“So what happened?” Frankie asks.
I tell them. When I’m done, Drake says, “You’re sure it was a tracker?”
“We’re sure a tracker is following the camp,” Quinn says. “If he’s the one who killed the boys and left messages for Logan, it makes sense that he’d attack Logan.”
Frankie’s small eyes focus on Quinn. “How’d you manage to be close enough to come to Logan’s rescue?”
“I’d just finished checking the fuel lines and was looking for Logan and Rachel so we could come back to the shelter.”
“Weren’t you also out alone in the forest the night the boys were killed?” Frankie slowly crosses his bearlike arms and stares at Quinn.
“He walks the forest almost every night,” Willow says as she takes a step toward Frankie. “What’s it to you?”
“I’ll tell you what I think.” Frankie’s voice shakes with anger.
“Oh, yes, please do,” Willow says.
“I think it’s a mistake not to say that the most obvious suspect is standing right there.” Frankie points at Quinn.
“My brother isn’t the killer.” Willow whips her bow up to aim an arrow at Frankie’s throat. Her voice is cold and cruel. “He has moral qualms about taking another’s life. I, on the other hand, have none.”
“Willow, put it down,” I say. Willow ignores me. “Frankie, Quinn didn’t do this. I’m sure of it.”
“All I know is we got ourselves a leaf lover who’s good enough to fight off Carrington soldiers even though he wasn’t carrying a weapon. He admits that he was out walking alone the night the boys were killed. We all know those boys wouldn’t have suspected a thing if he walked up to them while they were standing guard.” Frankie’s eyes bore into Quinn’s. “And then he left camp for nearly a week, and we had peace. Now first night after he’s back, we got problems again, and we have to take his word that there’s a Rowansmark tracker out there.”
Willow’s fingers are white where they bend around her bow. Her arrow is steady. I don’t know how to convince her to lower her weapon. Willow does what she wants. Besides, if Frankie had said terrible things about Logan, I’d want him to pay for his words, too.
“It’s okay, Willow,” Quinn says quietly, and she slowly lowers the bow.
“I don’t believe Quinn would kill anyone.” Logan’s words are slurred, but his voice is as unforgiving as the floor beneath our feet. “And, Frankie, that’s the third time you’ve used the derogatory term ‘leaf lover’ toward Quinn and Willow. Do it again, and I’ll chain you to the supply wagon for a week.”
His lip curls. “You defend these strangers? Over your own people?”
“Quinn and Willow are my friends. They’ve acted with honor and courage for the entire time I’ve known them. In fact, they’ve treated me far better than most of my own people, and I’m not going to forget it.”
Frankie backs toward the hall. “Fine. But I’ve got my eye on you.” He looks at Quinn.
Willow moves restlessly, but Quinn stills her with a glance. Meeting Frankie’s gaze, he says, “As you wish.” His stoic exterior is firmly in place. “Now Willow and I are going to get some rest. We have a fire to start just before dawn.”
Without another word, he brushes past everyone and leaves. Willow stalks past Frankie, muttering something about gutting him like a fish, and disappears after her brother.
“We should all get some sleep,” I say, and those who remain take the hint.
As they leave, I wrap my arms around Logan and help him lie on his bedroll. Almost before his head touches the blankets, his eyes close and his breathing slows as sleep takes him.
For the first time since the tracker attacked us, I let myself think about Logan’s words to me. About trusting him. About facing what lives in my nightmares and believing I’m strong enough to come out whole on the other side.
Maybe I am strong enough. Maybe the things that crouch behind my inner silence wouldn’t hurt me if I drag them into the light.
Or maybe my secret horrors would cling to me with bloody fingers and destroy what’s left of me.
It doesn’t matter. We have a tracker to catch. People to keep safe. And the Commander to destroy. Compared to that, one girl’s nightmares are a thing of little consequence.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
LOGAN
I wake at dawn to a splitting headache. Shadowy half-light seeps in past the mossy window, turning everything around me into hazy, indistinct shapes.
Or maybe taking a rock to the head did that.
Trying to get up sends shooting pain into my eye sockets and makes my stomach pitch. I lie still, breathing deeply for a moment, and then slowly roll to my side.
Rachel is asleep, slumped against the wall beside me, her knife clutched in her hand. Since I didn’t wake to screams, she either had a peaceful night, or she stayed up until sheer exhaustion kept her from dreaming. Judging by the faint dark smudges beneath her eyes, I’m betting on the latter.
It’s time to get the camp up and moving. We need to light the fire before the army starts moving off the bluff.
My head pounds, a sick throbbing that increases as I push myself to my knees. I move my feet underneath me until I’m crouching over my blanket, cradling my head in my hands. The bandage that Rachel tied over the cut feels like it’s stuck to the back of my skull. Dried blood, probably. I’ll need to dunk my head in some water to get it off.
I tell them. When I’m done, Drake says, “You’re sure it was a tracker?”
“We’re sure a tracker is following the camp,” Quinn says. “If he’s the one who killed the boys and left messages for Logan, it makes sense that he’d attack Logan.”
Frankie’s small eyes focus on Quinn. “How’d you manage to be close enough to come to Logan’s rescue?”
“I’d just finished checking the fuel lines and was looking for Logan and Rachel so we could come back to the shelter.”
“Weren’t you also out alone in the forest the night the boys were killed?” Frankie slowly crosses his bearlike arms and stares at Quinn.
“He walks the forest almost every night,” Willow says as she takes a step toward Frankie. “What’s it to you?”
“I’ll tell you what I think.” Frankie’s voice shakes with anger.
“Oh, yes, please do,” Willow says.
“I think it’s a mistake not to say that the most obvious suspect is standing right there.” Frankie points at Quinn.
“My brother isn’t the killer.” Willow whips her bow up to aim an arrow at Frankie’s throat. Her voice is cold and cruel. “He has moral qualms about taking another’s life. I, on the other hand, have none.”
“Willow, put it down,” I say. Willow ignores me. “Frankie, Quinn didn’t do this. I’m sure of it.”
“All I know is we got ourselves a leaf lover who’s good enough to fight off Carrington soldiers even though he wasn’t carrying a weapon. He admits that he was out walking alone the night the boys were killed. We all know those boys wouldn’t have suspected a thing if he walked up to them while they were standing guard.” Frankie’s eyes bore into Quinn’s. “And then he left camp for nearly a week, and we had peace. Now first night after he’s back, we got problems again, and we have to take his word that there’s a Rowansmark tracker out there.”
Willow’s fingers are white where they bend around her bow. Her arrow is steady. I don’t know how to convince her to lower her weapon. Willow does what she wants. Besides, if Frankie had said terrible things about Logan, I’d want him to pay for his words, too.
“It’s okay, Willow,” Quinn says quietly, and she slowly lowers the bow.
“I don’t believe Quinn would kill anyone.” Logan’s words are slurred, but his voice is as unforgiving as the floor beneath our feet. “And, Frankie, that’s the third time you’ve used the derogatory term ‘leaf lover’ toward Quinn and Willow. Do it again, and I’ll chain you to the supply wagon for a week.”
His lip curls. “You defend these strangers? Over your own people?”
“Quinn and Willow are my friends. They’ve acted with honor and courage for the entire time I’ve known them. In fact, they’ve treated me far better than most of my own people, and I’m not going to forget it.”
Frankie backs toward the hall. “Fine. But I’ve got my eye on you.” He looks at Quinn.
Willow moves restlessly, but Quinn stills her with a glance. Meeting Frankie’s gaze, he says, “As you wish.” His stoic exterior is firmly in place. “Now Willow and I are going to get some rest. We have a fire to start just before dawn.”
Without another word, he brushes past everyone and leaves. Willow stalks past Frankie, muttering something about gutting him like a fish, and disappears after her brother.
“We should all get some sleep,” I say, and those who remain take the hint.
As they leave, I wrap my arms around Logan and help him lie on his bedroll. Almost before his head touches the blankets, his eyes close and his breathing slows as sleep takes him.
For the first time since the tracker attacked us, I let myself think about Logan’s words to me. About trusting him. About facing what lives in my nightmares and believing I’m strong enough to come out whole on the other side.
Maybe I am strong enough. Maybe the things that crouch behind my inner silence wouldn’t hurt me if I drag them into the light.
Or maybe my secret horrors would cling to me with bloody fingers and destroy what’s left of me.
It doesn’t matter. We have a tracker to catch. People to keep safe. And the Commander to destroy. Compared to that, one girl’s nightmares are a thing of little consequence.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
LOGAN
I wake at dawn to a splitting headache. Shadowy half-light seeps in past the mossy window, turning everything around me into hazy, indistinct shapes.
Or maybe taking a rock to the head did that.
Trying to get up sends shooting pain into my eye sockets and makes my stomach pitch. I lie still, breathing deeply for a moment, and then slowly roll to my side.
Rachel is asleep, slumped against the wall beside me, her knife clutched in her hand. Since I didn’t wake to screams, she either had a peaceful night, or she stayed up until sheer exhaustion kept her from dreaming. Judging by the faint dark smudges beneath her eyes, I’m betting on the latter.
It’s time to get the camp up and moving. We need to light the fire before the army starts moving off the bluff.
My head pounds, a sick throbbing that increases as I push myself to my knees. I move my feet underneath me until I’m crouching over my blanket, cradling my head in my hands. The bandage that Rachel tied over the cut feels like it’s stuck to the back of my skull. Dried blood, probably. I’ll need to dunk my head in some water to get it off.
