Defiance

  Two days ago, I began recognizing markers along the way and knew we were back on the path to Rowansmark. The forest has changed and thickened, easing out of pin oak trees and into silver maples interspersed with pine. The morning dew hangs just as heavy in the air as it does on the ground, and large fields of waist-high grass ripple sluggishly beneath a half-hearted breeze.

  Melkin and I have fallen into a rhythm. He leads, beating back the worst of the undergrowth, and I sweep the ground behind us to cover our tracks. I hunt for our dinner each night, and he makes the fire and handles the cooking. We speak only when necessary during the day, but at night, as we eat rabbit, boar, or turkey, we talk. Though we rarely discuss anything personal, it’s beginning to feel like I’m traveling with a friend.

  Though I never forget that our friendship could be his way of trying to hold me to the Commander’s orders, and when I catch him watching me with something dark and brooding in his eyes, I know he feels the same.

  As we make camp again for the night, I can see he misses his wife. It’s carved in miserable lines on his face, bracketing his mouth with tension that refuses to ease.

  I miss Logan, too. More than I thought I would.

  The slap of humiliation I once felt every time I thought of him is gone. In its place, I see Logan sacrificing sleep so he could finish the tracking device. Offering to teach me to use the Switch and helping me hold on to the good memories I have of Dad. Drawing his sword against the Commander, despite overwhelming odds, to protect me. Logan is the lodestone I cling to when grief over Oliver and fear for Dad threaten to rob me of what little hope I have left.

  Something in me has awakened and responds only to Logan. I lie sleepless long after Melkin begins to snore and press my fingers to my lips as I remember Logan leaning in, his breath fanning my face, his eyes locked on my mouth. A delicious ache pulses through me. I feel like a stranger waking up in my own skin—aware of every inch. Heat runs through my veins, both exhilarating and terrifying.

  Exhilarating because every part of me tingles with life.

  But terrifying because beneath the longing lies an inescapable truth: If he is my lodestone, it’s because somehow in the last few weeks I’ve started to rely on him. Lean on him. Need him. My heart pounds a little faster as the realization sinks in.

  I need Logan.

  Not because I need saving. Not because he could plan our way out of this. But because on some basic, soul-deep level within me, he is the solid ground beneath my feet. The one who will move mountains to keep his promises. The one who looks at me and sees.

  I can’t imagine my life without him.

  Everywhere I look, he’s there. A constant thread binding my past, my present, and the future I want so badly to have with him.

  With him.

  My eyes fly open.

  I’m in love with Logan.

  Not the way I thought I was two years ago, when I offered him my heart. That love was uncomplicated and innocent, designed for a simple life. The love consuming me now is fierce and absolute—forged in a crucible of loss and united by our shared strength.

  I love Logan. A laugh bubbles up, even as tears sting my eyes. I reach up to clasp his mother’s necklace, the symbol of his promise to me, and hold the tender, vibrant thought of him close as the stars chase each other across the sky.

  Halfway through the next day’s journey, we approach the clearing where Dad and I always stopped for a meal, and the ache of missing him throbs in time with the ache of missing Oliver. If I can find him now, the fierce edge of my grief will lessen. He’ll know how to save Logan without giving the package to the Commander. He’ll take the burden of this awful responsibility off my shoulders.

  I don’t realize how much I want him to be waiting for me as we move past a thin line of maples and into the small field of yellow-green grass until I see he isn’t there.

  He isn’t here.

  I know it isn’t logical to feel so hopeless when I had no real reason to think he’d be camped at the edge of the clearing waiting for me, but I can’t help the tears that stream down my face. Loneliness eats at me, and for the millionth time since I left Baalboden, I wish Logan was with me.

  Quickly swiping my palms across my cheeks before Melkin catches me crying, I start to turn away when movement catches my eye. A slice of deep purple shimmers gently against a tree trunk on the far side of the field. Veering off course without saying a word, I move toward it, my heart suddenly knocking against my chest like it wants its freedom.

  “What are you doing?” Melkin asks behind me.

  I ignore him and hurry, the crisp stalks of grass parting before me and shushing closed in my wake. The purple is a ribbon, wind torn and water ravaged, tied around the base of the lowest branch. The initials S. A. are embroidered in the corner.

  I know this ribbon. It’s one of a handful that belonged to my mother. Dad always carried them with him when he went into the Wasteland.

  I want to laugh. To dance. To open my mouth and let the fierce joy singing through me echo from the treetops.

  He was here.

  And he wanted me to know it.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  RACHEL

  As if connected to my thoughts, the cuff around my left arm vibrates gently, and I glance down to see the blue wires begin to glow—a hesitant, flickering light that fills me with wild, buoyant hope.

  Dad.

  I can find him.

  He can fix this.

  I just have to hold on a little longer.

  “What does this mean?”

  Melkin stands to my right, watching me closely, and I scramble to find something to say. I can’t tell him I think we’re closing in on Dad. I don’t know how he’d react, and it’s best not to introduce any new elements into our precarious partnership until it’s already accomplished.

  “It means we’re on the right track.”

  His skinny brows crawl toward the center of his forehead. “I thought we already knew that.”

  I shrug and step forward, as much to tug the ribbon free as to hide my face from his prying eyes.

  “You mean this is a sign?”

  When I don’t answer, he shifts his weight forward, his shadow swallowing me from behind, and says in a voice I scarcely recognize as the mild, courteous Melkin I’ve been with for a week, “Who’s working with you? Better come clean now, girl, or you’ll not get a second chance.”

  I fold the ribbon carefully and stow it in an inner cloak pocket before turning to face him. He looms above me, all sharp angles and seething suspicion, his hand resting on his knife hilt.

  “Calm down. No one’s working with me, but you had to know we’re following my dad’s trail since he’s the one who hid the package. You should be relieved I recognize his signs.”

  Not that he had ever once deliberately left a sign before. But he’d never left without planning to return either. I give him kudos for knowing I’d follow him, and for knowing what would show me I’m on the right track.

  Melkin’s hand slides off his knife and he steps back, though his eyes still look troubled. I turn from him and plunge into the trees again. I can’t bear to waste time. He follows me, and in a few moments, shoulders his way past me to resume the lead, his expression once more a sea of calm.

  I’m not fooled. He’s afraid. Of the consequences if he fails his mission, yes. But also of me and any tricks I might pull. I want to tell him he has nothing to fear from me or my dad as long as he doesn’t stand between the Commander and justice, but I don’t think he’d believe me. Not completely. It’s hard for him to fathom the Commander falling hard enough to lose the power to ruin lives, and Melkin has two other lives at stake beside his own.

  We break for a lunch of cold rabbit leftovers, creek water, and silence thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, I look him in the eye and say, “What’s the problem?”

  He chews a bite of rabbit slowly, the bones of his jaw swiveling like a set of Logan’s gears. “I don’t like this whole
situation.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “What if we’re being led into a trap?”

  I squint at him through a shaft of blinding afternoon sun. “Who do you think is leading us into a trap?”

  “Someone who wants whatever is in that package.”

  Which could be anyone. Trackers from Rowansmark. Others working for the Commander. Highwaymen who’ve heard of its existence. If I wasn’t absolutely sure the signal came from Dad, I’d be thinking the same thing.

  I pull the ribbon from my pocket, smooth it over my knee for a moment, my fingers slowly tracing the silvery S. A. stitched into the corner, and then hand it to Melkin. His fingers are cold as they brush against mine.

  “S. A.?”

  “Sarabeth Adams. My mother.”

  Quiet falls between us, though the Wasteland is quick to fill it up with the warbling chirps of birds and the drowsy buzzing of insects. Beneath the chirping and buzzing, I catch what sounds like the faint snap of a twig.

  I freeze and look at Melkin, but he’s staring at the ribbon and seems oblivious. Turning, I scan the area around us, but can’t see anything amiss.

  I’m not reassured.

  “Do you miss her?”

  I snap back around to Melkin. “Not really. She died right after I was born.”

  I don’t have time to give him more than that. Someone is behind us. I’m sure of it. I toss the rest of the rabbit meat away from me, slide my arms into my pack, and remove my knife from its sheath.

  “I bet Jared does.”

  “I guess,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Come on. We need to go.”

  He looks at me, the ribbon threaded through his fingers like a bedraggled set of rings. “I can’t lose Eloise. She’s …” He chokes, clears his throat, and says, “Do you think the Commander will keep his promise to set her free if I …”

  “If you what?” I can barely focus on him. I’m standing now, my Switch in my hand, scanning the trees.

  He stands as well, towering over me again, his eyes suddenly reminding me of the dark, depthless holes carved into the ground by the Cursed One. “If I do what was asked of me. Will he keep his promise if I do what he asked of me?”

  His knife is out too. That’s good. At least he isn’t completely immune to the signals I’m sending out. My voice is little more than a breath of air as I tell him, “I think someone is tracking us. Coming for us. I heard a branch.”

  He palms the knife.

  “To the right. About thirty yards. Maybe more. I haven’t heard anything since, but either we leave now or find a place to set up an ambush and wait.” I look up at him, expecting a decision, and see the endless dark of his eyes still pinned on me.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I glare and consider whacking him with my Switch, except I don’t want to make the noise. “We’re in danger, Melkin. Get moving.”

  His arm snakes out and snags the front of my cloak as I try to pass him, and I stare at him in disbelief.

  Does he want us to die?

  “Do you think the Commander will free Eloise if I do what he asked of me?”

  The idiot isn’t going to move until he hears what he wants to hear. Is the Commander going to keep his word? Not unless it somehow benefits him to do so. But I’m not about to open up that can of worms while someone is bearing down on us, and Melkin’s common sense has taking a flying leap to parts unknown.

  “Yes,” I say with as much conviction as I can manage in a whisper. “Yes, I’m sure he will. Keep your end of the bargain, and she’ll be fine. Now, let’s go.”

  He releases my cloak. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he uses his knife to gesture toward a dense line of trees to our left.

  “You first.”

  I don’t need a second invitation. Brushing past him, I slip into the trees, moving like a shadow, while Melkin slides in after me, his knife glittering beneath a stray ray of sunlight.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  LOGAN

  I think it’s Saturday now, which would mean I’ve been a guest in the Commander’s dungeon for a week. The girl from Thom’s Tankard hasn’t been back since she slipped me a paper-wrapped package of medicinal powder on Tuesday. Instead, a plump, stoop-shouldered woman old enough to be my grandmother has cared for the prisoners in silence.

  I decide it’s a good thing I haven’t seen the girl again. Thinking about revolution might distract me from the pressing issues already on my plate. The most important of those is escape, but I’m not sure I’m well enough to outrun any pursuing guards as I sprint toward the Wall. I estimate another two to three days before my broken rib will allow me to run without doubling me over in pain.

  Less if I can find a cloth to bind my chest.

  I suppose I could use the shirt off my back, but I’d prefer not to be so obvious. Especially when Eloise in the cell across the aisle watches me every second of the day like a desperate baby bird hoping for a worm.

  The Commander hasn’t visited again, and the anticipation stretches my nerves until I want something to happen just to get it over with. I’d think he’d relish the opportunity to taunt me. Hurt me. Make sure I know he’s won. I decide to take his absence as a sign Melkin still hasn’t succeeded in killing Rachel, and focus on readying my body for my escape. Still, waiting for the inevitable festers in the back of my mind like an infection.

  I’ve spent the last few days sitting or lying on the dungeon floor, doing my best to look hopelessly injured while I tighten and hold my muscles until they shake from the exertion. I’ve also done my best to honor the grief I feel for Oliver with a solid plan of action I think would make him proud.

  But mostly, I’ve spent my time thinking of Rachel. The way her laugh makes me want to join her before I even know why she’s laughing. The light in her eyes when she stares me down and challenges my opinions. The curve of her hip in the torchlight as she climbs the ladder to my loft.

  I used to feel awkward and uncomfortable with the single-minded intensity she aims at anything in front of her, and distancing myself from her gave me peace. Now, the distance between us opens a hollow space inside me that can only be filled by her. I don’t know how to explain it, and I don’t bother trying. It’s enough to know I need her like I’ve never needed anyone else. Once I find her, I’ll take the time to figure out the rest.

  I promise myself it won’t be much longer before I’m ready to escape this hellhole and track her down.

  My food ran out this morning, but I’m not worried. I won’t be locked inside this cell much longer. Still, when the dungeon door creaks open, I hope it’s the girl because more food means more strength.

  But instead of the girl’s light tread, or the dogged shuffling of the older woman, I hear crisp, purposeful boot steps striding toward my cell.

  The Commander.

  The next confrontation is upon me, and I need two things from it—information and a reprieve from further injury. I flip around to put my injured rib against the wall, out of reach of the Commander’s boot, and begin planning as he orders a guard to open my cell door.

  He enters my cell, his scar catching and releasing the flickering torchlight like some macabre game of cat and mouse. I pretend I can barely lift my head to see him. I’ve been pretending this sort of weakness since I woke up cured of my fever, so if he’s had me watched, this won’t raise any alarms.

  He laughs, a vulgar, ugly sound full of arrogance. “Look at you.” In three long steps, he’s at my side. “What a pathetic excuse for a man.”

  I let my head roll to the side a bit and peer up at him.

  “I leave you alone in this dungeon for a week. The great inventor Logan McEntire. The man who always has a plan.” His boot lashes out, connects with my shoulder, and sends me sprawling onto the cell floor.

  It hurts, but not nearly as much as I pretend it does. He needs to feel I’m already beaten, or he’ll never give me what I need.

  “And here you sit. Still locked up.
Still unable to make good on your promises.” His smile is vicious as he plants his boot on the throbbing burned skin of my neck and leans down.

  I don’t have to fake the pain this time. Waves of agony roll along my jaw and send dazzling lights exploding through my brain.

  “You haven’t beaten her,” I say, pushing the words through teeth clenched tight against the raw, unending anguish eating at me.

  He leans closer, grinding his boot into my neck. “What did you say to me, you worthless cur?”

  “Rachel. You haven’t beaten her.” I draw in a shaky breath, tasting the leather and steel of his boot on the dungeon’s fetid air. “She’s stronger than you think.”

  “She’s a girl alone in the Wasteland with a man who is both stronger than her and has more motivation to do as he’s told.”

  His voice oozes his special brand of pride—two parts power, one part blind ego.

  Perfect.

  “She can take him. She’s smarter than you give her credit for.”

  He snorts, but I can almost hear the doubt slipping in.

  “You won’t know if you’re right until it’s too late to make adjustments,” I say.

  “You’d like me to think that. But when Melkin sends the signal, inventor, you can bet your life he’ll be alone.” He laughs again. “And you are betting your life, aren’t you? Because the second I have what I want, you’re dead.”

  He isn’t going to tell me what I need to know. He’s too smart for that. I either need to find another source of information, or wing it once I get out into the Wasteland.

  He stands abruptly, his boot sliding across my burned skin like a dozen razors. I breathe heavily, trying to control the waves of pain wracking me, and see Eloise staring at me with horror on her face.

  Which is interesting.

  She doesn’t want me hurt. Because she can’t stand to see another suffer? Or because she somehow thinks I can stop her husband from becoming a killer?