Deliverance

by C. J. Redwine

  I have to get up. I have to move. I have to be ready to fight when I get the chance.

  The sound of Samuel’s footsteps is long gone when I finally convince myself to get off the bunk. I whimper as I slowly clamber to my feet, bent at the waist because straightening my back feels impossible. Carefully, I take a step forward and suck in a breath as the flayed muscles along my spine send hot spikes of pain throughout my body. I set my jaw, take another step, and nearly stumble when my legs start shaking.

  Nausea roils through me, and I gag, but that only makes the pain worse. I take another shuffling step and grasp blindly for the wall beside the bunk as my knees give out. My fingernails scrape along the flimsy, wooden-crate wall that separates me from the locked cell beside mine, but I can’t keep myself on my feet. I scream as my knees hit the stone floor, sending another wave of agony through me, and then rest my forehead on the ground and try hard not to cry.

  “I can do this,” I whisper. I don’t sound convincing, even to myself. Sobs gather at the back of my throat, but I swallow hard. “It’s just pain. I can do this.”

  In the cell beside mine, a man’s hoarse voice mumbles, “Absorption. Absorptivity. Which element? Neutral solution. Need a neutral solution. Neutral!”

  Slowly, I stretch my body forward and start to crawl. The back-and-forth motion of my hips as I move my legs feels like someone is sawing away at my spine with a piece of metal, but I move nearly a yard before the pain forces me to stop again.

  Easing my face to the floor again, I let the stone cool my flushed cheeks and tell the contents of my stomach to stay put.

  “Not a neutral solution. Not that element. What is the heat capacity?” The man’s mumbles become incoherent ramblings, and I suck in a breath of air, determined not to vomit from the pain.

  “I can do this.” I sound better this time. Like I believe it. “I’m Jared Adams’s daughter, and pain isn’t going to stop me. Nothing can stop me. I can do this.”

  The man’s mumbling stops abruptly. Something scratches the wall beside me, and I turn my face toward it as the voice says, “Jared Adams’s daughter is Rachel. Rachel. Rachel knows Logan . . . Logan . . . Logan.” The voice rises, trembling, as if latching onto Logan’s name with all its strength, and suddenly a bright-blue eye blinks at me through a crack between one slat of wood and the next.

  I jerk away from the wall and gasp as the quick movement sears my back.

  “Don’t go. Don’t. Rachel Adams?”

  I stare at the blue eye, and it blinks rapidly, and then the man shifts, giving me a quick glimpse of a scarred face, before he brings his other eye to the slat. This eye is covered in white film and the skin around it puckers and swells, part of a long scar that stretches beyond the piece of him that I can see.

  “Doesn’t work. Doesn’t. Can’t see you. Logan? Please, my son? Please.”

  My breath comes in hard pants as ice slides through me, leaving a clammy chill across my skin as I slowly inch my way closer to the crack in the wall. Time feels sluggish, even though the thoughts in my head are spinning like a kaleidoscope of images that refuse to make sense.

  The film-covered eye disappears, and the blue eye returns.

  “My son? Rachel, Jared’s daughter, my son?”

  “Your son?” I whisper the words, and he jerks as if surprised to hear me speak to him.

  “They took him. Jared promised he’s good. He’s fine. They took him away.” His voice climbs again. “They took my sons. My sons. Please.”

  “Do you mean . . . Logan and Ian?” My tongue feels clumsy as I form the words. As I try to wrap my mind around what I’m seeing.

  “Ian.” His voice breaks, full of the kind of terrible grief that I once shoved into the silence within me because I was sure it would shatter me if I let myself feel it. “Gone. Everyone gone.”

  My skin feels cold, my fingers shake as I ask, “Are you Marcus McEntire?”

  “Was. Now I’m . . .” The eye blinks once and looks away from me as if searching for the answer. For a way to sum up the person he’s become since losing all of his loved ones. Since having his leader force his remaining son to whip him to the point of death. I know that feeling. That awful darkness that presses against your skin from the inside out and whispers that you have nothing left to live for and only yourself to blame.

  “You’re still Marcus,” I say gently. “And you haven’t lost everyone. They’re alive. Your sons are alive.”

  Though one of them deserves to die.

  He looks at me, his gaze feverish with desperate hope. “You know my sons? Know Ian? Know him?”

  I swallow hard and keep my voice even. “I do.”

  He makes a choked sound, and then says, “Good boy. Good son. James will punish for what I did. I did. Ian? My son is good?”

  I stare at him, and realize that all he knows of Ian is the boy with dreams. The boy who just wanted his mother to notice him and his father to be proud of him. He doesn’t know that the moment Ian was forced to take a whip against his father, he started on a long, slippery slope that ended with murder and madness.

  I can’t tell him. I can’t rip away the hope he’s clinging to. I close my eyes and think of Logan. Of the way he takes the time to listen to others because what they have to say matters to him. The way he refuses to let anything but his own integrity define him. The way he fights for those who can’t fight for themselves, even if they aren’t ready to thank him for it.

  Holding Logan in my mind, I open my eyes, look at Marcus, and say, “Yes, your son is okay. He’s a good man. You can be proud of him.”

  He pulls back from the wall, and I see what looks like a smile on his ruined face before he disappears into the depths of his cell, humming a strange, broken melody and whispering Ian’s name to himself.

  Marcus McEntire is alive. One more thing James Rowan lied to Samuel about. Lied to Ian about. I wonder what either of them would do to their precious leader if I could figure out a way to show them the truth.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  LOGAN

  Willow drops from the tree behind me on our second day of travel from the highwaymen’s camp to Chelmingford and takes her lunch portion from Jodi’s outstretched hands. “We’re being followed.”

  I freeze in the act of taking another bite. “Highwaymen?”

  “Trackers. Four of them. My guess is this is the group that followed us out of Lankenshire. We have maybe forty minutes before they arrive.”

  I force myself away from the fear that if the trackers are after us, they might have caught up to the rest of our group while we were at the highwaymen’s camp.

  “Maybe we can reach the ferry to take us out to Chelmingford before they catch up to us.” I get to my feet and start packing up the tech I’d been working on. “Let’s go.”

  The Commander shakes his head and reaches for the device. “We’re too far away. I’ll call the beasts and burn the trackers.”

  My chest tightens at the way he casually suggests using the tanniyn as a weapon once again. More confirmation that neither the Commander nor James Rowan can be trusted with that sort of power. “You’d burn the rest of the Wasteland too while you’re at it,” I say.

  “We’ll set a trap.” Willow is already scanning the small clearing we’re in. It’s maybe ten yards wide and surrounded on all sides by enormous oaks and pines. It’s not big enough to stage a battle, and the trackers could approach us from any direction.

  “A trap?” The Commander is scornful. “You don’t trap Rowansmark trackers, girl.”

  “Maybe you don’t. But I do.” She cranes her neck to look at the branches that straddle the sky above us. “We’ve got everything we need. It’ll be simple. I’ve done this so often, I could do it in my sleep. Now, who wants to be bait?”

  Thirty minutes later, Nola, Jodi, and I a
re sitting against a large oak tree, facing west, when we hear the soft slide of a boot against the ground. We’ve collected berries and nuts in our laps as if we’re doing nothing more than having lunch, but we haven’t managed a bite in at least fifteen minutes. The tension of waiting for the trackers to arrive makes it impossible to eat. Willow is in a tree nearby, holding herself so motionless, I haven’t heard a sound since she settled in. The Commander is hidden in a thicket several yards to the north of us, his sword out in case he needs to come to our assistance.

  I think it’s just as likely he’d leave us to the trackers. He has the device. He believes that Connor knows how to disengage the Rowansmark beacons at Chelmingford, a fact he’s reminded me of twice in as many days. I think the only reason he hasn’t tried to either kill me or leave me behind is that he doesn’t know for sure if Connor and the rest of our group made it to Chelmingford. It would be shortsighted of him to betray me when he might still need me, and the Commander is nothing if not focused on doing whatever he must to achieve his own goals.

  Another slight sound drifts toward us from the west. Beside me, Jodi stiffens and stares into the trees.

  “Eat,” I say softly, and put a berry into my mouth even though the fear racing through me leaves a stain of bitterness across my tongue that renders the sweet fruit tasteless.

  Jodi blindly selects a nut and shoves it into her mouth, never taking her eyes from the western Wasteland.

  “Do you want more berries?” Nola asks, tilting her head so that her curtain of curly dark hair masks her face as she does her part to make it look like this is a normal meal break. Her golden skin seems pale, and there are circles under her eyes, but she’s holding herself together during the day. At night, I hear her crying, grieving the loss of her father. Jodi is always quick to go to her and offer comfort. Willow and I have left them to deal with that while we take turns standing guard. We don’t talk about it, but neither one of us is willing to let the Commander out of our sight. Especially at night.

  A whisper of sound seems to come from directly to our left. Jodi jerks her shoulders back and aims an expression of terrified defiance at the trees.

  The cold prick of a knife blade bites into my neck and a voice behind me says, “Found you.”

  Nola jumps, spilling berries across the ground, while Jodi leaps to her feet and scurries away from me and toward the center of the clearing.

  I slowly turn my head, careful not to scrape my skin against the knife, and come face-to-face with a Rowansmark tracker. Her brown hair is short, her eyes are keen, and her expression is ruthless as two more trackers step out of the trees on either side of her.

  Three trackers surrounding me. That leaves a fourth in the wind.

  “Did you really think you were going to get away from us?” the female tracker asks while the two who flank her draw their swords.

  I swallow audibly, and tug on the neckline of my tunic as if I’m nervous.

  Which I am.

  Because if this plan doesn’t work, I’m about to die.

  “You’ve really screwed things up for yourself, you know that?” she asks, her knife held expertly in her left hand while she draws her sword with her right.

  “How so?” I ask as Nola crawls away from me toward Jodi, who hovers in the middle of the clearing like a little bird too frightened to flee.

  The female tracker shakes her head, her eyes never leaving mine. “You had one chance to give up the controller without losing the people you love. One chance, and you blew it.”

  “I can’t help that the Commander broke me out of prison,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse, and I clear my throat while to my left, a shadow moves in the trees. The other tracker? The Commander?

  “I’m sure that would be true if it wasn’t obvious that you aren’t a prisoner now.” The tracker levels her sword at me. Beside her, the other two do the same.

  This time I swallow because my throat has gone completely dry.

  “Besides, that’s not what I meant. You care about that redheaded girl. That’s why Ian took her. And you had one chance to ransom her life. But you didn’t take it.” She cocks her head as if studying me. “Guess you didn’t care as much as Ian said you did.”

  I can’t tell her how much I care about Rachel, so I settle for glaring at her instead.

  She laughs. “I see I’ve struck a nerve. How strange that you care enough to be upset about the fact that she’s dead by now, but you didn’t care enough to go to Rowansmark when—”

  “What do you mean she’s dead now?” I scramble to my feet, not caring that her sword is aimed at my chest.

  “You went north. It was obvious you had no intention of going south, either because the Commander wouldn’t let you, or because you chose not to make the trade.” She shrugs, though her eyes are locked on mine with uncomfortable intensity. “Either way, we sent a messenger to James Rowan telling him you’d made the wrong choice. If he didn’t get the message already, he will in a day or two, and then your girl will be of no more use to him.”

  Rachel.

  The image of her bleeding to death at Ian’s feet fills my head, and my knees won’t hold me. I sink slowly to the earth, groping blindly for something to ground me to reality again, but the only reality left to me is that I didn’t count on the surviving trackers in Lankenshire sending a message to James Rowan that I wasn’t interested in trading the device for Rachel’s life. I didn’t count on her usefulness to him ending before I even had an army ready to march to her rescue.

  I didn’t count on failing.

  There’s a distant roaring in my ears, and a desperate need to do something to fix this, even though it’s too late. I’m weeks away from Rowansmark, and it’s too late.

  Everything I’ve lost—Oliver, my mother, and now Rachel—wells up within me and hardens into a blaze of fury so absolute, I don’t hesitate. Grabbing my sword, I charge the tracker.

  “Logan!” Nola screams, but I’m not listening. I can’t listen. All I can do is hack and slash and fight until somehow I vanquish the awful pit of loss that wants to ruin me.

  The trackers converge, swords flashing, and then the soft thwang of an arrow disturbs the air, and the female tracker stiffens and falls.

  “Get away from her!” Jodi yells as the anatomical trigger in the tracker’s body starts beeping, but I don’t care.

  Ducking under the sword arm of the tracker on my right, I snatch his cloak and pivot to put him between me and the explosion. He attacks with cold efficiency, but I punch and pummel my way into him because he’s part of what killed Rachel. He’s part of it, and I have to destroy it. All of it. Before it destroys me.

  The female tracker explodes, but I barely feel the bits of bone and blood that hit me. The third tracker grabs me from behind, locking his arm under my throat. I slam my head against his face, drive my heels into his shins, and raise my sword to pound the hilt against his head. The tracker in front of me lunges forward, sword raised, and another arrow buries itself in his chest.

  I don’t even bother trying to get out of the way of the explosion. Let it come. Let it cover me in the blood I should have shed weeks ago to find her. To save her.

  “Let him go.” Nola hurtles into the tracker holding me, and he grunts in pain. His grip slackens, and I twist away from him. I raise my sword to swing at him, but he’s clutching the dagger Nola drove into his neck. I reach up and yank it out. Blood gushes, and I hand the dagger back to Nola and walk away.

  One more tracker. I scan the clearing, and he steps out of the trees closest to where Jodi still stands, doing her part to be exactly where Willow asked her to be. He’s a tall, lean man with squinty eyes that assess me without any discernible emotion. He has a wicked-looking machete in one hand and a curved knife in the other.

  “Where is it?” he asks.

  I let my eyes glance off Jodi and then back to the tracker as if I’m hoping he didn’t notice the direction of my gaze. “We don’t have it.”

  He pivots towar
d Jodi and raises his weapons. Jodi lunges to the right, takes two running steps, and grabs a low-hanging branch even as Willow springs from the tree behind the tracker and tackles him. He hits the ground and instantly grapples for a hold on her, but Willow isn’t interested in fighting him. She digs her fingers into the pressure point behind his ear, and in seconds, he goes limp.

  “Kill him,” I snap as I stalk across the clearing. “Better yet, get out of the way and let me do it myself.”

  “No.” Willow ignores me in favor of whipping the tracker’s hands behind his back and trussing him up like a pig—hands and ankles both tied with the same rope.

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?” I crouch beside her, my sword still out. “You heard what they said. If you aren’t going to kill him, I will.”

  “No, you won’t.” Willow gives me a sharp look. “Don’t you want to see if what they told you is true? See just how much time we really have?”

  “The female tracker said—”

  “She could’ve lied.” Willow tests the ropes and, satisfied that she’s taken every inch of the tracker’s mobility, shoves him onto his back and smacks his face. “Wake up!”

  “What’s to stop this tracker from lying too?” I ask, my voice hard because I can’t allow the hope to seep into me. I can’t let myself start to believe that I haven’t lost Rachel only to realize all over again that she’s gone.

  “I’m very good at getting people to tell me the truth.” Willow sounds haunted even as she calmly asks Nola for her dagger. I remember the way she looked when she said her first kill had been at age eight—her test to see if she was ready to take part in the family business—and the way her eyes went cold when she talked of her father, and I put my hand on her arm.

  “Willow, you don’t have to do this.”

  “You need the truth.” She slaps the tracker again, and he stirs. Her voice is drained of all emotion.