Apparently taking my silence as doubt, he bumps his knee against mine and says, “Take me, for example. When your dad gave his life for mine, I was devastated. He was a good man, who’d done good things, and he had a daughter depending on him. I was a trained killer who’d managed to get myself and my sister cast out of our village. I promised myself I’d do something to be worthy of that sacrifice. That I’d do what Jared couldn’t do because of me. I promised I’d protect you. I’ll be honest with you—it wasn’t an enjoyable task at first.”
He takes another bite, and I hunch my shoulders, curling in on myself as my body throbs and aches. He wraps a warm hand around my shoulder.
“No, don’t take it like that. I just meant that at first it was a duty. You were Jared’s daughter, therefore whatever happened, I would do my best to make sure you were safe. But somewhere along the way, I started wanting to keep you safe. Not because of Jared, but because you’re my friend. More than a friend, actually. It’s like I gained another sister. And now I’m part of something much bigger than paying a debt to your dad. I’m part of something that matters. And that makes me happy, Rachel. For the first time in . . . well, in longer than I can remember, I’m happy.”
He waves the apple under my nose and says, “Want some?”
I lean over and vomit onto the stairs.
He sits frozen for a second, his hand still wrapped around my shoulder, and then says, “I’ll take that as a no.”
“Told you I’m not okay,” I mumble. My voice sounds far away, and I can’t seem to get warm.
“Oh.” Gently, he wraps his arms around me and lifts me up. “So here I am, talking about healing and happiness, and you just meant you thought you might puke.”
My head falls against his shoulder, and he leans his cheek against my forehead and then swears. “You’re burning up. You need help. Where’s the medical bay?”
“Need a knife.” My lips feel clumsy as I try to form the words.
His voice is urgent. “Rachel, where is the medical bay? I haven’t been outside this room since I boarded the ship. I don’t know my way around. You have to tell me.”
“Got food. Water. Need knife.” I try to make him understand that we have to be ready to escape once we make port, have to have our supplies in hand, but my thoughts feel like half-formed wisps floating in and out of my head like ribbons of fog.
“I’ll get you a weapon. I’ll take care of the food. But you have to tell me where to take you to get you the help you need.”
“Left,” I say. Or I think I say it. I’m not exactly sure if I opened my mouth or not.
He pushes open the door and eases out onto the deck. My skin feels stretched too thin, there’s a furnace in my brain, and the ache in my arm refuses to relent. I consider sinking into the comfort of sleep as Quinn moves slowly toward the next doorway, but a thudding sound behind us jerks me into awareness again.
Trackers. On the stairs. They’ll see us. They’ll see Quinn.
“Put me down and go.” My words run together, and for a moment, he keeps moving. “Put me down. They’ll help me.”
The boots are coming closer. Quinn has seconds to drop me and sprint back to the storage room. Bending swiftly, he lays me on the cold, hard deck and whispers, “If you need me, yell my name. I’ll be there.”
Then he’s gone, and the boots are shaking the deck, and my head fills with tiny white sparks of pain.
“She’s here!” a mustached man yells over his shoulder as he crouches beside me, a torch in his hand. More boots slap the deck, and then Ian and Samuel are crouched down beside me, too.
My vision blurs, and I have to blink several times to bring Ian into focus as he leans over me.
“The watchman went to check on you, and couldn’t find you. Trying to sabotage the boat?” he asks.
My tongue feels too thick to allow me to swallow, much less talk. I cough and reach for my bandaged arm to scratch at the swollen, itchy skin.
“She’s sick.” Samuel places his hand on my forehead. I want to tell him to stop touching me. To leave me alone. But the fire eating away at my brain has taken my words as well. “She’s burning up. Unwrap her arm. Gently, Ian.”
Rough fingers tug at the bandage, and someone gasps.
“Well, that’s ugly,” Ian says.
“That’s infected. If we don’t treat that, she’s going to lose the arm,” the blond man says.
“So let her lose the arm. She likes the idea of sacrificing herself.” Ian’s voice is flat.
“Those streaks of infection are in her blood, and it’s moving up her arm and toward her heart,” Samuel says. “If we don’t stop it, she won’t just lose her arm. She’ll die.”
I want to tell them I’m not going to die. Not here. Not before Ian, James Rowan, and the Commander pay for their crimes. I open my mouth to say so, but my ears are buzzing, and a strange heaviness is pushing me down, pulling me under a blanket of darkness that promises me relief from the pain.
I meet Ian’s cold gaze for one long moment, and then my eyes flutter shut.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LOGAN
“What do you mean, the beacons have already been disabled?” The Commander leans across Lyle Hoden’s breakfast table, gripping his fork like he means to stab me with it. “We were going to do that this morning. We had an agreement.”
I meet his gaze evenly while beside me, Frankie drops the sausage he’d been about to eat and grabs his butter knife instead.
“No, we had a plan,” I say. “A plan whose success depended on no one outside of our inner circle finding out what we were doing. Considering the number of trackers currently roaming the halls of this mansion, I decided it was prudent to—”
“You decided! What gives you the right to decide anything?” Fury fills the Commander’s face.
The Commander’s guards glare at me. Lyle, seated at the head of the table, flanked by Connor and Amarynda, glares at me. Smithson, Adam, Nola, and Drake all set down their forks and pick up their knives. Willow pushes away from the table, her hand on the bow resting against her chair. The Commander looks like he wants to skewer me where I sit.
“The only people who knew about the plan are sitting at this table,” Amarynda says, her voice cool. “If you’re suggesting that one of us would leak news of your intentions to a tracker—”
“Sleeping in my house! Eating my food!” Lyle pounds a fist on the table. “And you dare imply that I’m not trustworthy?”
“Or maybe we aren’t the ones you don’t trust.” Amarynda looks at the guards and then sweeps her eyes over the Commander. “Maybe you expected treachery from your own ranks.”
The Commander looks at me. “I knew better than to trust you. I should’ve cut off your head when I had the chance.” A vein in his neck bulges, and I scramble to think of something noninflammatory to say.
“It was my idea.”
Everyone at the table turns to stare at Connor. He raises a brow and calmly spreads a healthy serving of blackberry jam over his piece of toast before offering the jam to Jodi.
“The trackers have infiltrated your city, Grandfather. It seemed reasonable to expect them to be watching us closely during the daylight. You needed to be above reproach or risk being found in violation of your protection agreement. I asked Logan to assist me, and we accomplished the task. Your beacons are disabled.” He lays his knife against his plate and takes a large bite of his toast.
I’m impressed with his ability to lie with absolute conviction. I’m going to have to keep an eye on him. And keep him on my side.
“Where is the proof that the beacons are disabled?” the Commander asks.
“I did the task myself,” Connor says.
Another lie delivered with flawless confidence.
Connor sets his toast down and smiles at Amarynda. “
Delicious jam, Aunt Mandy. I wish Mother’s cook had your recipe.”
“I want proof.” The Commander’s dark eyes are locked on me. “I want to see the inside of a disabled beacon with my own eyes.”
I bet he does. The sooner he learns his way around the Rowansmark tech, the faster he can betray me.
“Are you calling my grandson a liar?” Lyle’s voice rises. “Because if you are, you can forget about using any of my troops—”
“Keep your voice down,” the Commander snaps. “Do you want to be overheard?” He turns toward Connor. “Why wasn’t I included in this?”
Connor frowns. “We had to jump from rooftop to rooftop in the dark. Forgive me, but I wasn’t certain that would be a safe activity for a man of your age. Rest assured, the task is completed, and we can move on to another city-state. I assume Brooksworth is next on the agenda?”
The Commander slowly sits back in his chair, his expression cold and calculating. “I will say this once, and only once: I am the leader of the forces of Baalboden and Carrington. I don’t care what city you represent, whose grandson you are, or”—he glares at me—“what motives you claim to have, if anyone goes behind my back again, it will be considered treason and therefore punishable by whatever means I see fit.”
“And I will say this once and only once.” Connor’s voice is crisp. “I am an emissary from Lankenshire on official city-state business. I am subject to the laws ratified by all nine city-states, and to the laws of Lankenshire. I am not subject to you. Lankenshire has a stake in the outcome of this operation, therefore I am committed to seeing it through. I will take whatever actions serve our joint cause best. In this case, choosing the youngest team members, members whose loyalties are not tied to the same city-state but instead to the same cause, was the most expedient and safest course of action. If you disagree, feel free to bring it up to the triumvirate when we return to Lankenshire.”
Once again, we all stare at Connor as he calmly takes another bite of his toast.
I suddenly understand very clearly why Clarissa sent Connor. He may not have the wilderness survival skills necessary to trek through the Wasteland alone, and he may not walk into a room and instantly command the kind of attention his mother and sister do, but he understands how to wield his influence at exactly the right times.
Lyle reaches over and pounds Connor’s shoulder. “Well said! It isn’t easy managing a room full of old men and their egos.” He looks at the Commander, whose expression betrays none of his thoughts, and says, “Speaking of old men and their egos, you’d best let me approach Brooksworth. Hank isn’t in his right mind. Hasn’t been for years. Won’t have much to do with any of us, but I have it on good authority he’d shoot you on sight. The older he gets, the more he blames you for Christina.”
The Commander drops his fork to his plate with a clatter and shoves his chair away from the table. “Fine. You approach Hank. I’ll head to Chelmingford. We leave in an hour.” He stalks out of the room.
Connor looks from the Commander’s retreating back to Lyle. “What was that all about? Who’s Christina?”
Lyle picks up his mug of juice. “That’s his story to tell, and if you’re wise, you won’t ask him for it. I think I’ll go ahead and send a messenger ahead of you to Chelmingford, too. Tara Lanning, their leader, is on decent terms with Jason, but given his current frame of mind, it might be best to assure her that he does, indeed, have allies. Now go pack up your things so you can spend a little time with me before you leave.”
An hour later, we stand at Hodenswald’s gate, our travel packs freshly provisioned by Amarynda. A groom brings our horses out to us, and I pat my brown mare on the nose before strapping my travel pack and bag of tech supplies to the back of the saddle. Chelmingford is a five-day journey northeast if we push the horses. I’m anxious to get started. The faster we reach Chelmingford, the faster I can turn south and catch up with Rachel.
Amarynda pushes Lyle’s chair to the gate so he can see us off. Connor rushes forward as they come to a stop, and Amarynda wraps her arms around him and whispers something in his ear. He clings to her for a moment and then gives his grandfather a hug as well.
When Lyle lets him go, I step forward and shake the leader’s hand.
“Thank you for your help,” I say. “You’ll have no more trouble from the beacons.”
“Nor from Sharpe, apparently.” Lyle raises a brow at me. “He was reported missing this morning not ten minutes after someone else reported an unsightly mess of guts and bone all over the street in front of my favorite tailor’s house.”
I hold his gaze. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Of course not.” His smile is sly.
The Commander looms beside me, his face set in a scowl. “We’ve done what we promised, Lyle. Time for you to hold up your end of our bargain.”
Lyle’s smile spreads. “One-quarter of my troops and a diplomatic emissary to Brooksworth to show Hank how to disable his beacons and to beg for armed forces in exchange. Plus, I’ll send an emissary ahead of you to Chelmingford to hasten your discussions there. My courier can travel faster alone than you can with your group.”
“How will your Brooksworth emissary know how to fix the beacons?” the Commander demands, cutting his eyes toward me.
“Connor explained the process to me,” Amarynda says. “I’ll go to Brooksworth myself. If I’m successful, his troops will convene at Lankenshire in one week, along with ours. If he refuses me, then our commanding officer will let you know.”
“Fine.” The Commander and Lyle shake hands, and then the Commander mounts his horse and rides out of the city, the rest of us on his heels. Willow is already outside the gate waiting, having checked the surrounding Wasteland for signs that the trackers on our trail caught up while we were inside Hodenswald.
“We’re clear,” she says. The Commander rides past her without acknowledging her words.
Our horses leave hoofprints across the dew-soaked meadow as we head northeast to Chelmingford. The Commander and Peter take the lead. Gregory and Orion guard our backs. My people are staggered in between. I wait until there’s a sufficient distance between us and the guards and then say to Connor, “You surprised me at breakfast this morning.”
Frankie grins. “For a moment, you reminded me of your mother. I don’t mind saying that woman makes me sit up and pay attention.”
“Yes, I’m well aware that my mother and my sister command everyone’s attention and respect.”
There’s a shadow of bitterness in Connor’s voice that has me looking closely at him as our horses climb over a half-rotten log with wildflowers peeking out of its seams.
“Clarissa and Cassidy can be intimidating, but that isn’t necessarily something to aspire to,” I say.
“Depends upon whom you ask.” Connor’s dark eyes scan the ground, and he carefully maneuvers his horse around a cluster of moss-covered stones that would surely have captured a hoofprint. “I don’t have the ability to make an entire roomful of people sit up and take notice when I enter the way Mom, Aunt Mandy, and Cassidy do, but sometimes the most valuable observations can be made when you’re the kind of person everyone always overlooks. Sometimes when you stay in the background, it lends impact to the moments when you choose to take center stage.”
I smile. “Agreed. I spent years as an outcast in Baalboden. Most people wanted nothing to do with me. Sometimes being invisible gives you the space to sharpen your mind and learn while everyone else is busy running in circles trying to get noticed.”
“And look at you now,” Frankie says. I flinch at the pride in his voice—it’s as if he’s willfully forgotten how many of us died while I was in charge. “The leader of Baalboden’s survivors and a boy who has the respect and trust of the heads of two other city-states.” He leans across me and points a thick finger at Connor. “Just goes to show it doesn’t matter who you are or what you come from. It only matters what choices you make now.”
That’s true f
or Connor, but who I am and what I come from matter immensely. If I hadn’t been born to Marcus and Julia McEntire, the Commander would’ve taken no notice of me, I’d have grown up in Rowansmark, and my brother wouldn’t have been driven to destroy thousands of lives in retaliation for the ruin of his own.
I can make all the right choices now. I can protect the other city-states from Rowansmark’s beacons. I can make alliances and rally an army. I can see that justice finds the Commander and Ian for their crimes. But nothing I do will put Baalboden back together again. Nothing I do will wash away the blood shed by my brother. Maybe that’s not my responsibility, but the survivors I promised to protect became my friends—my family—and they died under my watch. I can’t let that go.
I don’t realize I’ve been ignoring the conversation going on around me until Frankie’s hand squeezes my shoulder.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Just tired.” I make myself smile at him, and then nod toward Orion, who has spurred his horse forward as if hoping to eavesdrop on our conversation. “Mind crowding him until he gets back to his place?”
“With pleasure.” Frankie moves his horse toward Orion, his face set like stone.
“You lied to him.” Connor’s voice is low, but still I glance around to make sure no one overheard.
“What are you talking about?” I ask quietly.
“I observe people. Study their interactions.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t make me a very scintillating conversationalist, and it certainly draws the scorn of those who appreciate a more . . . physical approach to life, but it does have its advantages.”
“I’m sure it does.”
Connor squints as sunlight pierces a gap between the leaves above us. “I know that Frankie volunteers to cook each night so that he won’t have to sit quietly and think about whatever is inside his head. I know that Smithson seems like he’s refusing to talk, but the truth is that he doesn’t know what to say. I also know that the Commander is going to try to kill you sooner rather than later. Willow and Adam are in love, though neither of them is comfortable saying those words. Jodi is driven to prove that she’s fearless, even when she’s terrified—”