The Furies (15 page)

Ariel had stopped screaming by this point. She was sobbing now.

Sullivan still held her left arm. He turned it slowly, examining it from every angle. “The women in our family also have red hair and green eyes, but the extra gene has a more dramatic effect on them because they have two X chromosomes and no Y. In short, it helps repair the long-term damage to their cells. This means their skin and muscles and bones and nerves don't deteriorate as time goes on. Their bodies develop normally when they're girls, but once they're fully grown they neither wane nor weaken.” He pinched the skin just below Ariel's elbow, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “She's not immortal, of course. You can still cut and bruise and burn her, which explains how she got all those scars over the years. But she doesn't age. She'll never grow old.”

John took another painful breath and stared at Ariel. The tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. They mixed with the dirt that clung to her cheeks and the blood that still trickled from her nose. There was no more pride in her face, no more defiance. She was bloodied and beaten.

Sullivan dropped her arm and let go of her hair. He wiped his hands on his pants, obviously satisfied. Then, he grunted and stood up. “I know what you're thinking, John. You're wondering how old she is. A hundred years? Two hundred? Would you care to take a guess?”

John shook his head. He didn't believe it. Sullivan was talking nonsense, telling ridiculous lies. But why was Ariel crying? Why did all the fight suddenly go out of her?

“I'll give you a hint. She's older than the state of Michigan. Older than the entire United States, in fact.”

He turned away from Sullivan. He didn't want to listen anymore. But the idea was in his head and he couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't stop making connections. He remembered what Ariel had told him about Valley Forge and why General Washington decided to base his army there. And what she'd said about the cannons on Mackinac Island. Now that he thought about it, she seemed to know an unusual number of facts about the distant past.

“Give up? All right, I'll tell you. She was born in England three hundred and seventy-three years ago.”

The number branded itself into John's brain. Three hundred and seventy-three.
Three hundred and seventy-three.

“That must sound very old to you, but it's actually quite young compared with some of the women in our family. All our Elders are over six hundred years old. My mother—Chief Elder Elizabeth Fury—was already seven hundred years old when she gave birth to Lily.”

John was bewildered. “Lily? Who's Lily?”

“Our family has a curious tradition regarding names. We all share the same last name—Fury—but each of us has two first names. We use our birth names when we're in Haven, but whenever we go outside the community we're required to assume a different identity. Lily is Ariel's birth name. Our mother named all her children after flowers and herbs.”

Sullivan spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if everything he said was common knowledge. John looked again at Ariel, who still lay prostrate in the dirt, and wondered if it could be true. It was hard to imagine that she could be four centuries old, but he'd noticed that she hadn't denied it. She'd reacted instead with horror and grief, and now John realized why. She was devastated because he'd just learned her family's secret. And that meant he was doomed.

As he stared at her, Ariel sat upright and wiped her eyes. She'd stopped crying and her face had hardened. She glowered at Sullivan, her lips trembling with fury. “Why don't you tell him
your
birth name?” She turned to John. “When this cocksucker was born fifty-three years ago, Mother named him Basil. It was the biggest laugh of 1961.”

For a moment it looked like Sullivan might grab Ariel by the neck and throttle her. But instead he simply frowned. “All right, enough family history. Your paramour knows too much already. One way or another, he has to die. So let's get on with it.” He turned to Marlowe. “Take out one of his eyes. The left one.”

Marlowe held up his hand. His nails were filthy. “Should I use my fingers, Sully?”

“Nay, that would be uncouth. Find a stick.”

The Rifleman obediently lowered his gaze and started searching the area at the base of the big pine tree. He combed the soil and pine needles, picking up fallen branches to see if they were suitable. Meanwhile, John shivered on the ground. He wasn't afraid of dying. He was ready to die. But he was terrified of being mutilated. He knew that at some point he'd break down and start screaming. He'd howl and weep and beg for his life while Sullivan made jokes and Marlowe guffawed. And the worst part was that Ariel would see the whole thing.

Marlowe finally found a stick he liked. He snapped it in two and chose the piece with the sharper end. Then, before John could resist, another Rifleman knelt beside him and pinned his arms to the ground. John was shivering violently now. He was going to break very soon. Sullivan stood a couple of yards away, observing everything with great interest. Ariel sat in the dirt nearby, her face buried in her hands.

Marlowe bent over John, pointing the stick at his face. But then he hesitated. He stood up straight and looked over his shoulder at Sullivan. “Which eye did you say, Sully? The right?”

Sullivan shook his head. “Nay, the left. Damn it, can't you remember any—”

Before he could finish the sentence, Ariel pivoted on the ground and punched the back of his knee. It was a vicious blow, with plenty of momentum behind it. Sullivan let out a gasp as his knee buckled. Then, as he fell forward, Ariel climbed on his back and reached around to claw his eyes.

Marlowe shouted, “Sully!” and dropped his stick, but as he rushed toward Sullivan a gunshot broke the hush of the pine forest. Marlowe shrieked and spun around, clutching his shoulder. At first John assumed that Ariel had grabbed a gun and started shooting, but she was busy raking Sullivan's face with her fingernails. Then there was a second gunshot. The bullet smashed into the skull of the Rifleman who'd pinned John to the ground. The man's head jerked to the side and spouted blood as he crumpled.

Then the woods exploded with gunfire. The barrage came from deeper within the forest, behind the pine trees to John's right, and it struck down three more Riflemen, killing them where they stood. The rest of Sullivan's men scrambled for cover, diving behind tree trunks and rock piles and thickets. Within seconds they pulled out their carbines and returned fire, but their shots were wild and random because they couldn't see their attackers. Meanwhile, Sullivan flung Ariel off his back and retreated with his men, hurtling over a fallen trunk and disappearing in the undergrowth. Marlowe followed him, staggering.

While the bullets whizzed overhead, Ariel crawled over to John, dragging her useless legs behind her. “Don't get up,” she warned. “Stay low and follow me.”

Although John was bewildered, he didn't ask any questions. His gratitude and relief were so strong he would've followed her anywhere. His broken ribs flared in agony as he rolled over onto his stomach, but he didn't make a sound. Then he and Ariel scuttled on their elbows through the dirt, heading for the trees that the unseen attackers hid behind.

Soon the gunfire ebbed. Sullivan and his men were running through the woods, heading back to the highway by the lakeshore. After a few more seconds John heard the distant roar of half a dozen motorcycle engines. The roar grew louder as the diminished band of Riflemen revved their bikes and raced off. Then the noise gradually faded, and the forest fell silent again.

When John looked up he saw an Amish man step out from behind one of the pine trees. He wore a broad-brimmed straw hat and a long-sleeved white shirt without any buttons. A pair of suspenders held up his pants. He was tall and powerfully built and had a thick reddish beard, but no mustache. John recalled what Ariel had said about the residents of Haven, how they disguised themselves as Amish to avoid scrutiny from the local authorities. But this particular man's disguise was marred by the fact that he carried an M4 carbine. He approached them cautiously, holding his gun at the ready. “Lily?” he called. “Are you injured, milady?”

Ariel nodded. “I can't walk but I'm in no immediate danger. I'm very glad to see you, Conroy.”

The man pointed his rifle at John. “Who is this outsider? Did Sullivan bring him here?”

“Nay, I did. He's a friend. How many guardsmen are with you?”

He whistled. Four more men in Amish garb emerged from hiding, each carrying either an assault rifle or a pistol. “We were on patrol near Flower Creek, two miles to the north,” Conroy said. “We spied the flare, so we hastened here to investigate.”

Ariel turned to John and smiled. “I owe you an apology. Bringing the flare gun was a good idea.” She sat upright, resting her back against a nearby pine.

John was surprised to see the small, leather-bound notebook in her lap. He pointed at it. “You got it back?”

“I pulled it out of the pocket of his jacket while I was scratching the bastard's face.” Her smile broadened. “Pretty clever, eh?”

“Lily!” Conroy stared at her, dumbfounded. “He knows about your Treasure?”

“I told you, cuz, he's a friend. Over the past two days he's saved my life many times.”

Conroy turned to John and looked at him carefully. “I've seen this outsider's face before. In our files. Is this your paramour?”

Ariel stopped smiling. “Aye, he is. What of it?”

Conroy's face reddened. “I need to speak with you privately, milady.”

Ariel took a deep breath. Then she nodded at Conroy, who approached the pine tree and crouched beside her. They spoke in whispers that became more urgent and agitated as the conversation went on. After a couple of minutes Ariel's face had reddened just as much as Conroy's. They exchanged a few more heated whispers, and then Conroy stood up and went to talk with the other guards. At the same time, Ariel looked at John. Her eyes were glassy.

“My cousins are going to take us to Haven.” She spoke haltingly now, her voice tense. “But they have to bind your hands.”

“You mean, tie me up?”

She nodded. “I had to tell him what you know. About Haven. And our family. I had no choice.”

John's throat tightened. “Wait a second. What's going to happen when we get to Haven?”

“You must appear before the Council of Elders. Your fate is in their hands now.” Her voice cracked. “I'm sorry, John. I'm so, so sorry.”

Conroy returned with two of his men. One of them pointed a pistol at John's head. The other held a length of rope.

PART II

HAVEN

ELEVEN

John marched through the woods with his hands tied behind his back. The guardsmen from Haven made no allowances for his broken nose and ribs. They trained their pistols at his head and kept him moving.

The trail twisted through the forest, climbing over knolls and descending into ravines. It would've been a grueling hike even if he wasn't injured. John panted from the effort, his chest aching with every breath, but he didn't complain. Keeping his face rigid, he stared at the back of Ariel's head, which bobbed behind Conroy's. The guard carried her piggyback, cradling her broken legs against his hips while she gripped his muscular shoulders. John focused on her long, swaying red hair and felt a surge of anger. She'd handed him over, turned him in. Once they reached Haven, the Elders would kill him. He was guilty of the crime of knowing too much.

The sheer ingratitude of it, that's what he couldn't get over. He'd saved Ariel's life, and this was how she repaid him! She said she'd had no choice, but John didn't believe it. Did she really have to reveal that he knew her family's secret? Couldn't she have left out that detail when she explained the situation to Conroy? But no, she had to tell him everything. She had to follow her damn oath to the letter.

After a while he shifted his gaze from Ariel to her cousins. The two guardsmen behind him, the ones who carried the pistols, were young men with bright red hair and sparse beards. Conroy and the two other guards were older, their long beards flecked with gray. Except for their Amish clothing and facial hair, they looked a lot like Sullivan's men. Clearly, there'd been a split among the men in Ariel's family, with some leaving Haven to follow Sullivan and the rest remaining loyal to the Elders. John still didn't know what had caused the split, but he could see its effects in the way the men treated Ariel. Whereas the Riflemen had looked at her with undisguised hatred, the guards from Haven treated her with respect. Although Conroy had scolded her earlier, now he showed great deference, constantly checking to see if she was comfortable as he carried her through the forest. Meanwhile, the other guards sneaked glances at her as if she were a celebrity. No, more than a celebrity—there was genuine awe in their faces, and some fear as well. They looked at her as if she were a goddess, a temperamental deity who'd hurl a lightning bolt at them if the mood struck her.

John frowned. Ariel wasn't a goddess. But maybe she wasn't human, either.
Three hundred and seventy-three years.
Could anyone stay human after living for so long? Maybe that was why she'd handed him over to Conroy. John was less than a tenth of her age. Even if she cared for him, it didn't matter. When balanced against her eternal family, how could his fate be important?

After a solid hour of walking, Conroy called for a ten-minute break. They stopped at a small clearing, a rough circle of weeds and mud surrounded by the pines. Conroy crouched by one of the trees and Ariel slid off his back. She looked over her shoulder and stared at John for a moment, her face pale and unreadable. Then Conroy ordered the two younger guards to escort John to the other side of the clearing, as far as possible from Ariel.

Grabbing him by the elbows, the guards found a relatively dry patch of ground and lowered him to a sitting position. The movement jarred his broken ribs, and he let out a gasp. The guard on his left, who had a sharp chin and wire-rim glasses, looked at him gravely. “Are you in pain?”