Shoving that thought aside before it takes root, I settle my pack between my shoulders and brace my arm against my aching side. Then I turn my face to the south and disappear into the Wasteland.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
RACHEL
We’ve barely slept in the five days since we left the first safe house. The maples have turned back into oaks, and huge gnarled roots rip their way through the moss-covered ground. Traveling by day and catching naps at night while one of us remains alert for the presence of the Rowansmark tracker, we run ourselves ragged.
Melkin feels it more than I do. Lines of strain take up permanent residence on his face, digging bitter furrows across his brow. I think he worries someone will destroy his plan to return the package and ransom his wife. I can’t be sure because he’ll barely speak to me. The closer we come to the second safe house, the more he shuts down.
It doesn’t matter. The wires on my arm cuff are glowing brighter with each passing day. Soon, it will be over. Soon, I’ll find Dad, and we’ll go rescue Logan.
We’re less than a full day’s journey from the safe house when I sense we’re no longer alone. Melkin is ahead of me, using his staff to brush aside the moss that drapes across the branches around us like ribbon. I slow as if examining a mark on the ground, and whirl around, expecting to see a Rowansmark tracker.
An olive-skinned face stares at me from a branch in a tree I passed not thirty seconds ago. We lock eyes, blink, and in a flash of black hair and graceful limbs, she’s gone.
It was a girl. I’m sure of it. Which means she isn’t a tracker, a guard, or a member of a highwaymen gang. She must be Tree People.
I’m not threatened by her presence—it’s natural for Tree People to be curious about the outsiders wandering through their area of the Wasteland—but there aren’t any Tree People villages in these parts except for the one near the second safe house, and that’s still hours away. It’s unusual to see a Tree Girl so far from home. I file it away for further thought if necessary, and forget about her until we stop for lunch two hours later and I see her again.
This time, she doesn’t pull back when I catch a glimpse of her peering out at me from the branches of a tree several yards back from where we sit. Instead, we stare at each other as I let my cloak hood drop, and she leans out of her tree enough for me to see we’re about the same age. A quiver of arrows is slung over one shoulder, and she holds the bow in one hand. A long black feather dangles from an intricately swirled silver ear cuff wrapped around her left ear. Her dark eyes are full of aloof confidence.
I can’t explain her, and I don’t like what I can’t explain. She shouldn’t still be following us. I’m about to draw Melkin’s attention to her when she pulls back into the tree and disappears.
I watch for her as I finish a cold lunch of turkey leftovers and the potted plums I took with us from the first safe house. Watch for her as Melkin barks at me to keep up. And watch for her as the shadows slowly lengthen into pools of darkness beneath the dying sun.
She never reappears.
Instead, the blue wires glow brightly, and I forget to be concerned about the insignificant wanderings of a Tree Girl. It will hurt to tell Dad about Oliver. It will also hurt to tell him I had to leave Logan behind, but Dad will know how to fix it.
I still haven’t told Melkin we’re about to find Dad. Five days ago, I would have. Five days ago, he seemed approachable, concerned only with saving his wife, and determined to protect me.
Now, he’s a cold, silent ghost of the man I thought I knew. The closer we come to the package, the more he turns inward, until I catch myself shivering a little when he turns the miserable darkness of his eyes toward me.
Maybe he’s finally realizing the Commander isn’t a man of his word. Maybe he’s beginning to understand that if we give our only leverage over to him, those we love are dead.
Maybe he’s bracing himself for the worst.
We emerge from the forest, and I recognize the line of ancient oaks, their trunks as thick as one of the steel beams supporting Baalboden’s Wall, their branches arching over a moss-covered path as if offering protection.
We’re almost there.
I push ahead of Melkin, who offers no protest. The column of trees seems to go on forever as I hurry forward.
Almost there.
The cuff against my arm glows like the noonday sun.
Almost there.
At the end of the row of trees, a graying one-story farmhouse with once-red shutters faded to pink will be standing, and he’ll be waiting. His big arms will open wide, his gray eyes will glow with pride, and I’ll be home at last.
I skid on the moss as I reach the last tree, and grab on to the trunk for balance. And then I hang on to the trunk for one long desperate second, fighting vertigo as my eyes take in the impossible.
The farmhouse is gone.
Nothing remains but a sweeping patch of scorched dirt and a gaping hole where the Cursed One slid back to his lair.
I look around wildly, searching. My cuff is lit up like a torch. He’s here.
He’s here.
But he isn’t. I can’t see him. All I see is destruction.
“Oh,” Melkin says behind me as he takes in the sight.
That tiny little word makes me want to hurt him, so I leave the shelter of the trees and walk toward the debris on shaking legs.
My cuff still glows. I scan the treetops. He could be there. Waiting for me. Staying hidden from trackers.
The soil beneath me turns to ash. Cold black flakes that cling to my boots as if trying to hold me back.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
RACHEL
We’ve barely slept in the five days since we left the first safe house. The maples have turned back into oaks, and huge gnarled roots rip their way through the moss-covered ground. Traveling by day and catching naps at night while one of us remains alert for the presence of the Rowansmark tracker, we run ourselves ragged.
Melkin feels it more than I do. Lines of strain take up permanent residence on his face, digging bitter furrows across his brow. I think he worries someone will destroy his plan to return the package and ransom his wife. I can’t be sure because he’ll barely speak to me. The closer we come to the second safe house, the more he shuts down.
It doesn’t matter. The wires on my arm cuff are glowing brighter with each passing day. Soon, it will be over. Soon, I’ll find Dad, and we’ll go rescue Logan.
We’re less than a full day’s journey from the safe house when I sense we’re no longer alone. Melkin is ahead of me, using his staff to brush aside the moss that drapes across the branches around us like ribbon. I slow as if examining a mark on the ground, and whirl around, expecting to see a Rowansmark tracker.
An olive-skinned face stares at me from a branch in a tree I passed not thirty seconds ago. We lock eyes, blink, and in a flash of black hair and graceful limbs, she’s gone.
It was a girl. I’m sure of it. Which means she isn’t a tracker, a guard, or a member of a highwaymen gang. She must be Tree People.
I’m not threatened by her presence—it’s natural for Tree People to be curious about the outsiders wandering through their area of the Wasteland—but there aren’t any Tree People villages in these parts except for the one near the second safe house, and that’s still hours away. It’s unusual to see a Tree Girl so far from home. I file it away for further thought if necessary, and forget about her until we stop for lunch two hours later and I see her again.
This time, she doesn’t pull back when I catch a glimpse of her peering out at me from the branches of a tree several yards back from where we sit. Instead, we stare at each other as I let my cloak hood drop, and she leans out of her tree enough for me to see we’re about the same age. A quiver of arrows is slung over one shoulder, and she holds the bow in one hand. A long black feather dangles from an intricately swirled silver ear cuff wrapped around her left ear. Her dark eyes are full of aloof confidence.
I can’t explain her, and I don’t like what I can’t explain. She shouldn’t still be following us. I’m about to draw Melkin’s attention to her when she pulls back into the tree and disappears.
I watch for her as I finish a cold lunch of turkey leftovers and the potted plums I took with us from the first safe house. Watch for her as Melkin barks at me to keep up. And watch for her as the shadows slowly lengthen into pools of darkness beneath the dying sun.
She never reappears.
Instead, the blue wires glow brightly, and I forget to be concerned about the insignificant wanderings of a Tree Girl. It will hurt to tell Dad about Oliver. It will also hurt to tell him I had to leave Logan behind, but Dad will know how to fix it.
I still haven’t told Melkin we’re about to find Dad. Five days ago, I would have. Five days ago, he seemed approachable, concerned only with saving his wife, and determined to protect me.
Now, he’s a cold, silent ghost of the man I thought I knew. The closer we come to the package, the more he turns inward, until I catch myself shivering a little when he turns the miserable darkness of his eyes toward me.
Maybe he’s finally realizing the Commander isn’t a man of his word. Maybe he’s beginning to understand that if we give our only leverage over to him, those we love are dead.
Maybe he’s bracing himself for the worst.
We emerge from the forest, and I recognize the line of ancient oaks, their trunks as thick as one of the steel beams supporting Baalboden’s Wall, their branches arching over a moss-covered path as if offering protection.
We’re almost there.
I push ahead of Melkin, who offers no protest. The column of trees seems to go on forever as I hurry forward.
Almost there.
The cuff against my arm glows like the noonday sun.
Almost there.
At the end of the row of trees, a graying one-story farmhouse with once-red shutters faded to pink will be standing, and he’ll be waiting. His big arms will open wide, his gray eyes will glow with pride, and I’ll be home at last.
I skid on the moss as I reach the last tree, and grab on to the trunk for balance. And then I hang on to the trunk for one long desperate second, fighting vertigo as my eyes take in the impossible.
The farmhouse is gone.
Nothing remains but a sweeping patch of scorched dirt and a gaping hole where the Cursed One slid back to his lair.
I look around wildly, searching. My cuff is lit up like a torch. He’s here.
He’s here.
But he isn’t. I can’t see him. All I see is destruction.
“Oh,” Melkin says behind me as he takes in the sight.
That tiny little word makes me want to hurt him, so I leave the shelter of the trees and walk toward the debris on shaking legs.
My cuff still glows. I scan the treetops. He could be there. Waiting for me. Staying hidden from trackers.
The soil beneath me turns to ash. Cold black flakes that cling to my boots as if trying to hold me back.
