Defiance

  A man rides by us on a sturdy-looking donkey. I recognize him as one of Drake’s companions from Thom’s Tankard. “Hey!” I call out, and he turns.

  “Logan? Logan McEntire?”

  “The prisoners in the dungeon. They won’t be able to escape without help. Can you—”

  He turns his donkey toward the compound without waiting to hear the rest of my sentence.

  “There should be a hole in the wall of the corner cell,” I yell at his retreating back.

  The northern roads are all impassable, so I turn the wagon and head south. The ground shakes as the Cursed One turns southwest and bellows, lashing at buildings with its tail. The streets in front of us are clogged with wagons, people on donkeys or horses, or families hurrying toward the gate on foot. At our backs, a wall of impossible heat precedes the flames that race toward us.

  We’ve failed them. All of them. We thought to destroy the leader who tormented them, and instead, we’ve brought destruction down on their heads. Rachel sits beside me, her finger holding down the third button continuously. Her tears are gone. In their place is the white-faced shock I first saw when I picked her up at Madam Illiard’s after Oliver’s murder.

  We inch our way through the streets, surrounded by sobbing, screaming people and the thunderous roar of Baalboden succumbing to its fiery death in our wake. The Cursed One is a black blur in the distance—twisting, lunging, and roaring its triumph as it consumes South Edge. The crowds grow dense, nearly impassable, as we head west, and when we reach the gate, I stare at it in disbelief.

  The gate is closed. Locked. And the guards are nowhere to be seen.

  Suddenly, a girl runs alongside the wagon, grabs the board beside me, and swings onto the platform. I glance at her and recognize my jail visitor. Her face is alive with purpose as she looks at me.

  “Can you get us out?”

  Is she crazy? A ton of concrete and steel stand in our way. How am I supposed to move that?

  The ground beneath us shakes as the Cursed One explodes out of South Edge and into Lower Market, spewing fire.

  We’re next.

  “Logan!” She snaps her fingers in front of me. “Can you get us out?”

  A ton of concrete and steel. No way to get so many people over it. Or under it. We’ll have to go through.

  “I’ll have to build a bomb.”

  “Tell me what you need.”

  “The abandoned warehouse beside the armory. There are two black metal barrels full of liquid. I need those and a supply of canning jars with lids. Can you help me get those?”

  She cups her hands around her mouth and whistles, an ear-splitting note that momentarily silences those in our immediate vicinity.

  “Logan can get us out. Dad”—she calls to my right, and I turn to see Drake standing there, soot stains on his patched tunic and part of his beard singed away—“get a team to the abandoned warehouse by the armory and bring back the metal barrels of liquid you find there.”

  He nods, grabs a hulking man wearing a tattered cloak, and they head toward the armory.

  The girl looks at the crowd surrounding us. “The rest of you, go through the homes near here and bring me every jar and lid you find. Empty the contents if you must.”

  A few people immediately do her bidding, but most of them stare at us with nothing but confusion on their faces.

  “Do you want to live?” She screams it at them, and more of them start moving. Before long, a line of people are dumping jars of every size into the back of the wagon.

  North Hub and East Quarter are nothing but billowing clouds of black smoke. South Edge is a burning inferno behind us. Survivors of those three districts mingle with citizens from the western reaches of the city and jostle against the unyielding surface of the Wall like sheep penned in for a slaughter. I see Thom, his clothes still smoking, leading a donkey with Eloise perched on its back. He elbows his way toward us.

  Another explosion rips through the air behind us, accompanied by a chorus of screams. The Cursed One is coming our way. I give it ten minutes before the beast reaches the gate and turns the citizens of Baalboden into nothing but a memory.

  It’ll be a miracle if we make it out alive.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the girl.

  “Nola.”

  “Thank you, Nola.” It’s less than she deserves, but it’s the best I can give.

  Eight minutes left. Rachel is still holding down the button. I press a kiss against her head and say, “I love you.”

  She looks at me, tears gathering in her eyes. “I love you, too.”

  Six minutes. The ground beneath us trembles, violent shudders that send people to their knees. The flames are so close now, we can hear them crackling in the distance.

  Five.

  “Make way!” Drake and three other men stumble into the crowd, their clothing singed. Each pair holds a black barrel.

  I let go of Rachel.

  “Open the jars,” I say to Nola, and yell to the people in front of me to clear out of my way as Drake and his helpers load the barrels onto the wagon bed.

  People stumble to the side as my wagon pushes through. Rachel drops the device and climbs into the wagon bed to help open jars.

  Four minutes.

  Pulling the horse to a stop twenty yards from the gate, I look at Nola. “Get them away from the gate. Close enough that they can run through as soon as it’s open, but far enough that they won’t be injured by falling debris.”

  While Nola barks orders at the citizens filling the street, I leap into the wagon bed and point to Drake and one other. “Fill as many jars as you can with the liquid in your barrel. Be careful. It’s acid. It’ll burn your skin.”

  “Better than being dead,” Drake says, and starts his task.

  “You two fill the rest of these jars with the liquid in your barrels. It’s glycerin. Don’t let it come in contact with the acid, whatever you do. It would kill us all.”

  “What can I do?” Rachel stands beside me. “Give me something to do.”

  “Press the button, sweetheart. Keep pressing it.”

  She climbs over the wagon seat and grabs the device again.

  Three minutes.

  Plumes of black smoke rise from the west now as the fires in North Hub eat through the city at a frightening speed. From the outside, it must look like the entire city is already up in flames.

  I check the progress of the men in the back. Each team has about nine jars filled and capped now. Drake’s hands are blistered raw, but he refuses to let his teammate dip for him.

  Nine is good, but I don’t know if it will be enough.

  “Everyone who will listen to me is out of the danger zone.” Nola appears beside the wagon. “Blow it up, Logan.”

  “Keep filling.” I say to the men, and snatch the dagger from my boot so I can cut the horse free of the reins. He takes off running as soon as he’s free, and I look at Rachel. “Come out of the wagon.”

  She scrambles down and stands beside me, still holding the device.

  “We’re going to flip the wagon over and use it as a shield.”

  Two minutes.

  I call out a warning to the men, and they lift the filled jars and metal drums clear of the wagon bed. Then we flip the wagon to its side and crouch behind it. A quick count shows I have nearly twenty jars of each liquid now. Eighteen of acid. Nineteen of glycerin.

  It will have to be enough.

  Grabbing a jar of acid, I lob it at the gate. It explodes against the stone in a hail of glass and sizzling liquid. I bend down and pick up two more. Two of the men grab jars of acid too, and we throw all six of them against the gate. When they reach for more, I stop them.

  “Save those. We’ll need them.”

  One minute.

  I scoop up two jars of glycerin. The men do the same. “Stay down,” I say to Rachel and Nola, and then we throw the jars.

  The glass missiles arc through the air, slam into the damp concrete, and shatter. The gate explodes
in a brutal hail of concrete slabs, steel splinters, and suffocating dust. People scream as tons of debris come raining down around us. Some are crushed, others are knocked off their feet, still more are sliced open by the lethal barrage.

  It’s a sea of wreckage, blood, and chaos, but there’s a hole in the gate big enough to fit three wagons side by side. Beyond the ruins, the Wasteland gleams like a jewel-green beacon of safety. Behind us, the roar of the beast is closing in.

  “Get as many of them out as you can,” I say to Nola, Drake, and the others. They hurry to comply, and I pick up another jar of each liquid as the Cursed One incinerates the last block of buildings between it and the gate and comes for us.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  RACHEL

  I lean down beside Logan and pick up two jars as the beast comes closer. Grim determination anchors me to the ground as the flames eat through Lower Market and the cobblestones shake beneath the weight of the Cursed One’s approach.

  We did this. We brought it here. We have to do everything in our power to destroy it. It’s the only chance the people outside the gate have of surviving.

  “You should leave too,” Logan says.

  “Don’t be an idiot. Whether we live or die, we’ll do it together.”

  He doesn’t argue.

  We wait as the beast slithers its way over the cobblestone street toward us, its movements jerky, as if something beyond itself is driving it forward. We wait while it fills the grassy clearing between the gatehouse and the gate with fire. And we wait until we can see the milky yellow of its unseeing eyes.

  I grip the jars with bloodless fingers, and ready myself.

  “Now!” Logan yells.

  We throw the jars and they explode against the impenetrable scales of the beast. The force knocks the creature to its back. It bellows, flips over, and comes for us.

  “Again!”

  The second round of explosions blows a section of its tail to pieces. Wild triumph surges through me.

  We can beat it.

  “It can be killed. Did you see that? It can be killed!” I reach down for two more jars, and the Cursed One jerks to a stop, shuddering as if held back by something. I lob the jars, and the beast bellows as they hit it in the side, sending a shower of ebony scales clattering to the ground and revealing a small patch of gray skin beneath.

  “It’s vulnerable!” I scream over the sound of flames and the roar of the beast.

  Determination slides quickly into vicious purpose as I stare at the beast’s exposed skin. I can’t avenge Oliver. I can’t stop the Commander. But I can destroy the creature that took Dad from me.

  Logan would argue. Calculate angles and odds. Take a moment to plan. But if I do that, I could miss my chance. The fury inside me begs for vengeance. Promises that if I just obliterate the cause of my pain, I can find peace. I hold on to the bright, jagged edges of that idea and let it fill me up until I can’t see anything else.

  Then, as Logan bends down for more jars, I snatch my knife out of its sheath and charge straight for the Cursed One.

  “Rachel!” Logan screams my name, but I keep running.

  The beast bellows, a tortured sound full of pain and rage.

  I skid on debris.

  It whips its head in my direction.

  I grip my knife with steady fingers.

  It jerks its nose, sniffing the air.

  Nine more yards. I raise my blade.

  Its claws dig into the ground.

  Eight yards.

  “Rachel, no!” Logan screams again.

  Seven.

  The beast’s tail slams into the ground.

  Six.

  It shudders and pins me with its sightless eyes.

  Five.

  I brace to launch myself forward. It lowers its snout and roars, blasting me with an unending stream of fire.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  LOGAN

  “No!” I stumble, hit my knees against the pavement, and scream, “Rachel!”

  One second she was there, running straight for the Cursed One, her knife raised above her head. The next second, there was nothing but flames.

  I can’t breathe. Can’t think beyond the swelling tidal wave of unbearable grief rising up to suffocate me.

  She’s gone.

  Gone.

  Ripped from me, just like Oliver and Jared. Just like my mother.

  “Rachel!” My breath sobs in and out of my lungs as I choke on her name. I dig my fingernails into the cobblestones beneath me as everything I’d built my world on turns to ash.

  I have nothing left. Nothing but the merciless creature in front of me, still spewing the wall of flame that killed her. Nothing but the terrible need to take it with me as I die.

  She’d promised we’d be together. Live or die. We’d do it together.

  I’m going to make her keep her word.

  And I’m going to take the Cursed One with me.

  Pushing myself to my feet, I face the beast and raise the jars above my head. I’ll ram them down the creature’s throat and hope I find my family waiting for me after death swallows me.

  Despair is nothing but cold, brittle determination driving me forward. One last plan. One last calculation. One last effort and my life will count for something as I join her.

  Vaulting over a pile of broken steel, I brace myself to leap straight into the beast’s mouth, but then I see the impossible.

  Rachel.

  She’s sliding on her stomach beneath the wall of fire, her knife aiming straight for the monster’s unprotected side. She’s covered in soot, her clothing singed and torn.

  She’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

  The stream of fire exploding out of the beast’s mouth sizzles into a puff of acrid smoke. It twists its head toward Rachel and sniffs the air.

  I’m not about to let it kill her.

  “Hey!” I yell and run forward. “Here! Look here!”

  It ignores me.

  Rachel’s forward momentum slows as she hits the scales blown off the beast’s side. She can’t stab its side before it realizes she’s there. She can’t, unless I provide a distraction.

  I calculate trajectories, pray I haven’t misjudged the velocity needed, and hurl the jars I carry. They explode a few yards in front of the Cursed One and send me flying backward onto a pile of rubble.

  The creature snaps its head toward the sound of the explosion and roars a stream of fire at the offending noise. Rachel belly-crawls over debris, pushes her left hand into the ground for balance, and raises her knife. The blade flashes crimson and gold in the light of the fire, and she buries it in the monster’s side.

  The Cursed One screams and spits fire as it coils in on itself. Rachel is trying to pull her knife free, but its tail knocks into her, sending her sprawling. I push off the wreckage and race to her. Grabbing her beneath her arms, I haul her backward as the beast screams again.

  “Get a sword. Another knife. Let’s finish it,” she says.

  But it’s too late. The creature jerks its head up, trembling as if being held still against its will, then dives into the ground, scales and debris sliding in after it as it burrows toward its lair.

  I pull Rachel to her feet and crush her to me. She wraps herself around me and holds on as if I’m all that is keeping her from drowning. My hands are shaking, and my throat feels raw from screaming, but in the midst of the flaming wreckage around us, all I can feel is gratitude that Rachel is still alive. I want to hold her until the shaking passes, until the terrible panic I felt when I thought she was engulfed in flames dies completely, but I can’t. We’re surrounded on three sides by fire.

  “We have to get out of here,” I say, and start leading her toward the shattered gate.

  “I don’t understand what just happened.”

  “I don’t either. It left without trying to finish us off. It never leaves when it knows its prey is still alive.”

  Rachel stumbles over a slab of concrete and grabs for me.
“It didn’t look like it had a choice. It was behaving the same way it did when you controlled it out in the Wasteland.”

  “But if it wasn’t obeying our device, then who was controlling it? Maybe Rowansmark has tech even stronger than the device the Commander tried to steal?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know.” Looking at the carnage around us—the flames, the rubble, the bodies trapped in what would become their funeral pyre—she shudders. “It doesn’t matter who was controlling it. We started this, Logan. We brought it here.”

  It does matter, because if the total annihilation of Baalboden was the goal, whoever was controlling the Cursed One can send it back to finish off the survivors. And it matters because I have no doubt the Commander and anyone else hungry for power will stop at nothing to get their hands on tech like that. We can’t let that happen. Today is vivid proof.

  But she’s right. We called the Cursed One. We started this. And we’ll need to live with that. I don’t know how we’ll do it. I’m weary, inside and out. I want to take her hand. Walk away from the destruction. Disappear into the Wasteland. We could travel for weeks. Months. Find a quiet place where there are no power-hungry leaders, no cities, no memories to reach out and slice into us when we least expect it.

  We could, but then who would hunt down and destroy the tech that caused today’s devastation? Who would honor the memory of Jared’s sacrifice and exact justice for the Commander’s actions? The weight of what must be done settles on my shoulders as I take Rachel’s hand.

  We climb over the debris, walk through the hole in the gate, and turn to face the city. She leans into me as I wrap my arms around her, and we watch Baalboden burn.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  RACHEL

  The city burns for three days. Most of its citizens never make it out. The ones who do are divided between worshipping the ground Logan and I walk on for rescuing them, and blaming us for bringing disaster upon everyone by rebelling against the Commander’s protection.

  We can’t find the Commander. I don’t see how he could’ve made it back into the city when we had to blow the gate to pieces to get out, but I suppose it’s possible he’s one of the charred bodies lying inside what used to be Baalboden.