Stolen (2 page)

Bree had called the place home ever since her mother passed and Lock’s mother, Chelsea, insisted that no eight-year-old should grow up alone. Bree’s old home stood empty on the edge of the village, its roof buckling, its dirt floor cold. She visited it often, just in case the ghost of her mother was lonely. (She wasn’t. An empty house is an empty house.)

Inside, Bree could hear Lock arguing with Sparrow, the village healer. She pushed her way through the curious crowd, buckets still in hand, and ducked into the one-room home. The air was heavy. Bunches of seaweed hung drying from the rafters. Chelsea had left a half-woven basket on the dining table. A first for her. She never set aside her weaving uncompleted. Ness, Lock, Chelsea, and Sparrow were huddled around one of the four beds on the opposite end of the room.

“What’s going on?” Bree asked, setting down the fish.

Ness twisted to glare. Lock’s eyes were heavy. Sparrow moved, and Bree saw.

Heath.

His breathing was panicked, his skin caked in sweat. A wooden spike skewered his left leg, just above the knee.

The noise that escaped Bree was more animal than human. She knew how this had happened.

It was her fault.

Her trap.

BREE’S MOTHER HAD BEEN THE best storyteller in all of Saltwater. People would gather around the fire when she told tales, the tone of her voice and the crackle of burning wood equally addicting. She could make the imaginary real, the impossible plausible. Bree didn’t know how she did it, but her mother weaved magic with words.

There was a certain tale she recounted most often. On an island very much like their own, villagers faced a hard summer. The sun was strong and the sea unyielding. No matter the number of lines cast or nets hauled, no fish could be summoned for the tables. Desperate, the young men of the village set out to hunt the herons that frequented the shorelines, but were stopped by a girl named Hope. She was on the brink of womanhood, her frame just starting to soften, with eyes so wide everyone assumed she could see the future.

“Don’t kill them,” Hope warned. “The herons feed on the fish as we do. If we spare them, they will lead us to new food.”

And so the village watched the herons for nearly a week, their stomachs growling as they ate only grass from the ocean and greens from the earth. When the birds fled across the ocean, flying to wherever better food could be found, the people turned on Hope. They claimed she’d misled them, and called for her death. She was tied to a pole in town, but before a flame could be brought to the dry leaves surrounding her, a single heron flew over the village. Following the bird into the heart of their island, the people found a small lake. There, a massive creature emerged from the woods and wandered into the shallows. It jumped logs as nimbly as a rabbit, but sprouted branches from its head like a tree. The villagers brought it down with their spears and though everyone ate until full, there was still meat to spare for days to come.

Bree knew this tale was her mother’s invention. But a beautiful story can make fantasy preferable to reality, and a piece of Bree wished it were true. The herons became her favorite—graceful birds that promised hope and bounty—and if Saltwater was home to herons, why not also this mythical animal that could feed everyone in the village?

Lock used to help Bree hunt for the creature. After Bree’s ma died and the two began sharing a roof, it became their game, a distraction from the pain of Bree’s loss. They’d look for the creature’s prints in the forest. They’d throw spears at fallen trees for target practice. Lock theorized about the creature’s weight, and Bree proposed an inground trap—one fashioned so the animal could wander right into their grasp. After digging, they’d lined the belly of the pit with sharpened tree limbs, then covered the opening with weak boughs and foliage.

They caught nothing. Childhood had fled them, along with the boldness to believe such colorful tales. By the time Lock was fourteen (Bree, twelve), they’d given up on the creature entirely. Lock had suggested they dismantle the trap, and Bree hadn’t had it in her. It was one thing to not believe, another to declare it so openly. She’d argued to let the trap fall to the wear of the seasons, and that had been the last she’d thought of it.

Until today.

With Heath.

She could picture it clearly, the boy wandering into the trees to escape the heat of the day. Chelsea was likely busy weaving and didn’t see him leave. Or maybe she was too preoccupied to really care. Heath’s fever had been light when Bree kissed his forehead earlier that morning. For him, it was a good day, a chance for Chelsea to breathe a little easier and set down her stress.

Heath wouldn’t have noticed the trap—the subtle variations in the ground, the way leaves and grass lay scattered over crisscrossed branches. Not with his terrible vision. He’d likely walked right over the trap and it snapped under his weight.

It could have been worse
, Bree thought.

Horrible, but true. The spear could have impaled his stomach, vital organs. But it only got his leg.

“We have to pull it out,” Sparrow said.

“But the bleeding,” Chelsea argued.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Lock,” Bree muttered. Her voice was so soft, so uncertain, it came out a whisper. “Lock, I am so sorry.”

He kept his eyes on Heath, one hand clutched around his brother’s small fingers, the other brushing sweaty hair from his eyes. They looked so alike despite the difference in years, difference in fathers, even. They’d inherited everything from Chelsea. The same green eyes, as brilliant as seaweed. Same dark, shaggy hair.

“Lock,” Bree said again, more firmly this time.

Ness wheeled on her. “This island’s got fish. And plenty of birds and rodents and even a few rabbits. Nothing needs a trap that size.”

So Lock had already spoken of the trap in Bree’s absence, explained the origin of the spike. There was no other explanation for why Ness would know of it.

“It was an accident,” Bree insisted.

“All you’ve managed to do is hunt our own people!”

“Ness, quit it,” Lock said.

“Heath’s speared straight through the leg on account of—”

“It’s not her fault!” he snapped.

Chelsea and Sparrow hovered around Heath, muttering over how they should remove the spike, control the bleeding. Sparrow’s eldest son, Cricket, appeared with bandages in hand. He was barely Heath’s age, and yet he could patch up wounds nearly as well as Sparrow.

Ness kept a hand on Lock’s shoulder. Heath continued gasping for air.

“What can I do?” Bree asked, feeling completely useless. Feeling horrible.

No one answered.

Sparrow took the spike in her grasp. Cricket stood ready with clean rags.

“I’ll do anything,” Bree said. “Just tell me what—”

“You can leave,” Lock said. “And you, Ness.” The pain poured off him like a tangible thing, flooding the hut. The skin around his eyes crinkled. The corners of his lips turned down.

“But I should be here,” Bree insisted. “Heath’s like a brother to me, and—”

Lock jumped to his feet. “Are you
trying
to make me furious?”

She took a step away.

“Don’t act like he’s your brother, Bree. Don’t for a second act like you know how I feel.”

Retorts raged in her head. If it were any other situation she’d tell him to pull his head out of his ass, to apologize to her right that instant. That’s how they were, Lock and Bree, always honest, always keeping the other in line.

But he didn’t mean it, those words. Bree knew he didn’t. He was distraught. And Heath . . . If Heath . . .

“Lock . . .”

“Go,” he snarled. “Go destroy that trap before someone else gets hurt from our stupid games.”

Bree turned and fled. The crowd had overheard everything and they were a flurry around her.
Her trap
, they whispered.
She’s responsible
. As if Lock had never helped Bree construct it. As if she had pushed Heath into the pit with her own two hands.

A scream ripped the afternoon. The spike had been pulled.

“Will he make it?” Maggie asked, grabbing Bree’s wrist. “How bad is it?”

“If you have a decent bone in your body, you’ll clear out and go home.” She shook her arm free, then turned on the rest of the villagers. “That goes for all of you! Give them space.”

As Bree broke into a run, tearing for the thick trees, the crowd’s murmurs tailed her.

She’s one to talk . . . her fault . . . mad as Mia.

BREE RAN UNTIL SHE REACHED the trap, then dropped to her knees beside the snapped boughs. Heath had been barely two steps onto the covering. The rest of the trap looked untouched; grass and leaves unruffled, a good portion of the spiked belly still hidden from view.

What had he been doing out this far, halfway to Crest? He’d made this trip only once before, at least that Bree knew of. A few months back, Lock hit a lucky break fishing and was pulling out catch faster than Bree could throw her spear. Being around him had been unbearable, and she’d left to check her inland snares, happy for some time alone. Heath had tagged along. Bree gave him her spare knife and taught him how to skin and gut rabbit. He was good at it, his blade precise. Amazing how coordinated he was with things he could see.

“How come you don’t call Ma ‘Ma’?” he’d asked, pulling the hide off a rabbit with a quick snap of his wrists.

“She’s not my mother.”

“I know. But she acts like it.”

Bree wiped her blade clean on her pant leg. She was grateful to have grown up with what felt like family, but it didn’t make Chelsea her mother. As far as she was concerned, the woman had never been outwardly maternal. What sort of mother doesn’t prepare a girl for what’s coming as she approaches womanhood? Bree had thought she was dying that first day she bled. It was Ness who’d explained things to her. Ness, two years older than Bree, not Chelsea.

“How old was I again?” Heath had asked. “When your ma died and you came to live with us?”

“You were still a toddler—had just turned two—and you were
fat
.” He’d shot her a skeptical look. “I know it’s impossible to imagine, but you were. You had so many chins I thought you were neckless.”

He giggled. “Now I’m a string bean.”

Just like every other kid in Saltwater. A diet of fish and greens took care of baby fat quickly. And even when boys started filling out again—like Lock—the muscles were lean ropes. Bree was filling out, too. Not as curvy as Ness and some of the older girls, but she wasn’t all sharp hip bones and ribs anymore, either. Another thing Chelsea had never prepared her for.

“Well no matter what you think of Ma, I think of you as my sister,” Heath said.

Had Lock declared the same thing, the disappointment would have been overwhelming. But with Heath, everything was easy. Bree had smiled, because it was exactly what she wanted—for him to look at her that way. To be a sibling and a shield, a sister dedicated to keeping him safe.

And today she’d ruined everything.

Her stupid trap. Stupid fables.

Bree slid into the pit and grabbed the nearest spike. She heaved, pulled, but even after sitting unattended for several years, it was well secured. She resorted to kicking, and eventually knocked the spike free. Then she moved on to the others, toppling them each in turn, until the belly of the trap was filled with uprooted spikes and Bree was gasping for air. She brushed sweat from her eyes and looked up, only then realizing her mistake. She was surrounded by steep dirt walls, with no means of getting out. Bree jumped, trying to grab the woven branches supporting the overhead foliage, and came up empty. She was short, small. Always had been. Not that it mattered. If she managed to grab anything, it would likely snap from her weight.

Bree slumped to the floor. Maybe no one would come for her. Maybe she’d starve to death in the base of her own trap. It would be a fitting punishment.

Damn, she was stupid.

It was much later, when her stomach was growling, that she heard footsteps. The crunch of twiggy brush, the swish of feet through grass.

“Bree?” Lock came into view a moment later, peering down at her. “What the—? Come on. It’s time to eat.” He looked drained, like he’d run to Crest and back. Dark circles bloomed beneath his eyes.

“Heath?” she asked.

“Still breathing. Sparrow got the bleeding to slow, and he’s bandaged up now.”

“I’m so sorry, Lock. I’m so damn—”

“It was an accident, not your fault. Now get out of the trap.”

“I would if I could.”

He smiled then. An actual smile. “Well, isn’t this something.” He stared down at her, hands on his hips. “This from the girl who made fun of me last week when I got stuck up a tree.”

“I told you those branches were going to snap. You brought that upon yourself.”

“And you didn’t with this—jumping into a trap without running a vine in first?”

She scowled. “Are you going to help me out or not?”

He disappeared, and came back with a fallen tree limb, which he extended into the pit.

“Thanks,” she mumbled after he heaved her out.

Lock plucked a piece of bark from Bree’s hair and tossed it aside. “Don’t mention it.”

Bree pulled the rest of the boughs off the trap. She cleared away the packed moss and earth that made it so deceiving, lugged aside the stitched branch-work so no one else would mistake their footing. Lock watched her, silent. When she straightened, he looked sad again.

“Are you sure Heath’s okay?” she asked.

“For now. Hey, Bree? I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier.”

“I’m sorry about the trap, the spike, everything.”

“You already apologized. Are you listening?
I’m
sorry. Heath’s healing and it’s over and done, and I shouldn’t have sent you off. Heath would have wanted you there.
I
wanted you there.”

He looked wounded, and it broke Bree’s heart. She threw her arms around his middle and pressed her cheek to his chest. He returned the hug, and when they stepped apart, Bree thought he might be looking at her differently.

“Do you still need help patching the roof?” she asked.