Lily’s smile dissolved. She thought of Lillian, and her claim that she became a murderer to save Rowan’s people. Lily didn’t know the whole story yet, but she did know that no one can lie in mindspeak. Lillian believed she’d saved lives by killing. That was her truth. After over an hour of reading about genocide and about how people like Buffalo Bill were seen as heroes in their day, Lily wasn’t so sure what the words “murderer” and “hero” meant anymore. Would she kill a few to stop what had happened on the Trail of Tears? And if she wouldn’t—if she wasn’t willing to get her hands dirty in order to save thousands of innocent lives—would that make her a bigger monster than Lillian?
What’s the matter, Lily?
I thought of Lillian.
Don’t. Put her out of your mind entirely or you may accidentally reach out to her in mindspeak. You’re here, you’re safe, and you’re going to stay that way.
Lily held her breath, waiting for Rowan to ask if Lillian had tried to contact her, but he didn’t. He didn’t even suspect Lily was hiding something from him. She tightened her arms around him and vowed then and there to never to reach out to Lillian again, no matter how much she still craved answers.
As long as I’m with you, I don’t really care where I am, Rowan.
She felt his arms tighten around her briefly before he let her go and got up. “I’ll take you back to your room,” he said quietly, and gathered her up in his arms.
“Can’t we stay here?” Lily asked.
She met his eyes. The house was quiet. Everyone else was sleeping. Lily slid her hand over his shoulder, cupping the muscle in her palm, before she let her hand flare out and wander to his bare throat where his willstone softly glowed. She felt his pulse start thumping under her hand. He stood very still, and Lily could feel heat building in his body as he stared at her. He suddenly looked away.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he said, then started carrying her upstairs.
Lily caught a glimpse of her reflection in a dark window as Rowan carried her past it. A patchwork of angry red lines marred her white skin.
Rowan. My face—
Your face will be just as beautiful as it was before. I promise.
And how long will I be hideous?
Rowan put her in bed and pulled the covers over her. “Don’t say that again. That has nothing to do with—” He broke off and lowered his voice. “I’m not sleeping separately because I don’t want you, Lily. I’m sleeping separately because your skin is too fragile, and I need more than you can give me right now. I had a shock tonight, and I don’t trust myself to just go to sleep if you’re next to me.” He stared down at her, waiting. “Are we okay?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Yeah, we’re okay.” She reached up and ran her fingertips over his bottom lip. “But you owe me.”
Rowan laughed under his breath. “We’ll tally up the bill between us later. So start thinking about how you’re going to pay me back.”
He gave her a small kiss before leaving her to wrestle with her conscience. She wanted to contact Lillian even though she’d sworn to herself she’d never do it again. She wanted to know why. Why did Lillian kill the shaman? She’d learned so much from him, and Lily could feel that Lillian loved the old man. Did she let him rot in the oubliette to prevent some greater evil?
Lily shut her eyes and hoped that after she dropped off it would be Lillian who would reach out for her in the Mist. That way, Lily wouldn’t have to break her promise to herself. It was a tiny distinction, one that didn’t really absolve her, but Lily was too curious to care. She wanted to know Lillian’s story. She wanted to know what had happened on the cinder world.
Lily left her mind open and didn’t have to wait long for Lillian to join her, with a memory ready to be shared.
… I am running, even though I barely have enough strength to walk. My foot catches on something and I plow headlong into the frozen leaf litter. The dead trees haven’t borne leaves in many seasons, and those that cover the ground are rotten and won’t burn. I see my forearms in front of me. They are covered in scabby sores, like the rest of the walking dead in this poisonous world.
I’ve been in this cinder world too long, and even though I can heal myself, I can no longer keep up with the rate at which my body is deteriorating. I must get out of here, or I will be past the point of saving soon. I stagger to my feet and force myself to run faster. I can hear their eager shouts and taunting whistles behind me.
They’re coming. I can’t outrun them. I need to hide. I look over my shoulder at just the wrong time. I crash into someone’s chest, knocking myself to the ground and nearly knocking the breath from my own lungs.
“Got ya, pretty,” the man murmurs, a leer pulling up against his ulcerous gums. “What’s a little thing like you doing running ’round the woods anyway? Don’t you know the Woven can get ya? They’re just about the only things left alive, besides me.”
I scramble away from him as he guffaws lewdly. He grabs my bare ankle and yanks me back toward him. Fine. He chose his own death, then. Bare skin on bare skin is all I need. I begin to drain the charge right from his nerves, feeding myself on his life. His eyes widen as he drops to his knees, the muscles of his face twitching and twisting his face into an agonized grimace. Being drained is probably the most painful death there is, but this thing is not a man anymore. The only people left in this world are murderers and rapists. They are scavengers, like the Woven. Only the most vicious of the vicious survived, and like the Woven the only real defense I have against them is to suck the life out of them when either attacks me.
“Witch?” he groans, confused and in excruciating pain. “But all the witches died in their cities.”
He falls to the ground, convulsing. At least death comes relatively quickly this way.
“Not all,” I say, kicking the stiff claw of his hand off my ankle. I scan his body quickly for anything I might need. Knife. Crossbow. Net. I take them all. I notice he has no willstone. This is the fourth one I’ve killed and none of them wore willstones. It’s a puzzle I have yet to solve.
The deaths of men like this have helped keep me alive so far. There is no food left in this part of the world. To find food you’d have to live through a trek across the Woven Woods and far enough out into the interior of the continent to escape the fallout. A trip like that would be suicide. Either the Woven would get you, or starvation would. All the plants close to the cities have died in the never-ending winter. The surviving animals were made sterile or unable to produce healthy offspring by the blast and then, in a matter of months, were hunted until there were no more.
It didn’t take long for this area of the world to run out of food, and getting to another area would mean somehow getting past an army of Woven—whose number seem to have grown, not fallen, since the holocaust. They have thrived in the ashes of this world, hemming in the few survivors of the blast until they all starve to death. The only living things I’ve been able to find on this side of the Woven Woods are the Woven and the scum who hunt me. I can live on the body energy of both with no need to eat, but water I cannot do without.
There is a large group of them gathered at what used to be a heavily walled ranch outside the city of Salem. Ranches like this are rare and existed only to raise luxury meats for the wealthy who could afford meat that was born and not grown in the Stacks. We used to send petty criminals and poor citizens who could not find work to these ranches. Work camps, we called them. As if calling indentured servitude work would make it better. I did this or helped at least. As Lady of Salem and head of the Coven I had to cosign the papers for worker transport along with Danforth, who was head of the other branch of government, the Council.
I tried to change the law. I tried to get the men fair pay, but too many powerful people made too much money off the ranches. Eventually I gave in to the pressure, and now I’m paying for it. I justified sending them to the ranches by telling myself I was protecting society from criminals. Ironically, what I did ensured that c
riminals would be all that is left of humanity.
The ranches were built outside the city and their thick walls, originally meant to protect precious livestock from the Woven, were the only things for miles to survive the blast. This particular ranch I’ve been orbiting for weeks is all that is left for protection from the Woven and one of the only sources of water for miles. The scum who now run the ranch know I’m out here, hiding in the woods, taking my chances with the Woven. They send out gangs to search for me. I can survive their attacks, as I can the Woven, but only if they come at me in small numbers. Too many of either of them would overwhelm me. I wouldn’t be able to kill them fast enough.
This is a game to them now. They don’t seem to value the lives that I’ve taken in the slightest. They laugh when they find the bodies and talk about having more food to go around. Probably because they know that soon I’ll need water again, no matter how tainted it is, and I’ll come back to their well. They’ll catch me eventually, and then they’ll put me in the barn …
The barn, Lily. They did catch me, and then they put me in the barn.
Lily shook herself awake, instinctively severing her connection to Lillian to protect herself, but her body was still flooded with every drop of Lillian’s intense fear. Lily ran her hands over the top of her covers, still not sure if she was feeling the crackle of burned-out leaves under her fingers or the soft nap of her duvet. She circled her hands again and again until the echo of Lillian’s feelings ebbed away.
Lily! What happened?
Lily looked around her bedroom as if it were the first time she’d ever seen it. Lillian had been close to panic and Lily couldn’t shake it off, not even to answer Rowan. The image of a white barn with peeling paint and a rusty chain binding the door shut crowded out any other thought. Something had happened in that barn—something that had changed Lillian.
“Lily,” Rowan said. She looked up and saw him standing over her. “What happened?”
“Nightmare,” Lily answered, and realized that she wasn’t lying. Her spirit had strayed into the Mist, that empty nowhere-land that was somewhere between deep sleep and death. What she had witnessed there had been a nightmare for Lily, even if it was a memory for Lillian. “I was being chased.”
Rowan sat on the edge of Lily’s bed. “I have that nightmare all the time. The Woven come out of nowhere. I run, but I’m too slow.”
Lily frowned. She’d had nightmares about the Woven, but this was worse somehow. Humans had chased Lillian, and humans can hurt another person in ways that animals can’t. Rowan brushed the tears off her cheeks.
Do you want me to stay with you?
“Lily?” Juliet asked from the doorway. She was wearing mismatched flannel pajamas. The top half was decorated with clouds, but the bottoms had cows jumping over the moon. She was so disheveled and adorable that Lily smiled.
No, Rowan. I think I want my sister tonight.
Okay. Whatever you need.
“I had a nightmare. Will you stay with me, Jules?” Lily asked, ignoring the hurt look on Rowan’s face. She couldn’t spend the night with him. What if she shared another one of Lillian’s memories and he picked up on it?
“Sure,” Juliet replied, already crossing the room. Rowan lifted up the covers for Juliet and tucked the sisters in together.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” he said before leaving them.
Lily settled in and put her head on her sister’s slim shoulder. Did I wake Mom, Juliet?
She’s out like a light, Lily.
Drugged again.
No. Rowan gave her tart cherry juice, a bite of turkey, and then he put lavender under her pillow. No drugs. He said she didn’t need them anymore.
Rowan’s treating Mom?
Yeah. And she’s doing really well, Lily. She’s more aware now. Damn, I love mindspeak.
It makes some things easier.
And some things harder, I’m guessing.
Lily didn’t need to answer.
* * *
Carrick killed the spider very slowly, pulling off one leg at a time. He knew, if no one else did, that the moments just before death were the only pure moments in life. That’s why when he killed he tried to make it last. Dying was the most important thing a body could do besides being born, and in a way Carrick saw himself as a mother—a mother who pulled her babies back into her warm self rather than pushing them out into the cold world. The only difference between dying and being born was that babies don’t remember their births. But if souls live on, Carrick was sure that any one of them would remember their deaths, especially if he had been their death-mother.
Carrick was good at making death memorable. It was the one skill he’d been trained for since he was a small boy. He’d learned how to hurt things from his father, Anoki, who was the bait man for their small tribe. It was Anoki’s job to lay trails of wounded animals away from the group. The blood and the cries of distress from the wounded animals led the Woven away from the tribe, and kept people safe.
Anoki was very good at his job. The best. He could make one sheep squeal until dawn, as it dragged itself, walleyed with pain, in any direction Anoki chose. He knew just how to break a dove’s wing so that it fluttered helplessly for hours inside the scrub, or hamstring a wolf so it howled for help, until the whole pack came to share in its death by the Woven. Anoki was a feared man—the tribe could hear the echoes of his handiwork all night long as one tortured animal after another screamed its way to death. He was an important man—he kept his tribe safe. He was a loathed man—because everyone knew he liked it.
Carrick’s mother, Mary, couldn’t have been more different. She was a gentle soul, full of laughs and flashing smiles. Fair skin, light red hair, and blue eyes, like a city woman’s. She was the bride that Anoki demanded for his services to the tribe, but she was too valuable for him to ever keep. Everyone said Mary could have been a witch if she’d been raised in one of the cities.
Mary’s freedom from Anoki was helped along by River Fall. Some say because River had grown heartsick from mending her broken bones and stitching together that smooth white skin of hers. He pleaded with the elders to release Mary from her bond with Anoki. If they did not, he warned, Anoki would eventually kill her. The elders agreed, and freed Mary. But Carrick was not part of the deal. If the tribe wanted to keep their bait man, Anoki had to be allowed to keep his son. And in tribal law, sons belong to the fathers, while daughters belong to the mothers.
Mary left Carrick behind. She took River Fall for her next husband, even though she could have had any man in the tribe. She had magic in her blood, and everyone wanted a child with magic. Carrick could still remember how Mary looked at River. How the two of them fawned over that squalling baby boy.
Rowan.
Rowan was loved from the moment he was born. And when Mary took fever and died, it only made River love Rowan even more. Carrick had no memory of love. But pain—that was something he understood. Suffering had more meaning to him than any kiss or any caress ever could.
Love left. But death was forever.
Carrick saw light flashing down at the end of the cell block. He was the only inmate on this level, and since being imprisoned by Lillian for his involvement in Lily’s torture in the oubliette, he’d been kept mostly in the dark as punishment. Much better than what had happened to Gideon for conspiring against her. Lillian sent him into battle, and the fool got his head chopped off in the first few seconds of fighting. By Rowan, no less, Carrick had heard. The dark, the cold, and the thin rations didn’t bother Carrick. In fact, he applauded the witch’s attempt to discipline him. He stowed his half-dead spider carefully under the metal cup chained to the faucet in his cell, smiling. No one knew more about discipline than Carrick.
“On your feet,” growled a guard.
Carrick stood, blinking against the torchlight in the man’s hand. Next to the guard he made out the slim shape of a small woman. Tiny though she was, he could feel her strength coming at him in waves.
His eyes adjusted, and he saw Lillian looking at him through the bars of his cell. Carrick was very good at reading faces, even a face that was still healing from burns as hers was. Lillian kept her expression blank, but he could still see loathing behind her calm eyes. And something odd that he couldn’t quite place. Her eyes were turned in on herself. She barely took him in at all.
“You have talent,” she said dully. “A lot of talent.”
“Runs in the family,” he replied in his deep, quiet voice.
Lillian nodded, her eyes wandering away from him, like she barely cared that he had hurt another version of her and would have hurt her if it had been her willstone he’d held in his hand.
“Can you spirit walk?” Her eyes flicked back to his and narrowed in warning. “And don’t lie to me.”
“No,” he replied, stunning himself with his own honesty. “But I was told by the shaman that I had the ability.”
“What happened?”
“He refused to train me.” Carrick tried to hold her detached and puzzling gaze, but he couldn’t. He didn’t understand her, and he didn’t like that. Carrick was used to understanding what people wanted and gaining the advantage by manipulating their desires. With Lillian, he didn’t have the foggiest idea what she intended.
“Can you feel Rowan?” she said, cocking her head to the side.
Carrick searched inside himself. “He’s very far away. Farther than he’s ever been before. But I don’t think he’s dead.”
“Come closer,” Lillian said. “Right up against the bars.” Carrick did as she said. “Has any other witch claimed you?”
“No,” Carrick replied, still confused. He caught a flash of resignation in her eyes, and understanding dawned on him in an instant. “It’s not me you loathe. It’s you.”
Firewalker Page 6