Deception

by C. J. Redwine

  Instead, I say, “Next time you want to lecture me about putting myself in danger without having an acceptable exit strategy, I want you to remember this.”

  A muscle along his jaw flexes. “It’s not the same.”

  Shaking my head, I glance at the sky. At the faint violet rim that is slowly spreading along the eastern horizon. “It’s almost dawn. These are first-shift guards. This happened several hours ago. Why didn’t you get me?”

  “You needed sleep,” Quinn says.

  I turn on him, and the fear that courses through me for Logan snaps out at Quinn instead.

  “And what were you doing in the southern section of camp? That’s a long way from your shelter.”

  “I was having trouble sleeping,” Quinn says, and the quiet hurt in his voice makes me feel small inside. He crouches beside Donny’s body, his dark eyes guarded. “I wander the Wasteland when I can’t sleep. It helps to clear my head. You can check with Willow if you don’t believe me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe you?” I ask, though I already know his answer. Didn’t I just question him like I thought he might have something to hide?

  “Because someone killed these boys, and everyone else was sleeping except for me and Logan.”

  “Not everyone,” Logan says, and the cold fury in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.

  Placing his hand on Donny’s head, Quinn tilts the boy’s chin toward the sky and examines his neck in the flickering light of the torch.

  I choke and look away.

  “The killer used a short blade, easily hidden,” he says. “The deepest part of the cut is on the left side of the neck where he first stabbed his victim. The wound then decreases in depth as the knife slides across the throat.” He considers the other bodies for a moment. “Looks like the work of the same man on each boy.”

  Sweat beads my upper lip and covers my palms. I want to throw up. I need to throw up. I tilt my head back and drag in a shaky breath, trying not to think of bloody knives sliding across tender throats.

  Logan presses a hand to the small of my back.

  “Most people are right-handed,” Logan says. “If a right-handed man attacked someone from the front, he’d swing his knife left to right for maximum speed and velocity. The wound would start on the right side of the victim’s neck.”

  “So our killer might be left-handed.” Quinn rises.

  “Or he killed them from behind to avoid blood spatter on his clothing.”

  “He punctured the artery on the left and made a long clean slice to the artery on the right. That isn’t easy. He knew exactly where to strike and how much pressure to exert so he wouldn’t get caught up in the trachea, the ligaments, or the esophagus. He’s done this before,” Quinn says.

  “Wouldn’t it be hard to sneak up on them since they were all facing the Wasteland? Especially if he needed to get behind them before killing them?” I ask.

  “I walked right up to Donny before he saw me,” Logan says.

  “But all eight of them?”

  “Maybe he didn’t have to sneak.” Logan is wearing his I’m-three-facts-short-of-figuring-out-the-entire-thing face. “Maybe he just walked right up to them.”

  “And no one ran? No one screamed for help to alert the others?” I ask as Quinn moves toward us, his eyes on the pale pink sky.

  Logan’s voice is flat. “They wouldn’t scream for help if they didn’t realize he was an enemy.”

  “Someone we know?” Quinn asks, wiping the tips of his fingers on his pants. “No offense, but the list of potential professional killers born and raised in Baalboden begins and ends with the two of you. We’re dealing with an expert here.”

  I don’t want to know what was on his fingers. I refuse to look at the faint dark stains marring his pant leg. Instead, I step to the side and stare at the huge white rock rising just behind the camp while I gulp in deep breaths of damp morning air.

  “Still, we have to look at every possibility. Are we absolutely sure every survivor in our camp was a citizen of Baalboden before the fires?” Logan asks, and a chill sinks into me. “When we blew up the gate and escaped the burning city, it was chaos. People running into the Wasteland, convinced the Cursed One could find them anywhere. People still staggering out of the city long after we thought everyone inside must be dead. How hard would it have been for someone to pretend to be one of us?”

  “But why would anyone want to?” I ask.

  Logan makes a rough sound. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m just looking at all of the possibilities and seeing which one, no matter how unimaginable, lines up with the facts.”

  “Wouldn’t you recognize a stranger in the camp?” Quinn asks.

  “No,” I say. “Baalboden was a city-state of thousands. We have only one hundred and—” I can’t complete the number without subtracting the boys lined up on the ground beside us, and I don’t know how to calculate their loss and still sound strong enough to face this. “We have a small group. Many of us had never met until the fires.”

  “Well, that just made this more difficult,” Quinn says. “What if it isn’t someone in the camp?”

  “Then we’re back to guessing who could possibly have something to gain by killing our first-shift guards and leaving the rest of us alone,” Logan says.

  My eyes stray to Donny’s face. His cowlick dances in the morning breeze, and I suddenly find it impossible to swallow. I tear my gaze from him and look at the rock instead. Something mars its pale surface. I take two steps forward and strain to see as the sun slowly spills across the horizon behind me.

  “Rachel and I discussed it briefly on our way here.” Quinn’s voice is calm, but I catch an undercurrent of darkness beneath it. He isn’t as unaffected by these deaths as he’d like us to believe. “She said this isn’t the Commander’s style, and we both know highwaymen would have pillaged the camp.”

  I take one more step toward the rock as the darkness dissolves into the rosy gold light of dawn, and horror washes over me.

  “Agreed. So either we have an unknown enemy lurking in the Wasteland, we have a stranger masquerading as a Baalboden survivor, or it truly was one of us.” Logan’s voice shakes with anger. “If it’s one of us, these boys welcomed their killer because they thought he was a friend. No wonder he’d be worried about blood stains. Along with the wristmarks, we’re about to personally check every inch of clothing in this camp.”

  “Logan.” I push his name past lips that feel cold and stiff. “Look.”

  Logan and Quinn turn to face the rock, and we all stare at the message painted across the stone in huge, bloody letters.

  Your debt is still unpaid. Who will be the next to atone for your crimes?

  Chapter Twenty

  LOGAN

  The funeral is over. Eight graves now lie at the base of the rock, far enough north to be out from under the killer’s bloody message. I said words I hope sounded comforting even though the senselessness of it all scrapes me raw inside. Nola sang Baalboden’s traditional mourning song, her voice breaking as tears flowed down her face. Flowers were gathered from bushes in the Wasteland and laid at the head of each grave.

  The air of celebration that filled the camp last night has been replaced with shock and dread. People huddle in groups, holding on to each other as if afraid they might be next.

  I’m afraid, too. That’s why I called a meeting with those I know I can trust.

  “It’s possible the killer might be someone living in the camp,” I say.

  Silence, thick and unwieldy, greets this announcement. I’ve gathered Rachel, Quinn, Willow, Drake, Nola, Ian, and Frankie into a small clearing just inside the tree line on the south edge of camp. We lean against tree trunks and face each other in the sun-dappled gloom.

  I trust Rachel, Willow, and Quinn implicitly. And because they once aided me when I was at the Commander’s mercy, I trust Drake and Nola, too. Ian is here because he risked his life for mine, and because he trusted me with his secret. Frankie is her
e because he also risked his life for mine and because Drake swears that a streak of implacable loyalty lives beneath Frankie’s hot temper. I trust Thom, too, but I’m using him to supervise as our people break camp. Frankie will fill Thom in on the details later.

  “Where did you get that idea?” Drake asks, the creases in his forehead deepening as he frowns at me.

  “Look around us.” I fling my hand out to encompass the vast forest that surrounds us. “There’s no one here. No Tree Villages. No city-states. No highwaymen camps. Nothing. Plus, the boys didn’t put up a fight. Either they truly didn’t have any warning, or they thought their killer was their friend.” My throat closes over the last word, and I swallow hard. The thought that one of the survivors I’ve sheltered, fed, and protected might have betrayed us like this makes me sick.

  “The killer might be one of us, and you didn’t tell the others during the funeral?” Frankie asks, crossing his large, freckled arms over his chest while he stares at me with blatant disapproval on his face.

  “No. I told them to be on guard, that we hadn’t caught the murderer yet, but—”

  “But they still think the person next to them is safe,” Frankie says. “We have to tell them.”

  “And give away the one thing we might know about the killer?” Willow asks.

  “I didn’t ask your opinion, leaf lover.”

  Willow smiles slowly, and the air shivers beneath her dark gaze.

  “She’s right,” I say, glaring at Frankie. “If the killer is one of us, the only advantage we have is that the killer doesn’t realize we know.”

  “Are you sure we’re looking for a man?” Willow asks, her slim hand gently tracing a pattern against the worn leather strap on the brace of arrows resting against her back.

  “Did you see those wounds?” Drake shoves a hand through his dark silver-shot beard to mime slitting his own throat. “No way a woman would be strong enough to do that.”

  “I could,” Willow says. Quinn makes a choked noise and shoots a glare at his sister. She rolls her eyes. “I’m not saying I did. I’m saying I could. We can’t rule out a woman simply because the men in this group can’t imagine the possibility.” She nudges Rachel with her elbow. “We’re just as capable of killing. Tell them, Rachel.”

  Rachel flinches.

  “We believe you,” I say quickly, and everyone’s eyes slide past Rachel to land on me again. “But you’re an exception. It’s much more likely we’re looking for a man, but”—I throw a palm up in Willow’s direction before she can argue further—“we’ll consider all our options.”

  “I don’t agree that it has to be one of us,” Quinn says quietly. “Those wounds were made by a professionally trained killer. We didn’t have torches lit. It wouldn’t have been hard for someone with experience to sneak up on the boys.”

  “Sneak up from where?” My voice rises. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. We’ve haven’t seen any signs of civilization for days. Unless someone followed us all this time and just now decided to kill our guards, I don’t see how that scenario makes sense.”

  The midmorning sun is a weak stream of gold that fills the small clearing with hazy light. Quinn’s features blur, and I blink rapidly to push the fatigue away.

  “Logan?” Drake asks, his mild brown eyes full of worry. “You all right?”

  “Sorry. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours.” I scrub one hand over my face and slide the other on top of Rachel’s. Her skin is cold. “Quinn can tell you why we think this was the work of a professional.”

  Quinn explains why the wounds point toward a right-handed man with training in how to kill. Then I say, “The murderer left us a message. If we can figure out what it means, we’ll be one step closer to understanding who we’re dealing with. The message said, ‘Your debt is still unpaid. Who will be the next to atone for your crimes?’ I didn’t say anything about this before, because I assumed it was a prank, but I’ve found similar notes in my tech bag back in Baalboden and then twice more since we left the city, including last night before dinner.”

  “Then it has to be one of us,” Nola says. “The gate—”

  “I found the one in my tech bag before we blew the gate. It could’ve been one of us, or a stranger could’ve crept into our camp while we were all busy sparring or scavenging. My point is that someone is committed to the idea that we have a debt to be paid. If we can figure that out, maybe we can find who did this.”

  “We don’t owe anyone a debt,” Frankie says, his lip curling around the words.

  “Clearly, someone disagrees with you,” Willow says.

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “That’s enough, Frankie,” Drake says calmly. “We’re all upset about this, but turning on each other won’t help.” He looks at me. “What possible crimes could we have committed that would cause someone to kill our guards and leave a message like that?”

  Rachel lets go of my hand and begins ticking items off on her fingers. “We didn’t run after the Commander and beg to be under his control again. We have the tech he wanted to steal from Rowansmark, and we know Rowansmark was committed to getting it back.”

  “How do you know that?” Ian asks.

  “Because they posted a ridiculously high reward for my father’s capture, and then once I’d recovered the tech, they came after us with trackers and a battalion of soldiers.”

  “And you escaped all of them?” He gives her an admiring look, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “We killed almost all of them. The ones we missed were too busy running for their lives through the Wasteland to bother with us again.” Her voice is cold, as if the memory of being surrounded by a Rowansmark battalion while the Cursed One tunneled up beneath our feet is a thing of little consequence, but her fists are clenched hard enough to turn her fingers pale and bloodless. “The point is that both the Commander and Rowansmark have reason to believe we wronged them.”

  “If the Commander catches up to us, he isn’t going to bother killing a few guards,” Nola says. Her dusky skin glows beneath the sunlight, but her dark eyes are haunted. She slides her arm through Drake’s and leans against her father. “He’ll come straight for us and make an example out of us that no one will ever forget.”

  “Not if we make an example out of him first,” Rachel says. “But I agree, this isn’t the Commander. And I’m not sure it’s one of us, either.” She looks toward the camp as if she can still read the bloody letters slowly drying on the porous surface of the rock. “I think it’s Rowansmark.”

  Frankie leans forward. “A battalion wouldn’t—”

  “Not a battalion. A tracker. Maybe more than one, though one would suffice. They have the skills to quietly murder eight guards without any of them raising an alarm.” Rachel looks at me. “And I think the message is a twisted example of pain atonement.”

  “What’s pain atonement?” Frankie stares her down.

  “Rowansmark’s system of consequences. Honor and loyalty mean everything to them. They don’t even have a prison. If someone dishonors the city, their leader, or their family, they are immediately sentenced to pay for their crime with increments of pain atonement. If the accused can survive the punishment, honor is restored.” She looks toward camp again and shudders. “If the accused can’t survive, the debt is considered paid by death.”

  A hawk soars overhead, its piercing cry puncturing the silence that follows Rachel’s words.

  Quinn says, “What was done last night took skill, and the message does mention both a debt and the need for atonement.”

  “But to kill a few of us and then just disappear again?” Drake frowns. “That’s a cat-and-mouse game. Why would a Rowansmark tracker do that instead of going straight for Logan and Rachel to reclaim the stolen tech?”

  Rachel says, “Maybe he doesn’t know which of us has it. Maybe he really believes he has to punish us first. Or maybe—”

  “Maybe he’s got rocks for brains.” Willow shrugs her arrow brace into place. �
�Doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that this stops now.”

  “How are we going to stop someone when we have no idea who he is?” Ian asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say quietly. “But the message makes it clear whoever did this thinks we still owe a debt. Which means he’ll come after us again. We have to be ready.”

  “So you think a professionally trained Rowansmark killer might be hiding in plain sight among us?” Nola asks, her voice trembling a little.

  I shake my head. “If it really is someone from Rowansmark, the theory that it’s one of us becomes harder to support. We checked everyone’s wristmarks before the funeral. They’re all from Baalboden. We also checked clothing, but found no bloodstains. I think Rachel’s right. It’s a tracker, and he’s disappeared back into the Wasteland. I don’t know why he’d play with us like this, but we won’t find him until he decides to come after us again.”

  “I could find him,” Willow says. “And then I could kill him and put an end to this.”

  A muscle along Quinn’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say a word.

  “You’re a girl,” Frankie says. “He’s a trained killer. One decent confrontation with a Rowansmark tracker and you’d crack under the pressure.”

  “Want to have a confrontation with me and see if I crack?” Willow asks, her dark smile back in place.

  “Enough, Frankie,” I say. “We aren’t living by the Commander’s rules anymore. If Willow says she can find him, we’re going to let her do it.”

  “I’m going with her,” Quinn says.

  “Okay. You two track the killer while we take the camp north.” I pull Jeremiah’s map out of my cloak pocket and unfold it. Using my index finger, I trace the route we’re going to take. “We’re going here, veering east after this large hill, and then we’ll turn north again when we reach this point.” I tap the map. “Jeremiah says it’s a ruined city from the old civilization. Considering how slowly we have to travel, it should take us three or four days to get there. You should be able to catch up to us without a problem.”