I want to remember the things I’ve learned. Remember that killing Melkin taught me that life is precious, and that the taking of a life is an almost unspeakable burden, even when the person seems to deserve it. Remember that Sylph showed me that prowess in battle takes skill, but choosing to love others in the midst of your own pain takes true strength. Remember the sight of Thom, quietly becoming a hero—not because he wanted to, but because the right thing was in front of him, and he chose to do it.
I need to hold on to Quinn’s advice to face the things that hurt me so that I can keep chipping away at the silence within until it finally disappears. I refuse to lose myself again. I’m not going to dishonor those who love me by running away from the things that haunt me. I’m not going to dishonor myself.
The lessons I’ve learned have left permanent scars on my spirit, but the scars are proof that I’m not broken. I’m healing. And I’m not done with the hard things. Ian has to be stopped. Rowansmark’s tech has to be destroyed. The Commander must die.
I’ll do my part. When the right thing is in front of me, I’ll choose to do it. And I won’t lose myself, because I finally understand the difference between seeking revenge and seeking justice.
I push away from the mirror just as someone raps a fist against the door.
“Rachel?” Ian asks. “You aren’t hatching any little plots in there, are you?”
“Plots like maybe slitting the throats of some children and poisoning a bunch of innocent people, then having the gall to call it just?”
His fist slams against the door, shaking it against its frame. “Masterson is a friend of mine. And Samuel is on the upper deck, supervising the ship’s passage through the gates.” His voice is low. “He won’t be able to rush to your rescue before I do some damage.”
“Haven’t you done enough?” I ask.
“Not even close.” He sounds cold. Empty. Like the emotion that propelled him to attack Samuel has been snuffed out.
He sounds like I did after I allowed the silence to fill me, completely cutting me off from my feelings. From myself. I thought I needed that protection to survive what was breaking me.
Maybe he does, too. But if he can’t feel hesitation or guilt about hurting me, then I’m in trouble. I can’t soften him and turn his fury aside if I can’t reach the part of him that makes him human.
I’m surprised to realize that I want to find that part of him again. I saw it on our journey to Lankenshire when he stood up for Logan. When he flirted with the girls in camp. When he desperately wanted the device so that he could be finished with his task. Maybe if I’d found a way to give it to him in the first place, he would’ve stopped killing people.
Or maybe I’m trying to find excuses for someone who chose to become a monster.
Either way, if Samuel isn’t around to intervene, Ian is going to keep his promise to kill me for the way he thinks I’ve betrayed him.
I have promises of my own to keep, as well.
My heart kicks against my chest as I quickly scan the room, looking for a weapon. Ian is coming through that door. There has to be something in this tiny space that I can use to defend myself.
The mirror is bolted down. So is the water pump, the little sink, and the chamber pot. That leaves the pile of clean cloths and a covered basket for used rags. Nothing useful. Nothing that can save my life.
The door shakes again as Ian pounds on it. My hands tremble as I roll into a defensive crouch. No weapon means fighting hand to hand. Which means I’ll be using my one good arm.
Which means I’m going to lose.
I can barely hear Ian’s fists against the door over the sound of my heartbeat thundering in my ears. I’m not ready to die. I’m not going to die. Not in a bathroom on some godforsaken Rowansmark boat miles from anyone I love.
There’s a weapon in here. There has to be. I just have to find it. I look wildly around the room once more as Ian stops beating at the wood with his fist. The silence that follows raises the hair on the back of my neck. I don’t know where he went, but I know he wouldn’t give up that easily. Not with Samuel out of earshot.
I need a weapon. Now.
Mirror. Water pump. Chamber pot. Rags. There has to be something I can use. Mirror. Water pump. Chamber pot. Rags.
Mirror. Rags.
I snatch a clean rag, wrap it around my hand, and smash my fist into the mirror just as Ian’s boot slams into the door and splinters it right down the center. Glass falls out of the mirror’s frame in chunks and slivers. I crouch, wrap a piece the size of my palm in the rag I’m holding, and stuff it into my pants pocket. Even muffled by the soft cloth, the sharp edges of the piece bite into my leg.
Ian kicks the door again, and the wood shrieks in protest. I grab another rag, a piece that looks like a crooked knife blade, and wedge myself into the small corner between the door frame and the wall.
Kick.
Widen my stance and crouch.
Kick.
Raise the glass and pray my left hand has enough strength to do the job.
Kick.
Breathe in through my nose and focus.
Kick.
The door explodes inward, sending shards of wood flying. Ian lunges through the doorway, and I attack. Slamming the heel of my boot against the side of his knee, I let the momentum of my strike carry me forward and slash at his back with the glass. His tunic rips and blood flows, but I haven’t cut deep enough to do any real harm.
He pivots toward me, his fists flying toward my face. I drop to the floor and try to sweep his legs out from under him, but the room is small, and I can’t get the leverage I need.
He leaps on top of me, pinning my legs beneath his weight. I try to scissor-kick my way to freedom, but he blocks me. I buck beneath him, and punch his ear with my right hand. He grabs my wound and wrestles my arm to the floor. When I gasp in pain, he swiftly pushes his forearm under my chin and leans on it. I yank at my trapped right arm, twist my head from side to side, and desperately try to get some air as he crushes my windpipe.
“You forget, I let you train me,” he says in that cold, empty voice. “I know your moves. You’ve got no surprises left.”
We’ll see about that.
I flail with my right arm again, and he digs his fingers into my bandage.
Good. Let him be so preoccupied with the arm I’ve chosen to fight with that he forgets about my left. Let him see my lips turn white as the buzzing in my head screams for me to take a breath. Let him focus on beating me until the very last second.
Sparks flicker at the edge of my vision as Ian smiles, a desperate, horrible smile, and says, “You should’ve kept your promise.”
I gather the last bit of oxygen in my lungs, tighten my abdomen, and whip my left arm up with as much power as I can.
The glass shard slams into the side of his face. He screams and rolls off me as blood pours from a deep gash running from his temple to his jaw.
I take a breath of air, meet his eyes as he presses his hands to his face, and say, “Oh, I’m keeping my promise, Ian. You can bet your life on it.”
He lunges toward me, but someone grabs me from behind, knocks the glass out of my hand, and hauls me out of the bathroom before Ian can reach me.
“She has to be alive when we get there, Ian,” a man says. I crane my neck to see dark skin and piercing green eyes. One of the trackers from the upper deck. This one has enough muscles that I’m confident he could rip me apart without even breaking a sweat.
“Get her out of my sight.” Ian’s voice is cold again, but his hands shake as he grabs clean rags and tries to stop his bleeding. “I don’t want to see her until I get to deliver her pain atonement sentence.”
Without another word, the man drags me down the hall and up the stairs. From the upper deck, I can see that we’re in the first gate. The stone tunnel on either side of us is just wide enough to accommodate the boat. The water in the tunnel is slowly lowering, moving the boat level with the next gate. Ahead of us lie fo
ur more gates and then the warm red-brown brick of Rowansmark’s wall. My stomach clenches. Being trapped on the upper deck, surrounded by trackers, while we enter Rowansmark’s port isn’t part of my escape plan.
In fact, it lights a blazing fire beneath my escape plan and turns it to ash. I’d hoped to play the sick, weakened Baalboden girl, to obediently walk off the boat without giving anyone any cause to tie me up or aim a sword at me, and then I’d planned to pick the right moment to make a break for it and disappear into the crowds that flock to the docks. Instead, I’ve got the attention of every tracker on the ship, and I’ve just proven that even with my injury, I can fight off one of their best.
Samuel is standing with his back to the deck, watching the transfer from the first gate into the second. He turns when the tracker holding on to me says, “Caught the prisoner attacking Ian.”
“He attacked me.” I glare at the tracker and try to jerk my arm free, but he simply squeezes his fingers until pain shoots down my arm.
“Then why is he the one with the bloody gash in his face?”
“Because he kicked in the bathroom door and attacked me.” I enunciate my words carefully, as if trying to get a difficult concept across, and the tracker’s expression turns mean.
“How did you cut Ian’s face?” Samuel asks.
“With broken glass.”
Samuel raises a brow. “There just happened to be broken glass in the bathroom?”
I jerk against the tracker’s hold, but can’t get free. “Look, this is stupid. Ian kicked in the bathroom door. He said you were busy up here and wouldn’t be able to come to my rescue. He was going to kill me. I broke the mirror and defended myself.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. I know it the moment the words leave my mouth, and Samuel’s expression goes from curious to cold and calculating in a heartbeat.
“You defended yourself against a Rowansmark tracker,” he says, stepping closer to me and examining me as if searching for wounds of my own. “And came out without a scratch.”
“Not exactly.” I try to make my voice tremble, but it’s clear the damage has been done. “He choked me and hurt the burn on my arm. He was on top of me. I just grabbed some glass—”
“From the mirror you had the presence of mind to shatter in a moment of panic right before Ian finished breaking down the door?” Samuel grabs my hands and turns them palm up. “No cuts from the glass you grabbed.”
“She had it wrapped in a rag,” the tracker holding on to me says.
“That kind of presence of mind in the middle of an attack shows training.” Samuel looks at me, and we share a moment of silence. I don’t even bother trying to look like a damsel in distress. It won’t get me anywhere. Instead, I lift my chin and meet his gaze like the equals we are. His nostrils flare. “It appears I’ve badly underestimated you. Search her for weapons.”
The tracker lets go of my arm and pats me down briskly. It doesn’t take him long to find the palm-sized shard of mirror hidden in my pocket.
“Do you have an explanation for this?” Samuel asks.
“Other than the fact that I’ve been kidnapped by people who want to kill me? No.”
Samuel holds himself very still. “You don’t want me as an enemy, Rachel.”
I look at him and see Baalboden burning. Donny’s throat slashed ear to ear. Sylph bleeding out in the back of a wagon. Holding Samuel’s gaze with mine, I say, “We were enemies from the moment you turned your back on innocent lives and let Ian murder whomever he pleased.”
The tracker who’d searched me grabs my neck and shoves me to my knees. “Carson, bring me a rope,” he calls.
In the time it takes the boat to transition from the second gate to the third, the two trackers secure my hands behind my back and then hobble my ankles while Samuel watches without expression.
When they’ve finished tying me up, Samuel turns away as if I’m of no more consequence than a crate of supplies. “Assign two more trackers to her. I want her surrounded at all times. We’ll deliver her to James Rowan within the hour.”
My half-formed plan to meekly follow my captors into Rowansmark, giving them no reason to tie me up or get suspicious until I saw an opportunity to break away and run into the city, is in shambles. I have no exit strategy, no weapon, and no ally.
I do, however, have my instincts, my training, and an advantage Rowansmark will never see coming: I have Quinn.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LOGAN
We push the horses hard and make excellent progress on our first day’s journey toward Chelmingford. The trail winds along banks of buckeye trees, climbs steep hills where maples cling to outcroppings that look like huge slabs of stone stacked haphazardly on top of one another, and plunges into valleys full of silent reminders of the civilization that walked this land before us—tall metal posts draped in ivy, brick buildings with flowering trees growing up through the floorboards, and broken chunks of smooth whitish stone that look like they were once a bridge that spanned the roads and buildings beneath them.
When the Commander calls a halt in a clearing beside a shallow stream, we quickly unsaddle the horses, tethering them close enough to the water to drink when they want to, and set up camp. We’ve fallen into a rhythm, uneasy though it may be. The Commander and his men establish the perimeter and choose the guard positions. Frankie, Nola, and Connor forage for food to supplement our dwindling supplies of jerky. Willow, Adam, and Jodi tree-leap a thousand yards southwest, looking for signs that we’ve been followed. Drake and Smithson lay out the bedrolls, and I use my remaining daylight to work on tech. If anyone asks, I’m building something to amplify the device’s signal—just like I said I would—but really, I’m wiring the stolen transmitters together so that I can create a weapon capable of protecting my people and destroying the Commander.
When Drake and Smithson finish with the bedrolls, they sit beside me. Drake breathes heavily and massages his leg, though he’s quick to smile when I catch his eye. Smithson, on the other hand, sits locked in the same brooding silence that has followed him since Lankenshire. Connor thinks Smithson’s silence means he doesn’t know what to say. Maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe he’s silent because grieving for Sylph has become an all-consuming task. I saw what happened to Rachel when she locked herself inside her head with the ghosts of those she’d lost. I can’t stand to see the same thing happen to Smithson. Pressure builds at the back of my throat as I try to figure out how to reach him.
“Smithson, I can tell that things are hard for you,” I say, and then curse myself for stating something so obvious and stupid. “I mean . . . you’re so . . . it’s just that . . .” I drag in a deep breath and make myself meet his eyes. “I’m sorry. About Sylph. About not catching Ian in time. I wish—”
“I wish, too, but it doesn’t do me any good.” Smithson’s voice is rough, and he looks at the ground.
“I’m sorry.” My words are helpless to convey the depth of regret and guilt that churns through me.
“I know.” He gets up and stalks toward the stream, where he leans against his horse. Nola approaches him, wraps a hand around his arm, and stands quietly beside him.
“She has a way with people,” Drake says. “If anyone can help him, my Nola can.”
I nod, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve never known what to say. Words are so much harder to navigate than the clear-cut scientific principles I’m so at home with. Technology doesn’t care if you say one thing even though you meant another. It doesn’t search for hidden meanings, or dissect your body language looking for clues. It just obeys the rules that govern it. Simple. Uncomplicated. Easy.
I pull out one of the stolen transmitters and fiddle with the wires, grateful to have something I can actually fix. The last of the daylight is waning quickly. If I want to make any progress on the weapon
I’m creating to kill the Commander, I have to work fast.
Frankie sits down across from me, unceremoniously dumping an armful of blackberries and clumps of edible roots on Drake’s lap before picking up one of the transmitters and turning it over in his hands to examine the wires that dangle uselessly from its sides.
“You all right?” he asks me.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to lie and say yes. To brush him off and keep my doubts and fears secret, but Connor was right. The things that keep me up at night are too heavy to carry by myself. It’s time to learn how to let others in.
“No, I’m not.” I scrub my hand over my face and try to find the right words. “I get sick every time I think about Rachel, alone with Ian, taking the brunt of his vengeance while I’m going in the opposite direction, hoping I can somehow scrounge up enough troops to give us a fighting chance to beat Rowansmark. I’m afraid to sleep at night because the second I drop my guard, the Commander could betray us. I’m worried the tech I’m building isn’t going to be strong enough to do the job.” I look away from him. “And every time I close my eyes, I see the faces of those who chose me as their leader and then died because my brother wanted to hurt me.”
“Logan—” Drake pushes the food onto his bedroll and claps a hand on my shoulder the way Jared used to when he could see I needed encouragement.
“I keep trying. Thinking. Planning.” I make myself meet his gaze, and then turn to Frankie as well. “I want to believe that if I just try harder, think smarter, and plan better, I can fix all of this, but I can’t. Even if we succeed in bringing Rowansmark down and in making Ian pay for his crimes, nothing will wash those crimes away. I don’t know how to live with the fact that I didn’t catch him in time. That I didn’t save my people.”
Deliverance Page 19
