Deception

Chapter Thirty-Six RACHEL

Logan conducts a funeral service on the rise of land at the north end of the meadow. The morning chill still clings to the air, and a somber mood lies over us like a blanket. I leave Sylph resting peacefully in the wagon with Smithson by her side and join the crowd of mourners. I tell Smithson I feel I should be present for the burial, and that’s partially true.

But really I need a few minutes away from the sight of Sylph’s slow deterioration and Smithson’s increasing desperation before the silent wall within me threatens to crack. I can’t grieve yet. Not while she’s still alive. Maybe not at all. If I let the depth of what she means to me hurt me, every other ghost that haunts me will demand its due, and how will I ever survive that?

So I stand at the edges of the crowd, letting Logan’s voice wash over me without leaving a single word behind, and tell myself that the scars that harden the surface of my heart are necessary for survival.

When Drake takes over to supervise the actual burial, Logan works his way around the side of the field until he’s standing beside me. He wraps an arm around my waist, and I lean against him as the first shovel bites into the ground. We stand in silence as those who loved the ones we lost say their words, pick their flowers, and find their own way to let go of one more dream.

When the crowd begins to disperse under Drake’s orders to help Nola cook the fish Willow caught, pack up the rest of the supplies, and be ready to move out in an hour, I look at Logan.

“This poison . . . there must be an antidote. We just need to figure out what we’re dealing with, right?” Deep down, though, I already know the answer. If there were an antidote, if Logan knew how to stop this, he wouldn’t be standing still doing nothing. But I have to ask. I have to know I tried everything to save her.

His jaw clenches. “It’s castor seed poison. And according to Quinn, there is no antidote.”

A weak spurt of anger warms me. “How does Quinn know about poisons? You’re the scientist. If there’s an antidote, you can figure it out.”

“Quinn and Willow both know a frightening amount about poisons and weapons and every other way to kill someone.” His voice is quiet, but still I glance around to make sure no one in Frankie’s small circle of friends overheard. The last thing we need to deal with is more suspicion aimed at the Runningbrooks. None of Frankie’s friends are nearby. There’s only Ian, rolling up a few yards of canvas, and Elias, slowly packing his travel bag while he watches us like he’d love to know what we’re talking about.

Logan turns me around to face him. His eyes burn into mine. “Rachel, I’m sorry. If I could think of anything—anything—to try, I would. But I don’t know how to save her.” His voice is nothing but a whisper now. “I’m sorry.”

The hurt stabbing through me throbs once or twice and then fades into the bleak silence. I don’t try to get it back. Sylph is going to die. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. One more person stripped from me. One more ghost to haunt me while I sleep.

Feeling nothing but icy emptiness is better than sliding into the gaping pit of loss and destruction lurking somewhere inside of me. If I feel nothing, I can function. I can go back and face her. I can be strong for Smithson.

I can keep going.

“Rachel?” Logan asks, his hand reaching for me as if to offer comfort.

I step back. I don’t need comfort. Comfort doesn’t solve anything. Tears don’t either. I just need to put one foot in front of the other and pretend I can handle this. If I pretend long enough, maybe it will become real.

Logan’s hand falls to his side, and I read the guilt and regret on his face as easily as if he’d said the words aloud. He feels responsible. He thinks I blame him. I should do something. Say something. Find a way to ease his mind and heart.

I should, but any softness that once existed in me has disappeared.

Before either of us can say another word, Quinn runs up to us. “Found the highwaymen’s campsite just west of here. They had two wagons full of supplies.”

“Where are they?” Logan asks.

“Over there.” Quinn points, and I turn to see two new wagons, each pulled by a sturdy-looking horse, resting at the southern edge of the meadow. “One of the wagons has blankets and bedrolls inside. The other is full of weapons, jars of fruit, sacks of jerky, bolts of cloth, and boots. Looks like they’d just come from a successful trading mission. Which makes finding these very suspicious.”

He holds out his hand, and we stare at the pile of silver coins spread across his palm. On one side is a bold, raised C.

“They traded with Carrington,” I say, and hunch my shoulders as an itch of awareness prickles the hair on the back of my neck. “They’re too close to the northern city-states for a trading mission with the actual city-state of Carrington. Highwaymen don’t travel that far.”

“Which means they most likely traded with the army,” Logan says.

“The army would’ve been fully provisioned before they marched on Baalboden,” Quinn says. “And the highwaymen’s wagons are full, so whatever they traded, it wasn’t food, weapons, or cloth. I don’t like it. I sent Frankie and Thom south to search for signs of anyone else close to us. I have a bad feeling about this. What did the highwaymen have that was valuable enough for the Commander to buy?”

The itch on the back of my neck becomes a terrible need to get out of the open. Get the people into the Wasteland.

Run.

“Information,” Logan says, and he’s already moving. “They traded information about other routes to the northern city-states, and they must’ve done it yesterday, which means the army has had enough time to catch up to us. We’re in trouble. Let’s go.”

A shout goes up from the eastern edge of the meadow. We spin toward the noise and stare as Frankie and Thom thunder out of the forest, their horses galloping at top speed. Frankie locks eyes with us and yells, “Move, move, move! The army is coming!”

“South! Go south! Find the bridge.” Logan waves at Frankie to take the lead, and as the horse races past us, Logan yells to the crowd of survivors who stand frozen in horror, packs on their backs, food in their hands. “Follow Frankie. Men carry the children. Guards, grab your weapons. Get those wagons moving.” When everyone just stares at him for a heartbeat, he screams, “Run!”

The crowd breaks. Men grab children and race south into the tree line. Women hike up their skirts and follow. Nola, Jodi, Drake, and Elias climb into wagon seats and slap the reins to get the animals moving. Quinn and Willow run to the highwaymen’s wagons, leap aboard, and reach back to haul slower-moving people into the wagon beds before sending the horses careening into the forest.

“I’m going in the medical wagon,” I say as I run south beside Logan. “I’ll kill anyone who tries to get inside.”

“Be safe,” he says, and leaps for one of the supply wagons.

I’ve nearly reached the wagon when Ian runs up to me. His eyes are lit with a wild light as he grabs my arm.

“This is it. This is our chance. The Commander is in range.”

The medical wagon bounces over a rock, and Sylph’s cry of pain scrapes my heart raw.

“Move,” I say, and try to step around him.

“Rachel, we need the device. We can end this.” His grip hurts my arm.

“Logan has the device, and he’s in another wagon. Go talk to him if you—”

“We had a deal.” Ian’s voice is furious, but I don’t care. The entire field is in chaos, the Commander isn’t in front of us yet, and Sylph needs me. I’m not going to spend the last moments of her life trying to con Logan out of the device when I should be helping get everyone to safety.

I wrench my arm free and shove Ian aside. Before he can say another word, I grab the back of the medical wagon and jump onto the step as our people scramble into the trees while in the distance, a line of Carrington soldiers breaks out of the eastern forest and races toward us.