Defiance (31 page)

Together, we push the soil back into place until all that remains is a little hill of dirt. Quinn stands beside me, a solid, reassuring presence I refuse to lean on. Willow stands across from us, scanning the surrounding trees, her bow already in her hand. I should say something. A eulogy. A good-bye. But Melkin deserves to be memorialized by someone other than the girl who took his life, and I don’t know how to put into words the cost of what I’ve done.

I turn away. I have a mission to complete. When it’s over, I’ll look for absolution. When it’s over, I’ll find what comfort is left to me.

I refuse to brush the dirt from my hands. Scooping up my pack, I arrange it against my back and slide my Switch into its slot so I can carry Melkin’s ebony walking stick instead. When Quinn and Willow pick up their packs too, I frown at them.

“You don’t need to come. I can find my way back on my own.”

“Can you?” Quinn asks.

“I can find what I need to find.”

“We’ll go with you.”

“Why? You don’t even know me.”

“I knew your father.” His voice is steady, but pain runs beneath it. “And you were right when you said we still owe him a debt. I’d like to pay that debt by escorting you through the Wasteland.”

There’s a quiet insistence in his voice, and I’m too tired to argue. Besides, what do I care if two Tree People tag along? It isn’t going to slow me down or change my plans.

“Fine. But remember how you insisted on coming with me when you find I’ve landed you right in the middle of a war.”

I
’ve been traveling hard for three and a half days. Tree-leaping. Sleeping in the wide crook of an oak curtained by Spanish moss. Watching the wires on my tracking cuff get brighter by the hour as I cut across the safer trails Rachel would use and shave time off my journey.

I’m closing in.

So is the Rowansmark battalion. I’ve seen their signs. Heard thin snatches of conversation floating back to me. I don’t know how close I am to them, but they’re still between Rachel, Melkin, and me.

I haven’t seen any sign of the tracker, and that worries me. He could’ve circled behind me. Gone ahead of the battalion to find the safe house. Caught up with Rachel and Melkin.

The scenarios are endless, and they all spell disaster.

Stopping to rest in another oak tree as the sun climbs toward noon, I assess my strategy. Following the battalion isn’t getting me anywhere. I need to flank them. Get ahead of them. Intersect with Rachel and Melkin before they run into them.

Moving with care, I open my pack. I’m running low on food since I haven’t been able to go to ground and hunt, but I still have a few jars of preserved fruit and some sheep jerky I took from the safe-house pantry. Choosing a small ration of each, I eat quickly and then grudgingly use a small bit of pain medicine.

I’m going to have to move fast. I can’t afford to feel the full effects of my journey until later.

After packing my bag and assessing the noises around me to gauge the relative safety of moving forward, I aim southeast and start tree-leaping. Within twenty minutes, all sounds of the battalion are gone, and I’m deep in the Spanish moss–draped forest of the southern Wasteland, surrounded only by birds, bugs, and the occasional rabbit or squirrel.

When I judge I’ve traveled far enough south to risk cutting back toward the west without running into the battalion, I take another short rest, refuel on water and some jerky, and start leaping again.

The sun is sinking toward the west, about three hours from sunset, when I glance down at the tracker cuff I wear and freeze. The wires glow at one hundred percent. My heart pounds, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

I’ve found her.

Somewhere in a thirty-yard radius around me, Rachel is traveling the Wasteland. I’m not too late. I’m busy scoping out my surroundings, trying to determine the best direction to take, when I hear her approach.

She’s arguing with someone. Melkin, most likely. I frown as her voice carries clearly through the thick oaks and mossy undergrowth. It’s not like her to forget how to move quietly.

Her oversight works to my advantage, though, and I brace myself for the climb down when she and a young man about my age enter the small clearing at my feet. He walks close to her, his left hand hovering behind her back as if he wants to touch her but isn’t sure of his welcome. I assess him quickly. About six feet. Ropy muscles on a lithe frame. Olive skin, dark eyes and hair, leather laces holding his tunic and pants in place. A Tree Person. I don’t know how he came to be with Rachel, but the way his eyes watch her with interest and concern make me want to send him back to his village.

Immediately.

Melkin isn’t with her. Either he succumbed to one of the dangers in the Wasteland, or he tried to fulfill his assignment, and Rachel killed him.

I study Rachel next, and shock punches a little frisson of panic through me. Her pale skin is smudged with what looks like ash. Her cloak is torn and battered. And her
hands
. Her hands are covered in dirt and dried blood, and she clutches a long black metal walking stick like it’s going to disappear if she lets go.

But worst of all is the look on her face. Cold. Fierce. Empty. Like someone snuffed out the Rachel I knew and sent out a hollow shell in her place. I hang on to the branch for another moment, trying to adjust to this new Rachel before I have to drop down and show her the shock written across my face.

“We need rest,” her companion says.

“Then rest. I’m going on.”

“You haven’t eaten today. You’ve barely slept. If you keep this up, you’ll collapse, and then what good will all this progress do you?” He asks, but his tone sounds genuinely curious instead of worried or upset. Like he’s fine with allowing her the freedom to destroy herself as long as she’s given the matter proper thought. In light of the facts he’s just presented, my tone would’ve indicated a good shaking was in store for her if she didn’t listen to common sense and take care of herself.

She doesn’t respond to his invitation for self-reflection. Instead, she strides beneath my tree, her course set north, and acts like she can’t hear him. He follows her. I let them both walk past me. My first meeting with this Tree Person isn’t going to be me awkwardly trying to climb down a tree without hurting my rib. They’re four trees up when I grasp the branch I’m on and ready myself for a painful landing.

A slight movement in the corner of my eye arrests my motion, and I hold myself still as a man in green and brown, a dagger in his fist, melts out of the shadows between the trees and silently follows Rachel and her companion.

The Rowansmark tracker.

Rachel must have the package. Or he thinks she does. And he’s going to kill her to get it.

Except he didn’t bargain on me.

He’s approaching my tree. Five steps and he’ll be here. I’ll only have one chance to get it right.

Best Case Scenario: I kill him on my first try.

Worst Case Scenario: I miss, and never get another chance.

Best Case Scenario it is, then. Quickly assessing angles, momentum, and how much damage I can do without drawing my sword, I wait for him to walk directly below me, let go of my branch, and jump.

H
e senses me and turns, but he’s too late. I slam into him, wrap my hands around his throat, and drive both of us onto the ground.

Pain explodes through my ribcage on impact, and I nearly lose my grip. He whips his arms up and claps them against my ears, disorienting me. I’m dizzy, unable to draw a complete breath, and losing focus fast.

Digging my thumbs into his windpipe, I will myself to hang on. He bucks beneath me and catches me in the ribs with an elbow. Agony sears through me, and my hands slip. Knocking my hands away from his throat, he throws me onto the ground beside him, pulls a knife, and looms over me.

I can’t breathe. Can barely move. I’m going to die if I don’t figure out a way to get the upper hand. Fast.

His knife arm goes up, and his eyes lock on mine, but before I can react, an arrow sinks into the narrow space between his eyes with a soft
thud
. He shudders, his body sags, and I scoot to the side as he crashes to the ground.

Someone whistles softly from a tree behind me, a near-perfect imitation of a blackbird, but I can’t look. I can’t bear to move. I can hardly bear to breathe. Soft footsteps hit the forest floor and come toward me. In seconds, a girl about Rachel’s age with olive skin and a long dark braid kneels beside me, a black bow in her hands.

“Did you get him?” Rachel asks from somewhere to my left, and now I understand why she was being unnecessarily loud.

It was a trap. A trap that worked. I want to give her kudos for planning ahead, but I can’t seem to get enough air to speak.

“Two of them?” the man asks.

“This one jumped out of the tree and tried to kill the tracker. I decided not to shoot him.”

I’m grateful. I hope she knows that. Pain sears my chest again, and I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and try to will it away.

“Who is he?” the man asks.

Another set of soft footsteps approaches, and someone drops to the ground next to me. “Logan?”

I open my eyes. Rachel crouches beside me, her glorious red hair lit with fire from the sun, her blood-stained hands hovering above me as if afraid to touch me, and her blue eyes so wounded, I want to hold her until some of her pain recedes. I lift my hand and press it against her cheek. She trembles.

“This is Logan?” The girl with the bow sounds surprised. “Rachel said you were locked in a dungeon.”

My voice wheezes as I say, “I escaped.”

“How?”

“Blew up a wall.” My eyes are still locked on Rachel’s.

“Nice.” The girl grins at me. “I’d like to learn that trick.”

“Logan.” Rachel lays a hand on my shoulder as if testing to see if I’m really there.

“I told you I’d find you.”

Her fingers clench around my shoulder, and she slowly curls toward me until she’s laying facedown against my chest. Her weight hurts, but I don’t complain. Instead, I cradle her to me and feel the missing pieces inside of me slide firmly back into place.

I
lie against Logan’s chest listening to him breathe and shake like I’ve been caught out in a snowstorm in nothing but a tunic. He’s here. Alive. Warm and steady beneath me. I haven’t lost everything.

And yet, with Melkin’s blood still on my hands, I’m not convinced. The silence inside consumes me. I want to burrow into him and feel safe. Feel the grief, the anger, and most importantly the hope that I know hovers somewhere just out of reach within me. Digging my fingers into Logan’s shoulder, I desperately try to feel
real
again.

Beside me the body of the tracker starts beeping, a high-pitched insistent tone that has Logan pushing me to get up.

“Get back!”

He can hardly obey his own instructions. Digging one hand into the ground, he groans as he tries to lift himself off the ground. Transferring Melkin’s walking stick to my other hand, I reach down to help. Quinn joins me and together we scoop our hands under his arms and drag Logan away from the body.

The beeping speeds up.

“What’s going on?” I ask Logan.

“Bomb,” he wheezes, his face white with strain as we drag him into the trees. “Anatomical trigger looped on a closed circuit.”

“Speak English,” Willow says as she falls in step beside me and bends to help carry Logan.

“When his heart stopped, the device began its countdown.”

“Why would anyone—”

The blast throws us to the ground and rains bits of dirt, twigs, and a fine mist I imagine was once the Rowansmark tracker all around us. I land partially on Logan’s chest, and scramble off as he moans in pain.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Broken rib.”

“We need to climb. Now.” Willow is already moving, grasping the nearest branch and swinging into the tree, her bow strung behind her back. “If that explosion didn’t call the Cursed One, it called every highwayman within one hundred fifty yards.”

“Worse.” Logan sounds like he can barely get enough air to speak. “Battalion. Rowansmark. Might have heard.”

Quinn jumps up and circles to Logan’s other side. “Can you get into a tree if we help?”

He nods, and we each take an arm and help him sit up. He sways, and it’s clear that pride is all that keeps him from crying out at the pain. He’s never going to be able to climb a tree. I see the moment he realizes it and decides to sacrifice himself for the rest of us.

“I’ll stall them. You go,” Logan says.

Quinn frowns and looks at me.

“Ignore him. He doesn’t get to play the martyr today.”

“Isn’t that his choice?” Quinn asks.

“Not while I’m still breathing.”

Logan jerks his arm away from Quinn. “Go.”

“Absolutely not,” I say.

“Rachel—”

“I love how you still think if you tell me to do something, I’ll just check my brain at the door and do it.” I try to infuse my voice with anger, but all I feel is fear. I can’t bear to lose him.

“Hey! Idiots who want to argue while disaster is heading our way! Maybe you should shut up and get up a tree,” Willow pokes her head out of a bower of leaves and glares at us.

“Listen.” Quinn holds up his hand for quiet. We fall silent and realize there’s no rumbling. No distant roar coming closer. The Cursed One must be terrorizing people on the other side of the continent or sleeping in its lair, because it isn’t coming.

“Fine. The Cursed One isn’t coming. But the battalion still could be, and I’m not going to watch you die just so these two can figure out who’s in charge.” Willow beckons to Quinn, but he looks at Logan again, and I can tell he doesn’t want to leave him behind.

“Go. I’m fine. I’ll stall them. Or hide.” Logan looks around, and I resist the urge to punch him only because he’s already injured.

“You’re coming with us.”