Frozen (14 page)

“Yeah.” I smile, unable to hide my amusement. “Me, too.”

There aren’t any jackets in the car, but I do find clean cotton shorts.

“Underwear?” I say, tossing the smallest pair to Bree. She turns her back to me, and shamelessly starts changing. I should really look away, but I can’t help myself. When she’s fully clothed, she goes back to poking at the fire, either unaware that I’ve been staring at her, or not concerned enough to care. I change, too, throw the blanket back over my shoulders, and return to assessing the gear.

There’s not much else that will help us if we don’t find the rest of the team in the next day or two. Some matches, dried fruit, a knife, binoculars, eyewear that I suspect to be night-vision goggles because they look similar to some Rebel gear I once saw Harvey working on. But no water: the one thing we can’t go long without.

I scour the rest of the car, and find only a map and handgun in a compartment in the front. The weapon is fully loaded, so that gives us six precious shots between the two of us. I hope we don’t need them.

I unfold the map. We may have wiped out the ground crew, but Marco and the rest of his men on the Order ship were unharmed. If we head south and return to the beach, we risk running into them. Unless they chose to stay on the water rather than pursue us.

Maybe Bree and I should just take the car and drive northwest, try to find Group A. Why had I never picked Bo’s brain these past few weeks? He kept saying over and over that he practically had direct coordinates, and somehow I never managed to get them from him. That knowledge belongs only to him, Clipper, and my father.

No.

It
was
knowledge my father possessed. Just like that, he’s become a piece of the past. Yesterday Owen stood beside me on the
Catherine
and today he’s gone. Dead.

I ball up the map and slam my hands against the compartment where I found the gun. Hard. Then harder. Then again and again until my palms are throbbing.

“Are you okay?” Bree is standing outside the door.

I rub my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You
are
crying.”

I touch my cheeks and my fingers come away wet. I don’t remember telling myself I could cry.

“I caught breakfast,” she says, holding up a squirrel speared on a stick. “I’ll cook it. You take as long as you need.”

I flatten the map out, fold it up neatly, and immediately join Bree.

“That was fast,” she says.

“I was wasting time.”

“You lost someone you love. Not a single moment you spend in mourning is a waste.” She skins the squirrel and sets the meat over our feeble fire.

“How did you know?”

“I saw him. When you pulled me up the stairwell and onto the deck. He was just lying there.” She glances at me, her face somber. “I’m really sorry, Gray.”

“Sorry doesn’t change what happened.”

“I know. But I still feel it.”

When the food is cooked we sit on the rear of the vehicle—her feet dangling, mine planted in the snow—and pull apart the meat with our fingers. It is dark, but moist, and it fills us well enough. Bree tosses the spear into the fire when we’re done.

“What now?” she asks.

“We should take the car, I think. Head west. Look for the team.”

“I’ll drive,” she offers.

But I’m not ready. Because moving on means leaving this place and traveling farther from my father. Every moment from here on out will be a step away from him. I let a hand fall on Bree’s thigh.

“I need a moment.”

“Sure.” Her fingers curl around mine.

We sit there, staring at the flames until I feel strong enough to continue.

Bree’s driving is exceptionally better than mine.

Over the years, the Rebels managed to take a few abandoned Order vehicles into their custody and—with the help of workers in the technology wing—bring them back to life. Bree learned how to drive during her time at Crevice Valley before I arrived. She tells me that some cars run electrically while others require fuel. The differences mean nothing to me until Bree says we are in a fuel-powered model and that it is likely the best fit given our current situation.

“We’ve got about a half tank of gas left,” she says, squinting at the markings behind the wheel. “Should get us another hundred fifty miles or so. Either way, we’ve got enough to track down the others.”

“Assuming they want to be found.” I’m fearful the team will be extra cautious from here on out, running for cover at the first sound of an approaching car.

“We’ll find them,” she says sternly. “And if we don’t, we should be able to make it to Group A, and they’ll catch up with us there.”

I don’t mention that I’m unsure how exactly to find Group A.

The car bounces over the uneven ground as Bree takes us out of the field. She slows as we reach the Order’s tire tracks from yesterday. They are nearly invisible, almost completely filled in with fresh snow.

“What do you think?” she asks.

“We can’t
not
check the beach. If they’re not there, we may at least find their tracks. If there’s no sign of them, we’ll just keep driving.”

She nods and fiddles with the dial controlling the heat. We may be miserable, but at least we’re no longer cold.

Two skeletons of cars. Eleven dead Order members. One abandoned lifeboat.

This is what we find on the beach.

Our car is hidden back in the trees and the air feels frigid outside the warmth of the vehicle, but Bree and I scour the shore thoroughly. She carries the handgun because she’s the better shot.

The dead Order members are covered in the snow that fell last night, and for this, I am glad. I don’t want to see their faces, the look of shock in their eyes, the places where bullets met flesh. I feel like I’ve seen far too much these past few days.

We make our way down to the water, which is lapping peacefully against the wet earth. The rocky outcrop to our right is covered in the white froth of waves. Even when we climb out to the point, there’s no sign of the Order. They could have gone to Haven, to gather another team so they could track us more efficiently. Or maybe they are still sailing, waiting to spot us from afar. Either way, they will find us. Marco will not let us slip away again. I’m sure of it.

A trio of crows soars by, circling over the dead bodies. I look out across the water, scanning for any sign of the
Catherine
, but the Gulf seems to have devoured her thoroughly. I wonder if Dixie made it off the boat or if she went down with her master. So much for cats being good luck.

Bree and I are carefully climbing back to the shore when I spot footprints heading toward the trees. They are mostly filled in by the snowfall, but one thing is clear: This person was walking with an uneven gait, almost as though he were shaking against his will.

“Sammy,” I say, pointing.

We follow his trail into the trees. His prints meet another pair, where it appears that he was then dragged.

“Did the Order take him?” Bree asks.

I shake my head, uncertain, and we continue to follow the tracks until we stumble upon a particularly dense cluster of trees. Beneath them, kept mostly clear of snowfall, is a pile of dark coals. The Order wouldn’t have stopped to make a fire. One of our team must have heard Sammy coming. He was not being dragged away against his will; he was being dragged because he couldn’t continue without aid.

I put a hand over the coals, but they give off no heat.

“They’re long gone. Doesn’t even look like they made camp. There’s no sign of tents being set up.”

“But they’re alive,” Bree says, smiling.

“They are.”

And when I say it, I feel the weight lift off my chest, a burden I didn’t even know was there to begin with. The team is alive.
Emma
is alive. And right then I forgive her. For everything. I’m tired of living in the past and dwelling on things that have come and gone—especially when the people you care for can be taken from you in the time it takes to blink. I glance toward the shore, thinking of my father.

“They went this way,” Bree says. She checks the sky. “North.”

Our eyes meet and without exchanging another word, we hurry back to the car. The team has likely been hiking since yesterday, possibly traveling through the night to put extra distance between themselves and the Order. We have wheels and can travel quickly, but I worry about our chances. What are the odds our paths will intersect when this land seems to stretch on forever?

Bree drives. I watch the water disappear in the mirror that hangs between us. It fades into a blue sliver, dividing the snow-whitened beach from an overcast sky. In a matter of seconds, it is gone entirely.

It is only when it has slipped from view that the words escape me.

“’Bye, Pa.”

I’m positive Bree hears, but she keeps her eyes on the horizon. I appreciate that small, private moment with my father more than she will ever know.

EIGHTEEN

WE FOLLOW THE TEAM’S TRACKS,
but they are disguised by windblown snow, filled in, and often difficult to see. We end up having to obsessively right our course. The air in the car grows warm and thick. It’s making me sleepy, but Bree’s pace is so aggressive I keep getting jerked awake each time my eyelids drift shut.

It is midday when we spot dark silhouettes on the horizon.

“The Order?”

“Don’t think so,” Bree says, her lips pressing into a smile. “There’re six of them. And look at that one on the end, being dragged. That has to be the Forgery. It’s them, Gray!”

She throws a palm against the steering wheel, which makes the vehicle cry like a goose. As we slide over the snowy ground, I roll down the window and hang half my torso out. Bree is laughing and I’m shouting like an idiot at the ants on the horizon, one arm clinging to the inside of the car, the other waving frantically. The wind tears at my face. My eyes start streaming. Soon they are no longer minuscule shadows, but figures with recognizable features. They are all there: Xavier, Bo, Sammy, Clipper, the Forgery. And Emma. Emma with her hair whipping in the wind and sprinting toward the car to meet me. Emma who’s dropping her bag so she can run faster.

Bree brakes and the car skids sideways in the shallow snow. I duck back inside, throw open the door. Emma’s so close, and then she’s in my arms, her body colliding with mine, and I’m hugging her, kissing the top of her head.

“I thought you . . .” She looks up at me, amazed, relieved. I hear the others arriving, their feet crunching in the snow. Someone is greeting Bree, hands are being clasped, but I can see only Emma, her eyes wide and cavernous, so large I lose myself in them.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “About Craw, about everything. I’m so—”

“I know. And I’m over it.”

She looks doubtful.

“I was furious, Emma,” I admit. “Really,
really
furious. I felt so betrayed, so sick at the thought of you with him, and the anger was the only thing that helped me feel better. I
needed
the grudge. But then the Forged version of Blaine almost killed you, I nearly drowned on that ship, and now I just want to put it all behind us while we still have the chance. Please? Right now. Let’s forget everything that happened before.”

“But I don’t want to forget it,” she says. “Not the birds, or the day you taught me to shoot an arrow, or climbing the Wall, or how it felt to see your car crest that hill.”

I can’t help smiling, because I don’t want to lose those memories either. “Fine. Only the bad moments. The mistakes. Let’s forget the mistakes and move on.”

She nods, buries her face in my chest. I hug her tighter. And then, in the back of my mind, a worry blooms. If Craw is the mistake Emma must forget, is Bree mine?

But Bree wasn’t a mistake. Bree was
never
a mistake. I know it. I can feel it in my gut.

Which is why it is all so confusing. Because this, right here, is what I’ve wanted since I was a child: Emma. After so many missteps and grudges and errors, we might finally be able to set things right, and I’m happy at the prospect, so mind-numbingly happy, that I can’t understand how it is possible to be simultaneously sad.

Bree and I ditch the Order uniforms and change into extra clothes from our gear bags, which the team thankfully chose to hold on to even when they assumed we were dead. Xavier explains how the lifeboat got them safely to shore, where they then headed into the trees for cover.

“We heard someone stumbling toward us. Thought it might be the Order, but it turned out to be Sammy. He was blue. Could barely walk. We started a fire but he was shaking so badly we practically had to undress him ourselves before we could get him warm again.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Bree says, and then she drops her head as if the memory of her own struggles last night embarrasses her. Sammy puts an arm protectively around Emma’s shoulders and glares between me and Bree, eyes narrowed. I feel like he’s hearing words that haven’t been spoken.

It’s quiet for a moment and when Bo speaks, my entire being tightens up.

“Owen?” he asks.

I swallow, look at my boots.

“He’s not with us, and he’s not with them, so where do you think that puts him?” the Forgery says.

My fist flies. I hear Jackson’s nose crack, he falls into the snow, and then I’m grabbing the handgun from Bree. I point it at the Forgery, livid, possessed.

“My father is dead because of you!” I yell. The weapon quivers from how hard I’m squeezing it. “You called that Order ship and now he’s dead!”

“Your ship was singled out because you left Bone Harbor suspiciously early,” he responds. “You brought this upon yourself.”

“You worthless, lying—”

“We had a deal! My safety for entry to the Outer Ring. If I’m going to betray you it will be after that deal is complete, not on a boat where I have nowhere to run.”

I press the gun against his forehead and his face washes over with shock. “Tell me why I shouldn’t do it. Give me one good reason.”

Nothing. No pleading. No begging. No words of defense.