Her smile is a vicious baring of teeth.
“I’m sorry Quinn got hurt. I’m grateful he saved Rachel and the rest of those trapped in the western quadrant, but I’m sorry he’s suffering as a result.”
She looks at me. “I warned Rachel that if she did anything to cost my brother his life, I’d make her pay for it.”
“She didn’t do this. I sent her out there.” I sent her straight into the hands of the killer. The thought is like a splinter in my brain. I can’t leave it alone.
“And Quinn followed her because he’s determined to protect her. I know.” Her voice sounds weary. “I tried to talk him out of it weeks ago, but he wouldn’t listen. And it doesn’t matter if you sent her or if she chose to go. If there’s danger involved, Rachel will be right in the middle of it. I wanted her to know about Quinn’s . . . determination . . . so she’d think about the cost of her actions.”
“This isn’t Rachel’s fault. If you want to be mad at anyone, be mad at me. Or better yet, be mad at the killer who put us in this position in the first place.”
“Oh, I know exactly where to put the blame for all of this,” she says softly. “And I’m better suited than most at killing someone in ways that will leave him begging for death before I end it. But Quinn would’ve followed Rachel into the smoke no matter who sent her there. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
She moves away, and I let her go, her words ringing in my ears as the memory of Quinn holding Rachel close to him after Sylph died burns my throat like acid.
Chapter Forty-Five
LOGAN
Lankenshire sits atop a steep rise of land like a glittering white crown made of stone. A long stretch of ground between the Wasteland and the city’s wall has been cultivated into evenly plowed fields with newly sprouted plants poking up from the rich soil. A path paved in dusty, white-gray rock leads between the fields and to the city’s gate.
We’ve made it. Three weeks of staying one step ahead of the Commander, battling highwaymen and the Cursed One, and trying to protect ourselves from a Rowansmark vendetta—all to reach this city. I began the journey with a small group of experienced fighters who were desperately trying to train others on the basics of survival, but I’m walking into Lankenshire with a remnant of battle-scarred, capable people who can handle anything our enemies throw at us.
I’m also walking into Lankenshire with a killer in our midst, but I’d like to keep that a secret until I have a plan in place to catch him.
We arrive at Lankenshire’s ornately scrolled iron gate a few hours after dawn. The city’s wall is made of thick-cut white stone with flecks of silvery gray that glitter beneath the morning sun. Several soldiers in dark green uniforms stand at attention behind the iron bars, watching as we travel the path that bisects the fields.
Rachel is still unconscious. Quinn lapses in and out of unconsciousness as well, as do two of the others. One boy’s leg is burned so badly, I’m sure it will have to be amputated. Another woman might lose her hand.
None of those wounds are treatable while we’re camped out in the Wasteland. I need to get my people inside the safety of Lankenshire and into their medical building as fast as possible. Which means I can’t tell Lankenshire the entire truth.
Not yet.
If they knew we might harbor a killer in our midst, we have both the army of Carrington and a contingent of Baalboden guards, led by the Commander, on our trail, and we’ve incurred the wrath of Rowansmark, we’d be turned away before I ever had the chance to make my case for an alliance.
If we’re turned away, people will die.
Rachel might die, and I can’t stand to imagine my life without her in it.
So as we approach the gates, I instruct Drake to let me do the talking and come up with a story that is completely true . . . without telling the whole truth. Guilt snaps at me, but I shove it aside. I have promises to keep to the survivors of Baalboden. I’ve made no promises to Lankenshire yet.
Just inside the entrance, a man wearing gold bars on the front left pocket of his uniform steps forward. “What business do you have with Lankenshire?” he asks as he stares at our group like he’s never seen a crowd of smoke-scorched weary souls standing outside his gate. His voice is cautious but friendly enough.
“We’re from Baalboden, and we were in a fire last night. I have several seriously injured people, some of our elderly are suffering from smoke inhalation, and I have a pregnant woman due to give birth any day. We’d like to respectfully request lodging and medical attention. I can offer payment.”
Once I have the right supplies to replicate the device, that is. Until then the three elected leaders who govern Lankenshire—known as the triumvirate—will have to take me at my word.
“What are folks from Baalboden doing so far north?” He peers past me as if searching for someone. “Where’s your leader?”
I clear my throat, and the man’s gaze latches onto me again. “We’re all that’s left of Baalboden. The Cursed One destroyed it almost six weeks ago. I’d planned to negotiate a possible asylum for my people here, but last night’s fire changed those plans temporarily.”
“Baalboden’s gone?” His eyes widen, and he glances over his shoulder as if the Cursed One might suddenly appear and light his city on fire, too.
“Please,” I say as I step closer to the gate. “Some of my people will die if they don’t get medical attention.”
He tugs at the hem of his jacket. “I can’t offer you long-term asylum. That has to come from the triumvirate. But I should be able to offer your people a brief stay in the hospital while our leaders set aside a time to meet with you and hear your case. Let me check with my commanding officer.”
He hurries into the city, leaving the two soldiers who were with him to stand and stare at us while we wait. It isn’t long before he’s back, along with several other men in green uniforms and six people, both women and men, dressed all in white.
“I brought doctors,” the gate guard says. “And my commanding officer.” He snatches a thick gold key from a chain around his neck and unlocks the gate. “You’re welcome to stay in the hospital while your people recover. The triumvirate is being told of your presence and will request a meeting with you as soon as you are not as concerned with the immediate care and treatment of your people.”
“We’ll take your animals and wagons, if you like,” one of the other uniformed men says. “We can spread them out between several local farmers and care for them until you need them again.”
“Thank you,” I say. My voice can’t encompass the relief that fills me. I set out to find a safe asylum for my people, and I’ve done it. Now I just need to catch a killer, outwit the Commander, and warn the other city-states about Rowansmark’s tech.
The doctors surround the medical wagon, and in seconds, it’s whisked off toward the hospital. The rest of us follow slowly on foot, led by Coleman Pritchard, the man in charge of Lankenshire’s security.
Coleman points out the local sights as we walk. The greenhouse beside the city’s best pub. The museum that is solely dedicated to restoring and displaying artifacts from the previous civilization. The central irrigation system that makes it possible to raise crops, even if the rainfall won’t cooperate.
I try to act interested and respond in all the right places, but I keep scanning the faces that peek out of buildings as we walk the glittering stone road that winds through Lankenshire’s business district like a loose spiral.
I keep looking for the tracker.
“Did anyone else enter Lankenshire today?” I ask when Coleman takes a break from explaining the newly installed gas streetlamps and switches to discussing the sizable mercantile that sells the best pickled okra in all of the nine city-states.