The Gender Fall

by Bella Forrest

  I felt bad for Mr. Kaplan, but a part of me knew the Matrians would’ve taken him regardless of whether we were there or not. That was another element of their plan—taking the men of Patrus—and Mr. Kaplan, with his solitary lifestyle, would have been an easy target. Still, my heart ached for him, and the ache translated into rage pulsing through my blood as I ran, just another grievance to fuel the fire of my anger. I hoped we could stop this crazy secret war Elena was waging, and soon, before Mr. Kaplan suffered at their hands along with so many others. But right now, I had only one concern: getting Violet to our doctor and to safety.

  I glanced over at Owen, looking for some sign we were drawing closer to where he had hidden the vehicle. I frowned as I realized we still weren’t there. That realization was followed by sudden irrational annoyance.

  He should’ve hidden the damn car closer! We could’ve already been in it by now if Owen hadn’t been so thorough.

  It took an effort to push the anger aside, my rational mind picking apart the flaws in the sentiment. It wasn’t fair to Owen—we were in grave danger, and the car was our only form of transportation. Keeping it safe from discovery was a matter of life or death. Besides, it wasn’t Owen’s fault we were running through the forest. It wasn’t really Violet’s, either. It wasn’t even mine, although I couldn’t help but blame myself somewhat for not reaching Violet sooner.

  No—the fault for all of this fell at Elena’s feet. And Desmond’s. They had pushed us all to our breaking points and beyond. They had used us, manipulated us, and then tried to get rid of us, all in their ambition to take control of our little world. All for power.

  And then Tabitha had lured Violet into the palace, using her family as leverage. Violet had gone willingly, and she had even devised a plan… but I still wasn’t sure if it had been worth it. Not with how badly she had been injured in the fight. She would have died if I hadn’t come for her.

  My grip tightened around her involuntarily, as if checking she was still real. Still alive in my arms. I paused to gently press her chest, and was reassured by the steady thump under my hand. She was still there. The relief I felt was small and fleeting—we weren’t out of the woods yet. Literally.

  Owen tapped my arm and pointed at something, and I saw a flash of gunmetal gray through the trees. I made for it, following Owen, my breathing labored. Owen scampered ahead, leading us into a small clearing. He had dragged a few branches over the hood and roof of the car we’d taken from Ashabee’s armory and was now snatching them off and tossing them aside. He had hidden the car while I was convincing Mr. Kaplan to help us, and it must have taken him a lot of effort to drive it this far and disguise it. I was impressed.

  He was almost done when I reached the car, and he turned to look at me. “Do you want me to take her so you can drive?” I shook my head, subconsciously pressing Violet tighter to my chest. Not that I didn’t trust Owen—I just wouldn’t let her out of my arms until we were safe. He nodded, understanding, and opened the passenger door for me.

  He moved out of my way as I carefully climbed into the vehicle, trying not to jostle Violet more than necessary. Once I had arranged her in my lap and moved her legs clear of the door, I gave Owen a hurried nod, and he closed the door quickly.

  The young man raced around the front of the vehicle and got into the driver’s seat. I waited, summoning my dwindling patience, as his movements seemed to take forever. He buckled up and slid the key into the ignition, twisting it.

  The car whined and then fell silent. Owen looked at me, concern heavy on his face, and tried again. The whine returned, followed by a few sharp shudders, and then the noise stilled again. The concern on Owen’s face intensified as he tried the keys once more.

  My patience evaporating, I leaned over and violently slammed my fist down on the dashboard. With a roar, the car came to life. Owen arched an eyebrow, a bemused expression on his face, but I ignored it, turning back to Violet. Her breathing was shallow and erratic, and she stirred fitfully, as if caught in a bad dream.

  She murmured Tim’s name, and I frowned, a fresh wave of guilt hitting me. Her brother was so important to her—I had no idea how to tell her what had happened to him.

  Owen put the car in gear and slowly pressed the accelerator, picking his way carefully across the forest floor, dodging trees and stumps, the wheels dragging in deep drifts of leaves. I kept my eyes sharp, looking for any sign of the Matrian patrol.

  “Where is the rendezvous?” I asked, clutching Violet tighter as the tire bumped over something protruding out of the ground.

  “A few miles to the southeast,” he replied, cutting the wheel to skirt around an impassible thicket of young trees. “It was the closest we could get. It’s too risky to be flying the heloship for long distances right now—and we’re running low on fuel. The area around the palace has been absolute pandemonium, according to Ms. Dale.”

  I nodded. In the pre-dawn dark, when we’d decided most of our enemies would be asleep, Owen had taken the risk of contacting our allies on the handheld we’d brought, something we’d feared to do directly after the attack, as the airwaves around the castle would certainly be more heavily monitored. Since then, he had been more involved with receiving updates on our handheld from Ms. Dale and Thomas, as I had refused to leave Violet’s side any more than necessary. It may have already been fourteen hours since we’d left the palace, but it made sense that the immediate area was too risky for the heloship. I just itched with impatience, wishing there was a way we could get Amber to us sooner.

  “Did anything come through on the ticker?” I asked after a moment.

  Owen shook his head, keeping his eyes on the path ahead. “Thomas thinks they’re still down. Possibly even permanently. With the damage to the palace…”

  He trailed off, taking a quick look at Violet. I followed his gaze, understanding the look on his face. Violet had torn the place apart. According to Thomas, who had managed to get back to our base with Amber and Jay, he and Violet had crafted the plan together. Three bombs, three explosions, which had gutted the palace and even caused one of the inner structures to collapse. It was a true miracle she had even survived her own bombs, given how much destruction they had wrought.

  The violence of it all hadn’t been lost on me. Violet had gone to great lengths to secure her family’s freedom. I couldn’t fault her for taking action, and I admired that she hadn’t gone in there without a plan. Others would have blindly accepted the deal with Tabitha, nobly exchanging themselves for their family members.

  But not Violet. She knew Tabitha. She knew what Tabitha had been capable of—we both did. Violet had experienced it firsthand when Tabitha had driven a knife through her hand in Matrus.

  It felt like a lifetime ago that I had found her in Elena’s palace, strapped upright to a board, the knife jutting out of her hand and blood streaming down her palm. At the time, I hadn’t thought it could get any worse than that. Seeing her in agony, amid all the chaos and violence infecting our lives. It had been intolerable. And now…

  Something chirped, and I blinked, looking over at Owen. He let go of the steering wheel to slide his hand into his pants pocket and pull out the black handheld, passing it over to me. I grabbed it awkwardly, trying not to shift Violet too much, and clicked it on.

  On my way with doctor, the line of text read.

  “Amber just checked in,” I informed Owen, and he nodded. I clicked off the handheld but kept it out in case we needed it. My eyes resumed their scan of the forest, keeping watch as we drove.

  “Good—we’re going to make it, Viggo. Don’t worry.”

  I frowned at him. “You can’t know that,” I replied stonily, my throat constricting tightly, making my words harsh even to my own ears. I swallowed, pushing back the strong emotions causing me this pain.

  Owen shook his head, favoring me with a quick glance. “Yes, I can,” he replied, his voice quiet and sincere.

  I bit back a curse, frustrated by the younger man’s attempt to bol
ster me. He didn’t know—couldn’t know—as much as me about how awful the world could be. How unjust and cruel it was.

  I paused, cutting the bitter thought off. That was grossly unfair to Owen—he did know as much as me. His brother had been taken from him long ago, and he’d been fighting for him ever since. I was being too harsh toward him, resenting his optimistic nature when at another time I might have been the one offering similar words.

  I shook my irritation aside, and Owen kept talking. “We are going to make it,” he emphasized, meeting my gaze for a long, unwavering second before turning back to the forest. “We did not just go through hell to get her out of there, only to have her die. Besides”—he grinned, as he turned the wheel slowly—“Violet is too stubborn to die.”

  The way he delivered the statement, rough with affection and humor, managed to get a short laugh out of me. I looked down at Violet again, feeling my own heart swell with love for her. Owen was right—Violet was too stubborn to do anything she didn’t want to.

  As I looked down, the woman cried out something indecipherable as she writhed in my arms. I smoothed my hands over her hair, whispering to her in low, soft tones. She settled down after a moment, turning her head slightly and exhaling in a soft sigh. I held her tightly, and then did something I hadn’t done in a long time—not since the night before Miriam’s sentence was to be carried out.

  I prayed.

  5

  Violet

  I became aware slowly, by degrees. This time it was different. There was no hush of tension or hint of urgency—nothing that justified me waking—but I woke anyway. I kept my eyes closed, remembering the pain that had usually intensified each time I had opened my eyes, and instead slowly turned my head, listening with my good ear.

  I heard the sound of birds chirping, their noise joyous. I wetted my lips and sucked in a deep breath, ignoring the tightness around my ribs. I slowly lifted my eyelids.

  I was lying in a bed, a worn homemade quilt pulled over me. The colors were muted, soft, and I felt a deep appreciation for that. But the bed was different than I might have expected. It was made of metal, not wood, and the mattress sagged slightly in the middle. A little pulse of alarm jolted me out of my half-slumbering state, and I took a risk, opening my eyes wider.

  I had never seen this room before. It was small, cozy, with coarse wooden walls made up of slats. Framed, faded pictures hung on the walls, but my eyes slid over them as if they were coated in oil. I took a deep breath and then tried to roll over onto my side—my left side, as I distinctly remembered that something was wrong with my right arm.

  As I rolled, a wave of pain and sickness swelled up in my gut, and my ribs screamed in protest. I gave up halfway through the motion, flopping back down into the blankets. Sweating, I forced my breathing to even out, taking pains to keep the panic down, in spite of protests from what seemed like every muscle in my body. I settled back on the pillows and gave myself a few moments to calm down, concentrating on simply keeping my stomach and head from exploding. Eventually, the throbbing pain and nausea subsided.

  I eased myself up a little higher, using my left hand as a brace, and slipped my legs off the bed until I was in a sitting position. My arm and shoulder ached from the exertion; as soon as I was upright, I rolled my shoulder around in its socket, trying to alleviate the discomfort. Without any support, I swayed slightly and almost fell over, my hand shooting out to grab the bedframe before I toppled over. Bile rose in my throat, but my stomach felt hollow, shaky. Maybe I had run out of things to vomit up. I ignored the trembling of my limbs, the huge swamp of pain that was my ribs.

  Swallowing hard, I took a few more breaths and stood up, the blanket sliding off me. I wavered, keeping my hand locked on the bedframe as the room tilted to one side. I tried to focus on an area of the wall, blinking away black spots. It helped, but I still felt woozy, my steps not landing where I wanted them to. I felt like giving up right then, but I had no idea what could happen next. If I had been kidnapped… You can do this, Violet. You have to.

  I leaned heavily on the bedframe and took baby steps, examining the room more closely. It was definitely new. My heartrate increasing, I forced my eyes to check every corner for anything I could use as a weapon—and I needed to be sure that she wasn’t there. The muscled woman with the sadistic gleam in her eyes who haunted my dreams and nightmares. Panic bubbled up in my chest at the thought of being in her clutches again.

  My eyes settled on a book. It wasn’t much, but if I slipped it in my pillowcase, then I could…

  A sharp voice, distorted by distance and my deaf ear, caught my attention, and I paused in my scheming. There was something familiar about it. I swallowed, and slowly turned my eyes to the spot I had been carefully avoiding—the window—and the bright, shining beams of sunlight pouring in. The light blazed into my head, making me squint, but I pushed the pain back, letting my eyes adjust bit by bit. I took a cautious step toward it, then another, and another, until I had gone as far as I could without letting go of the bedframe.

  Wobbling slightly, I released the bedframe and propelled myself forward. I stumbled, my equilibrium off, but managed not to fall. I reached for a desk that sat just left of the window and used it to steady myself, clutching it with weak, shaky fingers. I took a moment to collect myself—sweating, panting hard, and bone-weary. Then, I moved a few steps more, leaning on the desk.

  At first the light outside was too intense, but eventually, shapes and colors began to form, slowly, and then faster.

  The first thing I noticed was the trees. They seemed to stretch on forever, until I lost sight of the individuals in the enormity of their spread. The forest seemed to run along both sides of the house, thick and dappled. A worn dirt road cut through it across from me, and a wide yard stretched out before the house, with a small barn nestled at the opposite end. The ground was dark and wet, as if it had rained recently, and I noticed several tents along the edge of the woods, forming neat and tidy lines. Someone had cleared away an area at the edge of the tents, and I could see a hodgepodge of benches and chairs encircling the smoldering remains of a fire pit. People my beleaguered mind vaguely recognized were moving around the camp, some in and out of the tents, performing various tasks and chores around the yard.

  I pressed my forehead against the glass, letting the cool from the panes seep into my forehead. It helped to push back the throbbing pain, numbing it slightly, as I continued searching for the owner of the familiar voice I’d heard.

  I saw her standing by some stairs that probably led to a porch. She was with a young man, her brown hair bobbing as she listened intently. She said something, her voice calm and even, but even from this distance I could pick up the authority in it. I smiled as a memory of her sharp, no-nonsense voice, ordering me to keep my back straight and adjust the heel of my foot slightly, came over me.

  Ms. Dale. She looked over her shoulder, back at the tents, for a moment, and then back to the man. Nodding at him once more, she pointed a finger toward the tents, and then the two parted ways. I watched her go, allowing relief to wash over me. If she was here, then I was safe.

  I took a deep breath and then turned left toward the door, a new compulsion pulling my aching body forward. I was safe. Now I needed to see Viggo.

  It must have taken me ten minutes to hobble over to the door, and when I finally reached it, I sagged against it for a moment, breathing hard, my hand barely resting on the handle. I just had to see him—I had to know he was all right. The doorknob felt odd under my left hand, but I managed to lean on it enough to push it open. The cast on my right made it impossible to grab anything, and my body was so damn weak.

  The hall was dim, lit only by a single lantern that hung from a hook in the ceiling. Using the doorframe as a brace, I stepped out, the floorboards creaking under my bare feet.

  Voices came at me from an open space just beyond the two other doors opening from the hall, so I moved toward them, grateful they seemed close, keeping my hand on the
wall as I walked. I focused on one motion at a time. Take a step. Viggo. Another step—closer to Viggo.

  As I moved, I once again became acutely aware of the absence of sound in my left ear. It felt as if someone had shoved a wad of cotton into it, and it ached fiercely. I still couldn’t remember how I had damaged it. I guessed I could ask Viggo… but as I thought that, I realized there was another host of worries pressing into the back of my skull, one more rising above the rest. There was something I had to ask first. The urgency spurred me to move my feet faster, but that only made me dizzier, and I was forced to maintain the slower pace.

  It took too long, but I made my way down the hall. As I approached the open space beyond, I was surprised to see it was a dining room. The people in it seemed to spin before my eyes, and I blinked them into focus, searching single-mindedly.

  Yes—there was Viggo, seated at the table, and something in my stomach settled to see him there safe. A redheaded girl was sitting next to him, peering at some maps in front of her. I took in the unique haircut—shaved on the sides with a riot of curls on top—and smiled. Her name was Amber, and she had helped me.

  Next to her sat Owen, and across from him, a short man with a paunchy stomach and dark, beady eyes. His face was like a rat’s, sly and cunning, and I felt an odd echo of both distaste and trust. It took me a minute as his face wobbled in my vision; his name was much harder to find, but I eventually recalled that he was Thomas, and he had helped me, too. In fact… he had been with my brother.