“You’ll never heal if you don’t eat,” he says. There isn’t an ounce of concern in his voice, but I don’t care. He’s talking to me. Trying to take care of me. That counts for something.
I need the pair of trackers who are with Ian to believe I’m not a threat. It’s the only chance I have of catching them off guard.
“I’m Rachel,” I say as we reach the wagon. The other tracker, a short, muscular woman with bright red cheeks, is already skinning a brace of small game. Ian is nowhere in sight.
Beside me, the tracker’s cool expression doesn’t change. “I’m Samuel.” He eases me down onto a half-rotten tree stump at the side of the road. “And we aren’t friends, little girl. Remember that.”
Samuel moves away to build a fire, and I make sure to look frail and nonthreatening in case he looks my way again. He’s old enough to be my father. I swallow the stab of hurt that thought brings and focus on the goal—appearing weak enough to make the trackers overlook me.
The second they give me an opportunity, I’m going to make Ian wish he’d never set eyes on me or the citizens of Baalboden.
CHAPTER FOUR
RACHEL
It’s dark inside the wagon where Ian told me I had to spend the night. I huddle on the floor, my back against the bench, and shiver though it isn’t cold. Now that I’m not falling down with exhaustion like I was earlier, I find it impossible to sit inside the wagon without being flooded with memories that cut into me like daggers.
The rough, splintery floor reminds me of lying beside Sylph, clutching her hand and whispering that I loved her as her life slowly drained away. Of watching Oliver’s blood pour from his throat while I tried to stop it even though I already knew it was too late. The canvas above me is a prison door locking me inside with memories I can’t stand to face.
My throat feels like I’ve swallowed a rock, and I pull sharply at the neckline of my tunic. I can’t get enough air. My fingers tremble, and there’s a faint ringing in my ears as I force myself to breathe slowly. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Just the way Dad taught me when I needed to force my body past paralyzing fear and into a fight.
It isn’t working.
My heart races, a thick jerky rhythm that pounds against my chest. Somehow I’m convinced that I can smell blood—a metallic sweetness that fills my mind and sinks into my tongue until I gag with the effort to keep from swallowing it.
I can’t stay inside this wagon for another minute.
Telling myself that I’m not running away from something I know I need to face, I get to my knees and move toward the exit, pausing every few seconds to listen for Ian and his tracker friends. If I’m outside, I can observe my captors and maybe learn something useful. I can look for weaknesses that I can use to my advantage.
I can breathe.
And I can be on the lookout for Quinn.
I don’t know how fast he can track us. Between the smoke inhalation he suffered while rescuing me from the fire and the head injury he got fighting Ian in Lankenshire, he’s in bad shape. Still, I know he’s coming for me. He didn’t follow Ian out of Lankenshire just to pretend to die so that he could give me a knife. He followed me because he’s committed to protecting me. So is Logan. Probably Willow as well. There’s no way she wouldn’t follow her brother. I just hope she doesn’t blame me for the fact that, once again, Quinn is in harm’s way because he chose to help me. I begged him to leave. To save himself. He refused.
Even Willow can’t blame me for Quinn’s stubbornness.
The knife Quinn gave me is a thin piece of comfort against my ankle as I crawl the rest of the distance to the wagon’s entrance. Quinn has sacrificed himself on my behalf time and again. Part of me feels humiliated—I was trained better than to lose my head in a battle. The rest of me is grateful that Quinn’s protection bought me enough time to start climbing out of the pit of misery, guilt, and fear I’ve been living in. I don’t intend to let his sacrifices go to waste.
Slowly, I slide the canvas flap away from the wagon’s entrance and peer out. The stars are woven through the sky in a tapestry of silver that bathes our campsite in cold, clear light. Samuel, the tracker who helped me gather firewood, is seated on a log at least twenty yards from the ashes of the campfire, his back to the wagon. He sits straight and still, his hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his sword as he keeps the first watch.
The other tracker, Heidi, lies asleep beside the fire’s ashes, wrapped in her bedroll. Her sword rests beside her, where she can grab it the second she awakens. I give the idea of stealing her sword about two seconds of consideration before admitting that trying to sneak up on a sleeping tracker to take a sword that looks too heavy for me is suicide. Especially when Samuel is alert, and Ian might be awake as well.
Besides, I need to look fragile and weak if I want to trick them into overlooking me.
Quietly, I lean out of the wagon, holding on with my left hand while I press my injured right arm against my stomach. Turning my body to the side, I feel for the wagon step with my right leg.
“Going somewhere?” Ian asks behind me.
Startled, I lose my grip on the wagon, my foot grazing the edge of the wagon step as I tumble backward. Strong arms wrap around me and jerk me to my feet before I can hit the ground.
“Do you really think I’m stupid enough to let you just walk out of the wagon and into the Wasteland?” Ian sounds irritated. His arms tighten until my ribs ache.
I need the pair of trackers who are with Ian to believe I’m not a threat. It’s the only chance I have of catching them off guard.
“I’m Rachel,” I say as we reach the wagon. The other tracker, a short, muscular woman with bright red cheeks, is already skinning a brace of small game. Ian is nowhere in sight.
Beside me, the tracker’s cool expression doesn’t change. “I’m Samuel.” He eases me down onto a half-rotten tree stump at the side of the road. “And we aren’t friends, little girl. Remember that.”
Samuel moves away to build a fire, and I make sure to look frail and nonthreatening in case he looks my way again. He’s old enough to be my father. I swallow the stab of hurt that thought brings and focus on the goal—appearing weak enough to make the trackers overlook me.
The second they give me an opportunity, I’m going to make Ian wish he’d never set eyes on me or the citizens of Baalboden.
CHAPTER FOUR
RACHEL
It’s dark inside the wagon where Ian told me I had to spend the night. I huddle on the floor, my back against the bench, and shiver though it isn’t cold. Now that I’m not falling down with exhaustion like I was earlier, I find it impossible to sit inside the wagon without being flooded with memories that cut into me like daggers.
The rough, splintery floor reminds me of lying beside Sylph, clutching her hand and whispering that I loved her as her life slowly drained away. Of watching Oliver’s blood pour from his throat while I tried to stop it even though I already knew it was too late. The canvas above me is a prison door locking me inside with memories I can’t stand to face.
My throat feels like I’ve swallowed a rock, and I pull sharply at the neckline of my tunic. I can’t get enough air. My fingers tremble, and there’s a faint ringing in my ears as I force myself to breathe slowly. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Just the way Dad taught me when I needed to force my body past paralyzing fear and into a fight.
It isn’t working.
My heart races, a thick jerky rhythm that pounds against my chest. Somehow I’m convinced that I can smell blood—a metallic sweetness that fills my mind and sinks into my tongue until I gag with the effort to keep from swallowing it.
I can’t stay inside this wagon for another minute.
Telling myself that I’m not running away from something I know I need to face, I get to my knees and move toward the exit, pausing every few seconds to listen for Ian and his tracker friends. If I’m outside, I can observe my captors and maybe learn something useful. I can look for weaknesses that I can use to my advantage.
I can breathe.
And I can be on the lookout for Quinn.
I don’t know how fast he can track us. Between the smoke inhalation he suffered while rescuing me from the fire and the head injury he got fighting Ian in Lankenshire, he’s in bad shape. Still, I know he’s coming for me. He didn’t follow Ian out of Lankenshire just to pretend to die so that he could give me a knife. He followed me because he’s committed to protecting me. So is Logan. Probably Willow as well. There’s no way she wouldn’t follow her brother. I just hope she doesn’t blame me for the fact that, once again, Quinn is in harm’s way because he chose to help me. I begged him to leave. To save himself. He refused.
Even Willow can’t blame me for Quinn’s stubbornness.
The knife Quinn gave me is a thin piece of comfort against my ankle as I crawl the rest of the distance to the wagon’s entrance. Quinn has sacrificed himself on my behalf time and again. Part of me feels humiliated—I was trained better than to lose my head in a battle. The rest of me is grateful that Quinn’s protection bought me enough time to start climbing out of the pit of misery, guilt, and fear I’ve been living in. I don’t intend to let his sacrifices go to waste.
Slowly, I slide the canvas flap away from the wagon’s entrance and peer out. The stars are woven through the sky in a tapestry of silver that bathes our campsite in cold, clear light. Samuel, the tracker who helped me gather firewood, is seated on a log at least twenty yards from the ashes of the campfire, his back to the wagon. He sits straight and still, his hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his sword as he keeps the first watch.
The other tracker, Heidi, lies asleep beside the fire’s ashes, wrapped in her bedroll. Her sword rests beside her, where she can grab it the second she awakens. I give the idea of stealing her sword about two seconds of consideration before admitting that trying to sneak up on a sleeping tracker to take a sword that looks too heavy for me is suicide. Especially when Samuel is alert, and Ian might be awake as well.
Besides, I need to look fragile and weak if I want to trick them into overlooking me.
Quietly, I lean out of the wagon, holding on with my left hand while I press my injured right arm against my stomach. Turning my body to the side, I feel for the wagon step with my right leg.
“Going somewhere?” Ian asks behind me.
Startled, I lose my grip on the wagon, my foot grazing the edge of the wagon step as I tumble backward. Strong arms wrap around me and jerk me to my feet before I can hit the ground.
“Do you really think I’m stupid enough to let you just walk out of the wagon and into the Wasteland?” Ian sounds irritated. His arms tighten until my ribs ache.
