Deception (18 page)

Willow hands the rabbit to Adam and pulls out a squirrel. “I suppose it’s not very ladylike to be rude to others, but you don’t seem to have a problem with that.”

The girl—Veronica? Vickie? Something with a
V
—folds her arms across her chest while my first-shift guards, boys who are almost all younger than me, crowd closer to the fire, waiting for their dinner rations before they take their posts.

“I wasn’t being rude. I was pointing out—”

“You were rude,” I say, my voice sharp. “And if this continues, I’ll make a new camp rule. You only eat what you catch and skin and cook yourself. How would that suit you?”

The girl turns on her heel and walks away, but not before she says, “I suppose the Tree Girl doesn’t have to worry about being a lady. It’s not like she’s going to find a man willing to Claim her.”

Willow goes still, and her shoulders roll forward as if protecting herself from a blow. I’m about to go drag Veronica/Vickie back to the fire and force her to apologize or go hungry when Donny Miller, one of our first-shift guards, squats next to Willow and says, “I’d Claim you.”

He’s twelve if he’s a day. Thirteen, maybe. But his voice is earnest, and Willow’s shoulders straighten.

Another boy, closer to my age, says, “If I get to Claim a girl one day, I want one who knows how to hunt and fight like you do.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Adam says as he crouches on her other side. His voice is both fierce and kind. I didn’t realize he had this in him. I wonder what it would take to win him over to my side.

“She isn’t half the girl you are, and she knows it.” Adam rubs his palm against Willow’s back for a second before looking at Quinn and dropping his hand.

Willow hands the squirrel to Adam and smiles. I’ve seen Willow smile before—quick, sassy grins and dangerous, I-dare-you-to-cross-me expressions—but this smile is slow and warm and a little shy.

“Adam’s right,” I say. Adam jerks his eyes to mine and stares. “You’re amazing and anyone with half a brain can see it. Hold your head high.”

Willow gives me a saucy little grin and starts skinning the next animal. Adam holds my gaze and then slowly nods once, as if to acknowledge that in this one instance, we are both on the same side of the line.

The first-shift guards eat their rations and head to their posts. Adam, Jodi, and Willow extinguish the cooking fire and head to their shelters with everyone else. I join Rachel in our shelter and hold her as she falls asleep, but my brain won’t let me relax. The Cursed One’s arrival, Adam and Ian’s fight, and the fact that I had no time to work on either piece of tech today keep me restlessly tossing and turning until I realize I’m going to wake Rachel if I don’t find a way to settle.

Since sleep feels impossible, I decide to check the perimeter of the camp once more, even though I’ve already walked it six times. I grab for my boots, careful not to make too much noise. My fingers fumble with my laces as the damp night air seeps into my clothing. I wrap my cloak around my shoulders, and then listen for a moment.

Someone several yards south of me snores in loud, fitful bursts. Beyond the borders of our makeshift camp, the Wasteland hums with life. Crickets chirp, owls hoot, and the occasional animal rustles through the bushes.

Sliding my dagger into the sheath strapped to my left ankle, I leave the shelter. It’s easy to slip away from camp in the middle of the night unnoticed. Too easy. I simply hug the shadows and choose my steps with care.

The first-shift guards are little more than kids themselves and terribly inexperienced, despite the fact that they’ve been training with Rachel, Quinn, and Willow for almost four weeks now. The oldest is eighteen. The youngest, Donny, the one who gallantly offered to Claim Willow, swears he’s fifteen. He’s lying, but I’m too desperate to argue. The older, more experienced guards spent all day patrolling the edges of our path as we traveled, digging wagon wheels out of mud, and generally wearing themselves out with what seemed like a hundred little things. I made the decision to let them sleep for a few hours before I call them up for the early-morning guard shift, because I know tomorrow they’ll be wearing themselves out all over again.

Creeping along the back of our makeshift shelters, I step carefully to minimize the crunch of my boots against the springy undergrowth that spreads along the base of the rock like a moss-green apron. With every step, my mind restlessly chews at the problems facing me.

I need to calm down. I need to
think
. I need to distance myself from the camp for a few minutes and just breathe until my thoughts settle and I can see things clearly.

Every guard I’ve posted is under strict orders to raise hell if they see even a hint of movement. Better a false alarm than to be caught unaware. It worries me that I’ve moved past most of the shelters without alerting a single guard. Not that I want to be caught. But still . . . I’m trusting kids to keep us safe.
Kids
. Never mind that I’m only nineteen. I’ve been looking out for myself since the Commander killed my mother and branded me an outcast when I was only six. Most of these boys haven’t faced anything worse than a tongue-lashing their entire lives.

I reach the eastern edge of camp and see Donny, Willow’s hopeful young suitor, slumped against the thick branch that holds up the final tent in this row. I can hear him snoring from five yards away. Barely suppressing a sigh, I crouch down and lay a hand on his shoulder.

“Wake up, Donny.”

He jerks awake, flinging my hand off his shoulder as he sits up. He doesn’t go for his knife. I rub the bridge of my nose and try for the most patient tone of voice I can muster. It’s too much to expect that a handful of sparring sessions would take the place of the kind of training that gave Rachel and me our fighting instincts.

I keep my voice pitched low. “It’s Logan. Where’s your knife?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve only been asleep for a second.” Faint traces of moonlight gleam silver and white against his shaggy brown hair, highlighting the cowlick that waves like a rebellious flag above his left temple. “I’m sorry, Logan.”

“You said that. Now where is your knife?”

He fumbles around at his belt for a few seconds, and I realize his knife is trapped against his waist.

I lean closer and press my finger to his throat. “You’re dead.”

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple scraping against my finger. “I just thought . . . it seemed safer to—”

“Weapon always at the ready, Donny. Always. We don’t want to lose you.”

His cowlick waves earnestly as he nods his head. “Okay. Yes. Weapon ready.”

I pat his shoulder. “Stay awake. You only have another two hours until shift change. We need you alert. Helps if you stand up.”

He nods again and scrambles to his feet. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”

I smile as if I never had a doubt. “I know you won’t.”

“Where are you going?” he asks as I step past the camp’s perimeter and toward the scraggly line of trees that press close to our little clearing on three sides.

“Just for a walk.”

“In the Wasteland?” Uncertainty fills his voice. “There might be . . . things out there. Dangerous things.”

“Yes,” I say. “And I’m one of them.”

“I’ll come with you. Isn’t safe to walk alone.” He shoves his knife into his belt again.

“Weapon at the ready,” I snap.

“Sorry! Sorry.” He fumbles for the knife again.

I draw in a breath and remember how young he is. How innocent he was until the snowball effect of the Commander’s treachery, Rachel’s need for vengeance, and my thirst for justice conspired to rip his childhood from him in one fateful morning.

“I appreciate the offer. But I need you here. Alert. Someone has to watch over the camp. You’re just the man for the job.”

He straightens and holds the knife loosely, blade out, like he’s ready. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know that. Keep that weapon out, Donny.”

I leave him there, moonlight dancing in his shaggy hair and glinting along the edge of a blade I pray he’ll never have to use, and let the shadows swallow me whole as I step into the forest.

The ground is still damp from the day’s rain, and the musky scent of dirt, bark, and growing things envelopes me. I move south, breathing deeply and listening to the soft hoot of an owl and the high-pitched whirring of the cicadas that cling to the branches above me. Slowly, my thoughts settle into something logical and coherent.

I don’t know why the Cursed One came after us today, but I can’t attribute significance to it where none exists. The booster pack I built for the Rowansmark tech did its job. I have to be satisfied with that.

I can’t convince Adam to let go of his grief and his anger when I understand the reasons behind them. I can only hope to show him that I have his best interest at heart. If he settles into my leadership, we won’t have a problem. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to figure out an effective consequence that will demonstrate I mean business, but that won’t alienate him further.

As for the final problem—I can’t finish the invention I’m building to track the Commander, and I can’t replicate the Rowansmark tech, without more supplies. I have to hope Lankenshire either has what I need or knows a way to get it.

Feeling settled and ready for sleep, I hurry through the forest and reach the edge of the tree line just before the guards are scheduled to change shifts. As I approach the camp, I see Donny, his cowlick glowing in the moonlight, slumped against the tree limb again.

I don’t bother suppressing my sigh this time. Clearly, he’s too young for nighttime guard duty. I don’t know who will take his place, but I’ll find someone. I can’t risk the camp, and I can’t risk Donny. If it comes down to it, I’d rather take the extra guard duty myself.

I reach Donny and squat in front of him. His knife is out, the blade facing me as he clutches it in his hand. Half the battle won. Now if we can just find a way to keep him alert, he might make a decent guard after all.

The slight smile spreading across my face dies as a pungent, coppery scent fills my nose.

“Donny?” I reach out and grasp his shoulder. “Wake up.”

He remains still. Dread pools in my stomach.

“Donny!” I shake him and watch in horror as his head tips back, revealing the thick crimson slice across the base of his neck.

Chapter Nineteen

RACHEL

“R
achel, wake up!”

My eyes snap open, and I reach for my knife even as I recognize Quinn’s voice. The dregs of another blood-filled dream cling to me as I roll over and realize Logan isn’t beside me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, pushing myself off my bedroll and reaching for my cloak. “Where’s Logan?”

“He’s at the east edge of camp. Someone murdered the guards.” His expression is stoic, but I’m learning to listen for the things he refuses to show, and I hear the horror in his words.

I stare at him for a second, and then I
move
. “What about the people within the camp? Are we surrounded? Is it Carrington?”

“Everyone else seems to be fine. No one’s in the Wasteland close to camp. And I don’t know if it’s Carrington,” he says as he follows me out of my tent. “Would the Commander quietly kill the guards and then pull back?”

I sidestep a bundle of supplies. “No. He’d attack with every soldier at his disposal.” The wind tugs at my hair, and I yank the strands out of my face. “Highwaymen wouldn’t do this either. They’d kill the guards, loot the camp, take some female prisoners, and then run into the Wasteland again. Are we sure no one—”

“No one is missing. No shelters look disturbed. Thom and I looked inside each of them.”

I shake my head and lengthen my stride, my knife held steady in my hands. Let whoever killed our guards come for me next. I’ll be ready.

We reach the east edge of camp a moment later. The metallic sweetness of drying blood blankets the air and creeps across my tongue. For one terrible moment, my nightmares blend with my waking life until I can barely tell the difference. I cup my hands around my mouth and nose before the smell makes me gag. Or worse, scream.

Logan has enough to worry about without adding me to his list.

He looks up as I approach. A single torch, staked to the ground beside the bodies, burns brightly, washing Logan’s face in orange and gold. His lips are tight, his eyes hollowed out. I reach for him as he stands.

He leans into me as I wrap my arm around him.

“Someone murdered the boys I’d asked to stand guard.” His voice is weary. “Just walked right up to them and slit their throats.” He chokes on the last word and scrubs a hand over his eyes.

“I know.” My words are gentle, at odds with the pounding of my heart. “It must be an enemy camped in the Wasteland. Someone . . .” Who? Who would benefit from killing our guards and leaving the rest of us alone?

“The Wasteland is empty,” he says, and Quinn nods.

“How do you know?” I make the mistake of looking down and seeing a bloody smile carved into each boy’s neck. My knees shake, and a strange buzzing fills my ears as I remember Oliver’s blood pouring over my hands while I sat in silent impotence.