Creeping along the back of our makeshift shelters, I step carefully to minimize the crunch of my boots against the springy undergrowth that spreads along the base of the rock like a moss-green apron. With every step, my mind restlessly chews at the problems facing me.
I need to calm down. I need to think. I need to distance myself from the camp for a few minutes and just breathe until my thoughts settle and I can see things clearly.
Every guard I’ve posted is under strict orders to raise hell if they see even a hint of movement. Better a false alarm than to be caught unaware. It worries me that I’ve moved past most of the shelters without alerting a single guard. Not that I want to be caught. But still . . . I’m trusting kids to keep us safe. Kids. Never mind that I’m only nineteen. I’ve been looking out for myself since the Commander killed my mother and branded me an outcast when I was only six. Most of these boys haven’t faced anything worse than a tongue-lashing their entire lives.
I reach the eastern edge of camp and see Donny, Willow’s hopeful young suitor, slumped against the thick branch that holds up the final tent in this row. I can hear him snoring from five yards away. Barely suppressing a sigh, I crouch down and lay a hand on his shoulder.
“Wake up, Donny.”
He jerks awake, flinging my hand off his shoulder as he sits up. He doesn’t go for his knife. I rub the bridge of my nose and try for the most patient tone of voice I can muster. It’s too much to expect that a handful of sparring sessions would take the place of the kind of training that gave Rachel and me our fighting instincts.
I keep my voice pitched low. “It’s Logan. Where’s your knife?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve only been asleep for a second.” Faint traces of moonlight gleam silver and white against his shaggy brown hair, highlighting the cowlick that waves like a rebellious flag above his left temple. “I’m sorry, Logan.”
“You said that. Now where is your knife?”
He fumbles around at his belt for a few seconds, and I realize his knife is trapped against his waist.
I lean closer and press my finger to his throat. “You’re dead.”
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple scraping against my finger. “I just thought . . . it seemed safer to—”
“Weapon always at the ready, Donny. Always. We don’t want to lose you.”
His cowlick waves earnestly as he nods his head. “Okay. Yes. Weapon ready.”
I pat his shoulder. “Stay awake. You only have another two hours until shift change. We need you alert. Helps if you stand up.”
He nods again and scrambles to his feet. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”
I smile as if I never had a doubt. “I know you won’t.”
“Where are you going?” he asks as I step past the camp’s perimeter and toward the scraggly line of trees that press close to our little clearing on three sides.
“Just for a walk.”
“In the Wasteland?” Uncertainty fills his voice. “There might be . . . things out there. Dangerous things.”
“Yes,” I say. “And I’m one of them.”
“I’ll come with you. Isn’t safe to walk alone.” He shoves his knife into his belt again.
“Weapon at the ready,” I snap.
“Sorry! Sorry.” He fumbles for the knife again.
I draw in a breath and remember how young he is. How innocent he was until the snowball effect of the Commander’s treachery, Rachel’s need for vengeance, and my thirst for justice conspired to rip his childhood from him in one fateful morning.
“I appreciate the offer. But I need you here. Alert. Someone has to watch over the camp. You’re just the man for the job.”
He straightens and holds the knife loosely, blade out, like he’s ready. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know that. Keep that weapon out, Donny.”
I leave him there, moonlight dancing in his shaggy hair and glinting along the edge of a blade I pray he’ll never have to use, and let the shadows swallow me whole as I step into the forest.
The ground is still damp from the day’s rain, and the musky scent of dirt, bark, and growing things envelopes me. I move south, breathing deeply and listening to the soft hoot of an owl and the high-pitched whirring of the cicadas that cling to the branches above me. Slowly, my thoughts settle into something logical and coherent.
I don’t know why the Cursed One came after us today, but I can’t attribute significance to it where none exists. The booster pack I built for the Rowansmark tech did its job. I have to be satisfied with that.
I can’t convince Adam to let go of his grief and his anger when I understand the reasons behind them. I can only hope to show him that I have his best interest at heart. If he settles into my leadership, we won’t have a problem. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to figure out an effective consequence that will demonstrate I mean business, but that won’t alienate him further.
As for the final problem—I can’t finish the invention I’m building to track the Commander, and I can’t replicate the Rowansmark tech, without more supplies. I have to hope Lankenshire either has what I need or knows a way to get it.
Feeling settled and ready for sleep, I hurry through the forest and reach the edge of the tree line just before the guards are scheduled to change shifts. As I approach the camp, I see Donny, his cowlick glowing in the moonlight, slumped against the tree limb again.
I don’t bother suppressing my sigh this time. Clearly, he’s too young for nighttime guard duty. I don’t know who will take his place, but I’ll find someone. I can’t risk the camp, and I can’t risk Donny. If it comes down to it, I’d rather take the extra guard duty myself.
I reach Donny and squat in front of him. His knife is out, the blade facing me as he clutches it in his hand. Half the battle won. Now if we can just find a way to keep him alert, he might make a decent guard after all.
The slight smile spreading across my face dies as a pungent, coppery scent fills my nose.
“Donny?” I reach out and grasp his shoulder. “Wake up.”
He remains still. Dread pools in my stomach.
“Donny!” I shake him and watch in horror as his head tips back, revealing the thick crimson slice across the base of his neck.
Chapter Nineteen
RACHEL
“Rachel, wake up!”
My eyes snap open, and I reach for my knife even as I recognize Quinn’s voice. The dregs of another blood-filled dream cling to me as I roll over and realize Logan isn’t beside me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, pushing myself off my bedroll and reaching for my cloak. “Where’s Logan?”
“He’s at the east edge of camp. Someone murdered the guards.” His expression is stoic, but I’m learning to listen for the things he refuses to show, and I hear the horror in his words.
I stare at him for a second, and then I move. “What about the people within the camp? Are we surrounded? Is it Carrington?”
“Everyone else seems to be fine. No one’s in the Wasteland close to camp. And I don’t know if it’s Carrington,” he says as he follows me out of my tent. “Would the Commander quietly kill the guards and then pull back?”