Ian takes another step forward, his fists clenched. “He was not your father. He was mine. So was our mother. But you killed them.” Ian’s voice rises. “You killed them both. My mother couldn’t stand to suffer over the loss of you, even though I was right there. She chose death instead. And my father—”
“Paid the price for his loyalty toward the Commander with his life while you watched. I know. You told me, remember? While you were busy lying to me about your background, because unlike a man of honor, you chose deception and murder as a means to get the vengeance you crave.”
I step forward, as much to put distance between me and my friends as to get closer to Ian. Quinn has already moved Rachel back another few yards. Behind the trackers who line the council steps, the triumvirate exits the building and stops to stare. I look at Ian. “I guess you and the Commander aren’t very different from each other, are you?”
Ian’s entire body vibrates, and he spits his words at me. “I have more honor in my little finger than you could find in the entire group of pathetic refugees from Baalboden. I remained loyal to my leader. To my city. Even in the face of my family’s disgrace.”
“Honor and loyalty require you to murder children? To poison innocents?” My voice is rising too. “To burn an entire city to the ground because you thought your life wasn’t fair?”
“Fair?” Ian is yelling now. “Let me tell you what isn’t fair. You spent your life in the lap of luxury, coddled by the Commander as his precious investment, while I spent mine scrambling to stay one step ahead of the disgrace my mother’s suicide and my father’s theft brought down on my head.”
“You idiot!” Frankie roars, whipping out his sword and closing the gap between him and me. “Logan’s Baalboden mother was flogged to death in front of him when he was just six years old. He was declared an outcast. He survived on the streets by begging or stealing or eating trash just to have enough to keep himself alive. Until you destroyed our city, most of us still wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He had a mountain of loss, neglect, and downright cruelty to overcome, but he didn’t turn around and start killing innocent people because of it.”
“He betrayed his family!” Ian’s voice rings across the square, full of terrible rage. “He left us to our disgrace.”
“I didn’t know.” I speak quietly, hoping to calm Ian. Hoping to stop the violence I see in his eyes. “Until two hours ago when a Lankenshire man who’d spent significant time in Rowansmark nineteen years ago recognized me, I didn’t know I was anything other than Logan McEntire from Baalboden.”
Ian’s laugh is harsh. “That’s very believable, Logan. Very. You delivered that lie with all the false sincerity with which you live your life.” He steps closer. “But I know you knew the truth. Jared Adams checked in with my father every six months, bringing progress reports on you and assuring us that you were healthy and happy. The same man who took you in as his apprentice and allowed you to court his daughter.” His voice shakes. “You were close to Jared, connected to him in every way, so don’t stand there and tell me you didn’t know the truth.”
“I didn’t . . .” My voice dries up. My air runs out. My heart is a frantic, caged thing beating against my chest.
Jared knew? All this time, he knew who I was and why the Commander hated me so much, but he never told me? I thought he respected me. Maybe even loved me. Earning his regard was one of the touchstones by which I lived my life.
Ian is still speaking, but I don’t hear a word he says. Who else knew? Oliver, who was closer to Jared than anyone but Rachel and who fed me, clothed me, and treated me like a son? Did he save me out of love, or was he tasked with making sure the Commander’s investment didn’t starve to death in an alley before I could be useful?
The pain of my mother’s lies, Jared’s secrecy, and Oliver’s uncertain motives slices into me, but I don’t have time to dwell on it.
Ian locks eyes with me and says, “Do you understand pain atonement, Logan? The pain must be commensurate with the crime. Most people survive the punishment. But if the crime is too big—if you’ve betrayed your family, your employers, your fellow citizens, and your leader by giving the power to rule the continent to the one man your leader hates beyond all others—the punishment is impossible to survive.”
“Marcus died. I get that.” My hand grips my sword with white knuckles. Two more steps and Ian will be in range. I can’t kill him, but I can maim him. If I take him out of the equation, perhaps we have a chance at fighting off the rest of the trackers. Perhaps none of them will summon the beast while they’re still well within its path of destruction. “But just because you lost your father—”
“I killed him!” Ian’s voice sounds desperate. “It was my test to be accepted into the ranks of the military council without the taint of my family’s disgrace clinging to me. I administered the pain atonement, and I watched him die.”
I stare at him in horrified silence as the emotion on his face slowly subsides, replaced by a slick mask of charm that fails to contain the twisted creature he’s become.
Had he always been like this? Always capable of murdering innocents and laying the blame on his inner demons? Or did he join our group hoping to find family with me, hoping to make me see things his way, only to be disappointed once again when I wasn’t who he needed me to be?
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that the killings stop, and that he pays for his crimes.
Around me, my people fan out to flank me, weapons raised. My heart clenches as the trackers move closer. Only five yards separate us now.
“Tell your people to back off,” Ian says as he reaches into his cloak pocket and withdraws two clay cylinders, each about the size of his palm.
“Or what?” Willow asks. “You’ll call that unholy lizard—”
“The tanniyn,” Ian sneers. “If you’re going to talk about something, at least use the correct terminology.”
“Would you like to hear the terminology I use for you?” Willow asks. “Or should I tell you that after I’ve cut out your tongue and fed it to the dogs?” She steps past me, and Ian retreats a step.
“Tell your people to back off, Logan, or once again, you’ll be responsible for the consequences,” he says.
“Funny how you seem to think everyone else should be responsible for what you do,” Rachel says from ten yards behind me. Her voice sounds breathless. Pained.
I glance back to see her leaning on Quinn, her knife still in her hand, her skin as pale as the stone beneath our feet. Quinn meets my eyes. I beg him with my expression to get her away from here before all hell breaks loose. She’s in no shape to defend herself, and if I’m worried about her, I’ll be distracted while I’m fighting.
Quinn nods his understanding and begins moving Rachel away again, a task made difficult by the presence of trackers at his back. He’ll have to make it look like he has no part in what’s going on.
And I’ll have to provide a distraction capable of buying him the time he needs.
“Give us the device, along with any modifications, designs, or replicas, and your people get to stay alive.” The tracker who first addressed me speaks again, and Ian takes a sliding step to my right.
“What about Logan?” Adam asks. “You said his people get to live. What about Logan?”
“Oh, there’s no scenario in which Logan survives this.” Ian moves to the right again, and the other trackers step closer. The moves are coordinated. Rehearsed.
Planned.
“You see, the very second Logan hands everything over to me, he will die,” Ian says, his thumbs rubbing the clay cylinders he holds.
“Then why would he ever give it to you?” Frankie says. “You’ve lost your mind.”
What is Ian up to? I stare at the cylinders he holds while I edge toward him, my sword ready. Some sort of incendiary device? More tech involving the Cursed One?
“He never had his mind to begin with,” Willow says. “He’s nothing but a lunatic who lost his mommy a
nd daddy and wants to burn the world down so he can sit back and watch.”
Ian snarls at her, but then drifts farther to the right. Farther away from me.
“He’ll hand it over—”
Farther toward the southern edge of the square.
“—because if he doesn’t—”
The other trackers converge on us, weapons out.
“—if he holds back even one single piece of tech—”
Ian slides to the right again. Toward the edge of the square.
Toward Rachel.
“—he’ll lose everyone he loves.” His blue eyes meet mine, and he smiles. “Just. Like. Me.”
“No!” I shove Willow aside and start running.
Chapter Fifty-Six
RACHEL
Quinn’s arm tightens around me as Ian raises his hands above his head and throws the clay cylinders onto the stones at his feet. They explode on impact and the southern half of the square is instantly filled with thick, gray smoke.
I raise my hand to cover my mouth, but it’s too late. The smoke rushes down my throat and coats my lungs. I cough—harsh, desperate gasps that seem to tear at my throat—and feel Quinn coughing beside me as well. His hand fists into the back of my cloak and he pulls me toward him.
A bell starts clanging from the top of the council building. I don’t know if it’s calling for Lankenshire citizens to help us or if it’s warning them to stay away.
My head feels too light, my knife too heavy, and I struggle to stay on my feet. Ian did this for a reason, and I’m not dropping my weapon or my guard until I see what that reason is.
Quinn coughs and hacks, one arm thrown over his face, and says, “Get down!”
He half pulls, half shoves, and it doesn’t take much to convince my already-shaking knees that they can’t hold me. I hit the pavement hard, and pain screams up my right arm.
“Keep your head down. The smoke is rising.” Quinn sprawls on all fours beside me, his breathing erratic, his arms trembling.
We need to get out of this smoke. We can’t help Logan fight off Ian and the trackers if we’re too busy desperately gasping for clean air that never comes. If we can’t walk, we’re going to have to crawl.
Clutching my knife in my left hand, I lie on my belly, dig my elbows into the stone beneath me, and push myself forward. Agony blazes through me every time I put any weight on my right arm, but I don’t have the luxury of stopping. Quinn drops to his stomach beside me and begins to move forward as well.
We’re heading south. I think. There’s too much thick smoke to tell, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is getting clear of the smoke so that we can breathe again.
Muffled voices shout all around us. The harsh metallic clang of swords clashing fills the air, but we can’t see the fighting. We can only see a handspan in front of us.
Digging my elbows in again, I shove forward and my hand slaps against a pair of dark brown boots. Before I can do more than gasp for a smoke-tainted breath, the owner of the boots crouches down and meets my gaze.
It’s Ian, his mouth covered with a thick cloth. Brilliant rage glows in his eyes as he reaches out and grabs the front of my tunic. I slash with my knife, aiming for the artery in his wrist, but my movements are slow and sluggish as the smoke drifts through my lungs and settles over my brain like a fog.
He deflects the blow, sending my knife skittering across the square, and then pulls his mask to the side long enough to say, “This time, Rachel, I’m more than happy to let you sacrifice yourself for Logan.”
He drags me to my feet, but Quinn is already there, crouched and shaking, his breath rattling in the back of his throat like a trapped animal. He lunges forward, but Ian snaps out a powerful sidekick, and his boot connects solidly with Quinn’s head. Quinn falls to the ground and disappears beneath the cloud of smoke.
Ian pulls me roughly to the edge of the square and then into a side street, where the smoke thins enough to see where we’re going. I can’t get enough air, and my throat feels raw. I’m weak, my right arm is useless, my weapon is gone, and I can’t even draw enough air to curse Ian’s name.
It doesn’t matter. I’m still going to kill him. For Sylph. For Donny. For Logan.
For me.
The street curves away from the square. The brick facades on the buildings that line the road are covered in a fine sheen of grit and dirt, as if no one really cares what this neighborhood looks like. My boots drag against the ground, and I let myself go limp. If Ian wants me to come with him so badly, he’s going to have to expend the time and energy it takes to carry me. And if he lifts me over his shoulder where my boot has a clear shot at his manly parts, so much the better.
He grunts as I slump against him, and then he rips the mask off of his face. “I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work.”
Since we’ve already slowed down, I beg to differ.
He bends down and scoops me up, cradling me against his chest. My feet can’t reach anything but air, but my arms are another story. Dragging in as much of a breath as I can manage, I punch my left hand toward his face and jab my fingers into his eyes.
He drops me.
I land on my right side, and pain screams through me. I curl into a ball, holding my arm as if I can somehow make the hurt go away, and clench my teeth to keep from crying.
Ian crouches beside me and says, “You can’t beat me, Rachel. All I have to do is squeeze your burned arm, and you’ll come undone.”
I roll slowly onto my back. “Undone is not the same as beaten.”
Far behind us, shouts ring out as the trackers battle with the small group of Baalboden survivors inside the square. I stare up at Ian’s eyes and remember that in the flickering light of the fires, when most of his face was covered by his cloak and I didn’t know who he was, he reminded me of Logan. Now that I know they’re brothers, I can see that Ian’s eyes and the tilt of his chin resemble Logan’s.
Ian’s voice is calm, though the fury in his eyes hasn’t abated. “Make this easy on yourself, Rachel.”
I laugh—a choked, wet, desperate sound. “When have I ever made things easy on myself?”
His jaw clenches. Grabbing a fistful of my tunic, he lifts me partially off the ground and begins dragging me down the street. I kick and thrash, doing my best to jerk myself out of his grasp.
He lets me fall onto the pavement, and my head bounces against the stone with a dull thud that instantly makes my skull ache. Letting go of my tunic, he punches my bandaged arm. I scream as the pain rips through me, but then I swallow it down.
I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he’s hurting me.
Grabbing my tunic again, he continues to drag me as the street narrows and the buildings become rough-faced, broken-down things. I struggle against him, but the throbbing in my arm has spread to my neck, and my head feels fuzzy and unfocused.
“You should’ve kept your word,” he says as he turns abruptly into a narrow alley overshadowed by tall brick buildings on either side. “You should’ve taken the controller from Logan and given it to me. You could’ve avoided all of this, but you broke your promise.”
My feet bump against the uneven stones beneath me, sending jolts of pain through my arm. I’m still gasping for air with lungs that feel gritty and raw, but I say, “You’d already killed eight innocent boys before we had that conversation, even though you’d taken a position as a guard and given your word to protect our camp. You have no right to talk to me about broken promises.”
“They were Logan’s punishment.” His voice is hard and cruel.
“What about the people you poisoned? What about Sylph?”
“Justice requires sacrifice.” He crouches down, keeping one hand on me, and lifts a slim metal circle out of the center of the alley. “I thought you understood that.”
“Justice sometimes requires sacrificing oneself. Not sacrificing others.”
There’s a hole in the ground. A metal ladder is attached to the
edge of the opening.
“We’re going down this ladder,” he says. “In your current condition, I’d hang on tight. We wouldn’t want you plummeting to your death before Logan has the chance to give his life for yours.” His smile is twisted, full of pain and purpose. “Logan understands sacrifice, too.”
“Yes, he does.” I plant my left hand on the street and push myself upright, my right arm still cradled across my lap. “And so do I. But we also understand justice, something you don’t seem to grasp.”
“Climb down.”
“No.”
His eyes blaze. “Climb down or I’ll make you regret ever breaking your promise to me.”
I lift my chin and meet his gaze without flinching. “I’ll make another promise to you, Ian. One I am wholeheartedly committed to keeping.” I lean close, and a draft of moist, cool air rises out of the hole in the street.
“I, Rachel Adams, promise to kill you, Ian McEntire, for the crimes of destroying Baalboden and killing thousands of innocent people.” I match the ferocity of his anger with a heaping dose of my own. “And I’ll make it hurt. You like pain atonement. You should appreciate that.”
His lip curls, and he says, “One last chance. Climb down.”
“No.” I hurl the word at him.
He balls up his fist and slams it into the side of my head. For one fleeting moment, I can still hear the distant sounds of fighting. Still feel the roughness of the stone beneath me. Still see Ian’s eyes glaring into mine.
But then my ears ring, my eyes close, and darkness takes me.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
LOGAN
My sword slams against a tracker’s blade as I battle my way toward where I last saw Rachel. The smoke is lifting, shredding into long slices of gray, but I can’t see her. The man I’m fighting spins, blade slashing, and I parry his blow.
Easily.
Another slash. Another parry. Fighting him is like sparring with one of our newer guards. It takes very little effort on my part to keep him at bay.
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