Deception (20 page)
“Then it
has
to be one of us,” Nola says. “The gate—”
“I found the one in my tech bag before we blew the gate. It could’ve been one of us, or a stranger could’ve crept into our camp while we were all busy sparring or scavenging. My point is that someone is committed to the idea that we have a debt to be paid. If we can figure that out, maybe we can find who did this.”
“We don’t owe anyone a debt,” Frankie says, his lip curling around the words.
“Clearly, someone disagrees with you,” Willow says.
“Shut your mouth.”
“That’s enough, Frankie,” Drake says calmly. “We’re all upset about this, but turning on each other won’t help.” He looks at me. “What possible crimes could we have committed that would cause someone to kill our guards and leave a message like that?”
Rachel lets go of my hand and begins ticking items off on her fingers. “We didn’t run after the Commander and beg to be under his control again. We have the tech he wanted to steal from Rowansmark, and we know Rowansmark was committed to getting it back.”
“How do you know that?” Ian asks.
“Because they posted a ridiculously high reward for my father’s capture, and then once I’d recovered the tech, they came after us with trackers and a battalion of soldiers.”
“And you escaped all of them?” He gives her an admiring look, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“We
killed
almost all of them. The ones we missed were too busy running for their lives through the Wasteland to bother with us again.” Her voice is cold, as if the memory of being surrounded by a Rowansmark battalion while the Cursed One tunneled up beneath our feet is a thing of little consequence, but her fists are clenched hard enough to turn her fingers pale and bloodless. “The point is that both the Commander and Rowansmark have reason to believe we wronged them.”
“If the Commander catches up to us, he isn’t going to bother killing a few guards,” Nola says. Her dusky skin glows beneath the sunlight, but her dark eyes are haunted. She slides her arm through Drake’s and leans against her father. “He’ll come straight for us and make an example out of us that no one will ever forget.”
“Not if we make an example out of him first,” Rachel says. “But I agree, this isn’t the Commander. And I’m not sure it’s one of us, either.” She looks toward the camp as if she can still read the bloody letters slowly drying on the porous surface of the rock. “I think it’s Rowansmark.”
Frankie leans forward. “A battalion wouldn’t—”
“Not a battalion. A tracker. Maybe more than one, though one would suffice. They have the skills to quietly murder eight guards without any of them raising an alarm.” Rachel looks at me. “And I think the message is a twisted example of pain atonement.”
“What’s pain atonement?” Frankie stares her down.
“Rowansmark’s system of consequences. Honor and loyalty mean everything to them. They don’t even have a prison. If someone dishonors the city, their leader, or their family, they are immediately sentenced to pay for their crime with increments of pain atonement. If the accused can survive the punishment, honor is restored.” She looks toward camp again and shudders. “If the accused can’t survive, the debt is considered paid by death.”
A hawk soars overhead, its piercing cry puncturing the silence that follows Rachel’s words.
Quinn says, “What was done last night took skill, and the message does mention both a debt and the need for atonement.”
“But to kill a few of us and then just disappear again?” Drake frowns. “That’s a cat-and-mouse game. Why would a Rowansmark tracker do that instead of going straight for Logan and Rachel to reclaim the stolen tech?”
Rachel says, “Maybe he doesn’t know which of us has it. Maybe he really believes he has to punish us first. Or maybe—”
“Maybe he’s got rocks for brains.” Willow shrugs her arrow brace into place. “Doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that this stops now.”
“How are we going to stop someone when we have no idea who he is?” Ian asks.
“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “But the message makes it clear whoever did this thinks we still owe a debt. Which means he’ll come after us again. We have to be ready.”
“So you think a professionally trained Rowansmark killer might be hiding in plain sight among us?” Nola asks, her voice trembling a little.
I shake my head. “If it really is someone from Rowansmark, the theory that it’s one of us becomes harder to support. We checked everyone’s wristmarks before the funeral. They’re all from Baalboden. We also checked clothing, but found no bloodstains. I think Rachel’s right. It’s a tracker, and he’s disappeared back into the Wasteland. I don’t know why he’d play with us like this, but we won’t find him until he decides to come after us again.”
“I could find him,” Willow says. “And then I could kill him and put an end to this.”
A muscle along Quinn’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say a word.
“You’re a girl,” Frankie says. “He’s a trained killer. One decent confrontation with a Rowansmark tracker and you’d crack under the pressure.”
“Want to have a confrontation with me and see if I crack?” Willow asks, her dark smile back in place.
“Enough, Frankie,” I say. “We aren’t living by the Commander’s rules anymore. If Willow says she can find him, we’re going to let her do it.”
“I’m going with her,” Quinn says.
“Okay. You two track the killer while we take the camp north.” I pull Jeremiah’s map out of my cloak pocket and unfold it. Using my index finger, I trace the route we’re going to take. “We’re going here, veering east after this large hill, and then we’ll turn north again when we reach this point.” I tap the map. “Jeremiah says it’s a ruined city from the old civilization. Considering how slowly we have to travel, it should take us three or four days to get there. You should be able to catch up to us without a problem.”
“If there’s a tracker in the woods, we’ll do our best to find him,” Quinn says.
“And then we’ll make him wish he’d never decided to slit the throats of those boys.” Willow’s voice shakes with fury, something I’ve never heard from her.
“You aren’t even a Baalboden girl,” Frankie says. “What do you care?”
She’s on her feet and in his face before I even realize she’s moving. Her fists clench her bow, and her dark eyes blaze. “Those boys were
kind
to me.”
Frankie swallows and says nothing. For once. Nola lets go of Drake and steps forward to slide an arm around Willow’s waist instead. Willow stiffens and glances sideways at Nola like a rabbit judging the best way to run from a predator.
“They
were
kind, weren’t they?” Nola’s voice breaks. She doesn’t seem to notice that Willow isn’t sure what to do with her affection. “They adored you. Going after their murderer is the right thing to do.”
Willow nods once, a sharp, choppy movement that sends her ear cuff swinging, and then she turns and walks into the forest without another word. Quinn meets Nola’s eyes and mouths “thank you” before he silently follows his sister.
I’m about to give the rest of the group instructions for doubling the guard along our flanks as we travel when Thom runs up to us, his craggy face flushed and his fists clenched.
“Had two of the men up in the trees as lookouts.” He pants heavily between his words. “Said they saw something. Went up the tree myself to have a look. Took my spyglass.” He pats his cloak pocket.
“What is it?” My hand is already reaching for my sword.
“Carrington. Whole mess of red uniforms just pouring over the top of that hill we crossed late yesterday afternoon.” Thom waves to the south of us. “At the rate they’re traveling, they’ll be here in less than three hours.”
“Get everyone on the road. Whatever isn’t already packed up gets left behind. Let’s
go
.”
We run through the trees and onto the campsite, where people stare at us with terror on their faces. Leaving Frankie and Thom in charge of making sure no one gets left behind, I race to the front of the line and start calculating how much distance I can put between our group and the approaching army in just three hours.
Any way I look at the scenario, the answer is the same: not enough.
RACHEL
W
e’ve been traveling hard for two days while the army at our backs slowly closes the distance between us. We’ve tripled the guard at night, and everyone carries a weapon during the day. I alternate between walking beside Logan and positioning myself by Sylph in the middle of the group. If Carrington attacks, I’m going to be in a place to defend the two people I love.
Last night, we camped beside a river and were nearly eaten alive by mosquitoes. This morning, Logan had us up at dawn and moving east while the early morning gloom was still clinging to the sky. It’s going to take us another two days to get to the ruined city where we’ll meet up with Quinn and Willow. I find myself worrying that they won’t catch up. That they’ve been hurt or killed.
I don’t want to add anyone else to the list of people I’ve lost. I’ve learned that death is an insatiable creature with greedy hands, and the people I love seem to be easy targets.
Which is why I’ve dedicated chunks of time every day to tutoring Sylph, Jodi, Cassie, Mandy, and any other girl who wants to learn the art of surviving in the Wasteland. I teach them as we walk. We discuss which plants are edible, which are medicinal, and how to cover your tracks so your enemy can’t find you. We hunt small game, skin it ourselves, and find hiding places in the dark underbelly of the forest’s depths. We shoot arrows and hit our targets. We throw knives and hit those targets, too. And we know how to fatally injure a man who makes the grave mistake of underestimating us.
If the Commander catches up to us, I want the girls he tried so hard to keep under his thumb to be his worst nightmare.
“Chickweed,” Sylph says, and tugs on my arm as she points to a thick bush on the side of the trail. The small oval leaves form a cross with a white flower in its center. “Am I right?”
“You’re right.” I smile as she bounces off the path and begins gathering handfuls of the edible plant. Jodi joins her, her blonde hair coiled on top of her head in a thick braid.
“And blueberries,” Jodi says as the springy chickweed plant gives way to a tangle of berry-covered vines. “Right? Or are these pokeweed? I don’t want to pick something poisonous.”
“That’s pokeweed. See the bright purple stem? That’s how you tell the difference.”
Sylph and Jodi return to my side, each carrying a cloth sack full of chickweed. I wrap my arm around Sylph’s waist and give her a quick squeeze. “Lesson’s over for today. I have something to discuss with Logan.”
“Sounds serious.” Jodi wiggles her brows at me.
“I think that’s just Rachel for ‘I need to go kiss my boy.’” Sylph laughs when I glare at her.
“She does like to lock lips with him every chance she gets, doesn’t she?” Jodi laughs, too.
I reach up and pat them both on the head. “Poor things. If you had a boy who looked like Logan, you’d be kissing him every chance you had, too.”
“I was right, you know,” Sylph says.
“About what?”
“About Logan. I told you he was waiting for you.” She grins.
I laugh. “Took him long enough to figure it out.”
“So is he a good kisser?” She elbows me in the side and bounces a little as she waits for my answer.
“I don’t . . . I mean, I’ve never been kissed by anyone else, so . . .”
“Well, how do his kisses make you feel?” Jodi frowns at me. “He doesn’t drool on you, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t drool. He just . . .” He just makes me feel almost whole. Almost better. Like if I could just get close enough to him, everything else would fade away and never come back. I lose myself for a moment in the thought of his callused fingers gently sliding over my back, his lips pressing urgently against mine, his breath quickening against my skin.
Sylph laughs and snaps her fingers in front of my eyes. I jerk my attention back to her and feel heat in my face.
“Well, I don’t know what you were just thinking about, but I’m going to guess it means Logan knows what he’s doing when he kisses you.”
The heat in my face spreads down my neck. “Yes. He knows what he’s doing. I only hope you can say the same about Smithson.”
“Smithson is just as good a kisser—”
“Then why are you over here with us picking chickweed instead of kissing him?” I ask, and Sylph’s dark eyes light with mischief. Without another word to us, she jogs to where Smithson walks, throws her arms around his neck, and kisses him. When she comes up for air, Smithson’s cheeks are as bright as the pokeweed stems, and his expression is dazed.
“Your turn,” Jodi says. I’m about to offer to stay with her so she won’t have to walk alone, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s eyeing Ian with a speculative gleam in her eye. I silently wish her luck prying him away from the two girls who are currently admiring his biceps and giggling over his compliments and then head toward Logan.
