Deception by C. J. Redwine
Which means we might have a traitor in our midst.
My heart slams against my rib cage, and my hand closes over my knife hilt before I’ve even finished the thought. Skidding on mold and rubbery vines, I close the distance between the wagons and the door.
“Did you leave your post any time after I took Logan upstairs last night?” I ask. All four turn to stare at me. My voices rises. “Did you leave your post? Fall asleep? Hear a noise and leave the door unattended for a few seconds while you investigated?”
Sam raises his hands as if to calm me down and says, “We’ve been in front of this door for the past four hours. No one fell asleep or left the post. Why?”
Drake, Logan, and Quinn catch up to us, and I turn to them.
“They’ve been here all night. No one fell asleep.”
“We checked the building thoroughly yesterday,” Drake says, and the creases in his face seem to deepen. “No one was here.”
“And we know the tracker Willow and I followed was outside last night, because he attacked Logan,” Quinn says.
Logan’s face is white as he says, “Then it’s one of us. Whoever marked the doors and left me that message had to be one of us.”
“If the message matched the others you found, then either someone in our camp is working with Rowansmark, or the fact that a tracker is following us is a coincidence and has nothing to do with the messages or the killings.” Quinn’s voice is calm, but he grips Logan’s arm tightly, and his dark eyes sweep the room with careful precision.
My fingers no longer tremble as I grip my Switch and turn to survey the survivors who are climbing over the vines and circling the wagons in our wake. The fierce anger that wells up in me spills over into my voice. “It’s no coincidence. The only people outside of the building when the rock was thrown last night were you, Willow, Thom, and Ian. It was a man’s voice I heard. Thom and Ian were heading back to the shelter together, and we know it wasn’t you. That leaves the tracker. And the words he said match the stupid messages we’ve been getting, so I think Logan’s right.” I have to swallow hard to get the next words out. “One of our group is working with Rowansmark.”
I’m already striding toward the group milling around the wagons before I finish my sentence. One of the people we’ve protected is a wolf prowling among the sheep. I’m not about to let that go unaddressed.
Giving another piercing whistle, I grab the handle on the side of the supply wagon and vault into the driver’s seat. Planting my boots firmly on the seat, I rap my Switch sharply against the wood beneath me and glare at the few who dare to continue speaking until they fall quiet.
“We have a problem.” I draw the words out, filling them with every shred of the anger and betrayal that rushes through me.
“Yeah, someone got into the building and marked some of our doors last night,” the knobby-shouldered man who questioned me in the hall speaks up. One hand is wrapped around a donkey’s bridle, and the other is clenched around the strap of his travel pack.
“Yes, someone marked the doors.” I slowly scan the crowd, making eye contact and daring one of them to look away. To fidget. To give me any reason to doubt. “But the real problem is that no one breached the entrance last night. We’re the only people inside this building.”
Murmured conversation instantly explodes across the room, and I yell, “Quiet! We don’t have time to debate this. One of you is working with the Rowansmark tracker who showed up outside our camp when our guards were murdered.” I slam the end of my Switch onto the wagon seat, and the people nearby jump. “If you’ve betrayed us, if you’ve taken part in the atrocity that cost those boys their lives, do yourself a favor and stay behind. Or better yet, crawl off and die, because when we figure out who you are, there will be no mercy.”
My voice shakes, a too-frail vessel for the fury that blisters through me. I raise my Switch like the formidable weapon it is. “There will be no mercy. You will pay for your crimes with your life. It won’t be quick. It won’t be easy.” My breath rasps against my throat, tearing its way to freedom in sharp gasps while the memory of eight boys with bloody necks rises up to choke me.
“You’re a coward.” My voice fills the room. “A spineless dog who does his dirty work under the cover of night because you’re too scared to show your true face. Well, I’m not afraid of you.” I lean toward the crowd, and my teeth peel back from my lips in a snarl as I spit the words at them. “I’m not afraid of you, but you should be very afraid of me. You should look over your shoulder every minute of every day and wonder when I’m coming for you. You should tremble when you close your eyes because one of these nights, you’ll awaken with my blade against your throat, and there will be nothing you can do to stop me.”
Someone climbs into the wagon beside me, but I don’t turn. I don’t look away from the wide-eyed, terrified expressions facing me. “I know what you’re capable of, you filthy coward. But you have no idea what I can do. What I’ve already done.”
Melkin’s eyes haunt my memory, and I clamp my lips shut before my truth pours out into the green-gray air and condemns me.
“Good job,” Logan says for my ears only as he wraps an arm around me. When his warmth presses against me, I realize I’m shaking. “You made them understand.”
I look at the silent crowd who faces us and realize he’s right. They know they’re prey, and that someone close to them might betray them. They’ll be on their guard. And the one who marked the doors last night knows his days are numbered. I meet Logan’s eyes and find the same furious sense of betrayal in him that exists within me.
“We’re going to find whoever marked those doors,” he says.
“Yes, we are. But first, we need to light that fire and get out of the city before the army reaches us.”
He nods, and sways sharply to the left. I grab his tunic and face the crowd again.
“Frankie and Thom will light the fire. They have horses and can catch up to us once the blaze is burning. Jodi, Eric, and Lila will oversee getting the wagons and livestock out of the building. The rest of you get into your assigned positions. We’re leaving this city, and the Commander’s army, behind.”
I raise my Switch into the air again. “And if you’re the one who betrayed us, find a dark hole to hide in and stay behind. Because I promise you, if you leave this city with us, you’re as good as dead.”
The crowd moves quickly, casting furtive glances at each other and talking in hushed bursts. In five minutes, we have the wagons lined up on the main road leading out of the city. The survivors flank the wagons in their assigned positions, though Willow and Adam will be leading us until Logan’s had medical treatment and can once again walk in front.
In the dim light of dawn, we can see movement on the distant bluff. The army is coming for us, but they won’t reach us. Not today. Thom and Frankie mount their horses and head toward the fuel lines we built last night. The rest of us start walking north through the ruins. Minutes later, a shout goes up from behind us, and I turn to see a sheet of brilliant orange and red flames devouring the row of houses at the edge of the city. Black smoke gushes into the air and spreads across the sky as the fire eats through the dry tinder we left for it, greedily devouring the fuel lines, and then explodes into terrifying life in the Wasteland itself.
The fire is a voracious beast consuming everything in front of it. Trees flicker gold and orange against the dawn sky as flames slide over trunks, race across branches, and then leap for the next tree. Suddenly the bluff is alive with frantic motion as hundreds of soldiers realize death is coming for them unless they get out of the way.
We’re free of the Commander and his army, at least for the moment. But we’ve exchanged one threat for another, and as we make our way out of the city, I slowly study the expressions of those around me. Looking for secrets. Searching for guilt.
Hunting for a killer.
Chapter Thirty
LOGAN
I sit on the bench in the medical wagon, holding
If we’re lucky, by the time the Commander and his troops get around the blaze, we’ll be well off the main path to Lankenshire, our trail will be hidden, and he won’t be able to find us.
Just in case we aren’t lucky, I’ve been busy trying to think of every worst case scenario and at least two solutions to each. The constant throbbing pain in my head that multiplies with every bump of the wagon wheels makes thinking clearly almost impossible. When we hit another bump, I let go of the canvas flap and grab my aching head instead.
Rachel, who sits opposite me where she can watch for signs of the army’s pursuit, huffs out a little breath and says, “We’re clear of the city now. No one is following us. Either let Sylph treat you, or I’ll do it myself.” The worry in her voice softens the sharpness of her words.
I make myself smile at her, and then turn to Sylph, who sits with Smithson beside an open crate of medical supplies.
“Open your mouth, please,” Sylph says. I obey her and grimace as she sprinkles a pinch of bitter white powder onto my tongue. “There. That should help the headache. Now let’s take a look at this cut.”
Sylph’s fingers are much gentler than Rachel’s. She treats my cut like a new friend she’s just getting to know while Rachel treats wounds like challenges that must be overcome through sheer strength and tenacity. Still, even with Sylph’s gentleness, brilliant shards of pain jab at my skull like they’re trying to drill through the bone.
I sit still while she pats antiseptic on the wound and carefully cuts a small strip of bandage to protect the area from germs. Smithson moves to the bench opposite me, his eyes constantly seeking his wife like he’s afraid if he turns his back she might disappear.
I know the feeling—my eyes are trained on Rachel as she crouches by the wagon’s entrance watching the road. She’s already left me once to tell Drake to write down the names of everyone in a marked room. As soon as I’m finished in here, she’ll resume guard duty along the western flank, and I’ll take my place in the lead. After that, we’ll be focused on staying ahead of the Commander, keeping our people safe from the predatory elements in the Wasteland, and catching whoever left the message in our room last night.
My hand reaches for the gray metallic object that pinned today’s message to our floor, and I worry its smooth surface with my fingers as I pull it from my pocket.
I don’t want to let Rachel out of my sight, not when I know one of our own has betrayed us, but of everyone in camp, she’s one of the most capable of handling herself against a killer.
Besides, the coward only attacks at night.
“It’s a shallow cut. No stitches required. You were lucky,” Sylph says.
“I would’ve stitched him up last night if he’d needed it,” Rachel says.
Sylph’s smile is quick and bright. “I’d have given half a day’s food ration to see that.”
Rachel sounds offended. “I can stitch up a cut. I sat through the same Basic Medical class in Life Skills as you did.”
“Yes, but I paid attention.” Sylph’s voice is warm. “You spent every minute in Life Skills pretending you were somewhere else.”
“Well, maybe if they’d taught us something worth knowing instead of wasting our time with how to sew a pretty dress or set a fancy table, I would’ve had more incentive. Besides, I did well in Basic Medical.”
“Mr. Phillips said you had the worst bedside manner he’d ever seen.”
Rachel rolls her eyes. “I just have a low tolerance for whining.”
I laugh, and the pain in my head is nothing but a faint twinge now. The powder has done its job.
“I can put more salve on this if you’d like. Maybe it won’t scar quite so . . . badly.” Sylph’s cool fingers brush lightly against my neck, tracing the edges of the brand the Commander burned into my skin while I was at his mercy in the dungeon. It’s still healing, and the new skin feels tight and itchy.
“Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing you can do to make it look like anything less than the Commander’s Brute Squad insignia,” I say. And because both Sylph and Smithson look uncomfortable, I laugh a little. “Is it really that bad? Do I need to wear a scarf for life?”
Smithson’s brown eyes meet mine for a long moment. “It’s a good reminder of why we follow you instead of him.”
Now I’m the one who’s uncomfortable. I look at my hands, and wait quietly for Sylph to finish checking the burn.
She pats my shoulder. “All done. Do you want some pain medicine to keep with you in case the headache comes back, or do you want to find the medical wagon when you need more?”
“I’ll take some with me.”
She measures a few pinches of powder into a pouch and hands it to me.
“Thank you,” I say, and capture her gaze with mine. Once upon a time, she was the talkative, energetic girl whose heart was big enough to love Rachel, sharp edges and all, even when she could never fully understand the inner chambers of Rachel’s spirit. Now grief and loss have carved away the innocence and left wisdom in its place. I’m grateful that the size of her heart remains unchanged.
She smiles, her green eyes lighting with true pleasure. “You’re welcome. You’ve done so much for us. It’s nice to be able to do something for you.”
I don’t know what to do with her words, so I smile a little and head toward the wagon’s exit. Time to get us off the main road to Lankenshire.
Best Case Scenario: I continue to elude the Commander, get our people to safety, and catch the killer before the body count rises.
Worst Case Scenario: I fail.
I step out of the wagon as the path dips down between two chunks of moss-covered stone. I don’t know if I can catch the killer. I don’t know if I can keep everyone alive as we travel through the Wasteland. And I don’t know if I can convince Lankenshire to form an alliance with us.
But I do know that I’m prepared to lay my life on the line to make it happen. These people may have ignored me or mistreated me when we were all living in fear of the Commander’s vicious reprisals, but now they look at me with respect and trust. I refuse to be unworthy of either.
Chapter Thirty-One
RACHEL
Logan pushes us hard for four hours before calling a halt for lunch. We left the main road to Lankenshire two hours ago. Quinn, Willow, Ian, and I doubled back and did everything we could to disguise our trail and lay false ones instead. Hopefully by the time the army reaches the place where we left the road, we’ll be too far out of range for any of the guards to track us with our wristmarks.
We’ve seen no sign of the army behind us, but everyone is jumpy. Looking over their shoulders. Losing their tempers. Clutching their loved ones close. We may have left the Commander on the other side of the fire we set, but all one hundred forty-five survivors are still traveling with us, which means the person working with the Rowansmark tracker is still in our midst.
I take my lunch ration of rabbit meat wrapped in dandelion leaves and find Logan sitting next to Drake beneath the shade of a large walnut tree. He smiles when he sees me, but there are shadows in his eyes that have nothing to do with the pain in his head, and he won’t hold my gaze. Drake’s shoulders are slumped, and he keeps tugging on his beard, something he only does when he’s worried.
I toss my cloak onto the ground and sit beside Logan. “What’s going on?”
Logan holds the gray metallic object he found with this morning’s message. His thumb rubs across the fluted edge as if he thinks he can figure out who put it in our room if only he presses hard enough.
Without looking at me, he says, “According to the map, we should reach the river that separates us from the northern city-states by nightfall. Maybe sooner. I just hope I can find a way to get us across before the Commander rea
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. Neither does Drake. And both of them won’t stop looking at the metallic object in Logan’s hand. Finally, I say, “Okay, what’s really going on?”
Logan rubs the piece of metal. “We need to talk about what happened this morning.”
I sit up straighter. “Yes, we do. We need a plan. We have to catch this person before he has a chance to kill again.”
Drake tugs on his beard, and Logan’s jaw clenches.
“What? What did I say?” I look from one to the other.
Logan holds up the gray object. “See this edge?” His thumb presses against the fluted end again. “There’s a hole here and the tube is hollow inside. The other edge is as sharp as a needle.” His eyes meet mine, and the pain in them makes it suddenly harder to breathe. “I think this is a conduit for poison.”
The ground beneath me remains steady. The birds above me still chatter and squawk. All around me people eat their lunch rations and huddle in small groups. Everything is the same, and nothing is the same. My hands start to shake and my pulse feels heavy and uneven as it slams against my skin.
“The message said the marked will die. We think the killer poisoned the people in the marked rooms. He could’ve taken a syringe from the medical wagon. If someone is sleeping heavily enough, a little prick against the skin isn’t enough to bring them fully awake,” Drake says. His words rake across the silence inside of me, and I wrap my arms around my stomach as I stare at Logan.
“Sylph was in a marked room.” My voice is a desperate, haunted thing, and Logan looks as if I’ve struck him.
“I know.” He reaches for me, but I can’t bend into his embrace. I can’t let him comfort me, because I won’t need comforting. Sylph will be okay. We’ll find the antidote. Better yet, we’ll find the killer and force him to give us an antidote. She’ll be fine. Everyone will be fine.