Deception (31 page)
I can’t speak. Can barely breathe. I throw off his arm.
“I’m sorry, Logan.”
“Maybe you’re wrong,” I say, because he has to be. He
has
to be.
“I’m not.”
“Maybe you are. Who made you an expert in poisons, anyway? You could be wrong.”
His expression looks carved in stone. “Willow and I are both experts in the many, many ways a person can be killed. Our father saw to that.”
“It can’t be castor seeds. It can’t . . . Sylph is sick, Quinn. She’s in there”—I gesture toward the medical wagon—“with bruises all over her body, and I have to save her. I can’t let Rachel lose anyone else. Do you hear me? I have to save her!” My voice is raw and desperate, and already the bitterness of grief is spilling into me, because I look at Quinn’s face, and I know.
I can’t save her.
I can’t save any of them.
And they’re all dead because the Commander wanted power. Because Jared gave us the device. Because we brought it back to Baalboden instead of returning it to Rowansmark.
Because of me.
Did I really think I could lead these people and prove my worthiness to them? The dregs of my belief taste like ashes on the back of my tongue as the soft sound of Smithson calling Sylph’s name in broken tones pierces the morning air.
LOGAN
T
he lazy hum of bumblebees fills the air as I climb through patches of spring grass sprinkled with wildflowers on my way to the lip of land above the river. The camp at my back is a whirlwind of activity as some pack canvas, blankets, and torches back into the supply wagon while others work with Nola and Drake to reconfigure those riding in the other wagons so we can accommodate the newly sick among us.
Three more people on my list have symptoms. Word has spread that those dying from bruises and bleeding gums were all marked. Everywhere I go, people watch me. Whispering. Wondering what I will do to keep them safe. Wondering how I can force our group to travel with so many sick and so many more destined to fall prey to the symptoms.
The soil beneath me gives a little as I walk. Bending down, I press my fingers into its cool, dark depths. Gusts of air rise from the river and roll over the edge of the meadow. The water smells like a musty, dirt-floored basement with leaky walls. The ground around me is covered in a light film of residual moisture.
We can bury our dead here. The damp soil will make for easy digging. Plus, the profusion of flowers makes this spot pretty, and that means something. We might be barely clinging to survival. We might be running low on hope and optimism. But we can still give our dead the dignity of a proper burial.
The thought that we might have more dead to bury when we set up camp this evening makes me ache down to my bones. But beneath the regret and the guilt, a steady flame of anger burns within me.
When I catch the man who did this, I’m going to punish him in ways that will be remembered long after his body has turned to dust. No one in the beleaguered group at my back will doubt that I fought for them. That I was worthy of the trust they placed in me.
Dusting the soil off of my fingers, I stand and continue on toward the drop-off above the river. The highwaymen won’t get a burial. We can’t afford the time or energy to dig a grave for twenty-three men who wanted nothing more than to murder us and steal everything we own.
I’ve already sent Quinn, Thom, and Frankie to scope out the forest for the highwaymen’s belongings. With no city-state nearby and no known highwaymen camps to resupply them, I’m positive they weren’t just wandering around with nothing but weapons and the shirts on their backs. We could use some fresh supplies.
I reach the edge of the meadow and gaze into the river below. The water is a murky green, nearly the same color as the cypress needles that cover many of the trees in the surrounding forest. The morning sun ricochets off of the rippling current, igniting tiny shards of brilliance that make my headache worse.
I raise my face, staring north at the line where the thick green forest meets the clear blue sky. The sky is the same color as Rachel’s eyes. I can’t bear to look at it. If I do, I’ll have to remember how small she looked huddled next to her best friend, willing her not to die.
A movement along the river bank catches my eye, and I stare as Willow surfaces, flips her braid out of her face, and tugs a long cylinder made of silver wire out of the water. The cylinder is easily the length of a wagon bed and is full of fish.
It’s a fish trap, and an expertly crafted one at that. And it isn’t ours. Which means either the highwaymen dropped it in the river yesterday, intending to use the catch today, or another group of people live near here.
A Tree Village, maybe? I hope so. Of all the possibilities, they’re the only ones who aren’t likely to try to rob us or kill us on sight.
Willow is struggling to haul the trap up the slippery riverbank. I start looking around for the path she used to get down to the water. In a moment, I see it—a narrow trail is carved into the side of the bluff, paved with flat stones that line up end to end.
Man-made. Just like the trap. If these fish belong to anyone but the dead highwaymen, their owner could return at any time. I doubt we’d get a warm reception as we lunched on a pile of stolen fish.
Not that I’m about to return them to the water. Not with so many people needing to be fed.
I carefully navigate my way down the path, sliding uncomfortably close to the edge a few times as my boots hit a stone slick with damp. The ground is spongy and strewn with rocks. Thick river birch trees line the bank, their branches arching out over the water. The current moves quickly, and I give Willow credit for being a strong swimmer. Most people who stepped foot in this water would wash up on the shore hundreds of yards downstream before they ever knew what hit them.
Which is unfortunate, because I need to get my people across this river.
Approaching Willow, I see the fish trap is about three yards long, and a generous assortment of carp, perch, and trout flop around inside, their gills heaving. I knew Willow was a formidable girl, but being able to drag a full fish trap through a swift-moving current just raised formidable to a whole new level.
I’m grateful she’s on my side.
“Nice,” I say as I bend down to lift one side of the trap. It’s ridiculously heavy. I grunt with the effort.
“Watch yourself,” she says. “Might be easier just to roll it.”
I shoot her a look. “I’m honor-bound not to struggle with this since you just retrieved it all by yourself. Please do me the courtesy of pretending this is hard for you as well.”
She rolls her eyes. “It was a lot lighter in the water. Roll it, honor boy. I’m not lifting this.”
We shove the cylinder over the muddy bank. It catches on stones and tree roots and in general does its best to defeat our efforts, but eventually we get it to the base of the path.
“Now what?” she asks.
“I’ll walk up the path backward and pull while you push.”
“Do me a favor and try not to back right over the edge.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say.
She takes a moment to wring some water from her tunic. The sun slides over the silver ear cuff she wears and dies when it hits the black feather dangling limply against her shoulder.
“What’s the feather for?” I ask.
Her dark eyes are unreadable. “For my first kill.”
A chill raises the hair on the back of my neck. “How old were you?”
“Eight. If we’re done talking about me, let’s—”
“Wait a minute.” I hold my hands up. “You killed someone when you were eight? That seems . . . that’s very . . . why?”
She fists her hands on her hips. “You could say it was my initiation into the family business.”
“Willow. You were just a child.” Horror fills my voice, and she gives herself a little shake and bends toward the trap.
“Not quite enough fish here to comfortably feed the entire group, but I think I saw another trap farther south.” Her voice is calm, but I hear the finality in it. She won’t discuss her childhood, and given what I know now, I can’t blame her.
Between this conversation and Quinn’s revelation about his father teaching his children every possible way to kill someone, I now regret ever giving Quinn a hard time about refusing to carry a weapon.
“Let’s get this up to the meadow and let Nola figure out if she wants to cook it now or transport it raw, and we can go get the other trap.” I keep the lingering horror out of my voice, and swallow the pity as well. Willow wouldn’t appreciate either.
“She’d better cook it now. Few things are worse than the smell of a dead fish,” she says. We start pushing and pulling the trap up the trail, and she looks at me. “Forgot to tell you there’s a bridge just south of here.”
I stop pulling. “A bridge? A fully intact bridge?”
She shrugs. “It looked intact to me, but I didn’t swim close enough to get a good look.”
A bridge. I have a way to get my people across the river. And thanks to the jars of glycerin and acid I took with me out of Baalboden after blowing up the gate, I have a way to destroy that bridge and cut off any efforts to track us further.
For the first time in weeks, I feel a tiny shred of hope.
RACHEL
L
ogan conducts a funeral service on the rise of land at the north end of the meadow. The morning chill still clings to the air, and a somber mood lies over us like a blanket. I leave Sylph resting peacefully in the wagon with Smithson by her side and join the crowd of mourners. I tell Smithson I feel I should be present for the burial, and that’s partially true.
But really I need a few minutes away from the sight of Sylph’s slow deterioration and Smithson’s increasing desperation before the silent wall within me threatens to crack. I can’t grieve yet. Not while she’s still alive. Maybe not at all. If I let the depth of what she means to me hurt me, every other ghost that haunts me will demand its due, and how will I ever survive that?
So I stand at the edges of the crowd, letting Logan’s voice wash over me without leaving a single word behind, and tell myself that the scars that harden the surface of my heart are necessary for survival.
When Drake takes over to supervise the actual burial, Logan works his way around the side of the field until he’s standing beside me. He wraps an arm around my waist, and I lean against him as the first shovel bites into the ground. We stand in silence as those who loved the ones we lost say their words, pick their flowers, and find their own way to let go of one more dream.
When the crowd begins to disperse under Drake’s orders to help Nola cook the fish Willow caught, pack up the rest of the supplies, and be ready to move out in an hour, I look at Logan.
“This poison . . . there must be an antidote. We just need to figure out what we’re dealing with, right?” Deep down, though, I already know the answer. If there were an antidote, if Logan knew how to stop this, he wouldn’t be standing still doing nothing. But I have to ask. I have to know I tried everything to save her.
His jaw clenches. “It’s castor seed poison. And according to Quinn, there is no antidote.”
A weak spurt of anger warms me. “How does Quinn know about poisons? You’re the scientist. If there’s an antidote, you can figure it out.”
“Quinn and Willow both know a frightening amount about poisons and weapons and every other way to kill someone.” His voice is quiet, but still I glance around to make sure no one in Frankie’s small circle of friends overheard. The last thing we need to deal with is more suspicion aimed at the Runningbrooks. None of Frankie’s friends are nearby. There’s only Ian, rolling up a few yards of canvas, and Elias, slowly packing his travel bag while he watches us like he’d love to know what we’re talking about.
Logan turns me around to face him. His eyes burn into mine. “Rachel, I’m sorry. If I could think of anything—
anything
—to try, I would. But I don’t know how to save her.” His voice is nothing but a whisper now. “I’m sorry.”
The hurt stabbing through me throbs once or twice and then fades into the bleak silence. I don’t try to get it back. Sylph is going to die. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. One more person stripped from me. One more ghost to haunt me while I sleep.
Feeling nothing but icy emptiness is better than sliding into the gaping pit of loss and destruction lurking somewhere inside of me. If I feel nothing, I can function. I can go back and face her. I can be strong for Smithson.
I can keep going.
“Rachel?” Logan asks, his hand reaching for me as if to offer comfort.
I step back. I don’t need comfort. Comfort doesn’t solve anything. Tears don’t either. I just need to put one foot in front of the other and pretend I can handle this. If I pretend long enough, maybe it will become real.
Logan’s hand falls to his side, and I read the guilt and regret on his face as easily as if he’d said the words aloud. He feels responsible. He thinks I blame him. I should do something. Say something. Find a way to ease his mind and heart.