Without another word, the man drags me down the hall and up the stairs. From the upper deck, I can see that we’re in the first gate. The stone tunnel on either side of us is just wide enough to accommodate the boat. The water in the tunnel is slowly lowering, moving the boat level with the next gate. Ahead of us lie four more gates and then the warm red-brown brick of Rowansmark’s wall. My stomach clenches. Being trapped on the upper deck, surrounded by trackers, while we enter Rowansmark’s port isn’t part of my escape plan.
In fact, it lights a blazing fire beneath my escape plan and turns it to ash. I’d hoped to play the sick, weakened Baalboden girl, to obediently walk off the boat without giving anyone any cause to tie me up or aim a sword at me, and then I’d planned to pick the right moment to make a break for it and disappear into the crowds that flock to the docks. Instead, I’ve got the attention of every tracker on the ship, and I’ve just proven that even with my injury, I can fight off one of their best.
Samuel is standing with his back to the deck, watching the transfer from the first gate into the second. He turns when the tracker holding on to me says, “Caught the prisoner attacking Ian.”
“He attacked me.” I glare at the tracker and try to jerk my arm free, but he simply squeezes his fingers until pain shoots down my arm.
“Then why is he the one with the bloody gash in his face?”
“Because he kicked in the bathroom door and attacked me.” I enunciate my words carefully, as if trying to get a difficult concept across, and the tracker’s expression turns mean.
“How did you cut Ian’s face?” Samuel asks.
“With broken glass.”
Samuel raises a brow. “There just happened to be broken glass in the bathroom?”
I jerk against the tracker’s hold, but can’t get free. “Look, this is stupid. Ian kicked in the bathroom door. He said you were busy up here and wouldn’t be able to come to my rescue. He was going to kill me. I broke the mirror and defended myself.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. I know it the moment the words leave my mouth, and Samuel’s expression goes from curious to cold and calculating in a heartbeat.
“You defended yourself against a Rowansmark tracker,” he says, stepping closer to me and examining me as if searching for wounds of my own. “And came out without a scratch.”
“Not exactly.” I try to make my voice tremble, but it’s clear the damage has been done. “He choked me and hurt the burn on my arm. He was on top of me. I just grabbed some glass—”
“From the mirror you had the presence of mind to shatter in a moment of panic right before Ian finished breaking down the door?” Samuel grabs my hands and turns them palm up. “No cuts from the glass you grabbed.”
“She had it wrapped in a rag,” the tracker holding on to me says.
“That kind of presence of mind in the middle of an attack shows training.” Samuel looks at me, and we share a moment of silence. I don’t even bother trying to look like a damsel in distress. It won’t get me anywhere. Instead, I lift my chin and meet his gaze like the equals we are. His nostrils flare. “It appears I’ve badly underestimated you. Search her for weapons.”
The tracker lets go of my arm and pats me down briskly. It doesn’t take him long to find the palm-sized shard of mirror hidden in my pocket.
“Do you have an explanation for this?” Samuel asks.
“Other than the fact that I’ve been kidnapped by people who want to kill me? No.”
Samuel holds himself very still. “You don’t want me as an enemy, Rachel.”
I look at him and see Baalboden burning. Donny’s throat slashed ear to ear. Sylph bleeding out in the back of a wagon. Holding Samuel’s gaze with mine, I say, “We were enemies from the moment you turned your back on innocent lives and let Ian murder whomever he pleased.”
The tracker who searched me grabs my neck and shoves me to my knees. “Carson, bring me a rope,” he calls.
In the time it takes the boat to transition from the second gate to the third, the two trackers secure my hands behind my back and then hobble my ankles while Samuel watches without expression.
When they’ve finished tying me up, Samuel turns away as if I’m of no more consequence than a crate of supplies. “Assign two more trackers to her. I want her surrounded at all times. We’ll deliver her to James Rowan within the hour.”
My half-formed plan to meekly follow my captors into Rowansmark, giving them no reason to tie me up or get suspicious until I saw an opportunity to break away and run into the city, is in shambles. I have no exit strategy, no weapon, and no ally.
I do, however, have my instincts, my training, and an advantage Rowansmark will never see coming: I have Quinn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LOGAN
We push the horses hard and make excellent progress on our first day’s journey toward Chelmingford. The trail winds along banks of buckeye trees, climbs steep hills where maples cling to outcroppings that look like huge slabs of stone stacked haphazardly on top of one another, and plunges into valleys full of silent reminders of the civilization that walked this land before us—tall metal posts draped in ivy, brick buildings with flowering trees growing up through the floorboards, and broken chunks of smooth whitish stone that look like they were once a bridge that spanned the roads and buildings beneath them.
When the Commander calls a halt in a clearing beside a shallow stream, we quickly unsaddle the horses, tethering them close enough to the water to drink when they want to, and set up camp. We’ve fallen into a rhythm, uneasy though it may be. The Commander and his men establish the perimeter and choose the guard positions. Frankie, Nola, and Connor forage for food to supplement our dwindling supplies of jerky. Willow, Adam, and Jodi tree-leap a thousand yards southwest, looking for signs that we’ve been followed. Drake and Smithson lay out the bedrolls, and I use my remaining daylight to work on tech. If anyone asks, I’m building something to amplify the device’s signal—just like I said I would—but really, I’m wiring the stolen transmitters together so that I can create a weapon capable of protecting my people and destroying the Commander.
In fact, it lights a blazing fire beneath my escape plan and turns it to ash. I’d hoped to play the sick, weakened Baalboden girl, to obediently walk off the boat without giving anyone any cause to tie me up or aim a sword at me, and then I’d planned to pick the right moment to make a break for it and disappear into the crowds that flock to the docks. Instead, I’ve got the attention of every tracker on the ship, and I’ve just proven that even with my injury, I can fight off one of their best.
Samuel is standing with his back to the deck, watching the transfer from the first gate into the second. He turns when the tracker holding on to me says, “Caught the prisoner attacking Ian.”
“He attacked me.” I glare at the tracker and try to jerk my arm free, but he simply squeezes his fingers until pain shoots down my arm.
“Then why is he the one with the bloody gash in his face?”
“Because he kicked in the bathroom door and attacked me.” I enunciate my words carefully, as if trying to get a difficult concept across, and the tracker’s expression turns mean.
“How did you cut Ian’s face?” Samuel asks.
“With broken glass.”
Samuel raises a brow. “There just happened to be broken glass in the bathroom?”
I jerk against the tracker’s hold, but can’t get free. “Look, this is stupid. Ian kicked in the bathroom door. He said you were busy up here and wouldn’t be able to come to my rescue. He was going to kill me. I broke the mirror and defended myself.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. I know it the moment the words leave my mouth, and Samuel’s expression goes from curious to cold and calculating in a heartbeat.
“You defended yourself against a Rowansmark tracker,” he says, stepping closer to me and examining me as if searching for wounds of my own. “And came out without a scratch.”
“Not exactly.” I try to make my voice tremble, but it’s clear the damage has been done. “He choked me and hurt the burn on my arm. He was on top of me. I just grabbed some glass—”
“From the mirror you had the presence of mind to shatter in a moment of panic right before Ian finished breaking down the door?” Samuel grabs my hands and turns them palm up. “No cuts from the glass you grabbed.”
“She had it wrapped in a rag,” the tracker holding on to me says.
“That kind of presence of mind in the middle of an attack shows training.” Samuel looks at me, and we share a moment of silence. I don’t even bother trying to look like a damsel in distress. It won’t get me anywhere. Instead, I lift my chin and meet his gaze like the equals we are. His nostrils flare. “It appears I’ve badly underestimated you. Search her for weapons.”
The tracker lets go of my arm and pats me down briskly. It doesn’t take him long to find the palm-sized shard of mirror hidden in my pocket.
“Do you have an explanation for this?” Samuel asks.
“Other than the fact that I’ve been kidnapped by people who want to kill me? No.”
Samuel holds himself very still. “You don’t want me as an enemy, Rachel.”
I look at him and see Baalboden burning. Donny’s throat slashed ear to ear. Sylph bleeding out in the back of a wagon. Holding Samuel’s gaze with mine, I say, “We were enemies from the moment you turned your back on innocent lives and let Ian murder whomever he pleased.”
The tracker who searched me grabs my neck and shoves me to my knees. “Carson, bring me a rope,” he calls.
In the time it takes the boat to transition from the second gate to the third, the two trackers secure my hands behind my back and then hobble my ankles while Samuel watches without expression.
When they’ve finished tying me up, Samuel turns away as if I’m of no more consequence than a crate of supplies. “Assign two more trackers to her. I want her surrounded at all times. We’ll deliver her to James Rowan within the hour.”
My half-formed plan to meekly follow my captors into Rowansmark, giving them no reason to tie me up or get suspicious until I saw an opportunity to break away and run into the city, is in shambles. I have no exit strategy, no weapon, and no ally.
I do, however, have my instincts, my training, and an advantage Rowansmark will never see coming: I have Quinn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LOGAN
We push the horses hard and make excellent progress on our first day’s journey toward Chelmingford. The trail winds along banks of buckeye trees, climbs steep hills where maples cling to outcroppings that look like huge slabs of stone stacked haphazardly on top of one another, and plunges into valleys full of silent reminders of the civilization that walked this land before us—tall metal posts draped in ivy, brick buildings with flowering trees growing up through the floorboards, and broken chunks of smooth whitish stone that look like they were once a bridge that spanned the roads and buildings beneath them.
When the Commander calls a halt in a clearing beside a shallow stream, we quickly unsaddle the horses, tethering them close enough to the water to drink when they want to, and set up camp. We’ve fallen into a rhythm, uneasy though it may be. The Commander and his men establish the perimeter and choose the guard positions. Frankie, Nola, and Connor forage for food to supplement our dwindling supplies of jerky. Willow, Adam, and Jodi tree-leap a thousand yards southwest, looking for signs that we’ve been followed. Drake and Smithson lay out the bedrolls, and I use my remaining daylight to work on tech. If anyone asks, I’m building something to amplify the device’s signal—just like I said I would—but really, I’m wiring the stolen transmitters together so that I can create a weapon capable of protecting my people and destroying the Commander.
