The Blood that Binds (Thicker than Blood Book 3)

by Madeline Sheehan

  Shifting the pack on my back, heavy and cumbersome, I groaned. My body was no longer used to the weight and the old familiar aches between my shoulder blades had already begun to flare.

  “A vehicle would have been nice,” I muttered out loud, for at least the hundredth time. Only there’d been hardly any fuel left in the reserves and I would’ve had to wait at least another forty-eight hours before there would have been enough for a full tank. Knowing how fast Logan moved, I knew I didn’t have that kind of time. I’d have to set out on foot.

  Pulling a map from my pack, a crudely rendered drawing Joshua had jotted down for me before I’d left, I gazed over each route out of town, wondering which Logan might have taken. On one hand, I thought he might want to travel through the once populated neighborhoods, possibly in search of supplies. On the other hand, I thought he might avoid those areas altogether, seeing as his emergency pack had been well stocked and most necessary supplies nearby would have been long ago scavenged.

  Stuffing my map away, I climbed over the barricade, landing on the other side with a grunt, the noise drawing the attention of a nearby Creeper camouflaged between two trees. It lumbered forward at surprising speed, and I hurried to pull my knife from my belt. Meeting it head-on, I ducked its hands and emerged behind it, slamming the blade into the base of its skull. As it folded to the ground in a graceless heap, I turned in a circle, searching for more.

  Check your surroundings, Logan would have said. Creepers usually travel in packs—make sure there aren’t any others.

  Sure enough, another Creeper appeared through the trees, closely followed by a third. I jogged backward, unbuckling my pack as I went. Shrugging out of it, I bent down to pull a second blade from my boot and exploded forward, dodging its hands while I circled it, sinking one of my blades into its temple. As it ceased moving and folded to the ground, I found my blade stuck in its skull. Without the time to pry it out, I jumped back from the body just in time for the second Creeper to lunge. Tripping over its dead companion, it made a wild grasp for my leg, snagging its spindly fingers on my boot laces.

  Cursing, I kicked, smashing the tip of my boot straight into its snapping maw, dislodging whatever teeth it had left. Still clinging to my boot, I kicked again, this time shattering its nose. Free from its grasp, I stepped on its back, holding it still with my weight and brought my arm down like a battering ram, jamming my second blade through skin, blood and bone, and straight into its brain. The Creeper twitched several times, and then it was still.

  Relieved to find myself finally alone, I pulled my blade from where it remained wedged inside a Creeper skull, wiped both blades clean on the grass and sheathed them in their holsters. With one last glance down the road that would lead me through the surrounding towns, I grabbed my pack and turned to the highway, heading in the direction I hoped would lead me to Logan.

  As the sun began its descent and the sky faded into a collage of blues and yellows, I stopped searching for Logan and started seeking a place to spend the night. Having not come across anything for the last several hours, I already knew I’d be forced to wait out the darkness at the next structure I came across, no matter its condition.

  It was nearly dark when a small, dilapidated house finally arose on the horizon, with a small cemetery off to the side. I wound my way through the crumbling gravestones, each of them boasting lives lived and died before the end of the world, before making my way up the gravel drive.

  The front door of the house hung on one hinge, swinging unsteadily with the breeze. Toeing it the rest of the way open, I slid through the gap, holding my breath as I listened for any sounds that might be coming from within.

  Hearing nothing, I moved down a short hall, finding myself inside a living room, its dusty, decrepit contents looking as if they’d been fashioned in the 1940s. Numerous pictures lined the walls and mantle; wiping the dust from the frames, I found the story of a couple, beginning with an old black and white photograph of two young people, ending with the colorful portrait of a family that had long since tripled in size.

  Staring at the evidence of a life well lived, I found myself wondering what my own family might look like someday. What mine and Logan’s family might grow to become.

  If I found him.

  Biting down on my bottom lip, I spun away from the photographs and resumed my search through the house. Once I was satisfied that I was alone, I wedged the front door closed, reinforcing it with a heavy piano bench, and began setting up camp for the night. Before long, I was working by moonlight.

  On my own, in the dark of night, small things began to feel monumental. Something as simple as a bathroom break felt more dangerous than ever before. The same went for sleeping—without someone standing guard, every whistle of the wind and every creak of the house sounded like a possible threat. Even the simple fact that there was no one to talk to was messing with my head. I was all alone with my thoughts and completely at the mercy of this world.

  Burrowing deep in my sleeping bag—another hand-me-down from Davey—I closed my eyes and I began reciting my favorite story, meticulously reciting each line, right up until Alice was due to return home, back to the life she’d always known. Instead, she chose to stay in Wonderland, not alone though, but with the Mad Hatter.

  They argued incessantly. The Mad Hatter was almost always mad; he was stoic and stubborn, and didn’t seem to understand Alice and her weird, wild ways, often finding fault with her for reasons Alice couldn’t fathom. He would call her selfish and silly, and yet, in the very same breath, he would demand she eat cake, telling her she needed to grow big and strong to survive this crazy world.

  That was the thing about Hatter; beneath his thorny exterior lay a bed of roses… if you knew where to look. And Alice knew just where to look. In fact, Alice had found that she quite liked his thorns as well, and maybe the Hatter had begun to like Alice’s weird, wild ways a little bit, too.

  But the Hatter was also foolish, always thinking he knew better than Alice… thinking he knew her heart.

  He’d practically thrust her back into her old life, into her old world, and run off, thinking that Alice could somehow forget their mad times together, as if his maddening ways hadn’t changed her forever.

  Alice scoffed. There was only one place she belonged now.

  “I’m going to find you,” I whispered, just before drifting off to sleep. “… and then I’m going to punch you.”

  Two days had passed since leaving Silver Lake—two days spent walking aimlessly, searching fruitlessly, while an ever-growing coil of nerves continued tightening inside me.

  As the sun began to set on the third day, I found myself wandering a desolate stretch of highway, nothing but crumbling pavement bracketed by thick, imposing groves of trees as far as the eye could see. My solitary steps echoed; cold chills ran up and down my arms. Each day was more bitter and drearier than the last. Staring up at the sunless sky, it didn’t yet smell like snow, yet the air had a distinct cold and wet quality, meaning winter was just around the corner.

  It was only going to get colder; how much longer could I continue to wander?

  Without any sign of Logan, without even knowing the direction he was traveling, I was beginning to think that it might be time to head home—back to Silver Lake—if only to load up with more supplies and, this time, hopefully make use of one of the vehicles at my disposal.

  Winters in the wild had always been the most difficult and dreaded season; it was unfathomable how we’d survived so many. This winter had been the first I hadn’t feared; in fact, living comfortably in Silver Lake almost had me anticipating the colder months. Shorter workdays and longer nights, a fire burning in the stove and me tucked safely away in the warm crevice of Logan’s arm.

  Now though, the thought of spending the winter without Logan was almost as unfathomable as having to spend it in the wild.

  One more day, I decided, picking up my pace. One more day of searching and then I would turn around.

  A
lready feeling the bitter sting of defeat, my thoughts slipped into gloomy silence. Shoulders slumped, feet shuffling, I nearly missed the sign on the side of the road.

  Stumbling to a stop, I blinked up at the haphazardly hanging piece of metal, partially covered in overgrowth, and read it aloud. “Road not in use.”

  “Look, Willa-Pedia.” Laughing, Lucas nudged my side, pointing at the sign. “This road isn’t in use.”

  It was the end of the world; we hadn’t seen another person in well over a year. I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d slept in an actual bed or used a working bathroom—there was no such thing as a grocery store or a restaurant, and sometimes we went weeks with little more than roots to eat.

  Road not in use? Please, the whole goddamn world wasn’t in use.

  Laughing, I spread my arms wide, turning in a circle as we walked. “I mean, it’s pretty busy out here—what’s everyone gonna do now?”

  “Turn around and head home, duh.” Lucas cupped his hands around his mouth. “Okay, everyone—you’re gonna need to back it up! This road is not in use! Did you hear me—this road is not in use!”

  “Not even a little bit in use?” I asked, between chuckles. “Not even a teeny, tiny bit?”

  “Nope. Not even on your tiptoes.”

  “Not even if I hop?” I asked, hopping from foot to foot.

  “Nope, sorry, not even then.”

  “What if I—”

  “Stop fucking around, you two—you’re falling behind!” Logan, who was at least a dozen yards ahead now, stopped to glare at us.

  Exchanging looks, Lucas and I resumed walking, though we continued on, whispering and nudging one another, and stifling our laughter behind our hands.

  I cleared my throat. “Umm, Logan?” I asked.

  He didn’t turn around. “What?”

  “This road… it’s, um… it’s not in use.”

  As Lucas and I erupted into laughter, Logan swung around, his eyes narrowed, his mouth tightly pinched. His glare was always the most prominent in the declining daylight—the summer glow highlighting the deep crevices of his frown.

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now, Willow?”

  “Yes, Logan,” I sneered. “I am fucking kidding you right now—that’s the point.”

  As we continued staring at one another, me refusing to back down, Logan’s angry gaze turned downright homicidal.

  “It’s my fault,” Lucas said quickly, jumping between us. “We were just messing around.”

  Running his hands over his hair, Logan’s glare veered off in the distance. “We need to set up camp, get a fire going, boil water, and—I don’t know about you—but I’m fucking starving, so excuse me if I don’t give a shit about some stupid sign—” Logan abruptly cut off, his gaze narrowing. Together, Lucas and I turned to find the peak of a rooftop just barely visible over the treetops.

  “There’s a house over there,” Logan said. “Get your weapons ready.”

  I spun around, spying the top of the farmhouse poking above the tree line, and broke into a run, barreling through dense thickets, my pack hammering against my back as I shot into the surrounding forest, not slowing until I’d breached the property line.

  Up the gravel driveway, thick with weeds, and over a disintegrating walkway, more mud than stone, the house was still and silent, looking every bit as imposing and as overbearing as I remembered it, even in its neglected, run-down state—the crumbling brickwork, the missing windows and thick cobwebs that clung to their gaping remnants.

  Pushing through the partially open door, both lock and knob now missing, I crept quietly down the hall. Fingertips tracing the pattern of the torn wallpaper, I listened to the hazy echo of Lucas and I laughing, until I found myself stopped outside the office door, my hand hovering just over the knob.

  Everything had changed here.

  Everything.

  The door creaked slowly open and I stepped inside, freezing mid-step.

  Logan was sitting beneath the bay window, his knees bent, his head buried in his hands. At my sharp intake of air, Logan’s head jerked up, his red-rimmed eyes rounding with surprise. Though pulled back, his hair was messy, sticking up in every direction, while smears of dirt and dark bruising colored both his cheeks and forehead.

  “Willow,” he stammered, hastily swiping at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “What the fuck—how did you get here? Is Luke—” Pausing, he shook his head as if to clear it. “I mean, where’s Luke?”

  Unbuckling my pack, I let it clatter to the floor. Crossing the room, I dropped down beside Logan and quickly took his hand in mine, clutching it to my chest. A shiver swept through me, followed by a sigh of relief so great tears pricked my eyes. “Luke doesn’t want anything to do with us,” I whispered.

  “Us?” he asked, blinking at our joined hands.

  “Us.”

  Logan’s hand squeezed mine. “You came after me,” he said, his voice hoarse. Raw. It matched how he looked. “On your own… Jesus Christ, Willow, I would have never left if I’d thought you do something so fucking stupid.”

  “Me?” I looked up at him with half a scowl. “You realize you’re the one who left first?” Still scowling, I pulled my hand from his. “Besides, I realized something important.”

  Logan recaptured my hand and threaded his fingers through mine once more, gripping it twice as tightly. “Tell me what you realized.”

  Sighing, I slumped against him, resting my head on his shoulder. “Just that I never thanked you for saving my life.”

  Snorting, Logan bent his head to mine. “Which time?”

  A slow-growing smile split my scowl. “All of them. Every stupid time.”

  Laughing, Logan pulled me into his lap and pressed his mouth to mine. I clutched him tightly, burying my hands in his hair and deepened our embrace, stroking his tongue with mine. Eventually our kisses slowed and fell away. Forehead to forehead, his hands on my hips, Logan shuddered through his next breath.

  “Willow… ” he trailed off and swallowed. “I never thanked you for saving my life either.”

  I pulled back, our gazes colliding, both of our eyes filling with tears. Memories flooded me—some good, some sad, and some downright horrific. But for the first time, I didn’t shove them away and bury them beneath a mountain of guilt and regret.

  For the first time, I simply let them come.

  And then, one by one, I let them go.

  Willow

  One Year Later…

  “They’re back—they’re back from Everdeen!” Béla ran excitedly around us, making circles in the snow, before taking off toward the gate.

  We were each fresh from work—Britta, who’d spent the day on the lake, fishing, Ella, who’d been busy harvesting parsnips and winter cabbage in the garden, and me, who’d divided my day between both the garden and the store.

  While Ella and I shivered inside our many winter layers, Britta was surprisingly fine in much less, her easy gait unhampered by her prosthetic limb—a slim, lightweight contraption with a hinged ankle. It had been Joe who’d found her a new foot; traveling far and wide, he’d spent months bringing back every prosthetic he’d come across until Britta had found one that suited her.

  Waving my friends in the direction of the dining hall, I said, “You guys go ahead—I’ll meet you later.”

  “You sent another letter, didn’t you?” Ella shouted after me, her exasperation clear. “Willow, you need to let it go!”

  “Aw, leave her alone, ya bitter bitch,” Britta replied. “If writin’ letters make her feel better, what’s the harm in it?”

  “The harm is, that she’s miserable every time he doesn’t write back and then I have to suffer through listening to her whine about it.”

  “How ‘bout you try mindin’ your own dang business for once?”

  “It’s a free fucking country,” Ella snapped back.

  “Is it?” Britta chuckled. “You forget about the wall, sugar?”

  As their bickering
faded off into the distance, I wondered if Ella might be right. This would be Silver Lake’s third trip to Everdeen since Lucas had returned there, and each time a trading party departed, I’d made sure to send a letter along. He’d yet to send a reply.

  Finding Joshua at the garage, busy unloading one of the trucks, I hurried to help, grabbing a heavy wooden crate and setting it on top of a growing pile of traded goods—both handmade and scavenged. Glancing at me, Joshua flashed a small, sympathetic smile and my hope deflated like a punctured balloon.

  “Did he at least read it?” I asked. The first letter I’d sent had been tossed in a fire, and the second shredded and left in pieces.

  “Can’t say for certain. But he did put it in his pocket.”

  A glimmer of hope shone through the shroud—maybe Lucas would read it this time—maybe there was a chance that we could heal from this.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked. “Does he seem… okay?”

  “He’s looking healthy and strong, if that’s what you’re asking,” Joshua said. “But if it’s his mood you’re after, I’d say he’s a lot like his big brother—you know, he keeps mostly to himself and is ornery as hell for no good reason.”

  While Joshua headed back to the truck, my heart plummeted to my feet. Hearing that Lucas’s infinite sweetness and gentle charm had yet to return, and knowing that I was to blame for it, was yet another bitter pill to swallow in a world where bitter pills were already a dime a dozen.

  After helping unload the rest of the Everdeen haul, I headed for home. As I walked, the wind picked up speed, its blustery chill sending shivers through my heavy layers. I ran the rest of the way home, flinging open the door to the cabin—a recent upgrade from its flimsy predecessor—and wrestling it closed. I slumped against it, grateful for the warmth of the nearby fire.