“If you run, I will have Aaron put a bullet through your friend’s head. Is that understood?”
Not dead, then. “Understood.”
The lights dim, enough for me to see the outlines of half a dozen vehicles, lights mounted on the roofs. Human figures, too, carrying weapons. I squint, looking for a rifle or other kind of long gun, but they appear to be armed only with blades—a man on the left holding a spear, the one next to him cradling a crossbow. All homemade, by the looks of it. No match for my guns at this distance and with Honágháahnii speed.
K’aahanáanii sighs, happy. A smile bleeds across my face.
“Maggie?” Ben’s voice, small and scared.
Ben. I’d forgotten about Ben, so caught up in K’aahanáanii. I refocus on getting us out of here in one piece instead of turning these men in bloody pieces. Remind myself that I vowed I wouldn’t kill anyone. And I won’t, at least not on purpose. But “kill” and “grievously wound” are different things.
“Remember how you promised not to argue with me?” I ask Ben, my voice a low whisper.
A soft exhale of acknowledgment in my ears.
“I want you to run. Use your clan powers and get the hell out of here. Find out where Amangiri is, what Caleb meant. Can you do that? And I want you to get Kai out, away from this Gideon person. Whatever it takes. Go back for Clive, bring the whole of fucking Dinétah if you have to, but you find him. You promise?” It’s a ridiculous thing to ask. But I have to give her a reason to run and keep running.
“And kill the White Locust. I promise,” she whispers. Touches her hand briefly to the wound on my arm, smearing my blood across her fingers and then sticking them in her mouth.
I kill the engine. Silence, sudden and stark, fills the canyon. I hold my hands high in surrender.
“Very good,” says the voice again, sounding relieved. “Now, if you’ll just step forward please.”
I swing my leg over the bike. Honágháahnii waits, alert and ready. And I move.
Pull my shotgun free in one smooth motion. Fire at the row of people, light flaring from my gun. And scream at Ben. “Run!”
She takes off.
I pump and fire. Wish for a moment for Rissa’s automatic rifle, but the scattershot of the shotgun is doing its job, spreading pain and chaos over the enemy. Shouting and panic. The lights pop on again, blinding. I shoot them out, bulbs breaking and glass showering down. Someone screams in the darkness. I take the opportunity to drop more shells into the double barrel. Shake it closed. Keep firing.
Someone rushes me, just a bulky mass of human flesh in the corner of my eye. I flip my shotgun, catch the barrel in my gloved hand, and swing at his head. Impact, and a grunt of pain as the enemy goes down. Another one comes in fast, swinging a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. I duck, drop the shotgun, and draw my Böker. Slide under his guard and come up. Rip my knife across his stomach. Another figure, this one wearing some kind of animal mask. She swings a six-foot pike at my chest. I rear back, safe by inches. Spin and kick. Knock the weapon from her hands. Twist and land another kick to the back of her knee. And another to her head. And keep moving.
Two more attack, and I take them out too. But Honágháahnii will start to wane soon. I can feel the adrenaline dropping, the disastrous fatigue not far behind. I’ve got to stop fighting and get out of here. I scan the cliffs, looking for escape.
“Maggie! Help me!”
I freeze. Ben? Did she not get away?
I hear sounds of struggle, then a cry, abruptly cut off, and I know they have Ben.
With Honágháahnii still hot, I could run. Make it to the cliffs. Scramble up and maybe disappear. But I can’t leave Ben. I promised, didn’t I? Assured Rissa I was responsible for Ben’s life. And Tah said she was mine, my life to keep safe.
“Weapons! On the ground!”
A single light flickers on. A flashlight, bright and directly in my eyes. Only a dozen feet away. Too close to be the man with the voice.
I drop my Böker.
“Everything!”
I drop my throwing knives too.
A low murmur of voices in the distance and then. “Aaron, if you would.”
A man with the flashlight comes forward. He’s wearing a leather aviator’s cap like the pilot in the plane, goggles pushed up high on his forehead. A bilagáana face, long and gaunt, dominated by a large nose and startlingly white eyebrows. Tufts of bleached white hair escape his cap to fall down over pale eyes. He glances up at me. His brows and eyelashes are white too, and there’s a thick mess of scar tissue near his left eye, the result of a burn. Those eyes meet mine for a brief second before he quickly looks away.
He tucks the flashlight under an arm and bends to gather my weapons. Dumps the knives into a rucksack, retrieves my shotgun and tucks it under his arm before scurrying away. One of the bigger lights pops on, revealing another figure. A large man who swaggers forward, a clever grin splitting his face wide. Bilagáana too. Skin pale as milk and hair the yellow of chamisa blossoms. He wears a button-up white shirt closed tight all the way up to his chin, long sleeves and black suspenders over a wide chest.
“Good girl,” he says with an ugly smile that sends my stomach plummeting.
“Where’s Ben?” I ask.
“Ben?” He frowns like the name is distasteful, thin lips turning down. “What is a Ben?”
“Do you have her or not?”
“Ah,” he says. “The girl is Ben. We’ll have to change that name. What kind of name is that for a pretty little laurel? Well, thanks to you, the girl Ben is safe.” He grins, showing a mouthful of silver-capped teeth. “Unlike you.”
He gestures around us, taking in the injured warriors that surround us. People that I made that way. He looks pointedly at the fresh blood spattering my clothes.
“They’re not dead,” I say, a small protest, considering the situation. And maybe not entirely true, but I did try. That should count for something.
“So much violence,” he chides me. “I had hoped to spare you, maybe take you to auction, but you’re much too dangerous. Imagine the scandal if I sold you to a client only to have you . . .” His face falls, as if he’s truly disappointed. Shakes his head like I’ve let him down. “No, I’m afraid not. I hate to waste a breedable woman, but it’s the Harvest for you.”
He takes a step back, raises his hand and snaps his fingers. Rough hands grab me, force me down to my knees. A heavy strike between my shoulders forces me flat on the ground. I bite my tongue. Dirt and blood fill my mouth. Someone knees me hard in the back and grabs my arms, twisting. I feel the cold metal of handcuffs against my wrists before I’m dragged back up to my feet.
The man in the white shirt studies me for a minute. The hairs on the back of my neck rise under that blue gaze. His eyes linger for a moment on my face before traveling over my body. Evaluating. Like I’m something he’s considering buying. Or something he thinks he already owns.
On impulse, I spit my mouthful of blood on his shirt. His freezes, before his face purples in rage. He takes a cloth from his pocket and carefully wipes the mess away.
“Bag her,” he says tersely, already walking away. “And take her to the Reaping Room. And in the name of the prophets, fetch me a clean shirt!”
Someone pulls rough black fabric over my head, I feel a sharp sting at the back of my neck like a bug bite, and everything goes black.
Chapter 22
I wake up, lying on a cold concrete floor. My head’s pounding like a sledgehammer against my temples, and my mouth is as dry as the desert. I blink through blinding light blasting down on me and try to get my bearings. “What is the deal with these people and light?” I mutter, squinting to try to see around me.