Defiance Series Complete Collection, page 48
The sticky warmth flowing from the back of his head answers my question before he can open his mouth. He’s bleeding, hit by a stone thrown by an opponent we can’t see. An opponent who could even now be coming in for the kill. We’re exposed, and every second I spend trying to figure out how this happened is another second I give our attacker to close in on us.
“What direction did it come from?” I ask against his ear.
“West,” he breathes, and struggles to roll over.
Transferring my knife to my left hand, I grab the stone, slick with Logan’s blood, and jump to my feet. Spinning to the west, I pull my arm back and throw the rock with all the strength I’ve got.
It slams into a distant tree with a resounding thud. I’m already on the ground grabbing a fistful of Logan’s tunic and pulling him toward the bushes, hoping the small distraction I caused will buy us enough time to get to safety. Logan pushes my hand away and gets to his knees.
“I can make it. You go first.” His voice is slurred.
Right. Why don’t I leave the boy I love lying injured and disoriented on the forest floor and get myself to safety instead?
“Don’t be an idiot,” I say, and reach down to tug him forward.
Someone laughs—an ugly sound of vicious amusement. A man. Behind us and to the west.
“Pay your debt,” he says in a harsh whisper that lingers in the air and sets my heart pounding with fury.
It’s the Rowansmark tracker. It has to be.
My hands shake as I let go of Logan’s tunic and grab my knife again. Cowards deserve to be punished. Especially ones who throw rocks instead of finding the backbone to fight an opponent face-to-face.
And especially ones who kill innocent boys and then leave cryptic messages about debts and atonement written in blood.
“Crawl,” I whisper to Logan. “Fast. I’ll buy you some time.”
“What are you doing?” Logan asks. “The bushes—”
I lunge to my feet and raise my voice, “You filthy, miserable, no-good coward! Get out here and face me like a man.”
Logan grabs my ankle and hisses his words. “Get down. Stop making yourself a target.”
“Crawl.”
I raise my voice and keep my arms up around my face in case the killer decides to throw another rock. “You’re a coward without honor. Too afraid of us to do anything but throw rocks.”
Anger gushes through me, fueled by the memory of eight boys carved up like slaughtered sheep. “I’ll make you beg for mercy, but there won’t be any. Not for you. Not after what you’ve done. Do you hear me?”
Something feral claws at my throat—a wild, furious need to rip the tracker apart. To make him pay. To scream and scream and scream until all the broken pieces inside of me soften into something that no longer cuts into me every time I sleep.
My knife is a silver-sharp slice of diamond beneath the glistening light of the moon. I stab the air in front of me as if I can kill the thing that hurts me even though it’s buried so deep inside, I no longer know how to find it.
“Rachel!” Logan drives the point of his sword into the ground. Using the weapon as a crutch, he pulls himself to his feet. He leans precariously to one side, and I swear as I wrap an arm around his waist and anchor him to my side. “The tracker will follow your voice—”
“Let him.” My knife is still raised, my body shaking with the need to punish someone for the fear, the blood, and the injustice of it all. “We’ll kill him.”
A shadowy blur moves in the corner of my eye. I whip my head to the right, but I can’t see far in the dark. Logan tries to lift his sword, but the movement nearly pitches him to his knees.
“Rachel! Logan!” Quinn’s voice echoes through the night. “Where are you?”
I grab Logan’s tunic and hold him steady. “Here!” I call out, and scan the area again, my knife ready.
“Need help—” Logan says, his shoulders slumping.
“Hold on. Quinn’s on his way. If anyone attacks, he and I will take care of it. But no one is going to attack”—I raise my voice—“because cowards who throw rocks in the dark don’t have the guts to attack face-to-face.”
The only sound that greets this pronouncement is the soft slap of Quinn’s boots against the dirt. Seconds later, he whistles, and I call out our location.
When he reaches us, he says, “I heard you yelling from thirty yards away. Are you deliberately putting yourself in danger?” He sounds angry.
“Sort of. Logan’s hurt. The tracker threw a rock and hit him in the head. Help me get him back to camp.”
“How do you know it was the tracker?” Quinn asks.
“Because he said something about our debt needing to be paid. It was all very dramatic and cowardly.”
Logan says something that sounds like he’s missing most of his teeth and has a bee sting on his tongue.
I take more of his weight and say, “He wants to know where Willow is.”
“She was escorting Thom and Ian back to the shelter. I was coming to find you two so we could all go back together.”
Logan mumbles something else.
Quinn snakes an arm around Logan’s other side. “He doesn’t sound good. Let’s make this quick.”
We’re quiet as we navigate the forest, climb over the fuel line, and head down the main road into the city. It takes twenty minutes to get to the shelter, and I keep glancing over my shoulder, looking for any sign that the tracker is following us. When we reach the building we’re using for shelter, Frankie steps away from the door and says, “Who’s there?”
“Rachel, Logan, and Quinn,” I say. “Logan’s hurt. The tracker threw a rock at him. Double the guard on this door tonight. We need to make sure he doesn’t try to kill anyone in their sleep.”
“You hear that, boy?” Frankie asks. Eric steps to his side, his dark hair nothing but a smudge beneath the starlit sky. “Go wake four people instead of two and have them take over this post.”
It takes less than five minutes for Eric to return with four new guards. We wait at the entrance with Frankie, our eyes constantly scanning the street, looking for threats.
When the new guards are informed of the situation and are in position, we start toward our room, and Frankie says, “Where’s Logan hurt?”
“Took a rock to the head,” Logan says, his words sounding clearer than they did a few minutes ago.
“Good thing they went after your head. Anywhere else, and they might’ve done some damage,” Frankie says.
Logan laughs and then hisses in a breath. I don’t laugh. I don’t see anything funny about the situation at all. The tracker is still with us. Still focused on hurting us.
Most troubling of all, he’s focused on hurting Logan.
It takes time to navigate the stairs and reach our room. Willow is waiting in the hall.
She holds our door open and peers at the dark trail of blood slowly sliding down Logan’s face. “It’s a good look for you, but I wouldn’t recommend repeating it.”
He tries to smile, but moans instead as we lower him onto his bedroll.
I hurry to the corner of the room where I keep the rest of my water ration waiting to help me freshen up in the morning. Tearing a strip from one of my blankets, I dunk it in the water and press it against Logan’s cut. By the time I’m done cleaning the cut, Drake, Nola, and Adam are hovering in the doorway, concern evident on their faces.
“So what happened?” Frankie asks.
I tell them. When I’m done, Drake says, “You’re sure it was a tracker?”
“We’re sure a tracker is following the camp,” Quinn says. “If he’s the one who killed the boys and left messages for Logan, it makes sense that he’d attack Logan.”
Frankie’s small eyes focus on Quinn. “How’d you manage to be close enough to come to Logan’s rescue?”
“I’d just finished checking the fuel lines and was looking for Logan and Rachel so we could come back to the shelter.”
“Weren’t you also out alone in the forest the night the boys were killed?” Frankie slowly crosses his bearlike arms and stares at Quinn.
“He walks the forest almost every night,” Willow says as she takes a step toward Frankie. “What’s it to you?”
“I’ll tell you what I think.” Frankie’s voice shakes with anger.
“Oh, yes, please do,” Willow says.
“I think it’s a mistake not to say that the most obvious suspect is standing right there.” Frankie points at Quinn.
“My brother isn’t the killer.” Willow whips her bow up to aim an arrow at Frankie’s throat. Her voice is cold and cruel. “He has moral qualms about taking another’s life. I, on the other hand, have none.”
“Willow, put it down,” I say. Willow ignores me. “Frankie, Quinn didn’t do this. I’m sure of it.”
“All I know is we got ourselves a leaf lover who’s good enough to fight off Carrington soldiers even though he wasn’t carrying a weapon. He admits that he was out walking alone the night the boys were killed. We all know those boys wouldn’t have suspected a thing if he walked up to them while they were standing guard.” Frankie’s eyes bore into Quinn’s. “And then he left camp for nearly a week, and we had peace. Now first night after he’s back, we got problems again, and we have to take his word that there’s a Rowansmark tracker out there.”
Willow’s fingers are white where they bend around her bow. Her arrow is steady. I don’t know how to convince her to lower her weapon. Willow does what she wants. Besides, if Frankie had said terrible things about Logan, I’d want him to pay for his words, too.
“It’s okay, Willow,” Quinn says quietly, and she slowly lowers the bow.
“I don’t believe Quinn would kill anyone.” Logan’s words are slurred, but his voice is as unforgiving as the floor beneath our feet. “And, Frankie, that’s the third time you’ve used the derogatory term ‘leaf lover’ toward Quinn and Willow. Do it again, and I’ll chain you to the supply wagon for a week.”
His lip curls. “You defend these strangers? Over your own people?”
“Quinn and Willow are my friends. They’ve acted with honor and courage for the entire time I’ve known them. In fact, they’ve treated me far better than most of my own people, and I’m not going to forget it.”
Frankie backs toward the hall. “Fine. But I’ve got my eye on you.” He looks at Quinn.
Willow moves restlessly, but Quinn stills her with a glance. Meeting Frankie’s gaze, he says, “As you wish.” His stoic exterior is firmly in place. “Now Willow and I are going to get some rest. We have a fire to start just before dawn.”
Without another word, he brushes past everyone and leaves. Willow stalks past Frankie, muttering something about gutting him like a fish, and disappears after her brother.
“We should all get some sleep,” I say, and those who remain take the hint.
As they leave, I wrap my arms around Logan and help him lie on his bedroll. Almost before his head touches the blankets, his eyes close and his breathing slows as sleep takes him.
For the first time since the tracker attacked us, I let myself think about Logan’s words to me. About trusting him. About facing what lives in my nightmares and believing I’m strong enough to come out whole on the other side.
Maybe I am strong enough. Maybe the things that crouch behind my inner silence wouldn’t hurt me if I drag them into the light.
Or maybe my secret horrors would cling to me with bloody fingers and destroy what’s left of me.
It doesn’t matter. We have a tracker to catch. People to keep safe. And the Commander to destroy. Compared to that, one girl’s nightmares are a thing of little consequence.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
LOGAN
I wake at dawn to a splitting headache. Shadowy half-light seeps in past the mossy window, turning everything around me into hazy, indistinct shapes.
Or maybe taking a rock to the head did that.
Trying to get up sends shooting pain into my eye sockets and makes my stomach pitch. I lie still, breathing deeply for a moment, and then slowly roll to my side.
Rachel is asleep, slumped against the wall beside me, her knife clutched in her hand. Since I didn’t wake to screams, she either had a peaceful night, or she stayed up until sheer exhaustion kept her from dreaming. Judging by the faint dark smudges beneath her eyes, I’m betting on the latter.
It’s time to get the camp up and moving. We need to light the fire before the army starts moving off the bluff.
My head pounds, a sick throbbing that increases as I push myself to my knees. I move my feet underneath me until I’m crouching over my blanket, cradling my head in my hands. The bandage that Rachel tied over the cut feels like it’s stuck to the back of my skull. Dried blood, probably. I’ll need to dunk my head in some water to get it off.
The thought of it makes me want to lie down again.
Instead, I hold still and breathe deeply, hoping the throbbing in my head will lessen. If I can’t get this pain under control, I’ll be in no shape to lead us into the Wasteland.
I let go of my head and press my palms to the ground. Surely, if I move slowly enough, I can stand up. The contents of our room lurch sideways as I push myself off the floor and instantly crash back down onto my hands and knees. I look at Rachel, but she’s still sound asleep, her knife gleaming against the dark brown of her cloak.
I’m going to need some leverage to get myself on my feet. Moving cautiously, I crawl toward the doorway, my eyes on the sturdy table that hugs the wall beside the entrance. The rug that covers the floor is brittle and seems to crumble beneath my fingers as I lean on my hands.
I’m nearly there when something sharp gouges my palm. Looking down, I see a slender gray piece of metal, about the length of my index finger. One end is fluted, its slim edges now covered in blood from the shallow cut on my hand. The other end looks like a miniature spear, its needle tip buried in the rug beside my travel pack.
It’s a dart. Made from the same metal as the Rowansmark tech I wear strapped across my chest. A small white cloth is pinned to the floor beneath it.
My chest feels like a slab of steel is crushing me as the implications hit home.
The tracker was in our room.
Which means he got inside the building. Which means the four people who stood guard over the main entrance last night are probably dead.
My fingers shake as I grasp the dart and yank it free. The pressure in my chest joins the throbbing in my head as I unfold the cloth and stare at the letters penned in delicate swirls of drying blood.
The marked will die to pay your debt.
I swear viciously and crumple the cloth in my fist. Rachel jerks to attention and comes to her feet, her knife gripped tightly.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asks.
“This.” I toss the cloth to her and pick up the dart instead. Definitely the same material as the device. If I had any doubt left within me that I’m dealing with a Rowansmark tracker, it’s gone now.
I drop the dart and press my fingers to my eyes in the futile hope that somehow if I just push hard enough, the pain will go away.
“Where was this?” Rachel asks. Her voice crashes into my head and doubles the pain.
“Here.” I gesture toward the floor and immediately regret it when the movement sends brilliant white sparks through my brain.
Her words are furious, but I hear the thin thread of fear beneath them. “He was in here. When?”
“I don’t know, but I’m afraid the guards we had at the building’s entrance must be dead. We have to go check, and then get our people out of this place before he does anything else.”
“It says the marked will die. That means it hasn’t happened yet. If we can figure out what he means or how he intends to do it, we can stop him,” Rachel says. “Let’s go.”
“Yes,” I say, though with every sound crashing around inside of my head like it’s trying to crack my skull, I’m not in any shape to figure out how to stand up on my own, much less how to outthink a killer.
She slides her knife into its sheath and wraps her arm around me. I lean heavily on her while I stagger to my feet. The ground dips and sways, and I close my eyes until the world around me settles. Then we slowly make our way toward the door.
“The marked will die,” I say as we reach the doorway. “I wonder what kind of mark he means?”
Rachel shoves the door open and we step out into the hallway. A few people walk out of their rooms, travel packs slung over their shoulders, but we barely spare them a glance. We’re too busy staring at the row of doorways stretching along the corridor.
Scattered throughout the hall are doors marked with a bloody X.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
RACHEL
My stomach feels like it’s caving in as I stare at the red Xs marking random doors. I glance behind me, but our door is unblemished. I don’t want to take another step. Don’t want to open the marked doors and see what lies inside.
Logan swears quietly, his hand gripping my arm like I’m the only thing keeping him upright.
Fear is ice in my veins, keeping me rooted to the spot as I frantically scan the row of doors until I find the one I’m looking for.
The one Sylph jokingly calls her honeymoon cottage.
A giant X slashes across the door like a knife wound.
A small, hurt sound escapes the back of my throat, and I move. Half-dragging Logan with me, I stumble down the hall, past a marked door on my right, and another on the left.
Sylph can’t be dead. She can’t.
The X is still wet, blood gleaming faintly against the dark brown wood. I reach for the doorknob, and stop, my hand hovering just beneath a streak of crimson.
“Open it, Rachel.” Logan’s voice is calm, but I hear the dread underneath.
“I can’t.” What if she’s dead—another piece of my childhood brutally ripped away from me? Will I see her face when I close my eyes at night? Will her blood pour over my hands while she tells me I should’ve saved her?
He reaches past me and turns the knob. Sylph and Smithson lie on a blanket, another blanket covering them. I can’t see if she’s breathing. I can’t see if there’s blood.
