Deception

by C. J. Redwine

  “We won’t know for sure unless people start getting sick,” Drake says.

  “We can’t wait for that.” Logan shoves the dart into his cloak pocket and takes out the packet of pain medicine Sylph gave him earlier.

  While he measures out a dose for his headache, I scan the little clearing we’re using for our lunch break and find Sylph laughing with Jodi and Cassie, her arms wrapped around them both. My heart twists painfully inside my chest, and I have to look away before my eyes start to sting.

  I turn to Logan. “The message said the marked will die. That’s in the future. Maybe he was warning us. Maybe it hasn’t happened yet.”

  He takes my hand in his. I imagine I can still feel the cold imprint of Rowansmark’s dart on his skin. “I hope so. But we need to keep a close eye on everyone who was in a marked room last night. And we need to start looking for anyone in the group who could have loyalty to Rowansmark.”

  “The real problem here is that Baalboden was a city-state of thousands, and there’s only a handful of us left.” Drake scratches his leg with fingernails that have tiny half-moons of dirt beneath them. “Many of us didn’t know each other before the fires. We’re just taking everyone’s word that they lived in Baalboden, because why else would they be here?”

  “We can start by checking again to make sure everyone in the group has a Baalboden wristmark. It was chaotic before the funeral. We could’ve missed someone,” I say. “Anyone besides Quinn and Willow who doesn’t have one—”

  “Will be arrested.” Logan gets to his feet and reaches down for me. “And then questioned.”

  “Forget questioning. I want whoever did this to be dead.”

  Logan’s eyes are grim. “Oh, he will be. But not before he gives us the answers we need.”

  Drake stands. “I’ll go line everybody up.”

  In minutes, the entire camp stands in two rows facing each other. Drake and Thom walk down one row, checking each survivor’s right wrist for the distinctive tattooed ridges of Baalboden’s mark. Logan and I take the other row.

  “Right arm, please,” I say to a man nearly as old as Oliver. He raises his hand, and I slide his tunic sleeve down his arm. His skin sags away from his bones, and the wristmark has faded over time, but it’s there. I rub my thumb over it, searching for any signs that it could be fake, but the ridges are right where they should be and the ink is a permanent stain on his forearm. The ridges in his mark are longer than mine. Skinnier, too. Each mark is different, so that a guard’s Identidisc can bounce sound off of the mark and come back with a sound signature unique to that citizen.

  Logan stands beside me, checking Jan’s wristmark. I move past him to check the next person, and we quickly fall into a rhythm.

  Cassie. Ian. Elias. Geraldine. Susan. Nick. So far everyone in my line has a wristmark. Logan is checking the wristmark of a woman whose brown skin gleams like a polished jewel beneath the midday sun. I step around him and discover that Sylph and Smithson are next in line.

  “Right arm, please,” I say to Sylph. She smiles at me and lays her hand in mine. I lift our hands in the air, and her sleeve slides to her elbow. I gasp. A deep purple bruise blossoms like rotting fruit along the underside of her arm.

  “What happened?” Abandoning any effort to check her wristmark, I grab her arm as she starts to pull it down. “Who did this to you?”

  The bruise is easily the size of my palm, and its center is black. Whoever hurt her meant to hurt her. With a bruise like this, she’s lucky her arm didn’t break. Fury gushes through me, sharp and vicious.

  My eyes find Smithson, and I arrow my rage at him, as if I can flay him to pieces with nothing but my glare.

  But he isn’t looking at me. Instead, he’s staring at Sylph’s arm, worry in every line of his face. “What happened?”

  Sylph pulls her wrist free of my grip and examines the bruise. “I guess this is from hitting my arm when I got our lunch ration. I slipped in some mud and fell against the wagon. I must have fallen harder than I realized.” She sounds puzzled, but not upset.

  Poison.

  The air is suddenly too thick to breathe. I’ve known Sylph for most of my life. I’ve never seen her bruise easily. Sickness crawls up the back of my throat as I make myself ask, “Any other bruises? Do you feel sick? Tired?”

  She shrugs and smiles at us both. “I’m fine! I feel fine. I didn’t realize I hit my arm that hard. That’s all. Honest. Stop worrying. Both of you. I’m not used to roughing it, but I’ll toughen up. We all will. Now shouldn’t you be checking my wristmark to make sure I’m really from Baalboden?”

  My fingers rub gently across her wrist, though I don’t need to check. Sylph is a bright, laughing presence in most of my childhood memories. I can’t think of my life in Baalboden without thinking of her. And I refuse to consider a life outside of Baalboden without her.

  Smithson thrusts his arm at me, lets me verify his wristmark, and then carefully wraps his arm around Sylph as if she’s made of glass. She laughs and leans into him, but I meet Smithson’s gaze above her head and know the worry burning in his eyes also burns in mine.

  Only he doesn’t realize how much he truly has to fear.

  Unlike Logan, I’m not brave enough to put it into words. Because maybe Logan’s wrong. Maybe Sylph really did hit her arm too hard against the wagon. Maybe the knowledge that someone out there is ruthlessly determined to torture us is messing with my head.

  Besides, if bruising were a symptom of poison, wouldn’t Smithson be bruised too? The X was over both of them. Holding on to that thin comfort, I continue down the row, checking every survivor with dogged determination.

  All of them have a Baalboden wristmark. So do the survivors in Thom and Frankie’s row. We’re no closer to figuring out which one of us is working with Rowansmark. As Logan calls for us to start moving again, I slowly scan the faces of the survivors who walk past me.

  One of them is a traitor. One of them might have poisoned Sylph. All I need is a sign, a single glimmer of guilt or treachery, and whoever painted a bloody X on her door is mine.

  Ignoring the tiny voice whispering that I was once sure of Melkin’s guilt, and now I don’t know how to live with myself, I heft my Switch and take my place along the western flank.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  RACHEL

  We camp on a small rise beside a wide river. The air smells of muddy soil, fresh grass, and moldy wood. Logan wastes no time ordering his team to create a perimeter—wagons, children, and those too old or frail to easily defend themselves are in the middle. Those marginally able to fight are circled around them. And then those of us who’ve been trained take up our posts at the outer edge.

  There’s a new tension in the camp. Partially because we’ve seen signs that someone else regularly travels on this faded, poorly maintained path, and the possibility of running into highwaymen or unsympathetic envoys from other city-states is a clear danger. And partially because we’re no closer to catching the killer, and the strain of wondering which of us is a traitor wears us down.

  I’m stationed with two of our newer guards on the southern edge of camp. Logan has a guard with him as well and is ten yards away. He watches me with worry and regret in his eyes, and I know it’s because he can’t stop the poison when he has no idea what was used.

  I suppose I should find the energy to comfort him, or at least to tell him I know this isn’t his fault, but the dread that has filled me since I saw Sylph’s bruise seeps into my bones, and I can’t find any words.

  I give the men standing guard with me the first watch, and close my eyes, not intending to actually fall asleep. The Wasteland’s nighttime noises crowd around me. Owls hooting. Things rustling through the underbrush. The far-off howl of a wolf pouring out his misery to the unfeeling moon.

  The howl climbs through the sky and wraps around me as I sink into a dream. It feels like I’m the one crying, I’m the one putting inarticulate sound to the things that haunt me. I don’t see clouds gat
hering over the face of the moon, but suddenly rain streaks from the skies in relentless streams. It strafes the canopy of leaves above me, skids down bark, and pools in the mud beneath me. I get up and try to walk—I have to walk—but my feet refuse to move.

  Looking down, I see the mud is bubbling around my boots, a seething mass that defies gravity and slides viscous tentacles over my ankles, searching for skin.

  Whipping my knife from its sheath, I beat at the mud with the flat of my blade.

  It can’t touch my skin. It can’t. Something terrible will happen if it does.

  The rain plummets down. The mud bubbles and slurps and grows until the toes of my boots disappear beneath the writhing mass.

  The flat of my blade isn’t helping. I flip it around and crouch. The tip of my knife gleams silver beneath the water, and I plunge it into one questing tentacle as it slides over the lip of my boot and onto my skin.

  Pain flashes, a brilliant light that explodes behind my eyes and rips a scream from my throat.

  The knife is useless. The mud burrows in, and the ground beneath me becomes a crimson sea of blood crawling over my feet.

  I bruise where the tentacle meets my skin—a decaying blossom filled with agony. Abandoning my knife, I rip at the crimson threads with my fingers.

  “No, Rachel,” Melkin whispers. “You deserve this.”

  His face rises from the seething pool of blood at my feet, and bubbles escape his gaping mouth.

  “No,” I say.

  “You’re broken. This is what happens when you’re broken,” Oliver says gently, and Melkin’s face melts into Oliver’s full cheeks and dark eyes.

  “Please. Don’t,” I say, but another tentacle reaches my skin and sinks into my veins. Another bruise spreads, the pain twisting inside of me like a living thing.

  “Look around,” Dad says, his gray eyes shining out of Oliver’s face. “You’re alone now.”

  I stand up and try to run.

  “Rachel!” Dad yells my name, but I don’t look down. I don’t look at his ruined face hovering over Oliver’s while their blood slides over my skin, leaving a trail of agony in its wake.

  “Rachel!” A hand shakes my shoulder, and the blood disappears. Noises rush in—shouts, the rasp of a sword leaving its sheath—and my eyes fly open.

  Logan looms over me. “Wake up. We’re under attack.”

  He whirls away and lunges forward as a man nearly twice his size lumbers out of the trees, a pair of mismatched swords in his fists. The man’s clothing is a collection of bits and pieces of cloth from the old civilization patched and stitched into a haphazard outfit that is specifically geared toward surviving outdoors—tough fabric, thick lining beneath the tunic, and heavy rawhide coverings strapped around his legs.

  A highwayman.

  Two more men explode out of the woods on his heels, their expressions feral and hungry in the wash of moonlight.

  My knife is already in my hand as I jump to my feet. Beside me, the men Logan and I recruited to stand guard with us are waving their weapons in the air like they can scare off our attackers if they flash enough silver.

  I bend down and snatch my Switch from the ground. The highwaymen are too big and too well armed for knife work. I need to keep my distance.

  More men pour out of the tree line and the sounds of battle fill the air—hoarse cries of fury, the clash of metal, and the solid thunk of a body hitting the ground. I sheath my knife and release the blade on my Switch as two of the highwaymen race toward me.

  The guards sharing my post step in front of me as if to protect me.

  “Get back!” I shove my way through them. “Stay behind me. When I knock them to the ground, you finish them, do you understand?”

  I can’t wait to see if they agree with my strategy. The highwaymen are converging on me. I widen my grip, plant my left foot, and whirl out of the path of one and directly into the second. Slamming my Switch into his stomach, I dive out from under his feet before he can finish swinging his sword at me. His momentum carries him past me, and I slash the tendons behind his knees with my blade.

  I’m already on my feet as he falls to the ground screaming. The second man is attacking one of my fellow guards with a curved blade that flashes like quicksilver beneath the stars.

  “Get the one who’s down!” I yell to the other guard as I sprint toward the fight and launch myself at the highwayman swinging the blade.

  The weighted end of my Switch smacks into his shin, knocking him off-balance. He whips toward me, his weapon slicing with terrible speed. I slam the middle of the Switch against the hilt of his sword, blocking his blow. Breathing in heavy pants, he sizes me up.

  “A girl?” He sounds amused and interested in a way that makes my skin crawl. “This is going to be fun.”

  He’s bigger than me. Stronger, too. He leans his weight against the Switch, and the sword slowly edges toward my face.

  I let my arms tremble a bit as I quickly assess his weaknesses. I’m not going to choke this time. No one is going to have to rescue me.

  And no one is going to get the chance to rescue him.

  A smile smears his face with malice and his rancid breath fills my nose as he chuckles. “Give up now, sweet thing, and I won’t kill you.”

  “I can’t say the same.” I go limp and drop to the ground. The sudden lack of resistance causes him to stumble forward a single step.

  That single step is all I need.

  Dropping my Switch, I snatch my knife and lunge to my feet, burying my weapon in his sternum as I stand.

  He deflates slowly, and I shove him away as he crumples. My knife glistens beneath the moonlight, and I shudder, but I can’t stop to count the cost of adding more blood to the overwhelming tide I’ve already shed.

  “Logan!” I yell his name as I run toward the place I last saw him.

  “Here,” he says, and I find him crouched beside Keegan, who is moaning in pain. A quick glance around shows all is nearly quiet again.

  Two of the intruders are attacking Adam and Ian. I take a step forward, already sizing up the situation to see where I could make the most impact, when Adam just comes undone. Screaming, he dives at one of the men, his weapon flashing. It’s like watching a tornado—all fury and strength and very little finesse. Not that he needs it. The intruder is motivated by greed. Adam is fueled by loss and a desperate need to make someone pay for it. It’s over in seconds. When I see Ian can handle the second one, I scan the rest of the meadow.

  One highwayman peels away from the camp and runs toward the tree line. The soft thwing of an arrow disturbs the air, and he falls to the ground. It’s almost frightening how accurate Willow’s aim is even in the dark. The other highwaymen appear to be dead or wounded. No one is fighting. No one is looting. We won.

  We won.

  I crouch beside Logan. “We did it. The camp arrangement worked. We held our perimeter. The new guards got a taste of experience.” I look around again, afraid we might have sustained losses that will destroy this small moment of hope. “I don’t know how many wounded we have, but we did it, Logan. We defended ourselves.”

  His hand finds mine and squeezes. “We did it.” His voice holds wonder and weary satisfaction.

  Neither of us points out the obvious: This was a small group of highwaymen. Twenty at the most by the looks of things. Defeating twenty highwaymen is a far cry from defeating the Commander’s army, but still, it’s a victory. We’ll take every victory we can get.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  RACHEL

  We killed twenty-three highwaymen. Two of our inexperienced recruits died, and five others are injured seriously enough to need medical attention.

  The loss of two of our own hurts, but even through the pain of more death, the people stand a little taller, and I imagine the spark I see in their eyes is a tiny glimmer of hope.

  I help Logan carry Keegan, the guard with the stab wound in his leg, to the medical wagon. Blood pours from his wound, and he shivers uncontr
ollably. Sylph meets us at the wagon’s entrance, her dark curls thrust into a messy bun, her sleeves rolled up.

  Another bruise spreads across her left wrist like an indigo stain.

  “Your wrist!” I say.

  She shakes her head. “One of the injured was thrashing around. It’s nothing. Let’s get him into the torchlight.”

  I meet Logan’s eyes, my stomach clenching. This much bruising isn’t normal. Not for Sylph. Not for anyone.

  “Rachel!” Sylph says. “Help me with him.”

  I shake off my unease as best as I can and follow her. There’s no room in the wagon for another patient, so we stretch him out on the ground. Thom drives a torch into the soil beside Keegan. The heat of the flames licks against our skin.

  “I need to seal up the camp’s perimeter again,” Logan says softly.

  “Go. We’ve got this.” I wave him away and something wet flies off of my fingers.

  I look down. My hands are slick with Keegan’s blood. My throat closes as I frantically clean my hands on the grass beside me.

  “Press on this,” Sylph says as she shoves a folded cloth against the wound.

  I lean forward and press, gulping back nausea as the image of Keegan blurs and becomes Oliver lying beneath my hands, his blood pouring out in a thick, hot river.

  This isn’t Oliver.

  I’m not in a wagon.

  I’m not at the Commander’s mercy.

  “Press harder.” There’s an edge of worry in Sylph’s voice, and when I focus on Keegan again, I see why.

  The cloth is soaked through, and still his blood gushes.

  “Nola!” Sylph’s voice rings across the space between Keegan and the wagon. In seconds, Nola is by our side staring at the wound.

  “Maybe the sword cut his artery?” she asks.

  I shake my head and try to ignore the wet, slick heat of his blood against my skin. “This is nowhere near an artery. I know because my dad taught me exactly where to slash a man’s leg to make him bleed out so I could get away.”