I’ve spent those six days triple-checking our security, encouraging the group to move faster, and worrying that the Commander could catch up to us at any moment. His army is too large to move much faster than we can. Still, every day we catch glimpses of them behind us, on hilltops and ridges, and it seems like they’re steadily closing the distance.
When I’m not worrying about the Commander, I’m busy trying to figure out who killed our boys. There’ve been no more deaths, either because of the increased security or because the killer is somewhere in the Wasteland being hunted by Quinn and Willow.
Or because he’s simply waiting for his next opportunity.
The constant threat against us has caused a subtle shift in the dynamic of our group. Fewer complaints. More offers to help without being asked. And most surprisingly, instant obedience from the most rebellious survivor—Adam.
I fold Jeremiah’s map and put it into my cloak pocket. I hope Quinn and Willow are already in the city, because with the Commander closing in behind us, we can’t afford to wait for them. The sun is sinking toward the western skyline, and we need to be back on the road at dawn.
The ruined city laid out before me is a mess of charred, twisted hunks of metal and piles of broken brick. Thick trees dressed in spring blooms push their way out of windows. Wildflowers grow amid tumbles of debris. And what look like wide roads balanced on thick white pillars rise up from the ground and then drop away into nothing, their jagged edges draped with ivy.
A slim metal pole near the entrance of the city has a tattered, sun-bleached flag flapping in the wind.
“The stars and stripes,” Jeremiah says beside me.
I turn to find that most of the group is lined up along the bluff staring at what remains of the city. “The what?” I ask him.
“Stars and stripes.” He points to the flag. “You can’t really see it anymore, but it had fifty white stars on a blue background in the upper left corner. One star for every state.”
“There were fifty city-states?” a woman asks.
“No, there were fifty states,” he says. “States were big territories with hundreds of cities inside their borders.”
“Sounds crowded,” Rachel says in the same tone she’d use when Jared made his infamous broccoli casserole for dinner and expected her to eat it.
Jeremiah laughs. “Oh, some of the cities were a bit crowded. Take this one. See that?” He points to the strange wide road that rises up on pillars. “That used to be an interstate overpass. We built roads over the top of other roads in some places just to allow everyone to get around.”
“Fascinating,” I say, but I’m already looking beyond what’s left of the interstate to examine the city itself. Somewhere in its depths, I need to find shelter for my people tonight. Near the center of the city, a short distance from a large river, three buildings rise toward the sky in slender, towering masses of steel draped in moss and kudzu. I’ve never seen buildings so tall. The thought of living so far off the ground makes my stomach queasy. It’s one thing to climb fifteen yards up a strong tree and rest in its cradle. It’s another to be one hundred yards off the ground in a man-made tower of metal and glass.
I study the ground between us and the buildings. Even with nature trying hard to reclaim the land, I can still make out a faint grid of roads slicing the city into neat rectangles. One road, the one leading through the center of the city, is mostly clear.
We’re two weeks away from Lankenshire. Three weeks from Hodenswald. I don’t know how far it is to the other three northeastern city-states, but it’s apparent that Jeremiah’s map has led us to the main artery used by highwaymen and couriers alike when traveling between the southern and northern territories. We’re going to have to leave the main road if we ever hope to elude the Commander and his army. Tomorrow, I’m going to find another way to reach Lankenshire. One that will hopefully throw the Commander off our scent.
First, though, I need shelter for the night. A scan of the buildings we could reasonably reach with the wagons without leaving an obvious trail shows limited options, however. We could travel through most of the main part of the city and hope one of the brick buildings near the north edge is intact enough to shelter us. We could split up and camp throughout the semidestroyed shops that line the side streets to the west, but I’d feel better keeping us all together.
That leaves the ridiculously tall buildings, which seem to have survived the fires and destruction mostly intact. If we cover our tracks, and if the inside of the building is in decent shape, we could assign guard shifts high enough to have a panoramic view of the ruins, which would be to our advantage.
My stomach pitches at the thought of being trapped above the ground in a prison of steel and glass, but I give the order to move out. Several hours later, we’re ensconced in the most stable of the three buildings, and we’ve covered our trail well enough that we’ll see Carrington coming long before the army ever sees us.
My people are spread across the bottom three floors of the building. The animals and wagons are stashed on the main level. The living quarters are on floors two and three. The medical quarters and the rooms reserved for my inner circle are on floor five. The fourth floor smelled like dead rats, so we left it alone.
I’ve stationed guards at the stairwells of each occupied floor, just in case. The more experienced guards are posted on the ground level by the wagons and livestock. And, per his own request, I’ve sent Adam up the stairs to the roof, where he can watch for Quinn, Willow, Carrington, highwaymen, or anyone else we need to worry about.
We’ve yet to see any sign of Quinn and Willow, and tension coils inside of me. I told them we’d meet them here in four days. It’s been six. I don’t know what could’ve held them up, but we can’t wait for them. The army will be inside the city limits tomorrow, and we have to be long gone. I have to hope they’ll either show up tonight or be able to find our trail when they do arrive.
I refuse to contemplate any scenario in which Quinn and Willow fail to return to us at all.
With everyone settled for the night, I decide to work on perfecting the tech design for the Commander’s tracking device. I’ve been chewing on an idea all day long, and now it’s time to put it on parchment and see if it will work.
Frankie stands guard in the stairwell as I approach my floor. I clap my hand on his shoulder as I pass, and he nods a greeting. He surprised me the morning of the Cursed One’s attack. He and Thom both. Not that I expected them to be cowards, but I also didn’t expect them to risk everything without a second’s hesitation and without needing to be told what to do. Thom kept up with the runaway wagon, gathered the reins, stopped the donkey, and calmed the frantic people trapped inside. Because of him, we didn’t lose anything more valuable than a cracked wagon wheel, and we have several spares.
Frankie saved Rachel, Ian, and Adam. By leaping in front of them and distracting the beast, he’d given me the extra seconds I needed to finish connecting the device to the power booster. That power booster amplified the sonic pulse I was able to aim at the Cursed One and ensured my control over the creature.
After the tragedy in Baalboden, I’m not willing to risk our lives by relying on unmodified Rowansmark tech again.
I’m nearly to the room I share with Rachel when a faint scratching sound from inside catches my attention.
In two strides I reach the door. Wrenching it open, I cross the threshold and stare. Jeremiah is hunched over my bedroll, his twisted, arthritic fingers digging through the outside pockets of my travel pack.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I close the door behind me and walk across the room.
He jerks his hands away from my pack and struggles to stand. “I was looking for the map. Thought I’d add some more detail to it, seeing as how we’re getting close to Lankenshire.”
“You told me you’d finished the Lankenshire portion of the map before we left Baalboden.”
“But what if Lankenshire turns us away? What if we need to
go to Hodenswald or up to Brooksworth? I didn’t finish those parts yet.”
I stare at him in silence, my arms crossed over my chest. Maybe he was only looking for the map. Or maybe he was getting ready to leave me a note like the one I fished out of my tech bag in Baalboden.
“I’m sorry.” He yanks his hat from his head and twists it beneath his fingers. “I shouldn’t have been in here without your permission. I know that. I just didn’t know where you were, and my old knees can’t handle climbing up and down those stairs the way you young people can.”
I push past him and grab my pack. Flipping it open, I search the contents. Nothing seems to be missing. And there isn’t a cryptic note about debts to be paid either.
“I swear, I was just looking for the map,” he says.
Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he isn’t. But considering our current circumstances, giving him the benefit of the doubt isn’t something I can afford to do.
“What else were you hoping to find?” My voice is calm, but my thoughts are racing. Now that I know he wasn’t leaving a note, I have to consider other options. My pack has spare clothing, tech supplies waiting to be built into working inventions, and an extra dagger. The only item in my possession worth stealing is the Rowansmark device, and I wear that at all times. Not that I’ve made that public knowledge. Most of my people were busy running into the forest and climbing trees to avoid the Cursed One while I was unstrapping the tech from my chest. For all Jeremiah knows, I keep the device in my travel pack.
Was Jeremiah one of the survivors who advocated returning the device to Rowansmark and asking for their protection? Would he steal the device himself and try to broker his own deal?
Or have the unsolved murders of our eight boys and our theory that the message points to Rowansmark made me so paranoid that I’m looking for problems where none exist?
“I wasn’t looking for anything else.” His voice is quiet. Sincere. His pale eyes hold mine without wavering.
I watch him for a long moment, but he doesn’t look away. Finally, I move past him, grab my cloak, and pull the map out of the inner pocket.
“Here,” I say as I thrust it at him.
“I’ll work on it some tonight,” he says, and pushes his hat back on his head. “And again, I’m sorry, Logan. I should’ve waited for you, or sent one of the young ones looking.”
I nod once, and he walks out of the room, the map curled inside his hands.
For his sake, I hope he was telling the truth. I’d hate for my first public punishment as leader of this group to be an execution.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LOGAN
With less than an hour until dark, I make my way to the long rectangle of a room at the end of the hall where Rachel is drilling our recruits on fighting techniques. Thick ivy clings to the windows. The sunlight that seeps past it is a sickly green-gold color that bathes the room in a verdant half-light. Rachel stands in the middle of the room, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her Switch in hand, and her eyes locked on Ian’s. A scattering of others—Jodi, Elias, Keegan, Cassie, Eric, and Thom—lean against the walls, watching Rachel and Ian spar.
Ian lunges forward, his practice stick whistling through the air.
Rachel blocks him and swings the weighted end of her Switch into his thigh. I wince in sympathy. I’ve been on the receiving end of that move a few times. It took every ounce of pride I had to walk without limping afterward.
“You can cry if you need to,” Rachel says as she drives her elbow into his stomach and then whips around to swing the Switch at his head.
He dives under the blow and slams into her, knocking them both to the ground.
“You first,” he says as he tries to pin her to the floor by holding her arms down.
I sigh. This is going to get bloody, and Ian’s wearing his best tunic.
Rachel goes limp and drops the Switch. Ian relaxes his grip for a second, tossing a quick grin toward his audience, and Rachel attacks. Bringing her knees up, she plants her boots on his chest and sends him skidding onto his back. Flipping into a crouch, she lunges for him before he can get to his feet.
She’s got him. He’s on his back, out of position, and she’s dropping toward his chest. He’ll be lucky if he can breathe without pain for the next hour once she lands.
But before Rachel can deliver, Ian scissors his legs and rolls to his left. Rachel lands where seconds before Ian was lying. With controlled, methodical movements—movements that speak to years of training—he lashes out and sweeps her legs out from under her, flips onto his stomach, and whips her arms into a submission hold.
Rachel swears, and both Jodi and Cassie applaud Ian’s win. He grins.
The second he lets go of her, Rachel gets to her feet and shoves a finger into Ian’s chest.
“Where did you learn how to do that?”
“You’ve been training us for over a month now,” he says.
Her eyes narrow. “I never taught you how to do that. I don’t even know how to do that.”
He casts a quick, pleading glance my way, as if hoping I have some magic answer that will derail Rachel once she’s on a roll. I’m not going to be the one to tell Rachel that Ian apprenticed to be on the Brute Squad. Not after what they did to her on the Claiming stage. Not after they were a party to Oliver’s death. She’d tear him to pieces. I’m also not going to lie to cover Ian’s mistake. I give him a little head shake. He’s on his own.
He raises his hands slowly as if to placate her, and says, “You weren’t our only teacher, remember?”
“Quinn taught you that?” she asks, and I can see she believes it’s possible.
He’s spared from answering when there’s a commotion in the hall and Quinn himself strides through the door, Willow right behind him. Relief weakens my knees for a moment, and I steady myself with one hand on the wall beside me. I’d truly thought I’d have to leave them behind in the morning.
“You made it,” I say, and Rachel rushes to my side.
“We’re two days late. You shouldn’t have waited,” Quinn says, but he smiles at us both.
“We only arrived an hour ago, and plan to leave in the morning.” I walk forward and clap him on the shoulder. “Did you find the killer?”
“We found his boot prints,” Willow says. “Twice. He’s following the group.”
“Pretty sloppy for a tracker,” Rachel says.
Willow smiles a little. “Not where these prints were. We had to move leaves and underbrush to find them. He’d done a good job of covering his tracks, but he made the terrain a little too perfect, and that’s usually the sign of someone trying to be invisible.”
“Could you see a maker’s mark on the print?” I ask.
“Rowansmark,” Quinn says. “He’s good enough to hide from Willow and me. We doubled back, circled around, laid traps . . . everything we could think of, but he stayed a step ahead of us. He’ll come after the group again. No one dedicates this much time and attention to hunting down prey without coming home with their prize.”
Prey. A chill brushes across my skin.
“Well, we’re safe for now. Rachel, Ian, and Adam checked every inch of this building before we allowed the group inside. We’re alone here, there’s only one entrance, and I’ve tripled the guards we normally use. No one is going to get inside this building tonight.”
“I hate to tell you, but the tracker is the least of your worries.” Willow grabs my arm and pulls me toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. “You have a bigger problem now. Come on.”
My heart thuds painfully against my chest as we reach the stairwell and begin to climb. This ridiculous building has thirty-five floors. I cling to the railing and practically drag myself up each miserable step. The air in here is stale and dank, and clusters of moss cling to the cracks that spread across the walls. Sweat gathers at the small of my back, and I’m breathing way too fast, but I can’t seem to control it.
Did the previous government outlaw the buildin
g of new homes or shops? I can’t imagine any other valid reason for agreeing to stretch steel and glass toward the sky as if daring the wind to knock it over.
I’m panting, and my fingers feel numb when we finally reach the brown metal door that leads to the roof. It sticks. Quinn slams into it with his shoulder, and it reluctantly creaks open on hinges nearly immobile with rust and age. He walks onto the roof, followed by Willow, Rachel, and Ian. Thom, Cassie, Keegan, and Jodi stayed downstairs like the admirably sane people I know them to be.
Adam looks up as we walk onto the roof, and his eyes go straight to Willow. “You’re back. I was getting worried.”
She tugs on her braid and says, “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“No, but I did anyway,” he says. Willow’s cheeks turn a dusky pink, and her smile is a little shy.
Then she turns to me and says, “Coming out sometime today?” Before I can respond, she strides toward the edge of the roof.
I cling to the doorjamb, staring at the wide-open space before me. The rooftop is a faded gray stone riddled with cracks and holes. Rusted pipes stick out at irregular intervals, like some sort of ventilation system. A large, square metal box rests in the corner. Almost every available inch is covered with a clinging green vine or a carpet of moss. The edge of the roof is surrounded by a low railing that barely reaches Willow’s waist.
That can’t possibly be safe.
She waves me over, a sharp, impatient gesture, and I edge my way out of the doorway. The wind tugs and pushes, and only pride keeps me from dropping to my knees and crawling. I step over vines, slide across moss, and grimly calculate the trajectory necessary to slam into the railing instead of sailing over into thin air, should the capricious wind have its way with me.
When I reach Willow, I grab the railing with both fists and hold on as if my life depends on it. Which it probably does. Because no one was meant to be this far off the ground.
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