by Jory Strong
It was possible for city peacekeepers to walk along the top of the wall and look into the warrens. It was rarely done because they made good targets, and sending them to their deaths that way was a waste of manpower.
They left Elias's territory and entered Jax's. Walked past green houses and finally saw blue houses ahead of them, marking the end of Jax's territory and the beginning of Josiah's.
As they neared the border, a man emerged from an alleyway. Ella recognized him immediately as one of the warlord's men.
His dark hair was cut close to his head and equally dark hair stumbled his cheeks. He'd come through the tunnel to do business with her father.
They crossed into Josiah's territory and a swarthy man, along with a teen, stepped out of a different alleyway. The man she recognized said, "Ricardo, pass the word to Blaine. Hector, tell Santiago to get to the stronghold. It's time for a wedding."
* * *
Through the open window, Josiah heard the thud of hurried footsteps approaching the Victorian. They pounded their way to the house, up the stairs and across the porch.
A fist slammed into the Victorian's white door. Thump, thump, thump and Rosa was hustling down the hallway.
She glanced into the front parlor, saw him set his drink on the coffee table and frowned.
"Isn't a groom entitled to a whiskey on his wedding day?"
"This is the example you want to set?" For your son.
Her steel-gray bun was pulled tighter than usual and her lips were demonstrably quicker to firm with disapproval. He stood as she continued to the front door.
Lighter, quicker footsteps charged down the stairs and barreled toward Rosa. "Is she here yet?"
The boy's voice was high and breathless.
Josiah cast a guilty glance at the glass and left the parlor.
"Your bride is now on your turf," Blaine said.
"Accompanied by her mother and father?"
"Yes."
The boy caught Blaine's hand. "Is she nice?"
Blaine crouched. Took a smoke stick from a shirt pocket and tucked it into the corner of his mouth. "She'll be nice to you."
Said with the confidence of a man who'd maimed and killed those who weren't nice to children. Who knew the sole reason she was being brought to the warrens.
Makayla flounced toward them in a bright red blouse and skirt. "We don't need her here. She'll think she's better than us."
Blaine laughed and stood. "Your claws are showing, kitten."
She stomped her foot twice. "Don't call me that, brute."
"Mija! Mijo! That's enough from the both of you," Rosa said. She pointed and shook her finger at the smoke stick. "Is that a good example to set for Jacob?"
The smoke stick dipped and lifted. "I won't light up in the house."
"You light up and you won't sit for a week. I don't care how old you are now."
Josiah laughed. Rosa would make good on her promise, as she had from the time Blaine was ten, when Josiah had brought him home after raiding a brothel and killing its owner. "Maybe we should escape the house, eh amigo?"
Rosa checked the white shawl she had draped across her shoulders. She assessed the state of Blaine's clothing, nodding approvingly at the clean jeans and light blue shirt, the leather bolo tie, its large silver slide stamped with the graffiti symbol that was Josiah's mark in the warrens.
She frowned when she reached his face and harrumphed. "The warlord's wedding isn't cause to shave that scruff off your face?"
Blaine rubbed the dark blond stubble. "His bride should be the talk of the warren, not me."
"Humph." She turned her attention to Josiah.
He'd dressed with the boy in mind. He'd dressed for the message he wanted to convey. The woman would be a warlord's wife and the boy's mother.
He wore a light blue shirt with a bolo tie bearing his graffiti, but rather than a narrow leather belt at the waistband of his black jeans, he wore an elegant tooled gun belt, the holsters at each hip holding long-barreled pistols.
Rosa's stern expression softened.
"So I've passed inspection?" he asked, laughter in his voice.
The woman who'd been as much of a mother as the one who'd given birth to him harrumphed again. "You'll do."
"Shall we get to my wedding then?"
The boy sent a shy glance his way. Dios, he hoped having a mother would help the boy find his courage.
Jacob pulled a blue bandanna from his pocket and twisted it between his hands. "I'm not wearing a tie."
Rosa's eyes demanded Josiah address the issue. Blaine's eyes said, Don't look at me to interfere.
Josiah knelt and took a bandanna from his own back pocket. It was covered in the same graffiti as the one in the boy's hand, but longer, thinner, called a wild rag.
"Put yours away," he said, and the boy shoved the rag into a back pocket.
Josiah looped the wild rag around the boy's neck. Fashioned a square knot, creating a tie. "Now you're ready for the ceremony."
The boy's gaze flicked upward, met his own for a long second before dipping. "Do you think she'll let me call her mama?" he asked, his voice barely audible.
"Why don't we go find out?"
* * * * *
Chapter 7
Ella hadn't expected the warlord to be waiting at the gate, not truly, but with each step, doubt and worry gained a foothold.
The houses didn't get larger as they headed toward the heart of Josiah's territory. Many of them had bars on the windows, and most had clotheslines and vegetable gardens in their yards.
Some of the houses stood side-by-side. Some were separated by rubble. The shades of blue varied from dark to light.
A few of the house were tagged with graffiti. She pointed to one of the symbols. "What does that stand for?"
"A son died on behalf of the warlord."
The city wall appeared shorter and shorter as they moved deeper into the warrens. Finally they turned and moved parallel to the wall, crossed a wide street that was probably used by the armed convoys that took hunters and fishermen into the wild lands, or laborers to harvest food that the elite would sell for profit.
They encountered more people. Soon they passed through a crowded market square. People stopped what they were doing, stared, and Ella's face grew warm beneath the veil.
Voices buzzed around them.
"Who is she?"
"Why is she being escorted by Ciro?"
So that was his name. He was important, that much was clear.
She wondered if he knew who Josiah expected to marry. If she lowered the veil, whether he would take them to the closest city gate and order her parents to return with Victoria. Or maybe it didn't matter which of the apothecary's daughters Josiah married.
Except I'm not really the apothecary's daughter.
Ella's heart had calmed but now it pounded harder, louder, trying to drown out the marketplace voices and block the wave of ache that came with not hearing anyone mention that the warlord was getting married.
Did the ceremony mean so little to him? Was taking a bride just another task?
Some of the more curious followed.
Blocks away from the marketplace, the composition of the crowd changed. Instead of buyers and sellers, men and women and children going about their daily business, the street was filled with armed men and a few deadly-looking women. Regardless of age, the warlord's soldiers wore knives or throwing stars, and some had guns.
Ella shivered. In New San Jose, possession of a gun by an ordinary citizen was cause for death or banishment.
They neared what might once have been a massive office complex. The wall of armed men and women parted, creating a passageway not to the building's front door but to a man who was bare chested and heavily tattooed.
He stood with his legs apart and his hands resting on his hips. His gaze flicked over her before going to their escort. "What'd you do, Ciro, take a scenic route? I was about ready to go in for a beer."
Ella scanned those gath
ered, looking for the warlord. She didn't see him until they were in a circle created by the warlord's soldiers.
Her mouth went dry. Shyness gripped her and she couldn't meet Josiah's gaze. But that didn't keep her eyes from moving downward, over broad shoulders and taut abdomen and muscled thighs.
Strength radiated from him. Elegance that was just another name for leashed violence.
Here, now, he seemed so much more than in her daydreams. He was larger than life, not someone to be crossed.
She fought to keep from shaking because if she did, she was afraid she'd shake apart. Her dreams and desires would spill out, her heart throwing itself at his feet. But would he stomp it? Or scoop it up for safe keeping?
"What took you so long, amigo? I was starting to think you'd decided you were the one in need of a bride, not me."
There was a chiding quality to Josiah's voice that brought renewed ache with the reminder he'd sent someone else to make arrangements with her father and hadn't asked for her by name. Ciro?
Probably. The wording made her believe he was the one who'd made the arrangements with her father.
Unable to risk deepening the hurt already swelling inside her, Ella looked at those closest to Josiah rather than view his expression. To his left was a man dressed like the warlord in a light blue shirt, black jeans and a bolo tie. To Josiah's right was an older woman with stern features. Her hands rested on the shoulders of a dark-haired boy of maybe five.
The boy met Ella's eyes for a heartbeat before looking at his feet. Next to him stood a beautiful woman with dark, unfriendly eyes.
The boy's mother? Josiah's sister? She was clearly related to the warlord.
Ella rubbed damp palms against the dress. The heavily tattooed man said, "Let's get this show going."
He motioned Ella and her parents forward. Lifted a hand to halt them when they stood in front of him.
To her parents, he said, "You two, stand there, next to Saul." He pointed toward a blond man with a short beard and cold, cold eyes.
Her parents stepped to the side.
Josiah's hand dropped to the back of the boy's neck, urging him forward.
The two of them joined Ella and her heart tripled its beat.
His son. The boy is his son.
Was this the reason he was marrying her? Because the boy needed a mother?
But why her? Surely there had to be hundreds of women in the warren who would do just as well.
She glanced down at the child. Their eyes touched again for a heartbeat before his went to his feet, but in that heartbeat was a glimpse of the longing she'd felt her entire life—to have a mother's love.
Her eyes moistened and stung. She lay her hand on the boy's head and was rewarded by the flash of his gaze upward and a brilliant smile holding a wealth of hope.
"I'm Jacob," he said, his young voice carrying and eliciting several gruff laughs.
The tattooed man said, "Bride's name?"
She tensed, braced for the warlord's reaction and said, "Ella Rust."
Josiah didn't object. Didn't halt the ceremony. Didn't accuse her father of trying to cheat. But the tightness remained in her chest. Her pulse continued to beat frantically in her throat.
"Repeat after me," the oath minister said. "I, Ella Rust, marry the warlord Josiah, and on this day become mother of Jacob, pledging my complete loyalty to both with the understanding that betrayal leads to death."
Her heart thundered so violently in her throat that she could barely force the words out and when they emerged, they were little more than a whisper.
The oath minister turned toward Josiah. "Warlord?"
Josiah said, "Having heard and accepted her vow, I acknowledge Ella Rust as my wife and affirm that she is the mother of Jacob, the son I have claimed."
The oath minister pulled two blue bandannas from his back pocket. He handed them to Josiah.
The warlord tied them around each of her wrists, his warm fingers sending shockwaves up her arms and carrying her heartbeat into her ears.
A chant erupted from the gathered soldiers. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
Josiah laughed and the sound of it sent flutters through her chest though her hands remained locked in front of her, unable to remove the scarf Victoria had fashioned into a veil.
He gripped her upper arm and the heat from his palm burned through the dress.
"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
Josiah tugged the scarf, freeing it from her head.
For an instant his eyes heated the way they had before, and then they became merciless pools of black.
No! Ella silently screamed. No!
He had expected Victoria. That was the only explanation for his reaction. She'd suspected… And still his reaction was a shaft of pain through her chest, a fisting agony where her heart resided.
Would he repudiate the vows? Kill her for coming in Victoria's place?
"Papers," he said on a sharp bark.
Instantly the mood of those gathered changed.
Celebration gave way to the hum of anticipated violence. And the tightly packed and heavily armed soldiers surrounding them were prepared to deliver on that threat.
Her father removed the citizenship papers from his pocket. His hands trembling, he offered them to the warlord.
It was the oath minister who took them, rubbed the paper between his fingers and pressed his thumb to the seals. "Feels real, though easy enough for the Peace Force to provide authentic documents."
There was a rumble of agreement from the gathered soldiers. Several men standing at the front of the circled crowd spat their hatred of the Peace Force, though the spit was directed at the ground, and not at her or her parents.
"The papers give her name as Ella Rust," the oath minister said. "Acknowledged father is Elliot Rust. Birth mother is Patricia Rust."
Josiah's attention went to the blond man with the cold, cold eyes, the one called Saul, who stood with her parents. The warlord nodded and Saul drew his gun, pressed the barrel against her mother's head.
Ella's heart jumped into her throat. Her skin iced.
"If I find out she's not your daughter," Josiah said to her father, "the wall won't protect you from my vengeance."
The blood rushed to Ella's ears. She swayed.
"Burn them," Josiah said, and for a heartbeat she was terrified he meant her parents.
The blond man who'd been standing to the warlord's left before the ceremony lit a smoke stick then tossed it into a barrel.
Flames erupted in a belch of black smoke. The oath minster turned toward the barrel and dropped her citizenship papers into the fire.
Ella pressed her knuckles against her mouth with such force that she tasted blood. In an instant the papers were gone, and all possibility of ever returning to New San Jose was obliterated.
The woman she thought was Josiah's sister turned and flounced away. The silver-haired woman followed her, as if she too was appalled by the bride the warlord was stuck with.
Josiah jerked his head toward her parents. "DeAngelo, take them to the city gate."
A dark-haired man wearing a bandolier of throwing stars peeled away from the front of the gathered soldiers and said, "Let's go."
Emotion swelled, adding to the blockage in Ella's throat. She blinked away tears, ached for a hug, some acknowledgment of affection from her parents before they left her in the warrens.
Her father's hand tightened on her mother's arm. He took a step toward Ella, his grip forcing her mother to do the same.
It hurt. It shouldn't, not after so many years. But it did.
Part of her wanted to get the goodbye over with. Part of her was afraid they wouldn't close the distance but would turn away.
She stepped forward. Josiah halted her with a hand clamped around her upper arm, keeping her at his side.
She glanced at his face, but his expression gave away nothing.
The mood of the crowd shifted, becoming watchful, Josiah's soldiers waiting for cues from their warlord.
When her parents reached her, Josiah's hand fell away, leaving lingering heat where moments before her skin had iced.
How could she still want him? Shouldn't she be horrified that with a nod he'd ordered a killer to hold a gun to her mother's head? That he'd threatened her father?
But this was the warrens. It was a place of violence, and to rule a territory required ruthlessness. She could only pray that the warlord never learned the truth about her parentage.
Her father gave her a quick embrace. Her mother's was half that.
"You'll be okay, Ella," her father said before turning to leave, and she wanted to believe the worry in his voice was for her.
Without looking back, her parents disappeared into the crowd of Josiah's soldiers.
Her throat burned. Her inhalation was a gasp and the struggle against a sob.
A small hand slipped shyly into hers. Jacob said, "I'll be your family."
She squeezed that small hand, looked down into that small face then knelt, gently brushing his bangs off his forehead. His eyes, when they flicked up to meet hers, were lighter than the warlord's, a warm brown, his nose wider, not so sharply defined.
"I'd like that," she said, the sob locked in her throat and the ache in her heart dissolving. "Today's a special day. I've not only gained a husband, but I've gained a son."
She smoothed the blue bandanna he wore like a tie. It was bunched and crinkled, as if he'd twisted it nervously when the crowd's mood shifted at his father's reaction at seeing her face.
She touched a fingertip to one of the symbols woven into the blue material, then touched the same symbol on the bandanna tied around her wrist. "Maybe later you can teach me what these mean."
He stood taller, his small chest puffing outward, like the pigeons that had always brightened her day and made her smile.
"I can teach you," he said. "And I can tell you the other important stuff you need to know. Like about colors. If you see green that means Jax. If you see black that means Elias. If you see—"
"Jacob," Ciro interrupted, amusement in his voice. "Maybe you should let the warlord of this warren at least kiss his new bride before you interest her in other warlords."
