The Deadly Nightshade (12 page)

Chapter 25

I am forced to hand over my knife belt and handguns to the young man—who I assume is in command—while Connor relinquishes Angelica’s knife, his revolver, his rifle, and the black machete that got us into this mess to a middle-aged man with greasy brown hair and a ragged, graying beard. When he has tossed my belt over his shoulder and placed my guns on his hips, the group’s leader gestures toward my swords, beckoning me to give them up.

“When I said all your weapons, I meant
all
your weapons,” he says.

“You don’t want to touch these,” I warn him. “People who do tend not to live very long.”

Unamused and growing impatient, he demands I hand him the swords, and, having no other choice, I reluctantly allow him to take them. When they are in his custody, he grabs one by the hilt and pulls it halfway out of its sheath to examine it, prompting me to almost lose my shit, but he places it right back and hands them to the other man, who slings them both over his shoulder. I glower at both of them, hoping whatever curse is on those katanas comes to bite them in the ass.

After Connor and I are stripped of our weapons and our bags have been searched, we are patted down twice, warned again not to try anything we’ll regret, and herded away like cattle. Though they do not tell us where we are going, I can only assume they are taking us back to their camp. None of them offer to help carry my injured companion. In fact, they seem almost afraid to get too close to us—we are made to walk inside of the circle they have formed around us and kept at a rifle’s length away.

We walk about a quarter of a mile in absolute silence. The only things keeping me from fighting for my life right now are the knowledge that I probably won’t win coupled with the fact that they haven’t tried to kill us yet, which means that might not be their intention, though it is still too early to know for sure. If they
are
taking us back to their camp, there is no telling what will become of us there.

Finally, I see it, a large black gate standing firmly between looming walls of gray brick. Thick leaves of ivy—which either conveniently grow upon the walls or have been placed there intentionally to conceal them—shield most of it from view, but the part that remains unhidden appears well-maintained and virtually unaffected by the War. As we get closer, I am able to read the large golden letters on the gate: Sweetbriar Housing Community. I have to admit, I’m impressed. This is the most strategically located, well-camouflaged camp I have ever seen belonging to a gang—not that I’ve seen many.

When we reach the gate, the man leading the group shouts to someone on the other side to open it. For a minute, the other person seems hesitant—he has probably spotted Connor and I and is wondering what we’re doing here—but with further insistence from the authoritative young man, the gate is finally opened. A man and a woman, both armed, stand guard at the entrance. They eye us with suspicion as we are led into the camp by our new friends and shut the gate behind us, sealing us into this unknown place with these unknown people. We are prisoners now, and there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.

“Where are we going?” I ask, tired of not knowing what is to become of us.

“To see Reina,” answers the young man. “She’ll decide what we’re going to do with you.”

What we’re going to do with you.
His words make it sound like we are pigs going to slaughter. Maybe we are. Maybe I should have taken my chances in a fight, but I can’t see us being in a better place if I had.

The inside of the camp proves to be larger than I had imagined. Within the ivy-strewn stone walls, dozens of matching, gray two-story houses with black roofs and shutters and white doors and window panes sit in even lines, spaced about twenty feet apart from one another. The uniformity is astounding; it would be impossible to tell one residence from another if it were not for the small hand-painted signs that hang from some of the doors reading, “Clinic” or “Bakery” or “School.” Small trees with bare branches grow in the grassy space between the sidewalk and the cobblestone road, and the last of autumn’s dead leaves sit in neat piles on the edge of each lawn. Most astonishing of all are the people, who walk about with their gloved hands tucked into the pockets of their coats and scarves wrapped around their necks, without even so much as a knife or a gun on their hip. It is as if I am looking at a picture of the past, of the way the world was before the War, and if it were not for the guns at my back I would think I had been sucked backwards in time.

As we walk, passersby on the street gawk at us as if we are some new species of animal they have never seen before. Soon, a dozen or more people have poured out of their homes to see what their friends have captured. They point and murmur and scowl as we are paraded through the commotion toward a distinctive white house much, much larger than all the others. Upon reaching the mansion, we are shepherded inside.

Our escorts usher us into a lavishly decorated room the likes of which I have never seen before and probably will never see again. As I step across the threshold, my dirt- and blood-bestrewn boots sink into the plush red carpet that lines the floor, lending an unfamiliar sensation that is nothing like the feeling of earth underfoot that I am so accustomed to. Red silk drapes the same dark hue as the carpet adorn the windows, standing in stark contrast to the vibrant shade of gold upon the walls, which are decorated here and there with framed artwork of varying abstractness. Several pieces of dark mahogany furniture and a few ivory-colored chaises fill the room with depth, and an elaborate crystal chandelier dangles from the vaulted ceiling. On the opposite side of the room from where we stand, a fire roars inside a white brick fireplace, lending warmth and the delicious scent of burning wood, and a white marble staircase spirals up to the second floor.

“Give me a moment,” the young man says to his companions. “I’m going to let her know what we’ve brought. Watch them.”

With that, he hurries up the winding staircase and disappears. One of our three guards, the blonde, asks us to sit down in a tone that doesn’t sound like a request, so I place Connor in one of the mahogany chairs and take a seat on the ivory sofa nearest him. The five of us watch the staircase unflinchingly for several minutes, waiting for this Reina woman, who I assume to be the leader of this community—I say community instead of gang because I’m not completely sure
what
they are; I have never seen anything like this group in my life—but nobody comes down.

“What do you think is gonna happen to us?” Connor asks me in a whisper.

“I don’t know. Let’s just hope for the best.”

“I think if they were gonna kill us they would’ve done it by now, don’t you?”

“Yeah, you’re probably right, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

The words have barely escaped my mouth when the sound of footsteps directs my attention back to the stairs. Two red heels saunter down the steps, giving way to long dark legs, then a curvy torso clad in a tight crimson dress, and finally a head. The woman does not look in our direction as she descends, but no one in the room can help but watch her in all her grace and elegance. Her face is not a pretty one—no, pretty is not the word to describe her; pretty would be an insult—but her firm jaw and hard features give her a look of haughty indifference, which, when used by a cunning woman, can be a force of attraction all its own. Long, black spiral curls bounce gently against her bare shoulders, too perfectly formed to be natural. Her large brown eyes, which are decorated with shimmering brown shadow a shade darker than her complexion and winged black eyeliner, stare straight ahead, as if she is above everyone else in her presence and will not deign to even look at us. And her jewelry—never have I seen so many precious things adorning one person—dangling gold earrings studded with large diamonds, half a dozen pearl necklaces, ruby bracelets, and gold rings on almost every finger. She looks more like a pirate than a gang leader.

As the woman reaches the last step, she turns and finally decides we are worthy to set her gaze upon. She stares at Connor first, but not for long. When she has found him of no particular interest, her eyes rest on me. Her thick lips, stained with dark red lipstick, purse slightly as she looks me up and down, and her well-maintained eyebrows twitch infinitesimally. I do not like this look. But it is gone in an instant—a smile quickly forces its way onto her face before I can give the previous expression much thought.

“Welcome, both of you,” she purrs, speaking in a voice as embellished as the room we stand in. There is a trace of a Hispanic accent in it. “My name is Reina. As I am sure Nate has told you, I am the one in charge here in Sweetbriar.” The young man from before stands beside her, nodding. I didn’t even notice him come down, too distracted by this woman’s grand entrance. “Tell me, what are your names?”

“Nightshade. Connor,” I say, gesturing with my thumb to each of us in turn.

She smiles that strained smile again. “It is very nice to meet you both. Now Nate has told me he found you wandering around not too far outside of our walls. Can I ask what you were doing there?”

Connor opens his mouth to speak, but I quickly cut him off. This is a delicate situation and I can’t trust him to handle any part of it.

“Just passing through.”

Reina nods at Connor, whose leg has begun to bleed onto her carpet. “I see your friend here is injured. Would you care to recount what happened for us?”

This time Connor answers before I can stop him. “We were ambushed by a gang—uh, another group of people.”

“And this other group, what of them?”

“Dead,” I cut in before he can answer.

She nods thoughtfully, pursing her lips again. “To think, the two of you against an entire group—you are lucky you made it out alive.”

“We know how to take care of ourselves,” I say flatly.

Reina smirks. “Yes, it appears you do.”

Our gazes meet and the sweetness disappears from her eyes. She doesn’t trust me, and I don’t trust her. We stare at each other, two women not in the business of backing down to anyone, each waiting for the other to flinch or look away. Silence ensues for almost a minute before Connor decides to speak again.

“Please, we need your help,” he entreats. “I know we’re strangers to you, but you don’t seem like the type to turn desperate people away. I can’t get anywhere on this leg—Nightshade has had to carry me for the past few miles. We need a place to stay, just long enough to get some of my strength back. It would only be a few days, no more than that. I know you have no reason to help us and it may be asking too much, but—”

“Connor!” I hiss. Then, dropping my voice to a whisper so the others can’t hear, I ask, “What the hell are you’re doing?”

“Look, we don’t have any other choice. If we go back out there then I’m dead. And chances are you’re dead too if we keep moving at the pace we’re going. Our supplies are running low and I’m in no condition to hunt or do anything remotely productive. Do you really think you can feed the both of us on your own? Do you really
want
to? And what if what’s left of Roman’s gang finds us, huh? What then? We need somewhere to stay, Nightshade, at least until I can walk on my own. After that, we can leave. I promise.”

I search for a good reason to object, but he is right—having a safe place to wait until his wound heals is our best chance at survival. Not that I’m even sure I can call this place “safe.” Not yet, anyway.

Reina too has turned to whisper to the man she calls Nate, who I assume to be her second in command. They talk for a few minutes, glancing over at Connor and I every so often. Finally, after some debate, Reina turns to us with that phony smile plastered back on her face.

“We would be happy to help you in any way we can, and if that means welcoming you into our community until Connor’s injury heals, then so be it. Like you said, it would be wrong to turn away someone in need, and we here in Sweetbriar are not that type of people. However, there
is
one slight issue.”

Of course, why wouldn’t there be?

“Everyone in this community is responsible for pulling his own weight in some way or another. In order for us to shelter you both for the time being, Nightshade will have to work. It is only fair. In return for whatever services you provide us, we will provide you with food, the medical attention you seek, a house to stay in, and protection from the outside world. How does that sound?”

It sounds too good to be true to be quite honest, but I’m not exactly in the position to question this woman.

“Alright,” I say. “But what kind of a job are we talking about?”

“Do you have any special skills? Any abilities that might be useful to a small community?”

I shake my head. The only thing I know how to do is kill, but I’m not sure that qualifies.

“She can hunt,” says Connor. “And she can fight. I’ve never seen anyone better.”

Reina’s brown eyes light up immediately. “Is that so? Fantastic, we will put you on our hunting and patrol team then. Do you have any objections to this?”

I shake my head. I have never hunted with anyone besides Connor or my father, but I don’t imagine I will have a problem. After all, we’ll only be setting up some traps and waiting around. How bad could it be?