Deception

Chapter Twenty-Seven LOGAN

I wake at dawn to a splitting headache. Shadowy half-light seeps in past the mossy window, turning everything around me into hazy, indistinct shapes.

Or maybe taking a rock to the head did that.

Trying to get up sends shooting pain into my eye sockets and makes my stomach pitch. I lie still, breathing deeply for a moment, and then slowly roll to my side.

Rachel is asleep, slumped against the wall beside me, her knife clutched in her hand. Since I didn’t wake to screams, she either had a peaceful night, or she stayed up until sheer exhaustion kept her from dreaming. Judging by the faint dark smudges beneath her eyes, I’m betting on the latter.

It’s time to get the camp up and moving. We need to light the fire before the army starts moving off the bluff.

My head pounds, a sick throbbing that increases as I push myself to my knees. I move my feet underneath me until I’m crouching over my blanket, cradling my head in my hands. The bandage that Rachel tied over the cut feels like it’s stuck to the back of my skull. Dried blood, probably. I’ll need to dunk my head in some water to get it off.

The thought of it makes me want to lie down again.

Instead, I hold still and breathe deeply, hoping the throbbing in my head will lessen. If I can’t get this pain under control, I’ll be in no shape to lead us into the Wasteland.

I let go of my head and press my palms to the ground. Surely, if I move slowly enough, I can stand up. The contents of our room lurch sideways as I push myself off the floor and instantly crash back down onto my hands and knees. I look at Rachel, but she’s still sound asleep, her knife gleaming against the dark brown of her cloak.

I’m going to need some leverage to get myself on my feet. Moving cautiously, I crawl toward the doorway, my eyes on the sturdy table that hugs the wall beside the entrance. The rug that covers the floor is brittle and seems to crumble beneath my fingers as I lean on my hands.

I’m nearly there when something sharp gouges my palm. Looking down, I see a slender gray piece of metal, about the length of my index finger. One end is fluted, its slim edges now covered in blood from the shallow cut on my hand. The other end looks like a miniature spear, its needle tip buried in the rug beside my travel pack.

It’s a dart. Made from the same metal as the Rowansmark tech I wear strapped across my chest. A small white cloth is pinned to the floor beneath it.

My chest feels like a slab of steel is crushing me as the implications hit home.

The tracker was in our room.

Which means he got inside the building. Which means the four people who stood guard over the main entrance last night are probably dead.

My fingers shake as I grasp the dart and yank it free. The pressure in my chest joins the throbbing in my head as I unfold the cloth and stare at the letters penned in delicate swirls of drying blood.

The marked will die to pay your debt.

I swear viciously and crumple the cloth in my fist. Rachel jerks to attention and comes to her feet, her knife gripped tightly.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asks.

“This.” I toss the cloth to her and pick up the dart instead. Definitely the same material as the device. If I had any doubt left within me that I’m dealing with a Rowansmark tracker, it’s gone now.

I drop the dart and press my fingers to my eyes in the futile hope that somehow if I just push hard enough, the pain will go away.

“Where was this?” Rachel asks. Her voice crashes into my head and doubles the pain.

“Here.” I gesture toward the floor and immediately regret it when the movement sends brilliant white sparks through my brain.

Her words are furious, but I hear the thin thread of fear beneath them. “He was in here. When?”

“I don’t know, but I’m afraid the guards we had at the building’s entrance must be dead. We have to go check, and then get our people out of this place before he does anything else.”

“It says the marked will die. That means it hasn’t happened yet. If we can figure out what he means or how he intends to do it, we can stop him,” Rachel says. “Let’s go.”

“Yes,” I say, though with every sound crashing around inside of my head like it’s trying to crack my skull, I’m not in any shape to figure out how to stand up on my own, much less how to outthink a killer.

She slides her knife into its sheath and wraps her arm around me. I lean heavily on her while I stagger to my feet. The ground dips and sways, and I close my eyes until the world around me settles. Then we slowly make our way toward the door.

“The marked will die,” I say as we reach the doorway. “I wonder what kind of mark he means?”

Rachel shoves the door open and we step out into the hallway. A few people walk out of their rooms, travel packs slung over their shoulders, but we barely spare them a glance. We’re too busy staring at the row of doorways stretching along the corridor.

Scattered throughout the hall are doors marked with a bloody X.