Deception

Chapter Eighteen LOGAN

I don’t call for us to make camp for the night until it’s nearly twilight. I wanted to put significant distance between us and the place of the Cursed One’s attack in case the beast returns to finish what it started. And I was looking for a location that could shelter us from the relentless wind. Wind that drove rain into our faces for most of the afternoon, and then whipped us dry as the sun steadily disappeared into the western horizon.

I find what I’m looking for at the base of a rock outcropping that blocks most of the wind and also seals off the western edge of camp from possible intruders. Not that we’ve seen anyone in the Wasteland since leaving Baalboden four days ago, but that doesn’t mean our luck will continue to hold.

Still, most of the survivors seem to feel like we’ve escaped the worst of our journey unscathed. We outwitted the Commander and left him far behind. We sent the Cursed One back to its lair without losing a single life. A sense of giddy triumph envelops the group. Children laugh and chase each other through the shelters while Jan, their assigned keeper, watches them with a light of hope in her eyes. A woman with wavy white hair and skin as wrinkled as a prune plays a violin she carried out of her home during the Cursed One’s rampage. The tune is lively and the notes swirl through the air, causing toes to tap until a few of the men gather up the courage to ask some of the women to dance.

I smile a little as I watch them, but the elation they feel won’t take root in me. I see too many worst case scenarios, too many ways the dangers of the Wasteland can still turn against us, to feel like celebrating.

The tall gray-white rock we’re camped beside is easily as high as Baalboden’s Wall. I feel better about our safety knowing that we have to keep watch in three directions instead of four, but the fact that most of my guards have no experience is a constant worry in the back of my mind.

So is the fact that Quinn and Willow have yet to return. That I don’t know where the Commander is. And that I can’t explain why the Cursed One attacked us today after nearly four days of safe travel. The fight between Ian and Adam wouldn’t have generated enough noise to attract the beast, especially when I had the third button on the device tied down. It’s a mystery, and that makes me nervous.

When Ian bows to a trio of girls and asks them all to dance with him at the same time, I shake my head and decide to work on the tech I’m building to track and destroy the Commander. Ducking inside my tent, I see a folded square of parchment on my bedroll and swear. I snatch it up and open it. The words Payment is due are scrawled across the parchment in thick, black letters.

I crumple the note in my fist and toss it to the corner of the tent. I have bigger things to worry about than whoever thinks it’s funny to leave cryptic notes in my shelter. Still, my worry over the sudden appearance of the Cursed One today mixes with irritation over this latest note and leaves me feeling on edge. I shove the canvas flap of my tent aside and find Elias standing a few yards away. He stares at me as I stride toward him.

“Did you see anyone go into my shelter?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Did you go into my shelter?” My voice promises swift retribution for him if he did, and he shakes his head faster.

“Then what are you doing standing out here instead of hanging around the campfire with everyone else?”

A pretty brunette who looks about Rachel’s age steps out of the tent beside Elias and joins him, her eyes glowing when he offers her his arm.

“Just waiting for Melanie,” Elias says, and they turn away from me before I can say another word.

Forget working on the tech. The restless energy coursing through me won’t let me sit quietly. I’ll walk the perimeter of the camp instead. I haven’t gone more than a few yards though, when Quinn and Willow, both carrying sacks of small game, step out of the trees.

“You’re back,” Frankie says, and he doesn’t sound welcoming. His eyes slide past the two Tree People as if he can’t see them. One more thing I’ll deal with when all of the life-and-death issues in front of me are resolved.

Brushing past Frankie, I say, “Good to see you both. Find anything?”

Quinn shakes his head and hands me his bag of game. “Found rabbits, some birds, and a small pig. Enough to feed us tonight, at least. We checked for pursuers, but there wasn’t any sign of Carrington. Either they’re too far back for us to find on a one-day tracking excursion, or we lost them at Baalboden.”

I turn to Willow, but she isn’t looking at me. Instead, she marches up to Frankie, elbows him aside, and drops her bag of game beside the cooking fire Jodi and Adam are busy building. Grabbing a knife from a sheath strapped to her thigh, she whips a rabbit’s body out of her bag, lays it on the ground, and skins it with quick, graceful movements.

“You’re making a mess right next to where people need to eat,” Frankie says.

Willow looks at him, her dark eyes glittering in the firelight. “If you can’t handle what goes into preparing meals in the Wasteland, go back to Baalboden.”

“I think he just means it’s not very ladylike for a girl to do . . . that.” A dark-haired girl who hangs on Ian’s arm during the day drifts closer to the fire and looks at Willow like she sees something that needs to be washed.

Willow hands the rabbit to Adam and pulls out a squirrel. “I suppose it’s not very ladylike to be rude to others, but you don’t seem to have a problem with that.”

The girl—Veronica? Vickie? Something with a V—folds her arms across her chest while my first-shift guards, boys who are almost all younger than me, crowd closer to the fire, waiting for their dinner rations before they take their posts.

“I wasn’t being rude. I was pointing out—”

“You were rude,” I say, my voice sharp. “And if this continues, I’ll make a new camp rule. You only eat what you catch and skin and cook yourself. How would that suit you?”

The girl turns on her heel and walks away, but not before she says, “I suppose the Tree Girl doesn’t have to worry about being a lady. It’s not like she’s going to find a man willing to Claim her.”

Willow goes still, and her shoulders roll forward as if protecting herself from a blow. I’m about to go drag Veronica/Vickie back to the fire and force her to apologize or go hungry when Donny Miller, one of our first-shift guards, squats next to Willow and says, “I’d Claim you.”

He’s twelve if he’s a day. Thirteen, maybe. But his voice is earnest, and Willow’s shoulders straighten.

Another boy, closer to my age, says, “If I get to Claim a girl one day, I want one who knows how to hunt and fight like you do.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Adam says as he crouches on her other side. His voice is both fierce and kind. I didn’t realize he had this in him. I wonder what it would take to win him over to my side.

“She isn’t half the girl you are, and she knows it.” Adam rubs his palm against Willow’s back for a second before looking at Quinn and dropping his hand.

Willow hands the squirrel to Adam and smiles. I’ve seen Willow smile before—quick, sassy grins and dangerous, I-dare-you-to-cross-me expressions—but this smile is slow and warm and a little shy.

“Adam’s right,” I say. Adam jerks his eyes to mine and stares. “You’re amazing and anyone with half a brain can see it. Hold your head high.”

Willow gives me a saucy little grin and starts skinning the next animal. Adam holds my gaze and then slowly nods once, as if to acknowledge that in this one instance, we are both on the same side of the line.

The first-shift guards eat their rations and head to their posts. Adam, Jodi, and Willow extinguish the cooking fire and head to their shelters with everyone else. I join Rachel in our shelter and hold her as she falls asleep, but my brain won’t let me relax. The Cursed One’s arrival, Adam and Ian’s fight, and the fact that I had no time to work on either piece of tech today keep me restlessly tossing and turning until I realize I’m going to wake Rachel if I don’t find a way to settle.

Since sleep feels impossible, I decide to check the perimeter of the camp once more, even though I’ve already walked it six times. I grab for my boots, careful not to make too much noise. My fingers fumble with my laces as the damp night air seeps into my clothing. I wrap my cloak around my shoulders, and then listen for a moment.

Someone several yards south of me snores in loud, fitful bursts. Beyond the borders of our makeshift camp, the Wasteland hums with life. Crickets chirp, owls hoot, and the occasional animal rustles through the bushes.

Sliding my dagger into the sheath strapped to my left ankle, I leave the shelter. It’s easy to slip away from camp in the middle of the night unnoticed. Too easy. I simply hug the shadows and choose my steps with care.

The first-shift guards are little more than kids themselves and terribly inexperienced, despite the fact that they’ve been training with Rachel, Quinn, and Willow for almost four weeks now. The oldest is eighteen. The youngest, Donny, the one who gallantly offered to Claim Willow, swears he’s fifteen. He’s lying, but I’m too desperate to argue. The older, more experienced guards spent all day patrolling the edges of our path as we traveled, digging wagon wheels out of mud, and generally wearing themselves out with what seemed like a hundred little things. I made the decision to let them sleep for a few hours before I call them up for the early-morning guard shift, because I know tomorrow they’ll be wearing themselves out all over again.

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.