Seconds later, there’s a wet splotchy sound, and Elim coos gently. Eloise and I grip each other’s hands and stare at Elim as she briskly rubs a clean cloth over the messy bundle lying in her lap.
“A girl,” Elim says, and beams at us both while the baby sucks in a tiny breath and cries. “Let me finish cleaning her up, and you can hold her.”
Eloise eases back against the bed and smiles while tears stream from her eyes. I try to disentangle our fingers, but she clings to me.
“I don’t know how to feel about you,” she says, “but I don’t hate you. Logan was right. Melkin was dead the minute he left for that mission. Anyone who knew about the device was dead. The Commander never meant to leave any survivors.”
I shake my head. No, the Commander never meant to leave any survivors, but his knife wasn’t buried in Melkin’s chest.
Her fingers squeeze mine. “I hate him. I blame him.”
“But I did it,” I say, because the truth needs to be clearly seen. By both of us.
Her eyes find mine, and they burn with a passion that feels as familiar to me as breathing. “Yes, you did. And if you hadn’t, my Melkin would’ve died at the hands of the Commander. Or he would be sitting here instead of you, his mind and spirit broken because he had the blood of an innocent girl on his hands. There are no winners here, but none of this would’ve happened without the Commander.”
Her words taste like truth, and I let them linger. Let the darkness in Melkin’s eyes match the burning fires in Eloise’s and consider that maybe—maybe—the accusation I see isn’t mine to carry alone.
“Here you go,” Elim says, and tucks a tiny, red-faced creature, tightly wrapped in a little yellow blanket, against Eloise’s chest. I move out of the way so Elim can help Eloise sit up and lean against the far wall. She doesn’t even look at us. Every part of her being is focused on looking deep into her daughter’s eyes.
As Elim bustles about cleaning the bed and hauling the dirty linens away, I settle down beside Eloise and stare at the baby. Her lips are pink, puckered things, and she turns her face toward her mother as if she recognizes Eloise’s voice.
“Want to hold her?” Eloise asks me.
Before I can respond, she lifts the baby into my arms, careful to position her on my left side so that my injury remains untouched. I clutch the tiny thing and pray I don’t break her.
“I’m going to name her Melli. He’d like that,” Eloise says, and there’s peace in her voice.
“Melli,” I say softly, and the baby looks at me with unfocused eyes. One tiny fist creeps out of the swaddling and flails. I stroke her hand with my finger, and tears slide down my face and onto the blanket. The guilt burning through me like a live coal sinks slowly beneath the cleansing tide of grief that pours out of the silence and engulfs me. It hurts, but it’s real.
“I’m sorry,” I say, gasping for air around the sobs that shake me. That tear through me until I think there will be nothing left of me when it’s over. “I’m so sorry. You deserve to know your daddy. He should be here now instead of me, but he isn’t, and I’m sorry.”
Melli watches me, her fist bumping against my finger, and I cry until the tears are gone. Until the blood on my hands means less than the baby I now hold. The grief subsides, and in its place is a small fragment of hope.
I can’t bring Melkin back. I can’t make a different choice, and somehow, I’m going to have to find a way to live with that. I’m not sure how to learn to trust myself again, but maybe I don’t have to be so afraid of the fierce instincts that live inside of me. Maybe I have those instincts because while I can’t nurture like Nola, or love everyone like Sylph, or fall easily into motherhood like Eloise, I can do something none of the other girls raised in Baalboden can do.
I can fight.
Chapter Fifty-Two
LOGAN
After talking with Drake, I ask him to find Nola and bring her up to speed. I want to tell Frankie and Ian myself. Willow should be back soon, too, and she’ll need an update. But first, I want to talk to Rachel. I return to her room, and stop when I see Quinn hiding under his blankets, Rachel’s tear-stained face, and Eloise sleeping with a baby—her baby—cradled beside her.
I open my mouth to say something, but I never get the chance.
“Logan? Logan McEntire?”
A tall man with thinning blond hair and pale blue eyes strides into the room.
“Yes?”
“Maxwell Stallings, member of the triumvirate.”
I step toward the man. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
Maxwell’s pale eyes bore into mine. “Why didn’t you tell us you were actually from Rowansmark?”
Before I can answer, Darius and Jeremiah hurry in behind him, followed by two women I recognize as Clarissa Vaughn and Portia Rodriguez, the other members of Lankenshire’s triumvirate, who greeted me yesterday in the hospital and assured me they would wait to hold a formal meeting until after my people were out of medical danger. Willow walks in right behind them, nods briefly to me as if to tell me the device is now safely hidden, and then goes to stand beside her brother’s bed. Frankie and Adam crowd in through the doorway as well, just in time to hear Maxwell say, “We’re waiting for an explanation.” Both Frankie and Adam look ready to start a fight.
“We aren’t from Rowansmark,” Rachel says. Her voice is still weak, still husky from smoke inhalation, but she manages to pack in every ounce of Rachel attitude she possesses. “We’re from Baalboden. Look at our cloaks. Our boots. And then draw the logical conclusion instead of coming in here spewing foolishness.”
“I didn’t say all of you are from Rowansmark. I said he is from Rowansmark.” Maxwell points at me.
Frankie laughs, a short bark of disbelief. Adam’s lip curls. Willow tosses her braid behind her back and runs her hands down her bow.
They’re not here to start a fight. They’re here to defend my honor.
They may not want to defend me for very long once they realize the truth. If not for my past, none of our people would’ve died. If not for my choice to keep the device, Rowansmark would never have levied a sentence of pain atonement against us.
Against me.
“You’re crazy.” Rachel pushes against her pillows, wincing as she struggles to sit up straighter. “I’ve known him all of my life. All of it. Are you going to tell me I’m from Rowansmark, too?”
Maxwell glares at Rachel, but Clarissa, a tall woman with dark hair cut close to her scalp and a delicate web of wrinkles spreading from the corners of her eyes, grabs Darius’s arm and pulls him forward.
“Tell us what you know,” she says in a voice that crackles with the kind of authority people rarely question.
Darius refuses to look at anything but the carpet. Jeremiah stands close to him, fury written in every crease of his face.
“Logan came to the museum to talk to Jeremiah and me while we were working on maps. I recognized his name, saw the similarity between him and the Rowansmark McEntires, and realized that he’s the lost McEntire boy.”
Frankie steps forward. “I’m sure McEntire is a common name. Probably every city-state has several families—”
“What do you mean by ‘the lost McEntire boy’?” Clarissa asks.
The tension inside the room swells until I don’t think the four walls can contain it as Darius explains that I was kidnapped during one of the Commander’s visits, and that he recognized me as soon as I walked in the door. When he’s finished, Rachel attacks.
“That’s absurd.” She shoves at the blankets covering her like she wants to stand up. “I knew his mother. I knew him. I know him.”
“I think he’s right, Rachel,” I say quietly, because I can’t stand to have every detail of my past dragged out of the mouth of a stranger. She stops pulling at her blankets and looks at me like I just suggested combining acid with sulfide salts and then drinking the mixture for breakfast. “It explains why I was always treated like an outsider. It explains why the Commander told me
I was a nineteen-year investment that he couldn’t wait to be rid of.”
I try the words out for the first time, and find that they fit, sharp edges and all. “I was born in Rowansmark to Marcus and Julia McEntire. I was then kidnapped by the Commander when I was a few days old and was brought to live in Baalboden. All of my life, I’ve believed I was Baalboden born, but I wasn’t.”
There’s a moment of tense silence, and then Adam shrugs. “So what? He was born in Rowansmark but was raised in Baalboden. I don’t see how that’s a problem.”
“He’s been Baalboden for all but five days of his life,” Frankie says, his huge hands slowly clenching into fists and then relaxing. “He’s ours.”
I’m grateful that they’d jump to my defense so quickly, but the knowledge that the rest of the story is going to rip that defense to shreds makes me feel sick inside.
“Why were you kidnapped?” Rachel asks. Her voice is as cold as her expression. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but I should’ve known she’d be the one to realize that the most important detail was the one I hadn’t explained.
Darius clears his throat. “Because his father—”
“Let the boy tell his own story,” Jeremiah snaps.
I take a deep breath and force myself to say, “Darius told me earlier that Marcus McEntire is a senior member of the military council in Rowansmark, and is also the head of the Division for Technological Advancement. He was working on designing tech that could call and control the Cursed One. Apparently when the Commander found out about it, he kidnapped me to use me as leverage over Marcus. The plan was to exchange my life for the completed invention.”
“But you never left Baalboden,” Frankie says.
“Because the invention took nineteen years to complete. In that time, Julia committed suicide. Marcus had lost both his son and his wife. When he finally finished the device, he gave it to Baalboden’s courier—Jared Adams.” I look at Rachel as I say her father’s name, but she’s no longer looking at me. Instead, she’s cradling her injured arm and picking at the bandage with her fingers.
“But Jared refused to return the device to the Commander because he knew what it was,” Quinn says from his bed behind me. “He hid it at his safe house and continued the journey home, prepared to lie to his leader in order to keep the Commander from having the power to destroy everyone who opposed him.”
“You knew about me?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I only know what Jared told me when we caught him traveling too close to the village. He was looking for a way to destroy the tech. He worried there was a tracking device on it that would make burying it only a temporary solution.”
“Where is the device now?” Clarissa asks.
I don’t glance at Willow as I say, “I have it.” This is really not the way I’d hoped to reveal the key to leveraging an alliance with Lankenshire. “Rachel retrieved it from Quinn and Willow, who were keeping it safe after Jared was killed.”
“Why not tell us?” Frankie sounds puzzled, but not yet upset. “We all knew about the device. We all knew Rowansmark wanted it back, and most of us agreed with you that we couldn’t return it without jeopardizing the rest of the city-states. Why not just tell us the truth?”
“I only learned it an hour ago. I’d planned to tell each of you.” My voice sounds thick and unsteady. I clear my throat and say, “I wanted to speak with you individually and give you time to get used to the idea.”
Willow snorts. “Get used to what? You’re Logan. Who cares where you were born?”
“His father does.” Rachel’s voice is calm, though her eyes burn into mine, and I can see that she understands my past has ripped her loved ones from her, one terrible loss at a time.
I straighten my shoulders like that will somehow help me bear the pain of their response, and say, “Yes, I think he does. I think . . . we think”—I gesture toward Darius—“that Marcus is in trouble with James Rowan and has to return the device to restore his honor. We also think that because I took the tech back to Baalboden, Marcus might assume I’m loyal to the Commander instead of to him, and that makes me as guilty as the Commander under Rowansmark’s laws.”
I can’t decide where to look. At Rachel, whose best friend paid for my father’s vendetta with her life? At Frankie, who lost his closest friend as well? At Adam, who lost his entire family in the fires that I now suspect were caused by trackers overriding our device and controlling the Cursed One?
How can I look at any of them when my choices have cost all of us so much? It’s cowardly of me, but I can’t stand to see their faith in me die. Instead, I stare straight into Clarissa’s brown eyes.
“As a senior member of the military council, Marcus has the power to use trackers for his own benefit. I believe he sent a tracker after the device. We saw signs of a tracker in the Wasteland after eight of our guards were murdered one night. I also believe that the tracker was tasked with punishing me for keeping the stolen tech.”
“Pain atonement.” Rachel breathes the words like they hurt.
“Yes.” I clench my fists.
“He killed our boys. Poisoned our people. Poisoned Thom,” Frankie says.
“Yes. And he clearly has someone within our camp working with him,” I say. “Though I can’t figure out why someone from Baalboden would be sympathetic to Rowansmark.”
When no one speaks, I say, “I’m sorry. I know it’s not nearly enough, but I’m sorry. We lost our city, our families, and our friends. We’ve been terrorized as we traveled across the Wasteland. And all of it is because of me.” My voice breaks. “I’m so sorry.”
Clarissa opens her mouth to speak, but Willow beats her to it.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go taking all the credit on this one, Logan.”
“But all of it is because I didn’t return the device.”
“Why didn’t you?” Clarissa asks, and there’s something sharp in her tone that demands the absolute truth.
“Two reasons. First, because the Commander is a brutal, cruel man who abuses his power. His people have paid the price of his actions with their lives for too long. I wanted to use the device to finish him.”
“And the second reason?”
I speak with more conviction than I have since the moment they entered the room. “Because no city-state should have the ability to obliterate the other city-states. I wanted to show you and the rest of the northern city-states what Rowansmark could do, so that you’d be prepared. And then I wanted to offer you a replica of the device so that if Rowansmark ever attacked you, you could turn the tables and remain safe.”
She holds herself very still and then turns to look at Portia and Maxwell. A look passes between them, fraught with meaning, and then she turns back to me. “Are you able to replicate this device?”
I take a deep breath and look her straight in the eye. “Yes. I need some specific supplies to complete the replica, but I understand the tech. Not only do I understand it, I can improve it. I can make a device with a more powerful signal than Rowansmark’s.”
Maxwell and Portia exchange a swift glance, but Clarissa doesn’t look away from me. Instead, she says, “You asked for our hospitality, for our help, and we gave it to you freely. You neglected to tell us you’d brought a killer inside of our walls. Especially one intent on killing people associated with you.”
“He should go.” Portia speaks for the first time, her voice soft but unyielding. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and says, “If we cast him out, the killer will have to follow.”
“You aren’t throwing Logan out into the Wasteland.” Adam steps to my side.
“If we decide—”
“Forget what you decide. He’s one of ours. If he leaves, we all leave.” Frankie moves between me and the members of the triumvirate.
My throat closes as Quinn hauls himself out of bed on shaky legs and stands beside Frankie to form a wall between me and those who want to cast me out.
“But he brought this on you,�
�� Portia says. “He brought death and destruction. We can’t afford to risk the same.” There’s an undercurrent of fear in her voice. Willow casts a quick glance my way, and I give a slight nod. We aren’t just talking about the risk of one tracker whose sole focus is on me. Whatever Portia fears, she thinks our problems will make the problems already existing inside Lankenshire worse.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Rachel says, and the fierce conviction in her voice warms me like nothing else. “It wasn’t Logan’s decision to steal from Rowansmark. That was the Commander. And if you think returning the device to Rowansmark and just hoping that they never decide to use it is a good move, then you’re too shortsighted to be leaders.”
Portia’s mouth snaps shut, and she looks at Clarissa.
“You’re acting like Logan killed our people. He didn’t. Some sick freak of a tracker did that for reasons that make sense to no one but him and Logan’s father,” Adam says, and places a hand on my shoulder. “Logan has fought for us. Guarded us. Rescued us time and again.”
There’s an ache in my chest that is slowly spreading. I thought once the others understood how much my past and my choices had cost them, that they’d be angry with me. Unable to look me in the eye. Instead, they’re standing by me in a united front. I’ve badly underestimated my people.
My friends.
“We have the safety of our own people to think of.” Maxwell looks over his shoulder as if expecting a killer to walk through the door at any moment.
“Maybe if we put him in the dungeon it will satisfy the tracker and keep him from killing again,” Portia says.
Frankie’s shoulders bunch as he raises his fists. Willow whips an arrow out of her quiver and aims it at Portia.
“Take one step toward Logan, and you get to be the first one to die,” she says.
Clarissa raises her hand in a placating gesture. “There will be no violence.” She locks eyes with Willow for a long moment. It’s clear that she expects Willow to cave and lower her bow.
Deception Page 32
