Faster.
I can outrun this. I can push myself hard enough to leave it all behind. If I no longer see it, it doesn’t have to be real. It isn’t real.
It isn’t.
My feet slam into the forest floor. A branch tangles in my hair, and I rip it free. I don’t need to cry. I don’t need to feel. I don’t need anything but to run until I leave behind the gaping wounds that carve my spirit into something I no longer recognize.
Something wraps around me from behind, and I tumble to the ground. Twisting, I punch and kick, but every move I make is easily parried until suddenly I find myself held close, tucked up under someone’s chin.
“Where are you running to?” Quinn asks quietly.
My breath sobs in and out of my lungs. The longer I sit still, the faster the grief will catch up to me. “Let me go.”
“And let you fall headlong into the river?”
I lift my head and see a sheer drop just six yards from us. I shrug.
“Do you want to die?” he asks as if he really wants to know.
Do I? It would be easier. I could fade into silence and all the broken pieces in me wouldn’t matter anymore. I wouldn’t have to grieve, or think, or desperately stuff everything I can’t stand to face into the silence.
But Logan would grieve. And if Dad, Oliver, and Sylph are waiting for me on the other side, they’d be disappointed in me. I’d be disappointed in me. I’m not a quitter.
I slowly shake my head. No, I don’t want to die.
“Why aren’t you crying for Sylph?”
“Tears don’t bring people back.” Pain stabs from my chest to my fingertips.
“Tears aren’t for the people we’ve lost. They’re for us. So we can remember, and celebrate, and miss them, and feel human,” he says.
Feel human. I push away from him, and he lets me go. If allowing everything that wants to hurt me to rise to the surface and destroy me is what it takes to feel human again, then I’d rather feel nothing at all.
The silence greedily absorbs the shock of Sylph’s death until the dark, fathomless void consumes me—a stranger pressing against my skin from the inside out. I don’t feel human. I don’t feel grief, or pain, or fear.
I don’t feel anything at all.
Slowly, I climb to my feet and find Logan standing behind us. His eyes flicker from Quinn to me, and then he walks forward and opens his arms. I step into his embrace, but his touch is only skin deep. Inside me, the Rachel I once knew is gone.
Chapter Forty-One
LOGAN
It’s been ten days since Thom blew up the bridge, and we left the Commander and his borrowed army on the western side of the river. Black oaks, shagbark hickories, and the occasional cluster of pine trees mingle with the cypress and maple. Long slabs of gray-white rock rise out of the ground for yards at a time before submerging themselves in the soil once more. Every now and then we come across the sagging, ivy-covered hulk of a long-forgotten house perched at the edge of the river’s steep embankment.
Why anyone would want to live near the constant musty-dirt smell of the water and the swarms of mosquitoes and gnats that fill the air at twilight is a mystery to me.
Most of my time has been spent working with Jeremiah to flesh out the map so that it includes the other three northern city-states in case Lankenshire won’t reach an alliance with me, and perfecting my understanding of the Rowansmark tech so that I can replicate it once I have the right wire and metal at my disposal.
Using supplies I found in the highwaymen’s wagons, I’ve nearly completed the device I can use to track and kill the Commander. We’ll see which of us manages to put the other one down like a dog.
I like my odds.
I’ve also held two more funerals to bury those who were poisoned. Of the nineteen names on my list, ten are dead, including Sylph. Thom was poisoned as well, though he wasn’t on my list. I don’t know why the killer would go after Thom without marking his room, but Thom seems to be the only victim who didn’t wake up with a bloody X on his door. The other nine who were in marked rooms show no signs of sickness. The killer deliberately separated families and friends by poisoning only one person per shelter. Knowing they aren’t about to die, however, does nothing to comfort those who remain.
It does nothing to comfort me, either. I’m grateful I won’t be losing any more of my people to poison, but I feel like I’m walking with the blade of an axe poised at the back of my neck. It’s not a matter of if it will fall, but when.
When the killer will strike again.
When the Commander will catch up with us.
I skirt the wide trunk of a black oak tree and take a long look at myself. I’ve never had an easy life. I understood loss and fear before I was old enough to learn how to read. I knew what it felt like to fight for survival because survival was all I had left. I accepted that any respect I might earn from others, I must first earn from myself. And I overcame it all by refusing to allow my circumstances to dictate my intelligence, my courage, or my choices.
Those are valuable lessons to remember now. I might be walking with an axe against my neck, but I’m not going to fall to my knees and make it easy to take me down. To take any of us down.
The faint outline of a plan is taking shape in my head as the sun melts across the western tree line, and I start looking for a place to make camp. We’re still a day’s journey from Lankenshire. The path we’ve followed along the river is narrow, but fairly defined—worn down by regular trade missions or courier visits.
Drake walks beside me. “What’s the plan?” he asks.
I know he means the plan for making camp, but I have another answer for him. I’m not used to talking through my plans with anyone except Rachel. But in the aftermath of Sylph’s death, Rachel is a pale, silent shadow of herself, and while I’m not exactly sure how to fix it, I’m positive discussing worst case scenarios with her isn’t the answer.
“I need solutions to our problems.” The ground begins to rise, and ahead of us the path disappears down the other side of the hill we’re climbing. “To do that, I need to see every problem clearly.”
“Finding a permanent shelter, whether it’s with Lankenshire or somewhere else, seems like it should be a priority,” he says, huffing a little as the incline strains our legs. Behind us, the rest of the survivors climb in weary silence. Only the creak and groan of the wagon wheels and the faint shuffle of boots against the forest floor gives away their presence.
Even though Drake and I are at least ten yards ahead of the rest, I pitch my voice low. “Yes, that’s a priority. But the real reason we need shelter so badly is because we have human threats after us. Remove the threats, and finding a place to live isn’t as urgent.”
A crisp breeze tangles in the leaves above us, and Drake pulls his cloak close. “How’re you planning on removing the threats?”
“I’m nearly finished designing a piece of tech that will wipe out the Commander. If I take him out of the equation, the army will stop chasing us. The more immediate problem is that we still don’t know which one of us poisoned our people, and we have no idea how or when he’ll strike again.”
“We’ve checked everyone’s wristmarks and searched through every scrap of personal belongings. We didn’t find any evidence linking anyone in camp to Rowansmark.”
“I know.” My fingers skim the rough skin of a branch as I push it out of my way. “But someone who is skilled enough to kill like a professional isn’t going to be stupid enough to leave obvious clues lying around for us to find.”