Chapter Twelve
RACHEL
Thunder rumbles, low and ominous, as Willow and I climb out of the tunnel and find Quinn waiting for us, his face calm, but his fists clenched. When he sees us, his hands slowly uncurl and he takes a deep breath. Another crack of thunder rolls across the sky, and the air presses against us as if determined to hold us back. Thick swells of purple-gray clouds seem to touch the tips of the trees as we walk into the northern Wasteland and join the rest of the group.
“You made it,” Quinn says, and those three words carry the weight of his fear with shaky fingers.
“Of course we made it,” Willow says, her tone sharp, though she slides an arm around her brother’s waist and leans against him briefly.
“I was about to go back for you.”
“One injury isn’t enough for you today?” She shoves her words at him.
“Willow, don’t be mean,” I say, and she glares at me.
“Please tell me you realize it isn’t always up to you to rescue others,” she says to Quinn, though she’s looking at me.
“I didn’t try to rescue you.” His voice is as sharp as hers. “I was waiting for you. There’s a difference between being worried about someone you love and underestimating their skills.”
“Then make sure you know the difference between those you love and those you have no business worrying about.”
He lets go of her and won’t look at either of us.
Willow is still glaring at me. I shrug and turn away. I can’t understand the hidden depths lurking within their conversations, and I don’t want to. I have enough trouble navigating the hidden depths of my own words without worrying about anyone else’s. Taking a few steps away from them, I scan the survivors who huddle within the Wasteland in near silence.
Logan stands at the front of the crowd with Ian near his side. Drake, Nola, Jodi, and Elias are each seated at the front of a wagon, reins in hand. The donkeys harnessed to the wagons look supremely unconcerned with the entire situation. Frankie and Thom bring up the rear riding the two horses we managed to save. The goats and sheep are attached to a long rope that is held at either end by one of the girls who are usually busy flirting with Ian. Logan catches my eye, and the intensity of his gaze makes my knees unsteady. I’m not sure how to interpret his expression. It’s somewhere between I-thought-you-might-not-make-it-out-alive and I’m-about-to-kiss-you-senseless, and my cheeks feel warm as he slowly turns away and gives the order to move forward.
The recruits who attended sparring sessions fan out along the flanks of the group, weapons in hand. Quinn, Willow, and I join them. The line of people stretches out, a long, winding snake with four wagons nestled in its belly. Two wagons carry supplies. Two carry the elderly, those still recovering from the injuries they sustained in Baalboden’s fire, and the very young. Eloise is in one of those wagons, Melkin’s unborn baby sheltered inside her body. I choose a place along the western flank, as far from her wagon as I can get without joining Frankie and Thom at the rear.
Ahead of me, the front of the line disappears into the Wasteland, following the faint outline of an old road now overgrown with grass and underbrush. Somewhere at my back, the ruins of Baalboden crouch behind the Wall. I no longer wait to feel the grief of leaving it all behind me. The silence within me absorbs the pain and gives me nothing in return.
Dark green moss clings to tree trunks and belly-crawls across the ground. Drifts of black and silver ash hug the underbrush briefly, only to skim the ground again with the next gust of wind. Once upon a time, those ashes were someone’s home inside Baalboden. Someone’s family. Now they’re a formless monument to destruction, forever condemned to wander.
I touch the pouch hanging from my neck, the one Quinn gave me so I could carry some dirt from my father’s grave. I’ve since added ashes from my home in Baalboden, and I squeeze the soft leather as if by hanging on to the dirt and ashes I carry, I can somehow find a connection to the girl I used to be. But just like my final glimpse of Baalboden, the remains of my former life leave me hollow inside. Letting go of the pouch, I slide my fingers up until I grasp the delicate pendant Logan gave to me.
The promise he spoke when he fastened the chain around my neck echoes in my head: I will always find you. And he had. He’d built a tracking device into the battered copper cuff I wear around my arm. He’d blown up his cell in the Commander’s dungeon, escaped beneath the Wall, and trekked across dangerous territory in the Wasteland just to find me. And he’d pushed past the shock and the damage to show me that as long as we love each other, we haven’t lost everything.
I can’t admit to him that even with his promises, even with his love, I still feel lost.
Thunder cracks again, a slap of sound that vibrates through my bones like a physical blow. I glance at the treetops piercing the bruised sky and wonder how far we’ll get before the storm that’s brewing unleashes its fury on us.
Ahead of me, Quinn bends to pull a handful of graceful, fernlike leaves from a scrubby-looking bush. Folding them in half, he packs them against the wound in his thigh and then pushes the torn edge of his pant leg against it to keep them in place.
Willow steps to my side and says, “Achillea plant. To stop the bleeding.”
“If he’d been carrying a weapon, he might not be injured right now.”
Her dark eyes snap with sudden fury. “If he hadn’t met you, he wouldn’t be injured right now.”
RACHEL
Thunder rumbles, low and ominous, as Willow and I climb out of the tunnel and find Quinn waiting for us, his face calm, but his fists clenched. When he sees us, his hands slowly uncurl and he takes a deep breath. Another crack of thunder rolls across the sky, and the air presses against us as if determined to hold us back. Thick swells of purple-gray clouds seem to touch the tips of the trees as we walk into the northern Wasteland and join the rest of the group.
“You made it,” Quinn says, and those three words carry the weight of his fear with shaky fingers.
“Of course we made it,” Willow says, her tone sharp, though she slides an arm around her brother’s waist and leans against him briefly.
“I was about to go back for you.”
“One injury isn’t enough for you today?” She shoves her words at him.
“Willow, don’t be mean,” I say, and she glares at me.
“Please tell me you realize it isn’t always up to you to rescue others,” she says to Quinn, though she’s looking at me.
“I didn’t try to rescue you.” His voice is as sharp as hers. “I was waiting for you. There’s a difference between being worried about someone you love and underestimating their skills.”
“Then make sure you know the difference between those you love and those you have no business worrying about.”
He lets go of her and won’t look at either of us.
Willow is still glaring at me. I shrug and turn away. I can’t understand the hidden depths lurking within their conversations, and I don’t want to. I have enough trouble navigating the hidden depths of my own words without worrying about anyone else’s. Taking a few steps away from them, I scan the survivors who huddle within the Wasteland in near silence.
Logan stands at the front of the crowd with Ian near his side. Drake, Nola, Jodi, and Elias are each seated at the front of a wagon, reins in hand. The donkeys harnessed to the wagons look supremely unconcerned with the entire situation. Frankie and Thom bring up the rear riding the two horses we managed to save. The goats and sheep are attached to a long rope that is held at either end by one of the girls who are usually busy flirting with Ian. Logan catches my eye, and the intensity of his gaze makes my knees unsteady. I’m not sure how to interpret his expression. It’s somewhere between I-thought-you-might-not-make-it-out-alive and I’m-about-to-kiss-you-senseless, and my cheeks feel warm as he slowly turns away and gives the order to move forward.
The recruits who attended sparring sessions fan out along the flanks of the group, weapons in hand. Quinn, Willow, and I join them. The line of people stretches out, a long, winding snake with four wagons nestled in its belly. Two wagons carry supplies. Two carry the elderly, those still recovering from the injuries they sustained in Baalboden’s fire, and the very young. Eloise is in one of those wagons, Melkin’s unborn baby sheltered inside her body. I choose a place along the western flank, as far from her wagon as I can get without joining Frankie and Thom at the rear.
Ahead of me, the front of the line disappears into the Wasteland, following the faint outline of an old road now overgrown with grass and underbrush. Somewhere at my back, the ruins of Baalboden crouch behind the Wall. I no longer wait to feel the grief of leaving it all behind me. The silence within me absorbs the pain and gives me nothing in return.
Dark green moss clings to tree trunks and belly-crawls across the ground. Drifts of black and silver ash hug the underbrush briefly, only to skim the ground again with the next gust of wind. Once upon a time, those ashes were someone’s home inside Baalboden. Someone’s family. Now they’re a formless monument to destruction, forever condemned to wander.
I touch the pouch hanging from my neck, the one Quinn gave me so I could carry some dirt from my father’s grave. I’ve since added ashes from my home in Baalboden, and I squeeze the soft leather as if by hanging on to the dirt and ashes I carry, I can somehow find a connection to the girl I used to be. But just like my final glimpse of Baalboden, the remains of my former life leave me hollow inside. Letting go of the pouch, I slide my fingers up until I grasp the delicate pendant Logan gave to me.
The promise he spoke when he fastened the chain around my neck echoes in my head: I will always find you. And he had. He’d built a tracking device into the battered copper cuff I wear around my arm. He’d blown up his cell in the Commander’s dungeon, escaped beneath the Wall, and trekked across dangerous territory in the Wasteland just to find me. And he’d pushed past the shock and the damage to show me that as long as we love each other, we haven’t lost everything.
I can’t admit to him that even with his promises, even with his love, I still feel lost.
Thunder cracks again, a slap of sound that vibrates through my bones like a physical blow. I glance at the treetops piercing the bruised sky and wonder how far we’ll get before the storm that’s brewing unleashes its fury on us.
Ahead of me, Quinn bends to pull a handful of graceful, fernlike leaves from a scrubby-looking bush. Folding them in half, he packs them against the wound in his thigh and then pushes the torn edge of his pant leg against it to keep them in place.
Willow steps to my side and says, “Achillea plant. To stop the bleeding.”
“If he’d been carrying a weapon, he might not be injured right now.”
Her dark eyes snap with sudden fury. “If he hadn’t met you, he wouldn’t be injured right now.”
