“Better?” Melkin asks softly.
“I don’t need your pity.” I snatch up my cloak with my left hand.
“What do you need, then?” he asks, and it sounds like he really wants to know.
Oliver, alive and unharmed. Logan, by my side. Dad, waiting for me with the package, able to help me figure out what to do next. The Commander, dead at my feet.
That’s what I need, but I can’t tell Melkin that. He works for the Commander, and he’s only interested in the package.
“Rachel? What do you need?”
I remember Melkin saying he’d lost almost everything, the weight of unspoken grief hanging over his words, and wonder if giving him one piece of the truth might work in my favor. Especially if what I need is something he might secretly want as well. Looking him in the eye, I say, “Revenge. I need revenge.”
His eyes darken and slide away from mine as he hefts the pack against his back. “Try not to harshly judge those of us with more than that left to live for,” he says, and starts up the bank without looking to see if I’ll follow.
Does he think I have so little left to live for? I have Logan. I have Dad. And I have a score to settle. None of those can be taken lightly. I clench my teeth around the words that want to burst free and scorch the air around me. Arguing would only give him more information than he needs to know. Instead, I dig my Switch into the soft sand beneath me for balance, and start the climb toward the King’s City.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
RACHEL
We stop for the night in the shelter of a concrete box of a building with only two sides still standing against the ravages of time and weather. We left the King’s City behind two hours ago, and I’m grateful. The twisted metal remains of buildings that once housed a vibrant civilization are now blackened husks coated in ash and wrapped with kudzu. Walking among them makes me nervous. A harsh reminder of what the Cursed One is capable of doing to us if we don’t remain with those who’ve proven their ability to protect us.
Since I have no intention of remaining beneath anyone’s authority again, I turn my back on the ruins of the city and refuse to consider the idea that I may have just glimpsed my future.
Melkin hasn’t spoken to me since our words on the riverbank, and that’s fine with me. I have nothing left to say. I just want this leg of the journey over with.
Thankfully, I have flint and fuel in my pack, so we don’t have to worry about keeping ourselves warm or keeping wild animals at bay. I work with Melkin to gather firewood and stack it in the center of the makeshift shelter. I also still have my flask of fresh water, and I offer it to him.
He raises a brow at me, but accepts it and swallows three times before handing it back. I lay my pack against one of the still-standing walls of our shelter and grab my bow and arrows.
“Where are you going?” he asks as I stride out of the shelter.
“To catch dinner.”
“I’ll come with you.”
I toss a glance over my shoulder. “I can handle this. You get the fire going, and stop worrying that I need a babysitter.”
Which might not be fair, considering I needed his help twice today. But I can handle hunting, and I need some time alone without his watchful eyes tracking my every move. Without the strain of trying to appear like I don’t want to scream in frustration when we’ve traveled for hours, and I still don’t know where we are.
He doesn’t follow me, though he moves to the edge of the ruined building and watches me as I go.
Our shelter is settled against a soft swell of land covered in tall grass already gone to seed. Beyond the hill, the broken remains of an old road wind through the grass and disappear for yards at a time. On the other side of the road, a copse of trees stretches as far as I can see.
The sun is drowning beneath the weight of a purple twilight as I enter the trees, walk twenty yards into the middle of them, their skinny trunks and thin, graceful branches reaching for the heavens as if hoping to scrape against the stars, and find what I’m looking for.
A bush hugs the base of a tree, its branches curving like a bell, its leaves brushing the ground. Beneath it, a small, hollow space rests, and I crawl inside, string an arrow, and wait.
Night has nearly reclaimed the sky when I finally catch a glimpse of movement. I tense, hardly daring to breathe. My patience is rewarded as a creature about the size of a small sheep wanders close, nose to ground, snuffling. I draw in a slow, deep breath, rehearse each step in my mind, and then whip the bow up, close one eye to sight down the center, and release the arrow.
It flies true, striking the side of the animal, and I leap from cover as my quarry jerks around and starts to run with faltering steps. Crossing the distance between us in seconds, I yank my knife free, leap on the animal’s back, and swing my arm beneath its neck to slice open its throat.
It dies instantly, and I wipe my knife clean on the ground beside it. Retrieving my arrow, I clean it as well and pack my weapons away. Flipping the animal over, I see I’ve caught a boar. A young one, by the size of its tusks.
I can’t easily lift it, plus I refuse to get its blood all over me. The thought makes bile surge up my throat, and I cough, gag, and spit on the forest floor. I solve the problem by grabbing its hind legs and dragging it to the edge of the trees. I don’t want to drag it across the grass and broken pieces of road to our shelter because the trail of blood could lead a wild animal straight to us while we sleep.
I don’t have to.
Melkin is standing on the road, watching the tree line, his knife in his hands.
“I don’t need your pity.” I snatch up my cloak with my left hand.
“What do you need, then?” he asks, and it sounds like he really wants to know.
Oliver, alive and unharmed. Logan, by my side. Dad, waiting for me with the package, able to help me figure out what to do next. The Commander, dead at my feet.
That’s what I need, but I can’t tell Melkin that. He works for the Commander, and he’s only interested in the package.
“Rachel? What do you need?”
I remember Melkin saying he’d lost almost everything, the weight of unspoken grief hanging over his words, and wonder if giving him one piece of the truth might work in my favor. Especially if what I need is something he might secretly want as well. Looking him in the eye, I say, “Revenge. I need revenge.”
His eyes darken and slide away from mine as he hefts the pack against his back. “Try not to harshly judge those of us with more than that left to live for,” he says, and starts up the bank without looking to see if I’ll follow.
Does he think I have so little left to live for? I have Logan. I have Dad. And I have a score to settle. None of those can be taken lightly. I clench my teeth around the words that want to burst free and scorch the air around me. Arguing would only give him more information than he needs to know. Instead, I dig my Switch into the soft sand beneath me for balance, and start the climb toward the King’s City.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
RACHEL
We stop for the night in the shelter of a concrete box of a building with only two sides still standing against the ravages of time and weather. We left the King’s City behind two hours ago, and I’m grateful. The twisted metal remains of buildings that once housed a vibrant civilization are now blackened husks coated in ash and wrapped with kudzu. Walking among them makes me nervous. A harsh reminder of what the Cursed One is capable of doing to us if we don’t remain with those who’ve proven their ability to protect us.
Since I have no intention of remaining beneath anyone’s authority again, I turn my back on the ruins of the city and refuse to consider the idea that I may have just glimpsed my future.
Melkin hasn’t spoken to me since our words on the riverbank, and that’s fine with me. I have nothing left to say. I just want this leg of the journey over with.
Thankfully, I have flint and fuel in my pack, so we don’t have to worry about keeping ourselves warm or keeping wild animals at bay. I work with Melkin to gather firewood and stack it in the center of the makeshift shelter. I also still have my flask of fresh water, and I offer it to him.
He raises a brow at me, but accepts it and swallows three times before handing it back. I lay my pack against one of the still-standing walls of our shelter and grab my bow and arrows.
“Where are you going?” he asks as I stride out of the shelter.
“To catch dinner.”
“I’ll come with you.”
I toss a glance over my shoulder. “I can handle this. You get the fire going, and stop worrying that I need a babysitter.”
Which might not be fair, considering I needed his help twice today. But I can handle hunting, and I need some time alone without his watchful eyes tracking my every move. Without the strain of trying to appear like I don’t want to scream in frustration when we’ve traveled for hours, and I still don’t know where we are.
He doesn’t follow me, though he moves to the edge of the ruined building and watches me as I go.
Our shelter is settled against a soft swell of land covered in tall grass already gone to seed. Beyond the hill, the broken remains of an old road wind through the grass and disappear for yards at a time. On the other side of the road, a copse of trees stretches as far as I can see.
The sun is drowning beneath the weight of a purple twilight as I enter the trees, walk twenty yards into the middle of them, their skinny trunks and thin, graceful branches reaching for the heavens as if hoping to scrape against the stars, and find what I’m looking for.
A bush hugs the base of a tree, its branches curving like a bell, its leaves brushing the ground. Beneath it, a small, hollow space rests, and I crawl inside, string an arrow, and wait.
Night has nearly reclaimed the sky when I finally catch a glimpse of movement. I tense, hardly daring to breathe. My patience is rewarded as a creature about the size of a small sheep wanders close, nose to ground, snuffling. I draw in a slow, deep breath, rehearse each step in my mind, and then whip the bow up, close one eye to sight down the center, and release the arrow.
It flies true, striking the side of the animal, and I leap from cover as my quarry jerks around and starts to run with faltering steps. Crossing the distance between us in seconds, I yank my knife free, leap on the animal’s back, and swing my arm beneath its neck to slice open its throat.
It dies instantly, and I wipe my knife clean on the ground beside it. Retrieving my arrow, I clean it as well and pack my weapons away. Flipping the animal over, I see I’ve caught a boar. A young one, by the size of its tusks.
I can’t easily lift it, plus I refuse to get its blood all over me. The thought makes bile surge up my throat, and I cough, gag, and spit on the forest floor. I solve the problem by grabbing its hind legs and dragging it to the edge of the trees. I don’t want to drag it across the grass and broken pieces of road to our shelter because the trail of blood could lead a wild animal straight to us while we sleep.
I don’t have to.
Melkin is standing on the road, watching the tree line, his knife in his hands.
