Unlikely Rebel (A Dark Revolution Novella - Book One)

by Amy Boyles

  “My parents said it was hard for people to accept.”

  “It was. But many had already seen the depravity of mankind. They’d seen their friends and neighbors killed over a loaf of bread or for any remaining gasoline.” He lowered his gaze, and then as quickly, his eyes flickered to mine. “But what are we doing discussing things that are so depressing? It’s a beautiful morning, and you’re here. Tell me—what do you like to do in your spare time? Other than set traps, that is.”

  “Spare time? My father reads to us. I like to hear him speak.”

  “Ah, another evil of mankind—books. Are you sure you’re not a rebel?” he asked, his tone flirtatious.

  “I’m sure. I don’t have the stomach for all that. I like being left alone.”

  His smile vanished. “Anna, your life is now very changed,” Branthe said softly.

  “You told me that I was now considered wanted, but as long as I stay away from Colonel Mann, that should be fine, right?”

  He took my good hand. His touch sent a tingle through my arm up to my shoulder. My lower lip quivered involuntarily. Where was this coming from? Never had my body responded in this manner to anyone. But Branthe wasn’t anyone. He was a rebel leader, a wanted man, and a gentleman all in one. His presence was simply intimidating. Yet he carried himself as if he were a regular person, not the sort of legend. For legend he was.

  Rumors floated among the people about him. Every time a supply wagon was held up, he orchestrated it. Every time a rebel was spectacularly rescued from the gallows, he did it. And every time he was to be hanged, he escaped.

  That wasn’t completely true. Gossips whispered that Branthe had been hanged. He was supposed to have been captured by the reds several years ago. Supposedly they made quite a show of having him. Plenty of witnesses said so. They swore it was he whom the patriots had—the great Branthe, scourge of the reds.

  They said more. People attested to the fact that the reds hanged him. They marched Branthe through the town square of Corinth, walked him up the steps of the gallows and then hanged him for all to see. It was obviously a rumor constructed by the reds to squash the hopes of the people. However, many swore up and down that it was his body that swung lifelessly from the gallows—but here he sat before me, quite apparently alive.

  He hadn’t said anything, so I repeated the question. “This whole wanted thing will cool down after a time, right?”

  “I can’t promise you that,” he said, his dark eyes searching me.

  My heart beat like hummingbird wings against my ribs. I couldn’t look at him without my cheeks blushing and my lip shaking. I had to get ahold of myself. This was ridiculous. “What can you promise me?”

  He squeezed my good hand. “I can promise you that I’m quite taken with—”

  “Boss! We’ve gotta go!” Fief appeared out of nowhere. We’re in the middle of a picnic, Branthe is about to say something that I’ve been dying to hear for my entire life, and then Fief, the man who ruins everything, shows up.

  Branthe released my hand and stood. “What is it?”

  “A patrol’s marching this way.”

  With that, Branthe collected our things and me. With the conversation ended, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was about to say before Fief spoiled the moment.

  It would be a long time before I ever found out.

  Eight

  We slipped farther into the woods and waited for the men to pass. As the day progressed, more would patrol the area, so it was decided that we’d make our way to Corinth. Or what was left of it. Before the war, the city had existed in a state known as Tennessee. Now it simply resided in the United States, Southern Quadrant. Most of the cities and towns in the area had been burned by the patriots. Corinth was no exception. Rebuilding had been one of the main objectives of the newish government. Progress moved slowly, from what I’d heard.

  The flag of the Patriot Party flew high at the city gate. A bald eagle, talons open, superimposed over grayed-out stars and stripes. Not exactly inspiring. Before we were even inside the gates, Branthe threw a cloak over my shoulders and pulled down the hood. “Cover your face,” he commanded. “And look down.”

  I did as he said, eyeing nothing more than dirt and mud. We moved quickly—him pulling me this way and that as we maneuvered the labyrinthine streets. I kept my wounded hand tightly against my side lest it collide with something. The discomfort seemed never-ending, but Branthe had given me powdered willow before we left, which helped some. Though not much.

  Finally we arrived at a home made of stacked slate. The door opened. Tired and weary from the constant throb of agony, I was led to a room by a girl about my age. I collapsed on the bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

  The first thing Branthe said when he woke me sometime later was—

  “You can never return home.”

  With both hands behind his back, he looked out the window. His words came in a calm, steady manner, which I considered ironic given the subject matter.

  “Corinth is your home now. Forget about where you came from.”

  “All because of Mann,” I said bitterly.

  “One person, especially a red, can ruin a lot in your life,” he replied, eyeing me with a steady gaze.

  My naïveté got the better of me earlier. For some reason I’d figured returning to my old life wouldn’t be a question. How foolish I’d been. Part of my hand was crushed. Did I really believe the madman who’d done this to me would so easily let me go? “What about my parents? If Mann wants me, won't they be in danger?”

  “They've already been sent for.”

  “What?” I asked, surprised.

  He turned toward me, his gaze fierce. Immediately those dark eyes of his softened, as if he regretted that any of this had happened. Well, he should; all of it was his damn fault.

  “I'll tell you everything.”

  “Including your name?”

  His eyes lit for a moment, and then the curl of a smile tugged at one corner of his lips. “Back on that again, are you?”

  “I never got off it. My hand distracted me from it, that’s all. And it’s somewhat your fault I’m in this predicament.”

  He sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry I’ve put you in this. However, you were about to steal Mann’s rabbits. When he caught you, the same situation would’ve occurred.”

  “You can’t know that,” I countered.

  He crossed his arms. “Not completely. But it’s a good guess.”

  “Anyway,” I said, growing frustrated. “Your name.”

  “If you wish to know, I’ll tell you. It's as much as you deserve.”

  I fluffed a pillow and placed it behind my back. After a day of being saturated with wine and semiromantic picnics, my mind finally cleared away the haze-like layer that sat atop it. There was something I wanted to know first. “Wait. How did you find me in the prison?”

  He took off his coat, revealing a much nicer waistcoat than I remembered. When had he changed? I supposed it was another casualty of memory from the stupor of spirits and pain. Made of silk-embroidered damask, it looked both elegant and beautiful. The light sage color offset his tanned skin and highlighted the green flecks in his eyes. He rolled his shirtsleeves back. The muscles of his forearms popped in an homage to masculinity. My mouth watered. I swallowed, trying not to choke on saliva. He didn’t seem to notice my embarrassing reaction. Good.

  “After the skirmish, I sent Fief out to follow you. He saw by your tracks that you'd been taken. It wasn't hard to figure out where to. I knew Mann would quickly realize you were with us. He’ll do anything to get information on me and my men. And when I say anything, I mean it, as you’ve guessed by now. There was no choice but to go after you, and to be honest, in some ways this solved my problem of what to do with you.”

  I bit the inside of my lip. He made it sound like I was a stray dog he was deciding whether or not to neuter. “What to do with me?”

  “I couldn't immediately release you because Mann w
ould ask you about those rabbits. That conversation might’ve led to our whereabouts. Since it’s a crime to steal food, I knew he wouldn’t go easy on you.”

  “That’s an understatement. Regardless, I already had a plan for that.”

  He looked at me with interest. “Which was?”

  “To tell him the traps were empty.”

  He laughed softly. “I don't think it would've worked. He's not stupid. Anyway, my plan was to keep you with us for a few days, just long enough for the initial heat of your disappearance to cool down.”

  My head swam. “So you were going to release me?”

  He nodded. “But first my men and I needed to put some distance between us and the area where we found you. It was always my plan.”

  I shook my head in disgust. “Why didn't you just tell me that?”

  He sighed, propping one leg atop the seat of a wooden chair. “Because I didn't want you to like us. In my business, I don't make it a habit of forming friends. I'm not the sort of companion you want or need.”

  “So you were pushing me away when you rubbed ointment on my wrists? And when we had the picnic?”

  His gaze hardened. “Your wounds didn’t need to get infected. And I knew your days of freedom were limited. That’s why we had the picnic.”

  Keep telling yourself that. “I’ve heard enough. Your name,” I commanded, hoping my tone would keep him from backing out of his promise.

  He crossed to the bed and pushed a strand of hair away from my ear. His fingers slid down my neck, stopping at the top of my shoulder. He leaned over, his breath hot as it cascaded from my ear down to my neck.

  “Don’t you already know my name?”

  My hands trembled. One more inch and his lips would be on my skin. And I wanted it. Oh, how I wanted it. Even though he infuriated me. “I need to hear you say it.”

  He pulled back, studying me for a long moment as if searching me for something, as if deciding if I was worthy of knowing the truth of his identity.

  “You’ll be disappointed.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I'm—”

  The door burst open. A young man with a mop of blond hair sauntered into the room. It had been too long since I’d seen him. “They've arrived safely,” he said.

  “Colvin,” I gasped, throwing back the covers. “What are you doing here?” Minding my bad hand, I pushed myself from the bed and into my brother’s open arms.

  Colvin hugged me tightly. “I learned what happened and came to escort Mom and Pop to the city before the reds came for them.”

  “But how did you know?”

  He gave Branthe a knowing look. My gaze shifted between them until the realization of what was going on stepped on my toe. “You work for him? But I thought—”

  He stroked my hair like our mother would've done if she'd been there. “It was a necessary lie. One to keep you safe. Anna, we're no better off than we were before the war. In fact, things are worse. I couldn't sit by and watch my family starve.”

  It took me a moment to absorb what he was saying. Everything he'd told me about leaving to find work had been a lie. At any point he could've been killed and I never would've known. Along with everything else that had happened in the last couple of days, this was almost too much. I wiped a budding tear from under my eye. But my parents were here to lend me their love and support, so things couldn’t be all bad.

  “Where are they?” I asked.

  “They're in a safe house not far from here. I'll take you to them.”

  “Please,” I replied. I turned to say something to Branthe, but he was gone. He couldn't have left the way Colvin entered, because he would've crossed my line of sight. I hadn't noticed it before, but there was an open window facing the alley behind us. Wind blew the sheer curtain inward. Smiling to myself, I realized he'd left the exact same way he had all those years ago when he saved my father's life.

  He vanished.

  Nine

  Corinth was a cesspool of filth and trash. Without electricity, the sewers no longer worked. Though it reeked as if sewage should be careening down the roads, it wasn't. But the city still smelled that way. It wasn’t until we walked a ways into the city, me still hidden by my cloak, that the stench assaulted me, halting my forward progress. Colvin handed me a cloth.

  “Cover your nose. It helps.”

  The creamy muslin smelled of lavender and spearmint. Like a weird sort of chewing gum that I wouldn't want to eat.

  “It's what they used to do in the cities.”

  “Like when?”

  “A long time ago. A few centuries.”

  “Well, good to know.”

  We passed men and women in the streets. All of them wore standard-issue clothing. For the men, it was dark breeches, cream muslin shirt and dark waistcoat. The women wore dark dresses with a rounded neck and full skirt. Some tucked scarves into the neckline to make it more decorative, but most simply wore the bland garment without attempting to lift it from the depths of depression.

  Why bother? Everyone looked like a copy of one another. I’d lived in the countryside for so long it didn't occur to me that in some places everyone dressed the exact same way. It unnerved me. The reds said we all dressed the same so that everyone would know equality and goodness. They picked the dress of the American Revolution to emulate because they saw that as a time of growth, of purity, of strength. They expected the people to display the same characteristics. As if clothing could do that. The only thing this costuming did was bandage a generally muddied population. After all, water didn’t flow from useless pipes anymore. Instead, people hauled it in buckets from wells.

  I wanted to think about less depressing things. “How long have you worked for—”

  “Shh. Don't say his name. Never say his name. There are ears everywhere, and those ears have blades.”

  Properly reprimanded, I half pouted, half frowned.

  Colvin glanced over at me. “Buck up. It’s no big deal. Anyway, how’s the hand?”

  “Could be worse.”

  “Yeah, if you didn’t have one. How’s the pain?”

  “Tolerable,” I lied.

  “At least the bones didn’t break the skin. Then you’d have to deal with infection.”

  That was good. My parents said before the oil drought, infections were easier to deal with—a slew of antibiotics existed to help fight them off. But now there were very few antibiotics. Pharmacists made and sold penicillin, but it was usually expensive and didn’t always work against what some called superbugs—insanely strong bacterial infections. Yes, luck be kissed for none of the bones breaking the skin.

  We turned onto a stone path. Three houses down sat a small brick home. Being soot stained, it didn't look like much, but when my brother opened the door, it held my world.

  “Mom! Pop!” I ran into their waiting arms, keeping my wounded hand at bay.

  “Anna, are you all right?” Pop asked, taking a good look at me. His expression darkened. “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing,” I replied.

  Mom eyed my hand skeptically. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

  I shrugged it off, which wasn’t easy to do. Part of me wanted to explain what had happened. The other half didn’t want them to worry any more than they already had. “Trust me. It doesn’t feel as bad as it looks. I’m just glad to see you.” I paused. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”

  Pop shook my shoulder gently. “Anna, none of this is your fault. Sometimes things just happen, no more, no less. We can blame ourselves all we want, but sometimes fate can’t be outwitted. This is such a time. Your mother and I are grateful that you’re alive and well. The situation could be much, much worse.”

  “I know, but you’ve left home to come here.”

  “Yes, to be with our children. Nothing makes us happier,” Mom said.

  “So no feeling sorry for us or yourself. We’ll make the best of the situation,” Pop said.

  I tucked a strand of hair behind my ea
r. “All right.” I scoped the house. It was cluttered with oversize furniture that had seen better days, if not years. Stuffing protruded from a few of the chairs and the couch. A fire burned in the hearth. There were several windows, but they all faced north, letting in little light. The house seemed dark and cold—a fitting way to start this new chapter in my life.

  I turned to Colvin. “How long do we have to stay here?”

  He gave our father a knowing look. “There aren't any definites, but it will be a while.”

  Pop rubbed my shoulder. “We've been given new papers so we have some freedom, but we'll never be able to go home. At this point reds are watching the house and have probably paid off our friends to betray us if we return.”

  “Never go home?” I mumbled, sinking into a nearby chair. “Our lives gone?”

  “Not gone,” Mom said, trying to sound cheerful. “Different. We won't have to stay here forever, but until it's safe for us to leave for the country, this will be our new home.”

  Looking at their faces, I waited for the joke. I waited for one of them to crack a smile. It didn't happen.

  The words erupted from my mouth bitterly. “So we're prisoners here?”

  Colvin patted my head. “For now. But wouldn't you rather be a rebel prisoner waiting to be released than a patriot prisoner, slowly starving in a cell?”

  I shrugged. “Not that it's going to make a difference. A prisoner is a prisoner, no matter what.” And so that's what I believed, hoping I wouldn't have to eat those words.

  Ten

  Later that night I sat in my room running a brush through my tangled hair, trying to bring some normalcy into my newly upturned life. A crack sounded outside my window. It reminded me of pebbles or something stupid like that being thrown against the glass. Going to look, I peered through the smudged glass. The night was moonless, and therefore nothing but my dark reflection stared back at me.