

  He nods, the smile slipping, a heavier emotion replacing it.

  “Yeah,” he murmurs, gaze lowering. There's that look, the one I keep seeing him wear. It drops a weight in my stomach.

  The sky has lightened when we peel ourselves apart. I stand first and look away, wiping my face and staring exhausted down the alley to the street beyond. My mouth stretches with a yawn.

  “Hannah,” Cash says quietly behind me. Fire ignites in my chest when I turn. He stands tall before me, a well-built soldier, but his eyes are still red from crying. The combination stirs life in me.

  “At some point, I will have to face my father,” he says. “Will you promise to stay hidden when I do?”

  My head shakes. “Why? Why do you have to face him?”

  “Just promise me.”

  “No!” Heat creeps up my neck. “Just leave. Leave the valley and be happy.” My heart races. We’ve survived so much. He’ll throw it all away to look his father in the eyes. He steps closer.

  “Just leave and be happy,” I repeat, feeling desperate. “Be happy with me.”

  I can't meet his gaze. He's only six inches away, maybe eight. I could lean just a little and press my head to his chest. But we don't touch.

  “I have to face him,” he murmurs. “There are things I need to say.”

  I bite my mouth, but a tear slips anyway. I glare at his shirt. “Then write him a letter.”

  He laughs, a gentle breath.

  “Please, Hannah,” he whispers. “I'll be stronger if you're safe.”

  I nod, but I don't look at him. And I don’t tell him how much I disagree. His father cannot offer him any relief.

  “We should go,” I say. Then a booming sound cracks the air.

  15

  Watchers are bad according to my childhood. But these ones are screaming, full of fear.

  We round the corner, and my eyes shift up. Whatever the sound is, the soldiers on the roof can see it. They yell, bodies straining forward. Another inch and they'll fall, but no one cares. The thing they see is worth the risk.

&nb
sp; The booming has a pattern, a blast every two seconds. The walls rattle, and I race through the halls, hopping over legs, running full speed until I reach the stairs. I take them two at a time.

  They're shouting when we burst onto the roof. All their sounds blend into one sickening noise, an outcry filled to measure with anger and grief. I push through to look out over the edge. Thick clouds of gray hang in the air all across the valley. Plumes of smoke and ash billow toward the sky in several locations, slowly spreading through the narrow alleys, spilling into the open streets. I'm taking it in, but I can't reason it out.

  “What is it?” I shout to the soldier at my left. He breathes shallow, all his body tense.

  “The towers.”

  Two words, and I am emptied. My face goes slack, and I'm not sure if my heart is still beating. I stare at his angry profile.

  The soldier walks farther down the wall, drawn in by another shouted conversation, and I am left unable to move. From the corner of my eye, I see the gray clouds creeping closer. They will rise and expand, filling the air until we are blanketed again, the sun blotted out.

  There were people left in those towers, and they were mine.

  “God help us,” someone whispers. Takeshi.

  No one can help us, I think. All of these able-bodied soldiers, and not one makes a move. No one runs into the aftermath to search for survivors. They can't, because there are none. You do not survive a building collapse. And even if someone did, they are still beyond our reach.

  My stomach twists. I turn without looking to the distance again and walk numbly through the chaos to the door.

  There are no private rooms left in this factory; bodies occupy every inch. But I swallowed a scream, and now it's traveling through my body, trying to tear through my skin. I keep marching the halls, thinking I'll find a corner, some small space to let out this pain. But even the closets have become sleeping quarters.

  I end up on the street, and my feet don't stop until I've slipped into a vacant building unnoticed. The first room is large, with a few broken windows along the outside wall. I wander to the center, where I stand motionless, allowing the pain full control. I let it grow, filling my body to its breaking point.