Forged (6 page)

WHEN I STUMBLE INTO THE
kitchen the following morning, Badger is already frying eggs. I don't know when he returned to the bookshop, but the smell of breakfast is so intoxicating, I'm easily convinced to focus on eating over asking questions. In fact, I haven't said a word since Bree left me on the stoop last night. It was easier to crawl straight into my sleeping bag and avoid my problems than to face them. Now, it feels like my dispute with Blaine has doubled in size overnight, become just as glaring as the sunlight streaking through the apartment windows.

Blaine doesn't say a word as I sit down at the table, doesn't even look my way. This is so wrong, us fighting. Nothing lingered between us in Claysoot. We'd argue or wrestle or
throw a punch, and then we'd be laughing two minutes later, rebounding so quickly we could barely remember what we were fighting about to begin with.

Still, tensions with Blaine might be preferable to dealing with Bree, who acts as though nothing happened last night. She asks me to pass her a plate and then smiles her thanks like the gesture won't slit my chest open. Soon the kitchen is buzzing with activity, which is a relief. Hands reach and overlap, plates are filled, mugs are clung to. The table is surrounded by yawns and bedhead and casual chatter. Aiden still hasn't stopped pestering Clipper about Riley.

“I told you, Aiden. I hardly know her.”

“That's not what I'm asking,” the boy says. He slips a piece of bacon to Rusty beneath the table and Clipper shoots a murderous look my way.
I hate you
, he mouths. I stifle a laugh and shovel some eggs down so I have an excuse to avoid speaking.

“Everything go okay yesterday, Nick? With your crew member?”

Badger twitches at the sound of Adam's voice, sharp in the rowdy kitchen. “It was . . . uneventful. Probably could have skipped the whole thing.”

“Well, that's not vague,” Sammy says through a mouthful of egg.

“It was a personal matter regarding water shipments. If I
wanted you to have the details, you would.”

“And yet we're putting all our trust in you to run this mission. The guy who refuses to give a straightforward answer.”

“I don't need a wise mouth on this team,” Badger snaps. “You have a problem with me, you can walk right out that door.” He jabs the spatula for emphasis.

“All right, Nick,” Adam says. “You've made your point. How about we talk logistics rather than arguing?”

Badger grumbles something unintelligible and dumps the last batch of eggs on the serving plate.

“The Compound,” he says, tossing a handful of sketches onto the table. “From what we've gathered, the entire first floor is a shipment center. A channel of water drives right into the island, and we've watched boats come and go, docking beneath the building itself.”

In an aerial depiction, I can see what he means. The island is oblong: round at one end, and split by water on the other. Part of the Compound hovers over the channel, its foundation set in the land on either side.

“Most of the boats frequenting the place are commercial cargo vessels. But 'round nightfall on the first Friday of each month, an inspection team stops by on a small rig. They are in and out in the course of an hour. We will be that crew for March's inspection, arriving two days early on account of a scheduling change.”

I shift in my seat. This is not going to work. There is no possible way this will work.

“September's just delivered ID badges, plus key cards to get us through locked doors. The latter won't be a problem if we're escorted during the inspection, but we wanted to be prepared either way.” He shoots a thankful look September's way and she raises her fork as if to say,
my pleasure
.

“Charlie's sister should be returning later today with our ride. She and her husband spent the last week tracking down a matching boat model from an Order scrap yard on the eastern shores of the New Gulf. Last we heard they found one in almost perfect working condition. They're just looking into a few spare parts.”

“And it needed a paint job,” Charlie says, emerging from the loft. He rubs his eyes with a fist as he descends the stairs. “Colors were all wrong and she had to get the Franconian emblem on its side.”

“True,” Badger says. “But that was four days ago, and they're due back today. I'm confident everything's been seen to. So that just leaves uniforms, and I've got Mercy over on Mooring Street whipping up three sets.”

“Three?” I echo.

“One for me,” Badger says, “and a pair for the rest of the team.” He points at Bree and Sammy. “They are the only two setting foot inside. You and your brother are too recognizable
given the way your face is strung up across AmEast—half the time on Order wanted ads, the rest in this crazed string of new propaganda. And the kid”—he nods toward Clipper—“is young, could raise suspicions. You can come on the boat if you insist, but the only way I do this mission is if you stay on it.”

“I came so I could
help
, not sit around,” I say.

“You want to help?” Badger tilts his head, blinks his beady eyes. “Go pick up the uniforms with your brother. They should be ready.”

“Great. Running errands. What would you do without us?”

“How is Mercy making uniforms when she doesn't have our measurements?” Bree interjects.

“I gave them to her,” Badger says.

“How?”

“By using my eyes.”

Twitchy and skittish as he may be, Badger doesn't miss a thing.

“Why are all the eggs gone?” Charlie asks, surveying the spread on the table.

“We ate them,” Adam answers seriously.

“All of them?”

Sammy makes a show of inspecting the empty serving plate. “Looks like it.”

“I'm the host! I'm supposed to be able to eat in my own house.”

“You should have gotten up with the rest of us then,” Adam says. “Or were you too busy reading?”

“Course I was reading. Those fictional characters are way more fun than you.”

This opens up the floor for a bunch of friendly jabs. Bree: “The characters are probably better looking than Adam, too.” Sammy: “Wouldn't take much to be smarter, either.” Soon, the group seems to have forgotten all about the mission awaiting us, or the fact that Blaine and I are supposed to sit around like ducks during it.

When Aiden starts asking about the dogs in Charlie's book, claiming none can possibly beat Rusty, Badger leans across the table.

“You said you wanted to make yourself useful, so why are you still here?” I glare at him, and he slips me a piece of paper bearing Mercy's address. “Bring a case of water to cover the payment.”

The crate of water is even heavier than it looks and the handholds boast rough edges perfect for wedging splinters in even the toughest skin. Blaine and I carry it awkwardly through the streets, trying not to bang it against our thighs. The
address Badger provided is meaningless to us, so we stop to ask directions from a few local kids kicking a ball outside the bookshop. We've got hats on, and scarves wrapped to cover half our faces because of Badger's paranoid nudging. I doubt the kids can even tell we're related. They point us toward the Gulf and instruct us to head north along the water.

“It's a really skinny building,” the shortest kid says, as if they aren't
all
narrow. “Painted bright red. Mercy's shop's on the fourth floor.”

The thought of lugging the crate of water up four flights is enough to make me want to drop it here and now, but we carry on in silence.

The harbor is busy with boats. Most are modest rigs, the vessels of fishermen who are supporting their families and selling the extra catch in town. Nothing like the massive Order ship that chased the
Catherine
in December. The water laps at the barricade dividing the street from the Gulf, providing a steady rhythm for our march.

“Why you didn't tell me?” Blaine asks.

The pain of the crate driving into my palm is more preferable than his words.

“There's no easy answer,” I say, tugging the scarf below my chin so talking is easier.

“I can't understand or relate or help if you don't
tell
me anything, Gray.”

I stop, and he does, too, the crate swinging between us.

“You
can't
understand, period. That's the problem. Our lives used to be exactly the same—same routines, same fears, same end waiting for us on our eighteenth birthday—but then we got separated and started living different lives and . . .”

Is that all life is? Growing apart from people? I haven't seen Emma in months, Kale in even longer. My own brother feels like a stranger. We've always been opposites, but now it's something else, something far more complex than having conflicting personalities. It's like the more you grow to know and accept yourself—to find your own way in life—the more distant and mysterious everyone else becomes.

“We'll get through it,” he says. “When this is all over, everything will go back to normal.”

“You know it's not that simple, Blaine. There's no going back to how things were.”

No longer able to bear the stricken expression on his face, I glance away. Between the shoulders of bustling townspeople, on the far side of the street, I spot a girl standing in the mouth of an alley.

Not any girl.

Emma
.

She's wearing a white sundress despite the cold, her hair hanging over her shoulders in tangled waves. She looks
exactly the way I remember her the day we went to Claysoot's lake and talked about birds. The shock I feel at spotting her here is mirrored on her own face. She backs down the alley, almost fearfully, shaking her head like she doesn't want me to follow.

“Emma?” I call.

A group of teens pass by, momentarily blocking my view. When they clear, the alley is empty.

I drop the crate. “Emma!”

Blaine grabs my arm, but I shake him off and break into a run, the crate of water forgotten. Blaine's shouts that I'm seeing things are swallowed by the wind.

I sprint down the alley and spot her at the next intersection. Her white dress is a beacon, screaming against the dreary shades of winter attire. I keep her in my sights, push my legs faster. I'm gaining on her—lost among the grid of streets given the number of turns she's made, but gaining.

I round another corner. This road dead-ends. Emma spins to face me, eyes wide, then skirts into a building to her right. It's a textile facility, or was. Looms tower, dusty and skeletal. Cobwebs cling to my face and limbs as I race after her. Beneath my feet, glass crunches, and a breeze drifts through the empty windowpanes.

I hear Emma trip on something. I duck between two looms
to cut her off, and find her on the floor, one palm bleeding from the broken glass. She scrambles to her feet, but I'm faster. She cries out in surprise when I grab her arm and push her backward, but I don't ease up, not even when I've got her against the far wall with nowhere to go. Her face is just inches from mine, and it looks exactly like her—that beauty mark on her cheek, her brown eyes gleaming—but so did her Forgery.

“When was the last time you saw me?”

She twists. “Gray, you're hurting—”

“When was the last time you saw me!”

“In Taem. Outside my room. After Craw . . .” She trails off.

From my belt, I grab the flashlight I no longer go anywhere without. With a click it's on and aimed at her eyes. She blinks rapidly, tries to shake me off. I keep her pinned there until I see what I need. Her pupils shrink under direct light, then expand when I move the beam away. Drastically. It's her. I let go, and she pushes me off, rubs her sore arm.

“What is the matter with you? You weren't supposed to follow me! Didn't you see me shaking my head?”

“Gray?” Blaine's voice echoes through the building, and a moment later he stumbles upon the two of us. His expression is nothing but shock—that Emma really is here, that I wasn't imagining things.

“You have to go,” she says. “Before they come. They're
using me to get to you and you need to leave. Both of you. Right now.”

“You heard her,” Blaine says.

But I'm still staring at Emma, confused, bewildered. “Why did you even show yourself if . . . I don't . . .”

“They've had me in town for a few days, hoping I'd make contact with you. I thought they were crazy—why would you be in some random AmWest town?—but they were holding my mother's life over my head, so I played along. And then there you were, today, out of nowhere, just standing along the Gulf.” She pauses for a moment to really look at me. Tears pool in her eyes. “Please go. You can't be here.”

“Gray,” Blaine urges, tugging my arm.

“I'm not leaving you again,” I say to Emma. “Come with us. We've got people that can keep you safe.”

She shakes her head. “They're watching me. You have to leave.” The tears are streaming freely now, down her face, her neck.

“Dammit, Gray!” Blaine actually hauls me backward. I turn and shove him as hard as I can. He stumbles, and when he catches his balance, he is furious. “Will you separate your heart and your head for one minute? Use your brain! This isn't right. We need to get out of here. Finish the trade and head back to the bookshop.”

“Screw the damn trade, Blaine! Screw the trade, and screw you.”

I turn back to Emma, but she is no longer alone. There's a man restraining her, his grip tight on her wrist. I don't know where he came from. I didn't hear anyone else enter the building, but then again, I was yelling like a madman.

A second man steps between two looms. Like always, a smoke is pinched between his lips. He exhales in my general direction, then smiles.

“Gage?” I don't mean for it to come out as a question, to sound so obviously stunned.