Defiance (8 page)

He doesn’t follow us.

“Are you listening?” she asks, and I realize she’s been talking the entire time.

“I am now.”

“Typical. I was asking how you can say you miss him. All you do is sit around day after day, drawing pictures—”

“Pictures! They’re intricately scaled plans for an invention—”

She waves her knife through the air as if she can slice through my words and draw blood instead. “Drawing pictures, piecing together your little toys—”

That takes it. “You didn’t think so poorly of my little toys tonight when you planned to use my handgrips to sneak over the Wall, did you?” My voice is rising. My little
toys
are about to give us a way to find Jared and get off the Commander’s radar.

Of course, I haven’t actually shared that with her. I thought I was protecting her, but maybe if I’d trusted her in the first place, we wouldn’t be in our current situation.

She raises a fist like she wants to punch me. “All the toys and plans and books in the world won’t get us one step closer to rescuing Dad, and you just sit there like we aren’t running out of time!” Her voice breaks, and I reach out to haul her close to me and out of the path of a mule-drawn wagon clip-clopping along the street.

“We
are
almost out of time. I can feel it. Can’t you feel it?” Her voice is unsteady, and I’m shocked to see tears sliding down her face, chasing a trail of heat between the icy pellets of rain still plummeting from the heavens.

I’ve never seen her cry before. Not when she was a young girl training with a man’s weapons, getting injured more often than not. Not when she was a budding woman facing me across her back porch and spilling her heart only to have me hand it back to her. Not even when it became clear Jared wasn’t coming back. The fury in me sinks beneath a sudden, sharp ache, and I wish I knew how to have a civilized conversation with her.

We take the corner marking the line between South Edge and Country Low. I want to have the perfect words to comfort her, but I don’t, so I walk in silence as the ramshackle houses become cozy little cottages, and the patches of dirty grass between them expand into gardens, farm fields, and small orchards. Though no street torches exist, the darkness is now friendly.

My house comes into view, and she pushes ahead of me to stalk up the stone walkway, reaching the iron-hinged wooden door first. Hanging her damp cloak on a hook beside the door, she enters the main part of the cottage while I light the pair of lanterns hanging in the entryway.

She’s rummaging through the kitchen, her movements jerky with either anger or grief. Probably both. I make my way across the living room until I’m less than three yards from her.

“I know we’re running out of time. But you have to trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

She jumps at the sound of my voice so close behind her, and shoots a glare over her shoulder before moving toward the wooden box of a pantry resting in the corner. “I know what you’re doing, too. You’re going into the Wasteland with me. I’m sorry about that, by the way.” She opens the pantry and rummages through it.

Sorry for what? Having to take me with her? Does she really despise me that much? The hurt that follows this thought is a slow, dull ache that takes me by surprise. My voice is sharp as I follow her and ask, “Are you really sorry?”

This time, she bangs her head when she jumps. Turning, she shoves a sack of mutton jerky into my arms and snaps, “Stop sneaking up on me.”

I grab the sack before it falls, and frown. “Why are you removing food from my pantry?” I toss the jerky onto the table behind me as she pulls two dusty jars of fig paste from the back of the pantry, knocking over a bag of potatoes in the process.

“Packing, of course.”

“Wait a minute.”

She shoves the paste at me and rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll finish apologizing. I didn’t want you involved. I should’ve made it over the side before they caught you. Then this whole thing wouldn’t be an issue.”

I slam the paste onto the wooden table beside the jerky. “How can you say that?”

She fists her hands on her hips and ignores the potatoes rolling across her feet. “I would’ve been gone, Logan. Deep into the Wasteland. And if you’d kept quiet about your reasons for being at the Wall, nothing would have changed for you.”

“Nothing …” My stomach drops as I realize how little she thinks of me.

“You’d be free to invent and read and make life better for the citizens here. Duty finished.” She kicks a potato, sending it careening across the floor as something blazes to life within me.

I glare at her. “And what duty would that be? The one I swore to the memory of the man I consider my one true friend?” I lean toward her as my voice rises. “The one I swore to myself when I could see how lost you are without him?”

She takes a step back and bumps into the pantry. “I’m not lost.”

“You’re
lost
. And everyone knows it. Three months till Claiming age. Every available man in the city suddenly looking at you like you’re …” I snap my mouth closed and turn my back before I say what I’m really thinking. What every man who stops to stare at the fiery beauty with the indomitable spirit and glorious red hair is thinking.

She’s yelling now. “Like I’m what? Pathetic? A poor little girl who needs a man every time she leaves the house? I’m not like that. My father saw to that. You should’ve gone after him with me when I first asked you to. You should’ve gone!”

I whirl to face her, and step forward until the distance between us can be measured in breaths. She’s trembling. I am too. She stares at me with wounded eyes, and I want to wipe all the ugliness out of our lives, but I don’t know how.

“Rachel.”

Her hair is drenched. Glistening drops of water slide effortlessly down her pale skin. I raise my hand slowly, but she doesn’t flinch as I press my palm against her cheek, letting the water slide over us both. My fingertips are calloused and ink-stained, rough against the softness of her skin. She looks fragile and fierce, and I long for something more than the animosity between us.

“You’re right.” I say quietly. “I should’ve gone after him. Does it make it better to know that I always planned to go? “

“When?” she whispers.

“When I finish building the tracking device I want to use to find him.”

Her skin warms beneath my hand as her anger fades into something tentative and soft.

“I should’ve told you what I was doing.” My thumb traces a path across her cheekbone, catching another drip of water. “I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. Sorry I misjudged you. Sorry I got us caught tonight.” She sways closer to me.

My gaze wanders to her lips, and I can’t see anything but a thin trail of water gliding over her skin, gathering at the corner of her mouth, and then slowly drifting toward her neck. She raises one shaky hand and presses her fingers against her lips. Her breath catches, a tiny sound that makes me realize how close I’m standing to her.

Warmth rushes through me, and I dip my face toward hers.

“Logan?” Her voice is soft, but the sound of my name slaps some sense into me.

I jerk back a step and swear.

“I
’m sorry,” I say and back up another step.

She looks away and crosses her arms over her chest. “For what? Swearing?”

“Yes. No. I mean, yes, but …” The haze of warmth sweeping my system drains away as cold reality sets in.

I almost
kissed
Rachel.

The realization isn’t nearly as shocking as the fact that despite our differences, our current situation, and the impossibility of it all, I still ache to press her against the wall and taste her.

That thought does dangerous things to my self-control. I need something else to talk about—something else to
think
about—fast. Glancing around for inspiration, I spy the partially built invention on my table and say, “Do you see that?”

Of course she sees it. She isn’t blind.

“Are we changing the subject?”

“Rachel …” Yes, we’re changing the subject. I don’t know what to say to explain my actions, and it’s either talk about technology, or I’m going to go take a walk in the rain.

“Fine.” She won’t look at me. “What’s so special about that”—she flicks a hand toward the table—“that simply must be discussed right this second?”

“It’s going to lead us to your dad.”

She raises her eyes to mine, her expression cautiously hopeful. “How?”

I’m grateful to be asked for an explanation I can readily give. “Your father’s wristmark has a tracking device embedded in it. All wristmarks do. It’s short range, just like all our tech. Designed to work within the Wall and nowhere else.”

This isn’t news to her. All tech is specific to the city-state where it’s issued. Without a network of wires across the Wasteland, there’s no way to send any kind of long-range signal. A tracking device is useful outside the Wall only if you can get within two hundred yards of someone. Without a fairly exact location for Jared, we could wander for years and never get a ping.

“The invention I’m working on is a tracker designed to pick up traces of your dad’s signal, even if he’s already moved on.”

“How is that possible?” Cautious hope is edging toward enthusiasm in her voice.

“Sound navigation ranging. A courier’s tracking signal uses active sonar, sending out sonic pulses that leave a unique echo in the environment. The guards can find a courier using an Identidisc to receive those echoes as they’re sent.”

“So why can’t we just steal an Identidisc and use that to track Dad?”

I shake my head. “Because Identidiscs aren’t designed to pick up a signal any older than two weeks.”

“Why not?”

I grin. “Because I didn’t design them. Besides, we aren’t going to steal anything and risk showing the Commander what we’re up to. The device I’m building uses passive sonar, which means it receives echoes without sending its own out. I’m tasking it to only receive the lingering echoes of Jared’s unique signal.”

“But if it’s been months since he was in an area—”

“Sound never really disappears. I’m building a powerful battery for this, so if he’s been in an area within the last six months, I’ll catch his echo and we’ll be able to find him.”

She smiles, and genuine warmth fills her eyes. “You’re a genius. Thank you.”

Her words make me feel like I’m standing taller. “You’re welcome.”

She gestures at the half-finished invention. “Why did you apprentice yourself to Dad? It’s clear inventing tech is what you love. Why train to be a courier?”

I meet her gaze for a moment, weighing the risks of telling her what I’ve held in secret all these years. We might not like each other half the time, and we might misunderstand each other regularly, but she’s loyal to the core. Knowing I can trust her unlocks the words, and they rush from me as if they’ve been waiting for a chance to be heard.

“Because I
hate
living in Baalboden. Every time I look at the cobblestone streets, I see my mother dying. Every time I look at the Wall, I remember who killed her and branded me an outcast when I was just a child. If I have to stay here for the rest of my life, I might … I don’t know if I can be the man I want to be while I live here.”

She nods, her eyes remaining steadily on mine.

“I figured if I learned to be a courier, one day the Commander would send me out alone.”

“And you could disappear?”

“Yes.”

Her voice is sharp. “Did you think of what that would do to those of us who care about you?”

My throat feels tight as I say, “I didn’t realize you would miss me. Besides, did you think of what your disappearing act tonight would’ve done to me?”

Her cheeks flush a delicate pink. “I didn’t realize you would miss me, either.”

I smile, and it takes a minute to realize my common sense is once again sliding into Kiss Rachel territory. This time, it’s not because my body demands it, but because the affection in her voice beckons me.

Which clearly means I’m in dire need of another subject change.

“We don’t have to worry about that now,” I say. “We’ll be leaving together. Give me one week, and the tracking device will be ready. We can leave the day after the Claiming ceremony.”

I ignore the way her smile lights the room, and turn toward the table. “I should get to work.”

“I should get some sleep.” Her voice sounds breathless as she slips past me to head toward the loft.

I sit at the kitchen table and face the tracking device, shelving all distracting thoughts of Rachel. I hope the Commander is willing to give me a week to get ready for the trip. I need those seven days. Two days to finish Jared’s tracking device. And five more to build one for Rachel.

I’m not going to be caught off guard again.

I
t’s been three days since my disastrous escape attempt. Logan spends most of his time fiddling with circuitry and ink-stained plans. I spend most of my time sharpening weapons and practicing how to run a man through the heart while I do my best to forget the awful wet sucking sound a sword makes when it pulls free of a body. We have little to do with each other until the evenings when he sets aside his work, I put down the swords, and we sit on his tiny porch eating supper and watching the sun bleed itself out over the ramparts of the Wall.

We talk about Dad. Oliver. Sparring techniques. The fact that neither of us has a clue what’s in the package and why Dad refused to deliver it. We talk about anything but the strange almost-kiss we shared the night I tried to go over the Wall. Its unspoken significance presses against my heart, making it hard to look at Logan without yearning for something I know neither of us really want.

Logan made it plain years ago that romance wasn’t an option. And I’m a different girl from the starry-eyed fifteen-year-old who thought she was in love. The almost-kiss was nothing more than too much emotion, too much tension, and a split second of dropping my guard. It won’t happen again.