Deception by C. J. Redwine
I shoot her a look. “I’m honor-bound not to struggle with this since you just retrieved it all by yourself. Please do me the courtesy of pretending this is hard for you as well.”
She rolls her eyes. “It was a lot lighter in the water. Roll it, honor boy. I’m not lifting this.”
We shove the cylinder over the muddy bank. It catches on stones and tree roots and in general does its best to defeat our efforts, but eventually we get it to the base of the path.
“Now what?” she asks.
“I’ll walk up the path backward and pull while you push.”
“Do me a favor and try not to back right over the edge.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say.
She takes a moment to wring some water from her tunic. The sun slides over the silver ear cuff she wears and dies when it hits the black feather dangling limply against her shoulder.
“What’s the feather for?” I ask.
Her dark eyes are unreadable. “For my first kill.”
A chill raises the hair on the back of my neck. “How old were you?”
“Eight. If we’re done talking about me, let’s—”
“Wait a minute.” I hold my hands up. “You killed someone when you were eight? That seems . . . that’s very . . . why?”
She fists her hands on her hips. “You could say it was my initiation into the family business.”
“Willow. You were just a child.” Horror fills my voice, and she gives herself a little shake and bends toward the trap.
“Not quite enough fish here to comfortably feed the entire group, but I think I saw another trap farther south.” Her voice is calm, but I hear the finality in it. She won’t discuss her childhood, and given what I know now, I can’t blame her.
Between this conversation and Quinn’s revelation about his father teaching his children every possible way to kill someone, I now regret ever giving Quinn a hard time about refusing to carry a weapon.
“Let’s get this up to the meadow and let Nola figure out if she wants to cook it now or transport it raw, and we can go get the other trap.” I keep the lingering horror out of my voice, and swallow the pity as well. Willow wouldn’t appreciate either.
“She’d better cook it now. Few things are worse than the smell of a dead fish,” she says. We start pushing and pulling the trap up the trail, and she looks at me. “Forgot to tell you there’s a bridge just south of here.”
I stop pulling. “A bridge? A fully intact bridge?”
She shrugs. “It looked intact to me, but I didn’t swim close enough to get a good look.”
A bridge. I have a way to get my people across the river. And thanks to the jars of glycerin and acid I took with me out of Baalboden after blowing up the gate, I have a way to destroy that bridge and cut off any efforts to track us further.
For the first time in weeks, I feel a tiny shred of hope.
Chapter Thirty-Six
RACHEL
Logan conducts a funeral service on the rise of land at the north end of the meadow. The morning chill still clings to the air, and a somber mood lies over us like a blanket. I leave Sylph resting peacefully in the wagon with Smithson by her side and join the crowd of mourners. I tell Smithson I feel I should be present for the burial, and that’s partially true.
But really I need a few minutes away from the sight of Sylph’s slow deterioration and Smithson’s increasing desperation before the silent wall within me threatens to crack. I can’t grieve yet. Not while she’s still alive. Maybe not at all. If I let the depth of what she means to me hurt me, every other ghost that haunts me will demand its due, and how will I ever survive that?
So I stand at the edges of the crowd, letting Logan’s voice wash over me without leaving a single word behind, and tell myself that the scars that harden the surface of my heart are necessary for survival.
When Drake takes over to supervise the actual burial, Logan works his way around the side of the field until he’s standing beside me. He wraps an arm around my waist, and I lean against him as the first shovel bites into the ground. We stand in silence as those who loved the ones we lost say their words, pick their flowers, and find their own way to let go of one more dream.
When the crowd begins to disperse under Drake’s orders to help Nola cook the fish Willow caught, pack up the rest of the supplies, and be ready to move out in an hour, I look at Logan.
“This poison . . . there must be an antidote. We just need to figure out what we’re dealing with, right?” Deep down, though, I already know the answer. If there were an antidote, if Logan knew how to stop this, he wouldn’t be standing still doing nothing. But I have to ask. I have to know I tried everything to save her.
His jaw clenches. “It’s castor seed poison. And according to Quinn, there is no antidote.”
A weak spurt of anger warms me. “How does Quinn know about poisons? You’re the scientist. If there’s an antidote, you can figure it out.”
“Quinn and Willow both know a frightening amount about poisons and weapons and every other way to kill someone.” His voice is quiet, but still I glance around to make sure no one in Frankie’s small circle of friends overheard. The last thing we need to deal with is more suspicion aimed at the Runningbrooks. None of Frankie’s friends are nearby. There’s only Ian, rolling up a few yards of canvas, and Elias, slowly packing his travel bag while he watches us like he’d love to know what we’re talking about.
Logan turns me around to face him. His eyes burn into mine. “Rachel, I’m sorry. If I could think of anything—anything—to try, I would. But I don’t know how to save her.” His voice is nothing but a whisper now. “I’m sorry.”
The hurt stabbing through me throbs once or twice and then fades into the bleak silence. I don’t try to get it back. Sylph is going to die. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. One more person stripped from me. One more ghost to haunt me while I sleep.
Feeling nothing but icy emptiness is better than sliding into the gaping pit of loss and destruction lurking somewhere inside of me. If I feel nothing, I can function. I can go back and face her. I can be strong for Smithson.
I can keep going.
“Rachel?” Logan asks, his hand reaching for me as if to offer comfort.
I step back. I don’t need comfort. Comfort doesn’t solve anything. Tears don’t either. I just need to put one foot in front of the other and pretend I can handle this. If I pretend long enough, maybe it will become real.
Logan’s hand falls to his side, and I read the guilt and regret on his face as easily as if he’d said the words aloud. He feels responsible. He thinks I blame him. I should do something. Say something. Find a way to ease his mind and heart.
I should, but any softness that once existed in me has disappeared.
Before either of us can say another word, Quinn runs up to us. “Found the highwaymen’s campsite just west of here. They had two wagons full of supplies.”
“Where are they?” Logan asks.
“Over there.” Quinn points, and I turn to see two new wagons, each pulled by a sturdy-looking horse, resting at the southern edge of the meadow. “One of the wagons has blankets and bedrolls inside. The other is full of weapons, jars of fruit, sacks of jerky, bolts of cloth, and boots. Looks like they’d just come from a successful trading mission. Which makes finding these very suspicious.”
He holds out his hand, and we stare at the pile of silver coins spread across his palm. On one side is a bold, raised C.
“They traded with Carrington,” I say, and hunch my shoulders as an itch of awareness prickles the hair on the back of my neck. “They’re too close to the northern city-states for a trading mission with the actual city-state of Carrington. Highwaymen don’t travel that far.”
“Which means they most likely traded with the army,” Logan says.
“The army would’ve been fully provisioned before they marched on Baalboden,” Quinn says. “And the highwaymen’s wagons are full, so whatever they traded, it wasn’t foo
The itch on the back of my neck becomes a terrible need to get out of the open. Get the people into the Wasteland.
Run.
“Information,” Logan says, and he’s already moving. “They traded information about other routes to the northern city-states, and they must’ve done it yesterday, which means the army has had enough time to catch up to us. We’re in trouble. Let’s go.”
A shout goes up from the eastern edge of the meadow. We spin toward the noise and stare as Frankie and Thom thunder out of the forest, their horses galloping at top speed. Frankie locks eyes with us and yells, “Move, move, move! The army is coming!”
“South! Go south! Find the bridge.” Logan waves at Frankie to take the lead, and as the horse races past us, Logan yells to the crowd of survivors who stand frozen in horror, packs on their backs, food in their hands. “Follow Frankie. Men carry the children. Guards, grab your weapons. Get those wagons moving.” When everyone just stares at him for a heartbeat, he screams, “Run!”
The crowd breaks. Men grab children and race south into the tree line. Women hike up their skirts and follow. Nola, Jodi, Drake, and Elias climb into wagon seats and slap the reins to get the animals moving. Quinn and Willow run to the highwaymen’s wagons, leap aboard, and reach back to haul slower-moving people into the wagon beds before sending the horses careening into the forest.
“I’m going in the medical wagon,” I say as I run south beside Logan. “I’ll kill anyone who tries to get inside.”
“Be safe,” he says, and leaps for one of the supply wagons.
I’ve nearly reached the wagon when Ian runs up to me. His eyes are lit with a wild light as he grabs my arm.
“This is it. This is our chance. The Commander is in range.”
The medical wagon bounces over a rock, and Sylph’s cry of pain scrapes my heart raw.
“Move,” I say, and try to step around him.
“Rachel, we need the device. We can end this.” His grip hurts my arm.
“Logan has the device, and he’s in another wagon. Go talk to him if you—”
“We had a deal.” Ian’s voice is furious, but I don’t care. The entire field is in chaos, the Commander isn’t in front of us yet, and Sylph needs me. I’m not going to spend the last moments of her life trying to con Logan out of the device when I should be helping get everyone to safety.
I wrench my arm free and shove Ian aside. Before he can say another word, I grab the back of the medical wagon and jump onto the step as our people scramble into the trees while in the distance, a line of Carrington soldiers breaks out of the eastern forest and races toward us.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
LOGAN
The meadow quickly empties as wagons and people rush into the trees. I crawl into the back of the supply wagon and focus on my plan as we rumble our way into the forest.
Frankie returns to tell me the bridge is thirty yards away and that people are already crossing it. His horse pants heavily as he gives me his report, and then he wheels south again to shepherd the people in the right direction.
Thirty yards away. Thirty yards of thick trees, rock-strewn ground, and dense underbrush. We’re never going to make it.
We have to make it.
The consequences for failure are unthinkable.
I just need to buy us enough time to get every man, woman, child, and wagon over that bridge. I pray the bridge is strong enough to support our weight as we cross. We don’t have any other options.
Jodi is driving the supply wagon I’m in. The wheels bounce over roots and bushes, flinging me to the side, and threatening to toss her off the driver’s bench entirely. She hangs on to the reins with fierce determination as I yank the crates I need out from under the bench. Prying their lids loose, I do a quick count.
Fifteen jars of acid. Sixteen of glycerin.
More than enough to blow up a bridge.
Perfect.
“Stop the wagon!” I call to Jodi, and to her credit, she obeys without hesitation. Scooping up a jar of each substance, I leap from the wagon and wave Thom on when he whips his horse toward me. “Go to the bridge. Get everyone across. I’ll be there soon.”
“If you’re going to face down that army by yourself, you’ll need some help. I’m staying.” His voice brooks no argument, but he isn’t going to sway me.
“Thom, go. I’ll be right behind you, I promise.” A flash of Carrington red winks between the trees. They’re gaining on us. I look around quickly. At least forty people still haven’t managed twenty yards, much less thirty. I meet Thom’s gaze. “Save these people, Thom. I need them out of here or I can’t buy us the time we need. Save them. Please.”
He nods and reaches down to haul a struggling woman onto his horse. As he moves to help others, calling out encouragement and instructions, I turn to face Carrington’s army and find Jodi standing beside me, a jar of acid in one hand and a jar of glycerin in the other.
“Get in the wagon,” I say sharply. “There’ll be flying debris. I need you safe.”
She tightens her grip on the jars and sizes up the soldiers racing toward us. “Do I throw them at the same time?”
“Jodi—”
“At the same time?” Her voice trembles, but her hands are steady, and with the first line of soldiers less than fifteen yards from us, I don’t have time to talk her out of her foolish courage.
“No, throw one and then the other. High and to the left. The jars have to shatter against the same spot on a tree trunk. Choose the biggest tree you can reach.”
She nods, and I take a deep breath. The soldiers are ten yards away. It’s time. “Now!”
I whip my arm back, aim for the right, and throw the jar of glycerin as hard as I can. It arcs up, falls swiftly, and shatters against the trunk of a red maple. I hurl the acid after it, just as Jodi’s second jar slams into the same cypress trunk she’d already coated with glycerin.
The cypress explodes in a shower of splinters, branches, and shards of bark the size of my arm. Seconds later, the maple explodes as well, and both trees topple to the ground. A handful of soldiers are crushed beneath the trunks. Still more are bleeding from gaping wounds to their heads, arms, and legs.
None of those who bleed are injured in their vital organs. The Dragonskin they wear sees to that. Still, the path we cut through the forest has been obliterated, and uninjured soldiers must waste precious seconds running around the debris.
We can’t afford to let those seconds go to waste.
“Drive.” I grab Jodi’s tiny waist and toss her onto the driver’s bench. Then I vault into the wagon bed and scoop up two more jars. As the wagon bounces its way across the forest floor, I brace myself against the wall and watch for my opportunity.
The soldiers are pouring over the debris, stepping on their dead and injured if they must. Already, less than ten yards separate us. “Tell me when we reach the bridge,” I yell to Jodi.
The man closest to the wagon meets my gaze and draws his sword.
I heft my jars.
Four more soldiers hurtle out of the trees, intent on flanking us.
I need a little more time. Just a little more time to get safely onto the bridge.
Five more men close in from the other side. All I see in front of me is a sea of red military jackets and drawn swords.
“Bridge!” Jodi calls back.
“Are there any stragglers?”
Two others join the ranks of those closing in on us. Six yards separate us.
Five.
“All clear,” Jodi says. “We’re the last ones. Should we cross it?”
“Get the wagon onto the bridge and then stop.”
The wagon lurches onto a wooden bridge that lists to the left. The boards are the color of fig pudding and feel slippery an
Carrington’s front line is two yards from the bridge.
From us.
A long, flat rock juts out of the ground in front of the entrance to the bridge. I leap from the wagon, aim, and throw both jars at the same time. They smash against the stone and explode in a shower of glass, dirt, and slivers of rock, leaving a deep crater where the rock used to be. The force of the blast throws me against the wagon, and I dive underneath it as debris rains down. The soldiers closest to the explosion are thrown onto their backs, their skin riddled with cuts. The soldiers behind them now have to climb over the injured and carefully skirt the crater without falling off the sheer face of the drop to the river below.
I’ve bought us all the time I can. It will have to be enough.
“Go,” I say to Jodi as I leap onto the wagon step and peer around the canvas to assess the scene before me.
The bridge is a narrow strip of wooden planks held in place by iron pillars that arch over the top of us like a naked canopy. Rust covers every inch of iron and eats through some of the pillars until the metal curls away from its moorings like it longs to reach the water below. Two wagons are still carefully negotiating the swaying planks. Their wheels bite into the rotting wood, making it sag dangerously. Here and there, a board has snapped in half, leaving gaping holes and forcing the wagons to the far side of the bridge, where they slide precariously close to the edge. At least fifty people still struggle to get across—gripping the rusty pillars, skirting the holes, and in general moving slowly enough that Carrington’s soldiers will run them through with a sword before they ever have to worry about drowning.
“Move!” I scream to them. “Go faster or you’ll die.”
Some of them pick up their pace. Some of them don’t. Their heavy packs, their exhaustion, or sheer, abject terror keep them crawling along the bridge at a snail’s pace.