“I don’t think we should discount anything. Even in a crisis, you know how to keep your head and pay attention to details. We’ll discuss it more when you feel stronger. For now, I’m just grateful that you’re getting better. I don’t ever want to come so close to losing you again.” He holds my gaze for a moment, and I can see the uncertainty growing in his eyes as I fail to respond.
I can’t bear to tell him that a part of me wishes I wasn’t going to get better. That I could join Sylph, Oliver, and Dad and find peace.
“Rachel? Is something—”
“I’m tired.” My voice sounds too abrupt, and I make an attempt to soften it. To smile a little, because he needs it. “I’ll be okay. I’m just so tired.”
He leans forward and kisses me gently. “I need to make the rounds now and check on some things. Nola and a few of the others are working our medical rooms in shifts, but the woman you just met is Elim. She’s the Lankenshire nurse in charge of this wing of the hospital. If you need something, just call out. Someone will hear you.”
I nod.
“I love you,” he says as he leaves. His voice is distant, as if a host of worst case scenarios are begging for his attention and somehow one of those makes him wonder if loving me is still worth it.
I can’t blame him. I’m broken in ways I have no strength to fix, and even though he doesn’t know the cause, he feels the results. The cost of my choice to push my pain away from me lies between us like a mountain neither of us knows how to climb.
“Pain. It teaches us that we’re alive. Don’t you feel alive?”
The killer’s voice echoes inside my head as I slowly pull my right arm onto my lap. I don’t feel alive. I feel like a shell walking around with something else beneath my skin. I can’t access the pain that sliced my heart to ribbons, but maybe I don’t need to. Maybe any pain will give me relief from the terrible void that lives within me.
Slowly, I unwind the bandage that covers my burned arm until the final, sticky layer peels away. I stare at the jagged line of blackened, split flesh that stretches from my inner elbow nearly to my wrist. The damaged skin is several layers deep, and beneath it, where fresh skin is trying to grow, thin pearls of blood glisten.
Maybe the killer told the truth. Maybe pain, any pain, makes us feel alive.
I grit my teeth and reach forward with my left hand until my fingers find the broken seam along my forearm. And then I press down, as hard as I can, and do my best to prove the killer right.
Chapter Forty-Seven
LOGAN
I lean against the wall outside Rachel’s room for a long moment, eyes closed, my body vibrating with the need to fix it. Fix whatever is eating at Rachel that keeps her from letting me in. Fix the fact that we’ve been in Lankenshire for three days, and I’m no closer to figuring out which of my people is working with Rowansmark.
I can’t fix either problem without more information, and I have no way of getting that at the moment. I can, however, keep working on backup plans in case the triumvirate turns down my petition for an alliance.
One backup plan involves making sure I no longer have the Rowansmark tech on my body, and that it’s hidden where no one, not even the traitor in our midst, will think to look. To accomplish that, I need help.
I find Willow on the roof of the hospital, crouched beside the slim silver rail that circles the building. She slowly scans the glittering city streets below, and I close the door softly behind me before joining her.
“No trouble walking across this rooftop?” she asks as I approach.
“Why would I have trouble?”
She laughs. “Last time you were on a rooftop, I thought we’d have to pry your hands off the railing with the point of a sword and carry you back to safety.”
I make an effort to sound as dignified as possible. “That building was clearly an unsafe height. Not to mention that it had been abandoned for fifty years. And the kudzu covering it could’ve compromised the stability of the structure.”
“Whatever you say.” She tosses a quick wink at me and looks back at the street.
I crouch beside her and follow her gaze. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
“I came out here because the hospital smells like sick people and because I don’t like being inside. But I stayed up here because I think something’s wrong inside Lankenshire.” She holds herself very still as she examines the street below us.
The flash of a man in a green-and-brown uniform moving through the hospital lobby rises in my memory, and I lean a little closer to the rail. The hospital is located halfway up a hill that rises just outside the main business hub of the city. From the roof, we can see a significant slice of the streets and buildings below us.
For a few minutes, we watch people move through the streets. Some stop to chat with a friend. Some hurry from one location to another. Some simply wander outside their place of business, look around, and go back in.
“Do you see it?” Willow asks as yet another shopkeeper steps out of her door, looks quickly up and down the street, and then lifts her gaze to study the buildings around hers.
“I see it.” The people who stop to chat cast frequent glances at the rooflines around them, and put their heads close together when they talk. The ones who walk alone move like they don’t want to be caught out in the open. And the shopkeepers seem far more interested in what’s going on in other shops than in their own. The sanctuary I thought I’d gained for my people suddenly feels like a rock precariously balanced on the edge of a slippery cliff. “They’re scared of something. Any idea what’s making them so nervous?”
“Not yet. But I can go walk the streets and see if I can figure it out.” She moves to stand, and I place my hand on her arm to stop her.
“Actually, I was hoping you could do me a favor.”
“Need help walking back to the door?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re hilarious. No, I need to hide the Rowansmark device before either Lankenshire or the killer tries to steal it or coerce me into giving it up.”
She cranes her neck and looks at the streets again. “Not sure I’d hide it anywhere inside this city.”
“I don’t plan to. I need someone to take it into the Wasteland and hide it.”
“I’m your girl.” She reaches for the device as I pull it out from under my tunic. I hold on to it, and she looks at me.
“Willow, if things go badly for us here and Rowansmark figures out I gave it to you to hide, they’ll torture you until you give up the location. I know I’m putting you in danger, and I don’t ask it of you lightly.”
Her smile makes me shiver. “I don’t break easily.”
“I know. I’m asking you to do this because you’re smart, strong, and more than a little scary. And because you’re one of the few people left whom I can trust completely.” I wrap the device in a length of cloth I took from one of the hospital’s supply closets. “You’ll be seen if you try to leave through the main gate. There might be another way out of the city if—”
“Already found it.” She starts toward the door, her long, dark braid swinging against her back.
“You already . . . when?” I follow her.
“I told you. The hospital stinks, and I don’t like to stay inside. I’ve already explored most of the city.” The door closes behind us, and she lowers her voice. “There’s a cave underneath Lankenshire. It’s a huge system of tunnels and caverns. I can get out that way.”
“Be safe.” I wrap an arm around her waist for a moment, and she stares at me like I’ve aimed an arrow at her face.
“We aren’t the hugging type,” she says, though she doesn’t pull away.
“Maybe not.” I smile. “But I wanted you to remember that someone besides Quinn cares about what happens to you.”
One corner of her lip tugs upward, as if trying to smile. “Save the mushy stuff for Rachel. Just keep Quinn safe until I get back.”
Without another word, she heads down the stairs, the de
vice hidden beneath her tunic.
With one backup plan in motion, it’s time for me to address the second. If Lankenshire doesn’t accept my offer of an alliance, or if whatever has the citizens so nervous makes staying here unwise, I need to have a travel route to the next city-state ready. To do that, I need Jeremiah.
Jeremiah spends most of his time on the ground floor of the Museum of Historical Artifacts, which is two blocks south of the hospital. He’s been working with Lankenshire’s head mapmaker, Darius, to complete a detailed map of the entire Wasteland. I’ve yet to meet Darius in person, but Jeremiah comes to dinner every night full of exciting city-state details like the type of quarry stone used for flooring in Brooksworth and the delicate blooming vines specific to Schoensville. Sprinkled in among these details are plenty of “Darius says . . .” and “Darius thinks . . .”
I exit the hospital and quickly travel the two blocks between me and the museum. If the citizens of Lankenshire don’t want to be caught outdoors alone, then neither do I. The museum is a humble square of a building painted blue and white. I pull open the bright blue door and enter a cool, dim interior. A woman with a short cap of brown hair cupping her elegant face points me down a back hallway and tells me to keep walking until I reach the last doorway on the right.
A row of candlelit sconces illuminates a colorful mural along the left side of the hallway. I glance at it as I walk and realize I’m looking at a city that resembles the ruins we left behind two weeks ago, except that this city is in pristine condition. Tall, shiny buildings, elegant bridges stretching over land and water, and splashes of color that give the entire picture an air of movement and life.
I can’t imagine living in a city like that—so many people packed into one place. So many buildings built much taller than they should be.
The next panel shows the Cursed One exploding out of the ground, spewing fire and reducing the vibrant city to a blackened, smoking carcass in just two panels. The ruins remind me of Baalboden.
Reaching out, I trace my fingers along the rough paint strokes while grief aches inside of me. So much loss. So much devastation. How many times will we rebuild only to be torn down again by the creature who lives beneath us?
Moving away from that panel, I pass more scenes of destruction. Fire raging through neighborhoods. Roads collapsing. Constant attacks from the Cursed Ones—sometime three or four surfacing at the same time.
The pictures of destruction disappear and in their place is a group of young men, all in military uniform. At their center, set apart from the rest, stands a young version of Commander Jason Chase. I’d recognize him anywhere, though his face is unscarred in this painting. His chin is tilted up like he welcomes the challenge of saving his world, and his eyes look calm and ready. In his hands, he holds what looks like an incendiary device and a remote trigger.
The next panel shows the Commander leading his team into the bowels of the earth, down the original mine shaft that opened the barrier between those who lived above the earth and the creatures that dwelt at its heart. The bomb is still in his hands. Courage is still on his face.
I reach the second-to-last panel and stop to stare for a long moment. Gone is the courage, the calm. Instead, the team is in chaos. A few stand firm, weapons drawn as the lone surviving Cursed One attacks. The rest of the team flee in panic, following the terrified retreat of their leader, whose face is nearly torn in two—as if he got swiped by the Cursed One’s long talons. The Commander climbs the tunnel, the bomb still clutched in his hand, blood flowing over his military uniform, and the fear in his eyes is so sharp, I reach my hand out as if by touching the mural, I can somehow understand what I’m seeing.
Didn’t he detonate the bomb? Didn’t he at least try to remove the threat and save the world? We were raised in Baalboden on stories of the Commander’s heroism in a time when heroes were in short supply.
Apparently, someone else has a different version of events.
The final panel shows the nine remaining team members—those who fled the beast’s lair—standing in a semicircle, surrounded by the destruction of their world. Each of the nine wears an expression of regret and shame, but already the shame on the Commander’s face is hardening into brutal anger, as if daring the survivors to dispute his claim of heroism and pay the consequences.
I wonder if regret over his cowardice still lives somewhere beneath his viciousness. No wonder he refuses to allow anyone to contradict him. No wonder he needs absolute power like the rest of us need air. Without it, he’s just a man who dressed up like a hero only to discover he was a coward at heart.
The conference room is an elegant oval with a huge slab of cherry wood polished to a gleam and surrounded by chairs. Jeremiah is ensconced at the table, a plethora of parchment and quills spread out in front of him, while beside him a short, thin man who resembles a toothpick with a shock of red hair growing wild carefully pens a line on a piece of parchment.
“Mind if I interrupt?” I ask as I step into the room and close the door behind me. It’s easy to make my voice sound calm and confident. It’s much harder to banish the sight of the Commander’s cowardice and its larger implications for our world from my mind.
“Come in, come in.” Jeremiah waves me forward. Darius keeps his eyes on his parchment, his lip caught between his teeth as he concentrates. “I’ve been mapping out what I remember of the northern territory back before Brooksworth refused to allow the Commander to visit. It’s been, what, two decades? My memories of this area are hazy, but Darius was able to fill in the details.” Jeremiah holds up two sheets of parchment as if to show me his progress.
“How’s your progress on Hodenswald and Chelmingford?” I ask. “I need detailed maps to all of the northern city-states.”
“Planning on leaving us so soon?” Darius asks. Setting his quill carefully on its blotter, he looks up at me.
“Darius Griffin, meet our leader, Logan McEntire,” Jeremiah says.
Darius’s eyes widen. “Logan McEntire? Son of Marcus and Julia McEntire in Rowansmark?”
I stare at him. “No, Logan McEntire from Baalboden.”
He slowly rises from his chair, his eyes never leaving my face. “Oh, I have no doubt you’re from Baalboden now. But we both know you were born in Rowansmark.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
LOGAN
“We both know you were born in Rowansmark.” Darius’s words linger in the air between us, and I frown. “You’re mistaken. Now about Hodenswald and Chelmingford—”
“It’s uncanny,” Darius says, leaning forward as if he wants a closer look at me. “You have Marcus’s eyes, but everything else looks like Julia.”
“I don’t think you heard me.” I take a step back as Darius comes around the table. “I’m from Baalboden.”
He stops a yard from me and slowly sizes me up. “How old are you?”
I’m getting very impatient with this whole thing. “Nineteen. Now about the maps—”
“It has to be him.” He turns to Jeremiah, who looks as confused as I feel. “He looks like Julia, he has the same name, and he’s nineteen. Why didn’t you tell me you knew the lost McEntire boy?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jeremiah says, but now he’s examining my face like it’s the first time he’s seen it.
“That makes two of us,” I say.
“You really don’t know, do you?” Darius asks.
I stare him down. “I know exactly who I am. You’re the one who seems to be having difficulty.”
“I just thought . . . I didn’t realize it would be kept a secret from you.” Darius frowns at Jeremiah, who just keeps staring at me. “I lived in Rowansmark for a five-year scholarship exchange when I was fifteen. I was apprenticed to various scholars within the Rowansmark government so that our city-states could share knowledge and culture with each other. I remember the McEntire incident like it was yesterday.”
Jeremiah slowly shakes his head, but I don’t like the expression in hi
s pale green eyes. It’s a cross between dread and worry, and a finger of unease skates up my spine.
“What McEntire incident?” I ask.
“Commander Chase from Baalboden was in town for his annual state visit, and things were already tense because he and James Rowan didn’t like each other much. There were areas of the Division for Technological Advancement that literally went into a lockdown while the Commander was visiting because James Rowan was afraid of spies and treason. A day after the Baalboden people left, it was reported that Marcus McEntire’s newborn son had disappeared. Marcus claimed that the boy died, but he couldn’t produce a body. Said he’d already buried the boy. Everyone suspected that the Commander took the baby as a way to gain access to the Division for Technological Advancement, since Marcus ran the entire operation. But when years passed and nothing happened, people forgot about it or decided maybe Marcus was telling the truth. Maybe little Logan died.”
I look at Jeremiah. “This is a coincidence. I was born and raised in Baalboden. My father died before I was born. Tell him.”
He takes a deep breath and says, “I can see the resemblance, but as far as I know Logan is right—he’s from Baalboden.”
Darius snorts. “Look at his eyes. Those are Marcus’s eyes, and you know it. He’s the right age, has the right name, and is the spitting image of his mother except for having his father’s eyes. I don’t believe in coincidences.” He turns to me. “Who raised you?”
The world tilts beneath my feet, and I grab the back of the nearest chair to steady myself. “My mother. She told me my father died. She was already pregnant, and he died. She wasn’t a liar.”
“She wasn’t your mother, either.” Darius shakes his head, and I can’t tear my gaze away from his shock of red hair, which quivers with his every movement.