Defiance (3 page)

I move to follow her, but the Commander’s hand snakes out and digs into my shoulder. “And when is Jared planning to return?” he asks.

“I beg your pardon?”

His tone is vicious. “She said ‘until he returns.’ When do you expect his return?” His other hand rests on the hilt of his sword, and his fingers bite into my cloak like he wishes he could draw blood.

“We don’t expect his return,” I say calmly, though my mind is racing. If the Commander really thinks Jared simply died while traveling the Wasteland, why the sharp interest in Rachel’s belief Jared will return? “Rachel only wishes things were different.”

“If you know something more about Jared’s recent failure to return, tell me now.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Don’t even think about lying to me,” the Commander says, malice dripping from every word.

The silence between us is thick with tension, and my thoughts race. The Commander doesn’t think Jared ran into trouble on his last mission. And he certainly doesn’t think Jared’s dead. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I know with terrible certainty that Jared is in more danger from his leader than he could ever be from the Wasteland.

“I’m not lying,” I say.

The Commander leans forward, chopping off his words like he’d spit them in my face if he could. “If I find out otherwise, I’ll punish the girl first. You, of all people, should understand that.”

The sudden memory of my mother’s broken body lying lifeless at the Commander’s feet makes it nearly impossible to say, “I understand.”

He releases my shoulder slowly, and I turn to leave the room, keeping my head held high. My back straight. My face schooled into an expressionless mask as if the twin fuels of panic and anger haven’t been ignited deep where the Commander never thinks to look.

Jared’s in trouble. I have to come up with a solution—something I can use to track him down before the Commander does. And I have to do it before the Commander decides we know more than we’re telling. As I stride out of the compound, following Oliver and Rachel toward the waiting wagons, I begin to plan.

O
liver and I take a wagon to my house while Logan decides to walk the considerable distance from the compound to his little cottage in the southwest corner of town. I imagine he wants time to assess the problem of being my Protector and come up with a plan for how to handle it.

Except there is no plan that will make living under the same roof as Logan easy to bear. And there is no plan that will make me accept having Dad declared dead. This isn’t one of Logan’s precious piles of wire and gears. He can’t fix this.

We enter my house, greeted by the lingering aroma of the sticky buns Oliver made for breakfast. I guess he’ll move back to his own house now, and this little yellow rectangle with its creaking floors and generous back porch will be home to no one at all.

I stand in the front room, wishing desperately I could overturn Logan’s edict and stay right here.

“Rachel-girl, it’s full-on dark. If we don’t leave soon, we won’t make it out to Logan’s tonight.”

“Then we’ll stay here.”

“We can’t.” Oliver brushes a hand against my arm and nods toward the front window. I look and find two guards standing on our front lawn, waiting at the edges of the street torch’s flickering light. “I guess the Commander had some doubts about you fulfilling your father’s will.”

I turn away from the window—and the proof that I have no power to change my situation—and say, “Let me take a minute to say good-bye.”

“I’ll put your clothes into a trunk while you do.”

I wander through the house, touching pieces of my childhood and letting the memories swallow me whole.

The doorway where Dad gouged out a notch and carved in the date every year on my birthday to track my growth.

The sparring room with its racks of weapons where Dad taught me how to defend myself.

The kitchen table where Dad and I joked about his terrible cooking. I run my fingers across the heavy slab of wood. This is also the table where Logan first became a part of our lives, back when he was a skinny, dirty boy with hungry eyes hiding behind Oliver’s cloak. I’d watched him as the years passed. Watched him soak up knowledge and skill like a dry blanket left out in a rain storm until eventually he turned himself into the kind of man who could command Dad’s respect. And I’d foolishly thought myself in love with him.

The memory burns within me, a bed of live coals I swear I’ll stop walking across. I don’t want to think about Logan, about feeling soft and hopeful toward him once upon a time. Not when I’m saying good-bye because Logan couldn’t be bothered to understand how hard it would be for me to lose both my dad and my home on the same night.

Grief rises, thick and hot, trying to suffocate me. My eyes sting, and I dig my nails into the tabletop as a single sob escapes me.

I will not break down.

I will
not
.

I refuse to walk into Logan’s home with tear-stained eyes and trembling lips. Stifling the next sob that shakes me, I blink away the tears and clench my hands into fists. Dad would’ve returned by now if he could. I can’t hold on to false hope any longer. He isn’t coming home. Not without help.

My eyes slide toward the still-open door of the sparring room as an idea—a ridiculous, bold, almost impossible idea—takes root. Dad can’t come home without help, and the Commander shows no inclination to send a search party. But Dad doesn’t need a sanctioned search party. Not when he’s spent years training me how to handle myself in the Wasteland, smuggling me out of Baalboden so I could go with him on his shorter missions and making sure I could defend myself against any threat.

And not when Logan knows how to track.

The memory of Logan’s belief in Dad’s survival skills is a tiny sliver of comfort I grab onto with desperate strength. It pains me to admit it, but Logan is better at planning than I am. If anyone can help me—if anyone in Baalboden would
want
to help me—it’s Logan.

The grief subsides, sinking beneath cold, hard purpose. I walk into the sparring room, strap a leather sheath around my waist, and slide my knife into place.

I’m going to find a way over the Wall and bring Dad home. Logan can either help me, or get out of my way.

S
he’s been under my roof for twelve hours. One hour was spent trying to cook and eat a meal without accidentally brushing up against each other and without engaging in conversation. Mostly because she looked shocked and lost, and I had no words that would make it better.

Two-point-five hours were spent listening to her move around the tiny loft above me while I worked on a design for a tracking device and told myself no one should have that much power over my ability to concentrate.

The other eight-point-five hours, we slept. Or she did. I hope she did. I lay awake for more hours than I care to recall listening for a telltale catch in her breathing that would tell me how deeply she must be hurting. She remained silent, and I remained mostly sleepless.

Now the morning light feels harsh against my eyes, and my brain feels incapable of even the most rudimentary exercise in logic. Twelve hours into my role as her Protector and I’m sure of one thing: Moving Rachel into my little brick-and-mortar cottage wasn’t one of my better ideas.

The small stipend I receive as Jared’s apprentice is enough to pay for a house of my own with a bit left over for tech supplies and food. I have no idea how I’m going to make it stretch to cover Rachel’s needs as well. However, considering the current state of our relationship, money is the least of my current difficulties.

I’m sitting on my patched leather couch when she climbs down from the loft, sunlight tangling in the red strands of her hair and shimmering like fire. Her face is pale and composed, at odds with the fierce glint in her eyes as she looks at everything but me.

I should say something.

Anything.

No, not just anything. She had a rough day yesterday. She probably needs words of comfort and compassion.

I should’ve invited Oliver to breakfast.

She wanders through the living room, bypassing stacks of books and running her finger along my mantel, leaving a flurry of dust in her wake.

Did I ever realize there was dust on the mantel?

The silence between us feels unwieldy. I clear my throat and try to think of the most conciliatory greeting I can compose. How are you? Did you enjoy sleeping in my tiny loft instead of the comfortable bed you’ve always known? It’s somewhat cold outside. Did you bring your heavy cloak when you packed up all your belongings to move here because I didn’t think fast enough on my feet to realize I should let you keep your home?

If those sound half as stupid coming out of my mouth as they do in my head, I can’t say them. Maybe I should just offer her some breakfast.

Her shoulders are tense as she moves away from my mantel and toward the slab of pine I use as my kitchen table. Its surface is covered with papers, inkwells, wires, and bits of copper. In the center, beside a stack of carefully drawn designs, lie the beginnings of the invention I’m hoping will solve this entire situation.

Her lips are pressed tight, dipping down in the corners.

I can say I’m sorry. She’ll hear the sincerity in my voice. I’ll say I’m sorry and then—

She reaches her hand toward the delicately spliced wires of my new invention. I leap to my feet, scattering books across the floor, and say, “Don’t touch that!”

She freezes and looks at me for the first time.

“I mean … it’s still a work in progress and it needs … Did you sleep okay? Of course not. You have your cloak, right? Because the weather is … I’m just going to make you some breakfast.”

I sound like an idiot. Being solely responsible for a girl—no, being solely responsible for
Rachel
—has apparently short-circuited my ability to form coherent speech. Partially because the only girl I’ve ever really talked to is Rachel, and we stopped talking two years ago. And partially because ever since she said she loved me, I’ve felt unbearably self-conscious around her.

She stares me down and then deliberately presses her finger against the half-finished device before her. Her expression dares me to pick a fight, and I could easily take her up on it. It might be a relief to get some of the uncomfortable, volatile emotions from yesterday out into the open.

But Rachel doesn’t need to deal with my grief and anger. She needs an outlet for her own. Any other Baalboden girl would want sympathy and the cushion of her Protector keeping all hardship from her. But while other girls were raised to be dependent and obedient, Rachel was taught to think and act for herself. I know exactly how to help her.

“Want to spar?”

She frowns and slowly pulls her hand away from the wires. “Spar?”

“Yes.”

She glances around as if looking for the trap. “Why?”

“Because it’s been two and a half years since you last knocked me flat on my back. I figure I’m due.” Not that I’m going to make it easy for her to beat me. She’d hate me if I did.

I smile as I walk toward her and nearly trip on a stack of haphazardly organized books.

Why don’t I ever put things away around here?

She lifts her chin. “I only spar with—”

Jared. She only spars with Jared, but she can’t make herself finish the sentence. Her lips tremble before she presses them back into an unyielding line.

“I’m sorry.” I reach a hand toward her, but she doesn’t look at it, and I let it fall. “I wish I could change things. I wish I hadn’t made you move in here when I should’ve let you stay in your home. I wish Oliver had been named your Protector, so you’d feel comfortable. And I wish Jared …”

I can’t say I wish he wasn’t dead, because I don’t think he is. The Commander doesn’t think he’s dead either. I’m hoping to be the first to prove that theory right. If I can’t finish my invention and track Jared across the Wasteland before the Commander homes in on him, I’m afraid Jared will face the kind of brutal death only our leader is capable of dispensing.

Rachel’s glare softens into something bright and fervent. “You don’t think Dad’s dead, do you?”

I shake my head.

“I knew it. I hoped I could count on you.” Her cheeks flush faintly, and she leans closer. Warmth unfurls in my chest at her faith in me. If she can learn to trust me, maybe we can start over. Rebuild our friendship and figure out how to make this impossible situation work.

She says, “I’ve been thinking of ways we can get out of Baalboden so we can find him. If there’s a sanctioned highwayman trading day, we could …”

The warmth within me turns to ice as she talks, one wild escape idea after another spilling from her mouth, a collection of dangerous pitfalls guaranteed to trap her beneath the merciless foot of the Commander. The memory of his whip falling in cruel precision across my mother’s back slaps at me with a swift shock of pain.

Jared is counting on me to protect Rachel. Oliver is too. And with the Commander already suspicious that we know Jared’s whereabouts, the risk of getting caught in an escape attempt is high.

Too high to allow her to come along.

She’ll fight me on it. Probably hate me for it. But since she already despises me, I’ve got nothing to lose by standing in her way.

“We aren’t leaving Baalboden to go looking for Jared,” I say quietly.

The sudden silence between us is fraught with tension.

“But you said you think he’s alive.” She sounds baffled and hurt, and regret is a bitter taste in my mouth, but I can’t allow her to risk everything. Jared wouldn’t want his daughter to die trying to save him.

I don’t want her to die either. She may not like me now, but I haven’t forgotten that of all the citizens in Baalboden, only Oliver, Jared, and Rachel ever bothered to look at me like I was worth something.

“Logan?”

I make myself meet her eyes. Make myself memorize the way they look when they aren’t filled with animosity or anger. Then I shove my regret into a corner and focus on the more important task: Keep Rachel safe until I can stash her with Oliver and go out into the Wasteland to find Jared myself. I don’t know what Jared could’ve done to gain the Commander’s merciless animosity, but he’s become family to me. I can’t stand back and do nothing.