Hero (Book Two)

by Laura Frances

  “Ben,” I say, reaching my hands to him. He shouldn’t know that name—I gave it to him when he was sleeping—but when I say it, his expression lifts. His arms match mine…reaching.

  Holding him feels different now. All the other times, he was limp—unconscious. But now he wiggles and moves, touching my face and reaching a hand to the falling snow. His eyes are blue, a shade somewhere between my muddied color and the clearness of Edan’s. His body is smaller than the first time I help him. Dark patches sit under his eyes. But they are open, and that is the thing I fix on.

  I laugh when snowflakes on his nose make him giggle. I can’t tear my eyes from him. He is a gentle thing in this wicked place.

  I don’t mean to cry. It is happiness I feel. But his life feels like a gift, and my heart is having trouble containing it. I want to take him away from this place—to make him safe in a way I know will last. My eyes close, and I fight the emotions that are crawling up, choking me. But when Cash touches my back, it all comes pouring out…tears like the sorrow draining from my eyes. I only want him to be safe, but I am helpless. I can’t promise anything, because all promises are empty here. Hopeful, but nothing more. I cry because Drew is dead, and so is Edan. So are my parents, and Tom and Alex…

  Cash holds me while I hold Ben, and the nurse stands just a few feet away, watching. I’m sobbing now, purging my body of all the toxic grief. I want to be free, but not like this.

  The sobs reduce to quiet breaths, my forehead pressed to Cash’s coat. Now I’m thinking of Ian.

  I needed him to be solid…to be true. But he lied to me.

  He’s sitting in the rubble that was once the Infirmary when I find him. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure what I was thinking. Meli is beside him—she’s talking and his head is bobbing, face down. I consider leaving, but then Meli sees me, and I’ve lost the chance to change my mind.

  Ian turns too, and when our eyes meet, the sadness is too thick. I look away first.

  Meli rises. Before leaving his side, she crouches and says something that I can’t hear. Ian’s only response is a nod, his eyes stuck on the streets.

  I don’t move until Meli crosses my path. She stops beside me, glancing over her shoulder at Ian. Her eyes meet mine.

  “Remember why we’re here,” is all she says to me before leaving.

  Ian keeps his back to me. He doesn’t turn, not even when I sit on a large piece of concrete just to his right. His spine is straight, his eyes red. He stares off, and I’m reminded of the time he sat near me when I visited Ben. He wore that same look then—eyes distant.

  “It isn’t what you think,” he says. A long silence follows.

  “Then tell me.”

  Around us, soldiers are sifting through the wreckage, looking for supplies that can still be used.

  “I got you out because I wanted to,” he says, turning to me, his eyes hard. “It was the right thing, and I’d heard that Gray was coming. Sterling didn’t contact me until we were at the house.”

  Accusations try to fly from my tongue. But then I remember his brother, and say nothing. I pull a knee up and fiddle with a boot lace.

  “His name is Percy,” Ian says. “My brother—that’s his name.”

  I nod. Names make things personal. I can already feel the anger dissolving. But I won’t tell him yet. Maybe I’m wrong to make him suffer longer. No, I know I’m wrong. Now guilt is creeping in, a knot deep in my gut. I try to tell myself that it’s Ian’s loyalty in question here…not mine. But it doesn’t stick.

  Ian pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed.

  “He’s all I’ve got,” he whispers. “The only one left.”

  My eyes close too. I don’t know what I would have done if the situation had been reversed.

  “But I am sorry,” he says quietly. “I never meant for anyone to die.”

  We sit in silence for a long time. There is nothing else to say. Except perhaps one thing.

  When he hangs his head, I lean my temple to his shoulder. His body shudders from quiet sobs. This isn’t over for him; his brother’s life is still in danger because Cash is still out of the Council’s reach. My jaw aches and my eyes burn. Tears slip down my cheeks, and I say the thing that hurts the most.

  “I forgive you.”

  28

  The power is gone. This factory is now nothing but a crumbling shell. The sun slips in at the windows and gaping holes, but deep in the center, where the Workers hide, the rooms are dark. A few soldiers had flashlights to spare, which are being used carefully. The only good thing about the center rooms is that they’re still warm from all the bodies crammed together in tight quarters.

  I sit in the center of one room, legs curled beneath me. My eyes are closed, and I listen. I take in all their noises: the heavy breaths of sleep, the whimpering of scared children, and the careful whispers of parents telling hopeful promises to ease the fear. I hear their groans and sniffling. The room is filled with human smells. My heart swells with love for them, so full my chest hurts. I don’t like that they’re here. It would be nothing for the Council to drop a bomb on us. Or maybe this facility is already rigged with explosives. Maybe it’s all just a matter of time.

  I exhale slow through my nose, trying to calm the anxiety swirling inside of me.

  “Hannah!”

  Aspen’s voice.

  “I need this flashlight,” she says to someone, then a bright beam is moving over the wide room, searching.

  “I’m here, Aspen,” I say, rising. The light finds me, and I raise a hand to shield my eyes. Aspen hops fast over huddled people to reach me.

  Without explanation, she grabs my arm and drags me through the maze of people.

  “You have to see it,” she whispers in a hurry.

  “You’re not gonna believe this,” she’s saying between breaths.

  “Just tell me,” I say, but she ignores me.

  “They told me to find you. Solomon made me run.”

  I’m stumbling behind her, trying to determine if what we’re running toward is good or bad. I can imagine a lot of things after all that has happened. But that’s the problem. All the things I imagine scare me.

  The air in the hall is colder, making my skin prickle with bumps. We race toward the front end of the factory, where the door and entry used to be. Workers follow close behind, pulled along by the mystery.

  “Aspen!” I call from behind her, but I get no response. Her thoughts are fixed on the thing we are running toward.

  Takeshi runs into the hall ahead, his feet skidding to a stop when he sees us.

  “She’s here!” he calls over his shoulder. Then to me he says, “Come on!”

  He disappears around the corner again, and I begin to understand. There is only one thing I can think of that would make Takeshi’s face light up that way.

  The South must be here.

  I run faster, passing Aspen and catching up with Takeshi.

  “They made it,” I say to him as we run. “They’re here, aren’t they?”

  He grins.

  I grin too. Now anxious energy is filling my whole body. What will the rest be like? Did the king come?

  Cash is ahead, standing with Ian just inside the gaping hole that leads outside. He turns, and I almost trip when our eyes meet. He’s wearing a look I’ve only seen once before. It is relief, gratitude…and disbelief.

  The last one stumps me, because we knew the south would come. It should be easy to believe.

  “Congratulations, soldier,” he murmurs to me when I reach him. “Mission accomplished.”

  I give a strange look, and Cash jerks his head toward the streets, a smile pulling on his lips.

  My heart is hammering when I step through the rubble. The scene opens wide, and I stop—stunned. Instead of a Southern army, there are dozens of black-clothed Watchers being handed strips of white cloth to tie on their arms. They shake hands with Solomon and pat each other on the back. Blake is among them, the man who ushered us into the meeting just
before Drew died. Cash’s boots crunch over the debris until he’s beside me.

  My gaze shifts over their faces, and I see the boy who was manning the fence door. His smile is wide, and he’s close to tears. Many of the Watchers wear clenched teeth and pinched eyebrows. They are a force of suppressed emotions, each one battling back the things they feel.

  The other rebel soldiers who trekked to meetings are already mingling with the new arrivals. Meli is in an animated conversation with one man, while Brookes ties a white cloth on the arm of another before slapping the Watcher’s back in welcome. We take slow steps toward the crowd. Blake sees us first and jogs over.

  “There they are!” he says, grinning. Cash shakes the soldier’s hand, and so do I. The grip is tight and lively.

  “How did you get so many?” I ask. “How did you reach them so fast?”

  Blake glances over his shoulder, then back to us. His expression grows heavy.

  “The Council may win this,” he says. “But it won’t be because of me. Or any of these men.”

  “You were right,” he says to Cash. “Any strength the Council has comes from us…from our guns.” His head shakes. “No more.”

  We stand in the crowd of Watchers, all of them made up of wicked memories and wrong choices, and I’m reminded of the days when they filled my dreams with fear.

  Watchers are bad, I thought. But not all of them. Not these ones. I smile with them…and laugh. When did the ground become equal? When did these men become my friends?

  There’s movement behind us, and some of the Watchers lift their eyes to see over my head. When I turn, Workers are trickling from the factory, a slow-moving crowd of curious eyes. Sam is with them, and Solomon leads.

  For a long time, the groups are separate, staring. What do you say to the people who have killed and corrupted your dreams? How do you act when you are the guilty one, and apologies can’t bring back the dead? They watch each other, standing yards apart in the cold wind.

  It is Sam who steps first. He looks at Cash, who nods, offering the brave boy a warm smile. Sam returns it before turning his gaze to the Watchers. He is small, a thin boy who grew up a slave’s child. But his shoulders are strong, pulled back, and his eyes are hard. It’s the same look I saw on the rebel soldiers when the barricade first exploded. The same fierceness. He walks to the first soldier within reach and extends his hand.

  “I’m Sam,” he says. “What’s your name?”

  The soldier kneels, leveling their eyes and shaking Sam’s hand. The boy’s face lights up.

  “I’m honored to meet you, Sam,” the soldier says. There is no hint of teasing when he speaks. “My name is Philip.”

  “Glad to meet you,” is Sam’s reply. He moves three steps to the next soldier. We watch as he makes his way through the crowd, shaking every hand extended, knowing every name.

  Names frighten me. It seems that since returning to the valley, almost every name I’ve learned was attached to someone who died. But if I learn them all, if I follow Sam’s example, maybe there’s less chance it’ll keep happening.

  The crowds merge, slow at first. But soon there is no separation left. Muscled soldiers with rifles on their backs hug widowed mothers with children on their hips. Grieving fathers grip the shoulders of young men with regret buried deep behind their eyes.

  I move toward the blown-out opening of the factory and stand next to Aspen. The wind kicks up, filling the air with glittering white powder.

  “We might actually win this,” she murmurs. I nod.

  “More will come. Bo is still out there recruiting.”

  But it’s more than that, I think. Cash’s words are still spreading.

  Tyrants are only as strong as the men who follow them. Every soldier they lose diminishes their strength.

  And every soldier we gain increases ours.

  I stand straighter.

  Acknowledgements

  To the One who sees us, really sees, and doesn’t leave. To the One who knows all the wickedness we foolishly store in our hearts, and isn’t afraid to get close. To the One who came because darkness was tearing us apart...and we couldn’t save ourselves. How do we even come close to thanking You?

  Thank you to my husband and children. You walk this journey with me, and somehow we’re all still sane. I love you.

  Thank you, Mom and Dad, for believing in my dreams and for reading my work. It really does mean so much.

  Thank you to Sara Baysinger, Sonja Gormley, Staci Boyd, Desiree Krehbiel, and Jennifer Rodewald for reading earlier drafts of Hero and helping me polish it. Your feedback made a huge difference!

  Thank you to Lila Verbeten for your steady encouragement and being my sounding board while we devoured delicious Japanese food. I needed that brainstorming session more than you may realize. I’m grateful for you!

  To the ever growing and changing world of indie authors…you are the greatest and the bravest. I’m not always the best at engaging, but I watch and listen and learn every day because you are generous and forthcoming with your ups and downs. I’m proud to be indie.

  Thank you to teachers who leave everlasting marks on shy, anxious little children. Ms. Ingham, you impacted me for a lifetime.

  And, finally, to my readers.

  That is such a strange thing for me to write, but somehow over the course of the last year that has become reality…my readers. You’ve shocked and amazed me with your kind reviews of Slave, and I hope and pray you enjoy Hero just as much. Book Three (the final piece of the story) is now underway. I’ll do my best to finish this story with as much heart as it began. Thank you so so much for all your support!

  About the Author

  Laura Frances grew up a shy thing, always daydreaming. She is the author of the Slave series and currently writing Book Three, the final installment. Residing in Japan with her husband and two children, she teaches English and spends her free time (when she isn't writing) walking the narrow streets and learning the native language.

  Frances strives to convince others through the art of storytelling that they can do the things they think they can't.

  Slave was her debut novel.