Donor 23 (40 page)

“Well, what’re you waiting for?” Nox asked nervously, twisting his head around to keep her in view. He desperately tried to regain his composure. She was a donor, after all, just a donor.

Now it was as if she could read his mind. “You think that because I’m a donor I have no…” she paused to choose her words carefully, “heart. You’re wrong.”

“Go ahead, kill me.”

She rode around to the front of him.

Staring into his eyes, she said, “You’re already dead. Been dead for a long time.”

Looking at him, Joan felt pity, as one should for every ignorant man. Nothing she could do would make his life worse than it was. For months she stoked within her a feeling of revenge, forcing it into a bright flame. But fire is indiscriminate in what it destroys.

Abruptly, thirst invaded her. She felt hot, burning.
It was the warmth of the desert,
she told herself. She took the canteen and drank. But the drink didn’t quench her. The heat felt like a flame inside her, scorching her heart. She poured the water over her face and neck. It cooled her, bringing her clarity.

Nox was not the Alliance, only an extension of it, a product of it. The Alliance killed her mother, her father, and countless others. The Alliance was the darkness hovering over all. Its great shadow covered Nox, just as it had her.

She fingered the tail of the rattlesnake on her belt. Nox was nothing more than part of the tail of the great snake that was the Alliance. It was the head of the beast that must be destroyed.

Duncan pulled back on the bow, as Joan came around to Nox’s front. He wanted to be ready.

He got her to talk,
Nox thought. Perhaps he could keep her talking and stall her, until help arrived.

“I’m quite alive, 23. You, on the other hand—you and all your donors—have no life, do you?” he provoked her.

“I’m alive,” Joan said. She repeated, “I’m alive.”

She slipped the rifle off her shoulders. It was the very rifle Old Owl gave her, the one he fired once every year, as a remembrance.
It’s so easy, so simple to fire a gun, to take a life.
A squeeze of one finger results in a vicious, powerful explosion, ripping through another’s flesh, shredding and rupturing blood vessels, the conduits of life.
Not so easy.

Duncan drew back on the bow and took aim again. Then he waited. Joan remained on her horse. She wouldn’t shoot him from her horse; she’d have to dismount. Once again, he relaxed his pull on the bow.

Joan inspected the ropes that were binding Nox. His hands were tied together, and the rope extended over a tree limb to a second tree a few feet away. There the end was tied off. She prodded the horse to the rope at the second tree. Still on her horse, she waited a few minutes. The rifle lay across her lap. Then, with a singular mind she withdrew her knife and sawed the rope.

“What’re you doing?” Nox didn’t understand. “Just kill me.”

She kept working the knife through the thick, strong rope. Eventually, the rope split. The quick release caused Nox to crash onto the ground. He got up on his knees and turned to Joan.

“You think I’ll run. Is that it? You want to chase me, kill me that way? Well, I won’t.”

With her back to him, she urged her horse up the trail.

“You’re free,” she called back to him, “in a way.”

Joan freed herself also. As she rode away, she fired her rifle into the air. Though she was expecting it, the piercing report jolted her. She breathed deeply—one shot. A remembrance.

Duncan wasn’t surprised. He didn’t believe Joan would kill anyone in that way. He remained where he was, while Joan rode up the trail. He didn’t want her to see him.

As Joan galloped off, she heard a horse whinny. Looking over through the trees, she saw Duncan with his horse standing beside him.

“What’re you doing there?” she called.

Prodding her horse over to him, she noticed he held a bow and one arrow in his hands.

“What’re you doing?” she asked again.

“Just needed a toilet break.”

Suspiciously, she leaned over and observed his point of view, looking down to the campsite. He had a perfect line of sight to Nox, who was still on his knees, chewing at the ropes on his hands, in an effort to undo them.

“What were you going to do? Shoot him?” she accused him.

Duncan mounted his horse and met her accusatory stare. “If I had to. Before you killed him, I would have.”

He kicked his horse and began riding off.

“What? Why?”

He stopped his horse and turned around, facing her. “Didn’t think you needed another thief invading your dreams. You would’ve done the same for me.”

He was right. Joan knew it.

“But you didn’t shoot,” she pointed out.

“Didn’t think you’d do it,” he stated with sincerity.

He knew who she was, and she knew who he was.

Another rider broke through the trees. It was Reck. He glanced at Duncan and then at Joan.

“Everything OK? Heard the gunshot,” he said.

Joan spied Nox through the trees. He had managed to untie his hands and run off into the bushes.

“Yes,” Joan confirmed. “It’s done. Let’s go.”

“Good,” Reck replied.

Duncan urged his horse ahead, and Joan and Reck rode side by side.

42

O
n the day before the group was to split up, they came upon ten people, who were on the way to Seaton. Everyone decided to rest there together for the day. Among the ten was an elderly man. He was bald, wearing a brown robe with a white rope tied around his waist. He was a
padre,
Isabel informed Joan. Joan didn’t understand, but Bash and Isabel talked in hush tones, near the campfire that afternoon.

At one point, Isabel said excitedly to Joan, “We’re going to get married—now, today—while the padre is here.”

Bash smiled at the two of them. “Yeah, it’s time I make an honest woman out of her.”

“You go away,” Isabel shooed. “Joan is going to help me get ready.”

The two women spent a while preparing for the wedding. Joan brushed Isabel’s hair and wove wild flowers into it. Isabel
rifled through her duffel bag and extracted a lovely peach-colored dress.

“Don’t have much opportunity to wear this,” Isabel exclaimed, holding it up.

Joan gasped when she saw it. She had seen many beautiful dresses on citizens in the Alliance, but none compared to this. It was so deceptively simple yet exquisite. The ones worn in the Alliance were gaudy, showy. This was smooth and silky to the touch. White, round beads were woven into the neckline, which came to a point. The sleeves were long, and the dress hung straight. When Joan slipped it over Isabel’s head, the peach color set off the light brown of Isabel’s skin.