“Look at me when you’re on the stage,” I say. “Look at me, no matter what he says. I won’t let him hurt you.”
She nods, but she’s trembling. I don’t know if it’s from anger, trauma, or nerves. Most likely a combination of the three.
By the time we arrive, citizens have filled Center Square. Girls in brilliant jewel-toned dresses cluster together, whispering and giggling as they eye the group of eligible townsmen lined up near the platform, each looking tremendously uncomfortable. The wooden stage, the same one used to carry out Commander-sanctioned executions, is scrubbed clean and draped with red ribbon.
Sylph is here, glowing in her emerald and black dress, her hair somehow tamed into the intricate updo favored by most girls on Claiming day. A quick glance at those assembled shows Rachel is the only one who left her hair unbound. She’s also the only one with a dress cut low enough to attract the notice of every male mingling at the edge of the stage. I see the moment they realize she’s going to be part of the ceremony, and have to stop myself from reaching for my sword just to give them something else to think about.
I wonder which of them will have the nerve to stand up and Claim her. Mitch Patterson? I can’t agree to that. I once saw his left eye twitch for an entire hour. That has to be a sign of mental instability. Wendall Freeman? He can’t hold his liquor. And he tells terrible jokes. Peter Carmine? He’s … I search for the fault I know is there and finally decide he’s too short for her. Too short and too stupid.
I don’t actually have proof that Peter Carmine is stupid, but he looks like he could be, and that’s enough in my book.
Which just goes to show I’m the one who should be worried about mental instability and rampant stupidity. It doesn’t matter who steps forward to Claim her. She isn’t going to be here long enough for them to make good on their offer.
We stick to our plan. Foil the Commander on his own stage. And leave.
I have backup travel bags stashed where the Commander would never think to look, just in case the bags hidden behind the mercantile are inaccessible when we need them. I know where to hide in South Edge and how to block our wristmarks so the guards can’t find us as we figure out a new way across the Wall.
And I have an alternate plan of my own ready for anything the Commander might pull.
We’re as ready as we can be. I step in front of Rachel to block the ogling idiots at the stage, and a bell, sonorous and deep, echoes across the Square. The crowd stirs and whispers as the girls line up to the side of the stage, a bewildering display of color, jewels, and anxious smiles. Sylph sees us, eyes widening at the sight of Rachel in a Claiming dress, and gives a tiny, hesitant wave.
Rachel doesn’t wave back. I’m not sure she even realizes Sylph is there. I don’t think she sees anything but the stage, and the fact that she’ll have to stand next to the Commander while she gives the performance of her life.
The girls begin mounting the stairs, taking dainty steps to avoid tripping over their long skirts. Their Protectors file up the stairs after them. The eligible townsmen yank at their collars as if they’re in danger of choking, and the bell peals three long notes.
The Commander is here.
It’s time.
I pull Rachel to me, inhale the midnight citrus scent of her, and then I let go, and we move to take our place on the stage.
CHAPTER THIRTY
RACHEL
Armed guards enter the Square and fan out, stationing themselves at three-yard intervals along the edges. Behind them, the twelve members of the Brute Squad march through the Square, two by two. The lead pair reaches the stage, halts, and pivots to face each other. Each subsequent pair also stops and faces each other until they’ve formed a tight, citizen-free aisle between them.
Another three long peals from the bell and every guard in the Square snaps his right forearm up to his forehead in a rigid salute. Silence, dense and absolute, falls across the Square as the Commander strides down the aisle toward the stage.
My mouth goes dry, my pulse pounds against my skin, and my vision narrows until all I see is him. I press my arm against my side and feel the outline of my knife sheath beneath my skirt as he approaches the steps.
I’m the last in the line of girls across the stage. As he walks up the steps, he meets my gaze and smiles as if only the two of us exist.
My skin crawls, and something hot and sharp seeps out of my grief and begs for his blood.
I reach for the slit in the side of my skirt, but he’s already past me, greeting the Protectors who stand behind their daughters, and turning to face the assembled crowd.
“No weapons,” Logan breathes against my ear. “Don’t give him a reason.”
He’s right, but I don’t take my hand away from the outline of my knife.
The Commander greets his citizens, says a few words about the honorable tradition of Claiming and how protecting the innocent among us keeps us strong, and gestures toward a girl on his left. Her Protector brings her forward, and a young man steps to the stage to Claim her.
My hands shake, but my thoughts are clear.
The girl’s Protector accepts the young man’s claim and hands over his daughter.
The Commander expects Logan to defy tradition and Claim me even though he’s also my Protector.
The girl places her hand into that of her new Protector and recites her vow of obedience while her mother dabs her eyes and her new Protector looks slightly stunned by his good fortune.
He expects me to turn Logan down and ask to be a ward of the state.
Another girl is called. Another man steps forward. Another vow of obedience.
Another step closer to sealing my fate.
I can’t make this look like I’m defying the Commander’s direct orders. Instead, I have to make it look like I’m just another girl, excited to see her dream of being Claimed come true, while Logan makes it look like he’s clueless about the Commander’s plan. The Commander can’t alter the Claiming ceremony for me in front of all these people without raising serious questions. He’ll have to accept the turn of events, at least publicly. We just need to get out of his reach before he finds an opportunity to deal with us privately.
Sylph’s name is called, and she hurries to center stage, casting one anxious glance my way as she goes.
I don’t know if she’s anxious for me or for herself, but I can’t afford to think about it. Not when I’m about to commit treason while making it look like I have no idea what I’m doing.
Smithson West steps forward to Claim her, but so does Rowan Hughes. The Commander turns the choice over to Sylph’s father as is proper, and he doesn’t even glance at Sylph as he chooses Smithson West. Sylph laughs and hugs her father, before remembering the requirements of decorum and subsiding into respectful silence.
She is repeating her vow when I look up to see the Commander’s fierce dark eyes locked on mine.
I’m next.
The Brute Squad breaks formation and circles the stage. They expect trouble. They expect Logan to draw his sword against the Commander and give them a reason to act.
I’m grateful Logan is prepared to play his part.
I look back at the Commander, at the sly, feral smile twisting his scar as he calls my name, and wish for it to be over quickly. The ribbons behind him glow crimson in the sunlight, and as I walk toward the Commander on legs that feel like saplings in a storm, the poisonous anger within me spreads. Logan walks behind me, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back.
“Rachel Adams, you are here without your true Protector.” The Commander’s voice booms across the Square.
This is the man who shattered my life.
The man who covered me in crimson.
“I am her assigned Protector,” Logan says, his voice calm.
“And are you willing to give answer to any who wish to Claim her?” The Commander’s tone mocks him, and I struggle to breathe.
This is the man who took my father. Oliver. And wants to take
Logan, too.
“I am,” Logan says, and the group of eligible townsmen murmur amongst themselves.
I doubt any of them will step forward to claim me. I’d hardly make a suitable wife.
The Commander laughs, a hideous parody of mirth, and shakes his head. Turning to the group of men below him, he asks, “Who will step forward to Claim this woman?”
He expects Logan to see this as an opening. A way to negotiate my safety. Instead, Logan waits quietly like any other Protector would do. The only sign of tension he gives is the slight increase in the pressure of his hand against my back.
Peter Carmine steps forward. “I will Claim her.”
Logan’s fist clenches a handful of my dress.
The Commander frowns at Peter and turns to face Logan. “And do you accept this man’s Claim?”
Logan doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”
If he pulls on the back of my dress any harder, it’s going to rip.
The Commander looks from me to Logan, and the cold calculation on his face chills me. I press my arm against my side, feeling the weight of my knife bite into my hip. Behind me, I sense Logan change his stance, rolling to the balls of his feet.
The Commander pins me with his dark eyes. “In the absence of your father, I feel I should ask you, Rachel Adams, if you want to be Claimed.” He wraps his hand over my arm and squeezes.
Heat sears a path through my brain, and I shake off his hand before I think better of it. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. He isn’t supposed to deviate from the Claiming ceremony script in front of all these witnesses. I can’t say I want to be Claimed without the Commander realizing I’m going against his orders. I can’t say I don’t want to be Claimed without giving him the leverage he needs to separate me from Logan since Logan has already given his permission.
I hope Logan thought of a plan for this scenario.
Logan’s voice rings out across the Square. “As is proper, Rachel will not choose whether she gets Claimed. I choose for her.”
There’s no arguing with the protocol Logan has invoked unless the Commander wants to set an ugly precedent with the rest of the citizens. I see the moment this realization hits the Commander. He looks from me to Logan, and my stomach sinks.
He isn’t going to let this happen.
“You have one last chance to speak,” he says with quiet menace and lays his hand on me again, digging his nails into the soft tissue of my forearm. “Do you want to be Claimed?”
The only choice I have is to stick with the prescribed Claiming script and hope the Commander refuses to make a scene in front of the citizens for fear more of them might rise up and demand the opportunity to choose their own destiny as well.
“I bow to the wishes of my Protector,” I say, and fury explodes across the Commander’s face.
He twists my arm and yanks me forward, breaking Logan’s hold on my dress. “You realize what this means?” he asks me in a voice only I can hear. “I will kill him for your betrayal, Rachel. Renounce this Claiming and leave as planned, or I will leave you with nothing.”
“Let go of her.” Logan’s voice, laced with terrible purpose, rings out across the Square.
The crowd erupts into a frenzy of hushed conversation, and the Commander twists my arm until I’m sure he means to wrench it from its socket. Pain is a living thing clawing at me, and I turn my face to look at Logan.
I need to know the plan. How to keep Logan alive and avoid being separated from him. I expect to see steady calculation in Logan’s eyes. Instead, I see blind fury. His hand is already reaching for his sword as the Commander drives me to my knees.
He’s going to attack the Commander. Try to kill him. And the Commander will stab a sword through him the way he stabbed a sword through Oliver and then laugh while I sit in silence, soaking up every drop of blood until my skin is flushed crimson with the shame of my impotence.
The brilliant rage surging within me coalesces into one fierce purpose.
Save Logan.
“I don’t want to be Claimed,” I say, and each word drops to the ground like a stone. I pray Logan will understand.
“You deny your current Protector’s authority over you?” The Commander asks, his voice steeped in vicious triumph.
“I do.”
Logan isn’t looking at me. He’s locked on the Commander, who still has my arm twisted above me, pinning me in a supplicant’s position below him. His hand grips the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white.
If he loses control, the Commander wins.
And with the Brute Squad cutting off all escape routes, Logan doesn’t stand a chance.
“What do you say to that, Logan McEntire?” The Commander looks at Logan, while the crowd moves uneasily, backing away from the stage.
I don’t give Logan a chance to answer. With our plan in shambles, and my back against the wall, I say the only thing that could possibly keep him safe. “It doesn’t matter what he says. He isn’t my true Protector. I petition to be a ward of the state.”
The Commander doesn’t spare me a glance, so I raise my voice. “Do you accept me as a ward of the state?”
Some of my fury leaks into my tone, and I raise my chin. I don’t care. Let him know I’m angry. Let him see the bloodlust on my face. Let him look into my eyes and discover the girl he thought he understood is gone and in her place stands a weapon of his own creation.
He turns his head slowly to stare at me, his scar pulling his lip into a snarl, and lets go of my arm to backhand me across the face.
I tumble to the floor and see Logan, sword raised, face ablaze, charge the Commander.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
RACHEL
“No!”
I’m screaming, but it’s too late. The girls on the stage scatter, their fathers dragging them to safety as the Brute Squad swarms onto the platform, coming between Logan and the Commander. Logan drives his shoulder into the first guard who reaches him, sends the man flying off the stage, and whirls to block the sword thrust of another.
The Commander stands above me and laughs.
I slide my hand into the slit I cut in the side of my skirt, find my sheath, and pull my knife free.
Someone calls my name, and I see Sylph break away from Smithson’s hold and rush toward the stage.
“Go back!” I yell and struggle to my feet, my knife ready.
Smithson catches her around the waist before she can reach me, and she slaps at him. I turn away, praying Logan isn’t already dead.
He isn’t. He fights like a man possessed—swinging, thrusting, and attacking with terrifying speed and force, disarming and disabling every opponent who comes at him. I had no idea he had this in him, and it’s clear I’m not the only one.
The Commander stops laughing and draws his own sword.
Raising my knife, I calculate the angle I’ll need to drive the blade through his back and into his heart. Before I can thrust the weapon forward, I’m body slammed from the side and sent sailing off the platform and into the crowd of eligible townsmen still milling at the base of the stage, unsure what their role in this unprecedented display of violence should be.
Hands reach for me, steady me, and try to hold me back. I punch, kick, and swing my knife until they back away. I can’t save Logan unless I’m on the stage. Anyone standing between me and him is dead.
I race toward the steps, beating away the few that still reach for me, but before I can mount the stage, a guard jumps in front of me. I drive my knife through his stomach, twist it to the right, and yank it free while he’s still in the act of telling me to halt.
Crimson splashes onto my pretty blue skirt. I look away from it and concentrate on reaching Logan. I’m on the stage driving my knife into the back of the guard blocking that exit before he even knows what hit him. Not stopping to see if he’s dead, I vault over his body and try to see Logan.
He’s trapped center stage. Eight Brute Squad. Another dozen guards. And in the center of it, the Commander.
>
I race forward, and the Commander screams for his guards to fall back. Logan is bruised, battered, and bleeding, but holds his sword steady. Not that it will help him now. There are too many. He can’t take them all.
I can’t either.
I look to the crowd, hoping for swords and friendly faces, but there’s nothing but mass confusion and panic. Logan is a dead man walking, and so am I.
Except I’m not. Because I alone know where to find the Commander’s precious package. Maybe he forgot that in the heat of the moment. Maybe he figured there would be others he could hurt to make me bend to his will. Maybe he’s arrogant enough to think I’ll be too frightened of him to disobey, even without the threat of Logan’s death hanging over my head. Maybe the lives of others mean so little to him that he can’t imagine a single death that could significantly alter his plans.
He’s wrong.
Logan and the Commander circle each other as the guards fall back.
I creep behind the guards, looking for an opening.
The Commander thrusts. Logan blocks, but it’s clear he’s been injured and lacks the strength to keep up the fight for long.
He won’t have to. I know how to change the game. How to take away the one advantage the Commander is banking on.
Logan whirls and swings, flinging drops of blood. His sword goes wide, and the Commander steps into the gap, using Logan’s momentum against him. In seconds, he has his sword against Logan’s neck, and his vicious smile twists his scar into an ugly, knotted ball of prickled flesh. The guards behind Logan grab his arms, fling his sword to the floor, and pin him in place for the Commander.
“You drew a weapon against your leader. Killed multiple guards.” The Commander’s voice shakes the Square as he chops each syllable into jagged shards.
I see my opportunity and slide into the circle. Logan meets my eyes, and his expression begs me to leave. Run. Escape this hell of a city and never look back.
“The penalty for this is death.” The Commander turns to Logan.
“And what is the penalty for killing innocent citizens? For terrorizing a young woman? Who holds you accountable?” Logan is shouting, the same brilliant rage that burns through me spilling out of him.