Where is he?
Something moves in the trees across from me, and the Tree Girl steps out, followed by a boy who looks about Logan’s age. Both of them have dusky skin and straight black hair. The girl wears hers in a long braid. The boy lets his fall loose to his shoulders. He moves, and my eyes are drawn to a white paper-wrapped package the size of a raisin loaf in his hands.
“Who are they?” Melkin whispers.
“Rachel Adams?” The boy’s dark brown eyes lock onto mine, making my stomach clench. There’s sympathy in his gaze. I don’t want sympathy.
I just want Dad.
“Yes.” My voice is nothing but a wisp. The breeze snatches it and whisks it away. I try again. “Yes.”
The girl beckons me, her slim hand waving me toward her.
Maybe Dad is with them. Hiding in their village. Staying off the usual path of trackers and couriers. Maybe that’s why she followed us earlier. Maybe he sent her to watch for me, knowing one day I’d come.
My boots grind the sooty embers beneath me to dust as I cross the scorched ground. The foundation of the house is still there, buried beneath the ash, a jumbled mound of broken concrete I have to climb up and over. My feet skid as I reach the top, sending me sliding down the other side. When I reach the bottom, I look up at the Tree People, but stop when I catch sight of something else.
Just beyond the edge of the destruction, where the ash bleeds gently into soil again, a soft swell in the ground is marked by a small wooden cross painted white.
I can’t breathe. My ears roar, and someone says something, but I can’t understand the words because I’m walking toward the grave and the wires on my cuff are glowing like brilliant blue stars.
The boy steps to the side of the grave, and holds out his hand to me. I take it without thinking, but I can’t feel him. I can’t even feel myself, and I don’t want to. Let this be some other girl standing here, holding a stranger’s hand while the rest of her world comes crumbling down.
Please.
“He died a hero, Rachel. The Cursed One would’ve killed my sister and me, but he led it away from us. He saved our lives.” His voice catches as if he’s struggling with tears. “I’m sorry.”
I pull my hand free. The cross is beautifully carved and someone has painted the words Jared Adams in the center.
Grief is a yawning pit of darkness blooming at my core. I can hardly stand beneath its weight. The sharp edges of Oliver’s death collide with the unthinkable sight before me, and something inside me shatters as I fall to my knees.
I can’t bear this. I can’t.
The hope that blazed within me floats like ash into the darkness.
He’s here, but not here.
I want to die too. Just stop breathing and hope I find him on the other side.
He’s not here.
I sink down to lie on top of the dirt.
He’s nowhere.
I’m bleeding inside where no one will see. Where no one will ever know to look.
He’s gone.
He’s gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
LOGAN
I reach the first safe house in just over three days.
I’m cutting through known highwaymen territory, running on adrenalin rather than sleep. My entire body feels battered, and my rib throbs incessantly no matter how tightly I wrap it. Every few miles, I have to stop, drag in some much needed deep breaths, and focus on getting the pain under control so I can continue. Twice, I’ve slept for a handful of hours, only to wake on the heels of terrifying dreams with a sense of dread churning through my system.
The pain refuses to relinquish its hold on me even during sleep, but I can’t afford to give in to it. Guards will be on my trail. Maybe trackers as well, if any of them have returned to Baalboden since I left. The Commander won’t sit idly by and wait for Melkin to succeed. He’ll have an insurance policy in the works.
I just have to stay one step ahead.
I skirt the safe house, an ivy-covered once-white structure, and search for signs of life before leaving the cover of the trees. I don’t find life, but death is waiting for me near the edge of the property. Two guards lie on the ground, the bones of their faces nearly picked clean by scavengers but the mark of Baalboden still clear on their uniforms. A small puncture wound rests over their hearts.
They were murdered efficiently, and the ramifications chill me to the core. A professional did this. Someone who knew how to kill with neat, deadly precision.
This isn’t Melkin’s handiwork. He’s a tracker, but, as Eloise so desperately pointed out, he isn’t a killer. He wouldn’t know how to drop a man before he had a chance to see death approach.
It isn’t Rachel’s handiwork either. I’m not sure if she’s become a killer yet. But rage fuels her and these kills contain less emotion than the soil on which the men fell.
Someone else is tracking the package. Closing in on Rachel and Melkin. Once he reaches his objective, their lives won’t be worth more than those of the two poor souls lying at my feet.
Panic eats at me when I consider the possibility that the tracker has already found Rachel and Melkin, and their bodies wait somewhere on the forest floor for me to stumble upon as well.
Scrapping my plan to take a few hours of rest, I approach the house and type in the code for the padlock. Just inside the door, recent footsteps mar the dust. I bend to examine them. One of the boot prints is Rachel’s. One is large enough to be Melkin’s. And one, already coated in a thin sheen of dust, is Jared’s. If Jared was here within the last few weeks, it’s possible he’s waiting for Rachel at the second safe house. If so, he’ll protect her from Melkin until I get there.
Something moves in the trees across from me, and the Tree Girl steps out, followed by a boy who looks about Logan’s age. Both of them have dusky skin and straight black hair. The girl wears hers in a long braid. The boy lets his fall loose to his shoulders. He moves, and my eyes are drawn to a white paper-wrapped package the size of a raisin loaf in his hands.
“Who are they?” Melkin whispers.
“Rachel Adams?” The boy’s dark brown eyes lock onto mine, making my stomach clench. There’s sympathy in his gaze. I don’t want sympathy.
I just want Dad.
“Yes.” My voice is nothing but a wisp. The breeze snatches it and whisks it away. I try again. “Yes.”
The girl beckons me, her slim hand waving me toward her.
Maybe Dad is with them. Hiding in their village. Staying off the usual path of trackers and couriers. Maybe that’s why she followed us earlier. Maybe he sent her to watch for me, knowing one day I’d come.
My boots grind the sooty embers beneath me to dust as I cross the scorched ground. The foundation of the house is still there, buried beneath the ash, a jumbled mound of broken concrete I have to climb up and over. My feet skid as I reach the top, sending me sliding down the other side. When I reach the bottom, I look up at the Tree People, but stop when I catch sight of something else.
Just beyond the edge of the destruction, where the ash bleeds gently into soil again, a soft swell in the ground is marked by a small wooden cross painted white.
I can’t breathe. My ears roar, and someone says something, but I can’t understand the words because I’m walking toward the grave and the wires on my cuff are glowing like brilliant blue stars.
The boy steps to the side of the grave, and holds out his hand to me. I take it without thinking, but I can’t feel him. I can’t even feel myself, and I don’t want to. Let this be some other girl standing here, holding a stranger’s hand while the rest of her world comes crumbling down.
Please.
“He died a hero, Rachel. The Cursed One would’ve killed my sister and me, but he led it away from us. He saved our lives.” His voice catches as if he’s struggling with tears. “I’m sorry.”
I pull my hand free. The cross is beautifully carved and someone has painted the words Jared Adams in the center.
Grief is a yawning pit of darkness blooming at my core. I can hardly stand beneath its weight. The sharp edges of Oliver’s death collide with the unthinkable sight before me, and something inside me shatters as I fall to my knees.
I can’t bear this. I can’t.
The hope that blazed within me floats like ash into the darkness.
He’s here, but not here.
I want to die too. Just stop breathing and hope I find him on the other side.
He’s not here.
I sink down to lie on top of the dirt.
He’s nowhere.
I’m bleeding inside where no one will see. Where no one will ever know to look.
He’s gone.
He’s gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
LOGAN
I reach the first safe house in just over three days.
I’m cutting through known highwaymen territory, running on adrenalin rather than sleep. My entire body feels battered, and my rib throbs incessantly no matter how tightly I wrap it. Every few miles, I have to stop, drag in some much needed deep breaths, and focus on getting the pain under control so I can continue. Twice, I’ve slept for a handful of hours, only to wake on the heels of terrifying dreams with a sense of dread churning through my system.
The pain refuses to relinquish its hold on me even during sleep, but I can’t afford to give in to it. Guards will be on my trail. Maybe trackers as well, if any of them have returned to Baalboden since I left. The Commander won’t sit idly by and wait for Melkin to succeed. He’ll have an insurance policy in the works.
I just have to stay one step ahead.
I skirt the safe house, an ivy-covered once-white structure, and search for signs of life before leaving the cover of the trees. I don’t find life, but death is waiting for me near the edge of the property. Two guards lie on the ground, the bones of their faces nearly picked clean by scavengers but the mark of Baalboden still clear on their uniforms. A small puncture wound rests over their hearts.
They were murdered efficiently, and the ramifications chill me to the core. A professional did this. Someone who knew how to kill with neat, deadly precision.
This isn’t Melkin’s handiwork. He’s a tracker, but, as Eloise so desperately pointed out, he isn’t a killer. He wouldn’t know how to drop a man before he had a chance to see death approach.
It isn’t Rachel’s handiwork either. I’m not sure if she’s become a killer yet. But rage fuels her and these kills contain less emotion than the soil on which the men fell.
Someone else is tracking the package. Closing in on Rachel and Melkin. Once he reaches his objective, their lives won’t be worth more than those of the two poor souls lying at my feet.
Panic eats at me when I consider the possibility that the tracker has already found Rachel and Melkin, and their bodies wait somewhere on the forest floor for me to stumble upon as well.
Scrapping my plan to take a few hours of rest, I approach the house and type in the code for the padlock. Just inside the door, recent footsteps mar the dust. I bend to examine them. One of the boot prints is Rachel’s. One is large enough to be Melkin’s. And one, already coated in a thin sheen of dust, is Jared’s. If Jared was here within the last few weeks, it’s possible he’s waiting for Rachel at the second safe house. If so, he’ll protect her from Melkin until I get there.
