Rachel feels it too. I can tell by the battle light in her eyes as she double-checks our weapons while I make sure the list of last-minute provisions I want to purchase at Market today is in my inner cloak pocket.
We’ve avoided touching each other since our sparring match. I don’t know her reasons, but mine are clear: I’m attracted to her. I’ve always found her beautiful, but now I see beneath that to the courageous, passionate girl who would go against any foe to fight for those she loves. She’s … admirable.
But I’m not sure the craving I feel to run my hands through her hair and pull her to me can be accurately labeled admiration. Until I can get it under control, I keep my distance. I have to. I’m standing in Jared’s place. He trusts me. She trusts me, a fragile development at once terrifying and immensely gratifying.
I’m not ready to discuss my irrational inner thoughts, but still I want to reach out to her with something more than battle plans and Worst Case Scenarios. With that in mind, I look up from my Market list and say quietly, “We leave day after tomorrow, and we won’t be spending a lot of time together before then, so—”
“Why not?” She looks up from the weapons she’s packing.
“I have some last-minute supplies and information to gather, and this is your last chance to see Sylph. I thought you’d like to spend the day with her.”
Pain flashes across her face and she resumes packing the weapons.
“Anyway, I wanted to give you a compliment.”
Her eyes widen, flash to mine, and then look down again. “Why?”
“Because I realize, even though it doesn’t make logical sense given what I know of you, that you need softer words from me sometimes.”
Now she’s looking at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted two heads, and I feel like an idiot.
“You’re telling me you’re going to give me a compliment even though I shouldn’t logically need one?” Her voice doesn’t sound pleased.
I pick back through my words, but don’t see anything that could cause offense, so I nod. “Common sense would dictate a woman like you shouldn’t be dependent upon—”
“What is that supposed to mean?” She throws the bow and arrow set she’s holding onto the floor and stands, pink spots of color in her cheeks. “Why shouldn’t I need a few compliments?”
I have no idea how this conversation went awry so quickly. I just want to tell her something nice. Does it have to be a ten-minute discussion about motives and semantics?
Maybe if I enunciate clearly, she’ll understand. I lean toward her and say with exquisite clarity, “Because of the kind of woman you are.”
Speaking slowly solved absolutely nothing. She looks like she might pick up one of the weapons and throw it at my head. I feel more than a little irritated myself.
She speaks around gritted teeth. “And what kind of woman do you think I am, Logan McEntire?”
I snap right back at her. “Confident. Strong. Capable. Stunning. An equal partner in this endeavor in every sense of the word.”
The pink in her cheeks darkens, but instead of sparks, her eyes look soft and warm. I have no idea how a compliment delivered in anger can work that kind of magic with her, but I’m grateful.
“You think I’m stunning?” she asks, and suddenly I feel like the tunic laced at my throat is choking me.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did,” she says softly, a tiny smile on her lips even as she refuses to meet my gaze.
Did I? I scroll back through the words I threw at her and realize she’s right. I did say stunning. Which, incidentally, isn’t a crime. Anyone looking at her would think the same.
I shrug and make sure I sound casual when I say, “I guess I did. Ready?” I pull my cloak over my shoulders and wait for her to call me on my words. To demand an explanation I’m not ready to give.
Instead, she says, “Let’s go.” Her voice sounds stilted and unnatural, but I let it go. I have no idea what else to say.
The tension between us lingers as we walk the dusty road into town with nothing but the early-morning sounds of farm animals and birds to keep us company in our silence.
The torch boys have already extinguished the streetlights in Center Square, and we pass the stage as workers scrub the wood and set up booths in preparation for tomorrow’s Claiming ceremony.
I’m grateful we’ll be leaving Baalboden before Rachel reaches Claiming age. The thought of standing behind her on the stage while a group of eager townsmen try to convince me to give her over to them forever makes me want to knock their heads together. Not because I can’t give Rachel to the right man for her. But I know every available bachelor in Baalboden, and while I’ve never really considered it before this moment, I’m quite confident none of them measure up to her.
We enter North Hub and arrive at Sylph’s house. Rachel barely says good-bye before heading inside. I plant myself on the road and wait until I see her enter the house before continuing on toward Lower Market.
Halfway there, I duck down a side street, take a short cut through an alley, and slide into the back entrance of the butcher’s, where the first of my black-market contacts waits to give me the most current information on Rowansmark and the search for Jared.
I’m going into the Wasteland armed to the teeth with knowledge, technology, and the kind of fierce tenacity the Commander always assumes no one owns but him.
I can’t wait to prove him wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RACHEL
Sylph, her mother, and her oldest brother are waiting for me in their main room. Sylph shoots me a quick grin as she puts on her cloak. “We’re going to get my final fitting at Madam Illiard’s North Hub shop. Can you believe the Claiming ceremony is tomorrow?”
She lingers over the word tomorrow as if her dreams are pinned to it. Maybe they are. I try to smile as she bounces next to me, chattering about her dress and the weather predictions for tomorrow’s ceremony, but it’s hard to pretend. Knowing I’m leaving day after tomorrow twists me up inside until I don’t know how to feel.
I want to stop wasting time. Stop lingering while somewhere out there, Dad is alone in the Wasteland. I also want to savor every precious moment I have with Sylph in case I never get the chance to see her again.
Sylph doesn’t notice my lack of response. We’ve fallen into step behind her mother and brother, and she’s whispering about her secret hope that Smithson West will Claim her. I listen with half an ear, nod at the appropriate times, and try to memorize everything I love about her while grief swells within me and makes it hard to breathe.
We’ve been friends since we shared a table at Life Skills, the few years of schooling deemed appropriate for a girl in Baalboden. We learned things like cooking, bargaining, sewing, and proper etiquette when out in public with our Protectors.
The boys received six more years of schooling and learned things like math, reading, the history of the Wasteland, the differing laws and protocols of the other eight city-states, and Commander Chase’s pivotal role in saving the citizens of Baalboden from the Cursed One.
I never thought it was fair that anatomy decided what my brain was fit for. Dad agreed, and I’d soaked up everything he could teach me. Once, I’d tried to teach Sylph the wonders of being able to open a book and understand the words inside, but she’d shrugged it off. She didn’t need to read. She’d have a Protector for that.
Now I study her dark green eyes, lit with pleasure at the prospect of our day, her black curls that constantly mock her mother’s attempts to conjure a ladylike style, and the excitement quivering through her softly rounded frame, and lean forward to give her a hug.
She hugs me back. We enter Madam Illiard’s shop, where fancy Claiming dresses hang near the front window and bolts of fabric line the walls in a feast of color. Two tables are set up on either side of the shop. One has baskets of useless things like beads, buttons, and rolls of ribbon. The other is empty of anything but a measuring tape and two pairs of scissors.
I don’t know how anyone can spend more than five minutes inside this place without going stark-raving mad. Sylph, however, bounces on her toes and hugs her mother as they examine the almost completed Claiming dress designed just for her. Seeing them pressed close to each other as they finger the fabric and admire a piece of lace sends an unwelcome shaft of longing through me.
I don’t usually miss my mother. How can I? She died right after I was born, and I never knew her. But at moments like these, I miss what we might have had together. I imagine our hair would’ve been the same shade of red. Our eyes the same shade of blue. Maybe we would’ve both loved lemon cake and hated spinach. Or maybe we would’ve both thought the only truly useful items in Madam Illiard’s shop were the scissors, because pointy things make excellent weapons.
I’ll never know, and thinking about it won’t help me escape Baalboden and find Dad, so I shove the longing away and follow Sylph into the windowless back room for her fitting.
Nearly two hours pass before Madam pronounces Sylph’s dress perfect. The dark green velvet hugs her upper body and falls in graceful lines to her ankles. Black lace panels shimmer between the skirt’s folds, and black ribbon laces up the back. When Madam Illiard and Sylph’s mother leave the room to haggle over the final cost, Sylph twirls in front of me and asks, “Don’t you love it?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Do you think Smithson will like it?”
“I’m sure he will.”
She grabs my arm, and looks at me properly for the first time. “What’s wrong? You don’t think Smithson is right for me?”
“I think he’s a nice man,” I say, because Sylph’s heart is set on him, and because it’s true. He’s quiet, sturdy, and seems to want nothing more than a wife, a home, and a decent crop from his patch of farmland. “He’s perfect for you.”
She glows for a moment, but then her expression falls. “I wish you were in this year’s ceremony with me.”
“I’m not yet seventeen.” I try to sound as if I’m disappointed too, though I’m not. I can’t even think about wanting to parade across the stage in Center Square while one of the eligible townsmen decides I’d make a perfect wife. Besides, what do I know about being an obedient wife? There are much more important qualities to have than a docile disposition.
Logan seems to agree.
Warmth spreads through me at the thought of Logan’s fumbling attempt at giving me a compliment today.
Stunning.
His words feel like a gift I want to keep reopening when no one else is looking. What would Sylph say if she knew I’d almost kissed Logan? If she knew I sometimes watch him while he’s bent over his inventions and want to trace my fingers over the muscles in his shoulders for no apparent reason at all?
The secret trembles at the edge of my lips, but there are other secrets right behind it. Secrets about the Commander. Oliver. Treachery. Sylph can’t know anything about that. It’s the only protection I can offer her after I’m gone.
Sylph is still talking, rambling on about ways to get me into the Claiming ceremony with her. None of her ideas are plausible. Finally, she slumps her shoulders and says, “You’re so close to seventeen! If only your dad was still here, he could’ve petitioned for a special sanction …” Her eyes widen and fill with tears.
“Sylph—”
She runs to me and envelopes me in a cloud of velvet and lace. “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t thinking.”
I push her away gently. “I’m not mad. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”
Her eyes brighten. “Maybe Logan could Claim you!”
My heart speeds up, but I shake my head. “Don’t be silly.”
She grabs my hands and dances in place. “Wouldn’t that be romantic? I’d be Mrs. Smithson West. And you’d be Mrs. Logan McEntire. We could host dinner parties together, and go to Market together, and—”
I laugh a little desperately and link my fingers with hers. She twirls us around, and I let her spin me, let myself ignore the Wasteland, the bounty on my father’s head, and the complications lying between Logan and me. She doesn’t know it, but it will be our last time together. I want to leave her with nothing but happy memories.
We stumble and fall to the floor, doubled over in breathless laughter. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze. She hugs me back, but then her laughter chokes into the kind of silence she’s rarely capable of. I turn my head to see the cause and feel my stomach lurch.
Commander Chase stands in the back doorway, his sword drawn and his dark eyes cold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RACHEL
Sylph’s arms tighten around me, and I squeeze her back before slowly disengaging. My knees are shaking as I force myself to my feet, moving to stand between the Commander and my best friend.
“You’re coming with me.” He gestures toward the door behind him. The polished silver buttons on his crisp blue uniform catch the morning sunlight and wink like little diamonds. I look away.
It doesn’t occur to me to argue, despite my promise that I would strike him down and get away if he threatened me when Logan wasn’t around to help. Sylph is here. She’ll pay the price for my actions just as surely as I will, and I’m not about to risk it. Besides, he still needs me.
I hope.
“Rachel!” Sylph whispers as I head toward the door. I toss one look at her and try to smile, though my lips are trembling. I step into the morning light, a light breeze playing with my hair as I face the trio of Brute Squad guards waiting for me on the cobblestone street.
Their swords are drawn too.
The Commander presses his palm against my back. Without my cloak, the heat from his body scorches mine.
“Get in,” he says, and the Brute Squad steps aside to reveal a large mule-drawn covered wagon.
I glance around the street, but if anyone notices what’s happening, they aren’t stopping to stare. I can’t blame them. Shrugging off the Commander’s hand, I refuse the assistance of the guard closest to me and climb into the back of the wagon. The Commander and one of the three guards follow on my heels. In a moment, the wagon lurches forward and rumbles over the cobblestone street.
The heavy canvas covering dilutes the morning sun into something dim and gray, and my eyes struggle to adjust. It takes a few seconds to notice the cloth-covered lump leaning against the far wall of the wagon. Foreboding fills me, an oily poison that makes me queasy.
I don’t know what’s under the cloth, but it can’t be good.
“Have a seat.” The Commander moves past me, knocking me into the wooden bench lining the wagon wall behind me, and settles on the opposite bench, right beside the lump. His sword is still drawn.
The other guard braces himself against the back of the wagon and stands, sword drawn, blocking the exit. I want to scan my surroundings looking for possible escape routes, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the lump. There’s something horribly familiar about its shape, but I don’t want to put it into words because it isn’t possible.
It can’t be possible.
“You and that inventor have been keeping secrets.” The Commander’s eyes are bright, hard orbs lighting the dim space with malice. “Did he really think I wouldn’t know your every move before you do?”
I look at the cloth-covered lump and dread pools in my stomach. It’s just the right size for a person.
Logan. The Commander’s always hated Logan. He didn’t want him to come with me. I look at the person shrouded in cloth and try to find my voice, though I have no idea what I’ll say.
“Not going to tell me what you’re up to?”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
“I see you need a bit of convincing.” He smiles and drives his sword into the lump. Whoever is trapped beneath the cloth sucks in a raspy breath and moans. Blood blossoms beneath the cloth and spreads like a fast-blooming rose.
My breath leaves me as if I’ve been hit in the stomach. “Who is that?”
Oh please, oh pl
ease let it be a stranger. Another guard. Another object lesson. Please. Don’t let it be Logan.
The Commander ignores me. “I don’t trust Logan McEntire. I don’t trust you, either, but you have a quality he lacks.”
I can’t look away from the blood, and I feel a scream clawing for freedom at the back of my throat.
“Do you know what that is?” He pulls his sword free, and the person beneath the cloth twitches. “It’s loyalty.”
I can’t breathe. I try to stand, but my knees won’t hold me, and I crumple to the splintery wagon floor.
Logan.
Ignoring the Commander, I crawl toward the person beneath the cloth. I’m nearly there when the Commander drives his sword into the wagon floor, inches from my face.
His voice is harsh as he bites each syllable into pieces. “Logan isn’t loyal. He thinks he is, but if I put him to the test, he’d fail. His own agenda will always be more important to him than anyone else.”
My breath catches on a shuddering sob, and I try to crawl around the sword. It nicks my shoulder as I pass, and the Commander laughs.
“You, on the other hand, are loyal to a fault. You won’t scheme, manipulate, or betray. Not if it will cost you someone you love.” He yanks his sword free of the floor and slides it into the blood-soaked lump again. “No, you’ll go to the ends of the Wasteland, do everything that’s asked of you, ignore your own ethics and instincts, as long as you get to save the one you love.”
I’ve reached the cloth and am tearing at it with shaking hands while the person beneath it moans in agony.
“Please.” I can’t loosen the cloth. “Please!” I look at the Commander, and his scar twists his smile into a grotesque parody of mirth.
It will be a guard. A prisoner. Someone who means nothing to me. I can’t bear to be wrong.
I can’t bear to lose Logan.
“Allow me to help you,” the Commander says in a voice filled with malice. Pulling his sword free again, he slices it through the cloth and splits it top to bottom.
I snatch at the pieces and yank them free. A scream builds in my chest as I stare.
Defiance Page 10
