Deception (26 page)
LOGAN
I
wake at dawn to a splitting headache. Shadowy half-light seeps in past the mossy window, turning everything around me into hazy, indistinct shapes.
Or maybe taking a rock to the head did that.
Trying to get up sends shooting pain into my eye sockets and makes my stomach pitch. I lie still, breathing deeply for a moment, and then slowly roll to my side.
Rachel is asleep, slumped against the wall beside me, her knife clutched in her hand. Since I didn’t wake to screams, she either had a peaceful night, or she stayed up until sheer exhaustion kept her from dreaming. Judging by the faint dark smudges beneath her eyes, I’m betting on the latter.
It’s time to get the camp up and moving. We need to light the fire before the army starts moving off the bluff.
My head pounds, a sick throbbing that increases as I push myself to my knees. I move my feet underneath me until I’m crouching over my blanket, cradling my head in my hands. The bandage that Rachel tied over the cut feels like it’s stuck to the back of my skull. Dried blood, probably. I’ll need to dunk my head in some water to get it off.
The thought of it makes me want to lie down again.
Instead, I hold still and breathe deeply, hoping the throbbing in my head will lessen. If I can’t get this pain under control, I’ll be in no shape to lead us into the Wasteland.
I let go of my head and press my palms to the ground. Surely, if I move slowly enough, I can stand up. The contents of our room lurch sideways as I push myself off the floor and instantly crash back down onto my hands and knees. I look at Rachel, but she’s still sound asleep, her knife gleaming against the dark brown of her cloak.
I’m going to need some leverage to get myself on my feet. Moving cautiously, I crawl toward the doorway, my eyes on the sturdy table that hugs the wall beside the entrance. The rug that covers the floor is brittle and seems to crumble beneath my fingers as I lean on my hands.
I’m nearly there when something sharp gouges my palm. Looking down, I see a slender gray piece of metal, about the length of my index finger. One end is fluted, its slim edges now covered in blood from the shallow cut on my hand. The other end looks like a miniature spear, its needle tip buried in the rug beside my travel pack.
It’s a dart. Made from the same metal as the Rowansmark tech I wear strapped across my chest. A small white cloth is pinned to the floor beneath it.
My chest feels like a slab of steel is crushing me as the implications hit home.
The tracker was in our room.
Which means he got inside the building. Which means the four people who stood guard over the main entrance last night are probably dead.
My fingers shake as I grasp the dart and yank it free. The pressure in my chest joins the throbbing in my head as I unfold the cloth and stare at the letters penned in delicate swirls of drying blood.
The marked will die to pay your debt.
I swear viciously and crumple the cloth in my fist. Rachel jerks to attention and comes to her feet, her knife gripped tightly.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asks.
“This.” I toss the cloth to her and pick up the dart instead. Definitely the same material as the device. If I had any doubt left within me that I’m dealing with a Rowansmark tracker, it’s gone now.
I drop the dart and press my fingers to my eyes in the futile hope that somehow if I just push hard enough, the pain will go away.
“Where was this?” Rachel asks. Her voice crashes into my head and doubles the pain.
“Here.” I gesture toward the floor and immediately regret it when the movement sends brilliant white sparks through my brain.
Her words are furious, but I hear the thin thread of fear beneath them. “He was
in here
. When?”
“I don’t know, but I’m afraid the guards we had at the building’s entrance must be dead. We have to go check, and then get our people out of this place before he does anything else.”
“It says the marked
will
die. That means it hasn’t happened yet. If we can figure out what he means or how he intends to do it, we can stop him,” Rachel says. “Let’s go.”
“Yes,” I say, though with every sound crashing around inside of my head like it’s trying to crack my skull, I’m not in any shape to figure out how to stand up on my own, much less how to outthink a killer.
She slides her knife into its sheath and wraps her arm around me. I lean heavily on her while I stagger to my feet. The ground dips and sways, and I close my eyes until the world around me settles. Then we slowly make our way toward the door.
“The marked will die,” I say as we reach the doorway. “I wonder what kind of mark he means?”
Rachel shoves the door open and we step out into the hallway. A few people walk out of their rooms, travel packs slung over their shoulders, but we barely spare them a glance. We’re too busy staring at the row of doorways stretching along the corridor.
Scattered throughout the hall are doors marked with a bloody X.
RACHEL
M
y stomach feels like it’s caving in as I stare at the red Xs marking random doors. I glance behind me, but our door is unblemished. I don’t want to take another step. Don’t want to open the marked doors and see what lies inside.
Logan swears quietly, his hand gripping my arm like I’m the only thing keeping him upright.
Fear is ice in my veins, keeping me rooted to the spot as I frantically scan the row of doors until I find the one I’m looking for.
The one Sylph jokingly calls her honeymoon cottage.
A giant X slashes across the door like a knife wound.
A small, hurt sound escapes the back of my throat, and I move. Half-dragging Logan with me, I stumble down the hall, past a marked door on my right, and another on the left.
Sylph can’t be dead. She
can’t
.
The X is still wet, blood gleaming faintly against the dark brown wood. I reach for the doorknob, and stop, my hand hovering just beneath a streak of crimson.
“Open it, Rachel.” Logan’s voice is calm, but I hear the dread underneath.
“I can’t.” What if she’s dead—another piece of my childhood brutally ripped away from me? Will I see her face when I close my eyes at night? Will her blood pour over my hands while she tells me I should’ve saved her?
He reaches past me and turns the knob. Sylph and Smithson lie on a blanket, another blanket covering them. I can’t see if she’s breathing. I can’t see if there’s blood.
Logan shuts the door behind us and grabs the doorjamb as I let go of him and rush to Sylph. I fall to my knees beside her, and grab her shoulders.
“Sylph!”
Her eyes fly open. So do Smithson’s. And I suddenly realize Sylph’s shoulders are bare.
So are Smithson’s.
“Oh!” I let go of her.
“What’s going on?” Sylph asks, shoving a hand through her tousled black curls. The blanket slips.
“Ah!” I yell, and turn around to block Logan’s view. Smithson beats me to it by sitting up and yanking the blanket up to Sylph’s chin.
“What are you
doing
in here?” Smithson asks. His chest is covered in curly brown hair, and I can’t even look at him. Or at Sylph. Or at Logan.
I should just close my eyes and hope nobody notices while I crawl out of the room.
“There was a note. And then we saw the X. And I thought you were dead.” I find Sylph’s eyes and hold her gaze. “I thought you were dead.”
A frown pinches her brow, and she starts to sit up.
“No, no,” I say, even though she’s clutching the blanket to her neck.
“Stay down,” Smithson says.
She throws him a look of affectionate exasperation. “It’s just Rachel.”
“It isn’t just Rachel,” he says, and Logan clears his throat behind me.
“I can step out for a minute,” he says.
And leave me alone with a naked Smithson and a naked Sylph? Over my dead body.
“No!” I say, and everyone stares at me. “I mean, um, maybe we should both leave. Because clearly they aren’t dead. And they need some . . . they need a minute.”
Sylph’s hand joins mine, and I feel new calluses on her palm. I stare at our hands, her golden fingers curved around my pale ones, and the relief I feel threatens to choke me. I clutch her hand too tight for comfort, but I can’t bear to let her go.
“Why did you think I was dead? What X?” she asks.
I shake my head. The lump in my throat isn’t going to let me talk. Plus, I’m busy not noticing that no one close to me is wearing clothing.
“The tracker got into the building last night. He left a note for me in our room,” Logan says, and the strain in his voice might be due to the subject matter, or he might be busy not noticing the general lack of clothing as well. “It said that the marked will die.”
“What does that mean?” Smithson asks, and reaches behind him for his tunic.
“We aren’t sure, but when we left our room, we saw several doors marked with an X.” Logan clears his throat again as Smithson reaches for his pants. “Maybe you should join me over here, Rachel.”
“Good idea,” I say, but Sylph won’t let me go. She tugs my hand closer to her, and I meet her eyes.
“Our door was marked, wasn’t it?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Her breathing quickens, but her voice is calm as she says, “Well, the message lied. We’re fine.”
“Maybe it didn’t lie. It said ‘the marked
will
die.’ That’s in the future. Maybe we’ve been selected as the next target,” Smithson says, and I look at him with new respect.
He flaps his pants at me, and I whip my head around to stare at the other side of the room while he finishes dressing.
“Maybe that’s it,” Logan says. “We’ll need to take down the names of those whose doors were marked and keep a careful watch on them.”
“Good plan,” Smithson says. “Now get out of our room so my wife can get dressed.”
I give Sylph’s hand one last squeeze and gently disentangle our fingers. “I’m glad you aren’t dead,” I say, and my voice breaks.
Her smile is gentle. “I’m glad you aren’t either.”
“Come on, Rachel,” Logan says, and then he lets go of the doorjamb and nearly pitches to his knees. Smithson lunges forward and catches him.
“Sorry,” Logan says as I hurry to his side. “Took a rock to the head last night. Still a little dizzy.”
“Who did that to you?” Smithson’s voice promises retribution, and the burgeoning respect I feel for him doubles.
“The same person who put a bloody X on your door,” I say.
Logan pushes his fingers against his temples as Smithson holds him up on one side and I support him on the other.
“Has he had any medical attention?” Sylph asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “We have to go check on last night’s guards, get the group ready to leave, and light the fire. Then he can visit the medical wagon.”
“I’ll ride in the wagon and get the medicine ready for him,” she says.
“And I’ll stay with you,” Smithson says to her, his eyes on the door as if he can see through to the bloody X on the other side.
“Thanks,” I say, tightening my hold on Logan. “We’ll see you once we get away from this city.”
I help Logan back into the hall. People leave their rooms and stare in fear at the crimson Xs sprinkled throughout the rows.
Quinn joins me on Logan’s other side, and together we weave our way through the terrified people, afraid that we’ll discover that every guard we posted during last night’s second shift is dead.
RACHEL
P
eople roll up blankets, fasten travel packs, and jostle each other as they maneuver into the hallway and instantly add their voices to the tumult when they see the Xs on the doors. We push our way toward the stairwell while people fling frantic questions at our backs.
What happened?
Who did this?
Is anyone hurt?
I don’t have any answers for them, but since Logan looks like he’s about to pass out, and Quinn would rather eat dirt than speak up when a crowd is watching him, it’s up to me to respond.
Quinn dabs his finger in the blood of an X marking the door closest to the end of the hall and then rubs his finger and thumb together.
“Is it human blood?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I can’t tell.” He gazes down the long corridor. “But this took a lot of blood. Unless whoever did this bled someone dry, my guess is he caught a few rabbits in the Wasteland and drained them.”