What could be so terrible about admitting you’re scared of a dog? I pause, wondering if I’ve misinterpreted something, when he adds, “And you can’t tell anyone either. I won’t let you.”
Footsteps approach, and I turn to see a sleepy Emma walking to meet us. “You guys are going to wake the whole camp if you can’t keep it down,” she says.
What happens next unfolds so quickly I blink and nearly miss it. Blaine shoves Jackson aside and grabs Emma. He pulls her into his chest and brings the knife to her neck. All I can do is pull my bow up instinctively, an arrow already nocked, and aim at my brother.
“You figured it out, you sly little weasel,” he snarls at me. “How did you know? When did you know?”
“Blaine,” I say slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” he hisses. “You said so yourself: I know what’s really happening here. What tipped you off?”
“Blaine,” I plead. “Put the knife down.” He’s gone crazy. The dog must have been sick, and then he bit Blaine, and now Blaine’s sick, too. Emma is shaking, her hands clutching at Blaine’s bandaged forearm, which pins her to his chest.
“I kn-knew it,” she stutters. “They’re wrong. Both of them.”
“What?”
“It’s their pupils. They don’t dilate properly.”
“Shut up,” Blaine says, and he presses the knife to her neck.
“And the dog.”
Blaine shakes her. “That’s enough.”
“The dog hates them both. Neither of them are right.”
“I said that’s enough!”
Neither of them are right. Are they both sick? Are they—
And then, I see it. Blaine always passing off the dog’s aggression as a hatred of the spy. Blaine hugging me in Stonewall, his arms stiff. I didn’t notice anything odd about his pupils, or Jackson’s, but Emma must have, when she’d tended to them just earlier. Even still, I don’t want to believe it. It can’t be—not when Owen interrogated Blaine the way he did, checked for his clipping scar.
“Blaine,” I say, hoping that something in my voice will resonate with him. “Please?”
I take a small step forward, and he pinches the blade into Emma’s neck. Blood blooms against the weapon, against her pale skin, and when she cries out in pain, I know this is not my brother. Not really. Blaine would never force me into this position. He would never hold a knife to Emma or spill even a drop of her blood.
We’ve been deceived. We are not dealing with one spy; we are dealing with two.
And they are Forgeries.
I do the only thing I can think of: I let my arrow fly.
It strikes true. Blaine’s head whips back, and he falls, releasing Emma. She staggers to me, collapses against my chest. My arms go around her, squeezing, hugging tighter and tighter until it sinks in. What I’ve just done.
Jackson is standing over the darkening snow, a smile tugging at his lips. I shove him aside and then I’m yelling, screaming. I drop to my knees.
The camp is awake now. Someone is trying to nurse the fire to life. Owen is shouting orders. But my hands are moving of their own accord, checking Blaine’s neck, finding the same thin scar my father did. It doesn’t make sense. I pick up the knife and cut open the leg of Blaine’s pants. There is no scar on his thigh, no sign of an arrow wound when there absolutely should be. My brother was hit when we fled through the Great Forest over the summer. This thing, now dead in the snow, was made without knowledge of that injury. And whoever put the mark along his neck was not Clipper.
I throw a fist into his chest, curse him, start choking down sobs. Why couldn’t I see it? How could I not sense something so wrong in my own brother? I look at Blaine’s face for the first time, the arrow in his forehead. I throw up in the snow. I cough and pant and heave and scream until Owen drags me away from the body.
SEVEN
JACKSON IS SHOVED INTO THE snow before the fire.
“Explain.” It is a one-word command from my father and Jackson yawns at it.
I lose control and punch him as hard as I can. “Blaine brought you to us with a gun to your head! And now you’re on the same side?”
Jackson smiles but doesn’t say anything. I hit him again and my knuckles split open. At least he’s bleeding now, too: a bloody nose. I hope I broke it.
“Answer us, Forgery,” Owen demands.
Jackson rolls his eyes, like we’re boring him. “Blaine brought me in because we planned it that way. He pretended I was the enemy because we planned that, too. Everything we did we planned, except for, well . . . this.” He jerks his head toward the body in the snow.
“But Blaine had a clipping scar,” my father says. “He was flawless when I questioned him. He even knew about the burn on Gray’s forearm. How could he—” Owen exhales sharply. “Our man! The one the Order captured.” His eyes snap to Jackson. “Your people got information from him. How much, exactly, do you know?”
Jackson shrugs and this time it is Owen who strikes him. He shakes out his hand, opening and clenching his fist repeatedly. “You will answer my questions without cheek or I will make sure you regret every moment from here on. Is that clear?”
Jackson spits a mouthful of blood onto the snow.
“Let’s try this again.” My father kneels before him and I’m struck by how terrifying he looks in the moment. I’ve never before seen this side of my father, a man who someone should fear. “Explain everything.”
Jackson glances at my father’s fist and sighs. “You’re right, okay? The Rebel we caught leaked information when pressed accordingly. He was willing to lose a few fingers, but not an entire limb.” Another coy smile, as though the Forgery finds this detail amusing. “He told us a small group of your people was heading west on a specialized mission. The boy who infiltrated Taem to steal the vaccine would be a part of the team, while his twin”—Jackson’s eyes flick my way—“who was still recovering from a coma, would not. We gathered as much information on Gray as possible—learned that he sustained injuries to his arm and that he wanted his brother with him on the trip, but Blaine had failed to pass conditioning tests. The prisoner was willing to die rather than divulge the goals of your mission, though, or the location of your headquarters, so that’s exactly what he did: He died.”
“And you were sent after us?” my father asks.
“Blaine and I were already out patrolling the Great Forest when we got the call. We were given orders to track your team, uncover your plans, and stop them as necessary, all while trying to determine the location of your headquarters. That was the main goaclass="underline" getting the coordinates and relaying them as soon as possible.
“We picked up your trail easily enough. It was the hiking that was rough—ten days of nearly nonstop pursuit. When we caught up with you at Stonewall, infiltrating seemed smartest, especially since Blaine would be recognized, so we agreed on a cover: I’d be an Order spy in his custody. We each played a part, and he, clumsily, botched his.”
“And Blaine’s scar?” my father prompts. “The one on his neck?”
“Oh, he’s had that ever since Gray came back to Taem for the vaccine. Frank saw Gray’s neck, knew the Rebels had found a way to remove tracking devices. He marked some of us after that—anyone he suspected to have fallen into your hands.” Jackson’s eyes dart over each of us in turn, like he’s waiting for someone to congratulate him on how deceitful he’s been. He’s suddenly so different from the desperate spy we met in Stonewall. Cool, calculating, unfazed.
“If I’m smart about things, I can still complete my mission,” he adds.