Deception

Chapter Forty-One LOGAN

It’s been ten days since Thom blew up the bridge, and we left the Commander and his borrowed army on the western side of the river. Black oaks, shagbark hickories, and the occasional cluster of pine trees mingle with the cypress and maple. Long slabs of gray-white rock rise out of the ground for yards at a time before submerging themselves in the soil once more. Every now and then we come across the sagging, ivy-covered hulk of a long-forgotten house perched at the edge of the river’s steep embankment.

Why anyone would want to live near the constant musty-dirt smell of the water and the swarms of mosquitoes and gnats that fill the air at twilight is a mystery to me.

Most of my time has been spent working with Jeremiah to flesh out the map so that it includes the other three northern city-states in case Lankenshire won’t reach an alliance with me, and perfecting my understanding of the Rowansmark tech so that I can replicate it once I have the right wire and metal at my disposal.

Using supplies I found in the highwaymen’s wagons, I’ve nearly completed the device I can use to track and kill the Commander. We’ll see which of us manages to put the other one down like a dog.

I like my odds.

I’ve also held two more funerals to bury those who were poisoned. Of the nineteen names on my list, ten are dead, including Sylph. Thom was poisoned as well, though he wasn’t on my list. I don’t know why the killer would go after Thom without marking his room, but Thom seems to be the only victim who didn’t wake up with a bloody X on his door. The other nine who were in marked rooms show no signs of sickness. The killer deliberately separated families and friends by poisoning only one person per shelter. Knowing they aren’t about to die, however, does nothing to comfort those who remain.

It does nothing to comfort me, either. I’m grateful I won’t be losing any more of my people to poison, but I feel like I’m walking with the blade of an axe poised at the back of my neck. It’s not a matter of if it will fall, but when.

When the killer will strike again.

When the Commander will catch up with us.

I skirt the wide trunk of a black oak tree and take a long look at myself. I’ve never had an easy life. I understood loss and fear before I was old enough to learn how to read. I knew what it felt like to fight for survival because survival was all I had left. I accepted that any respect I might earn from others, I must first earn from myself. And I overcame it all by refusing to allow my circumstances to dictate my intelligence, my courage, or my choices.

Those are valuable lessons to remember now. I might be walking with an axe against my neck, but I’m not going to fall to my knees and make it easy to take me down. To take any of us down.

The faint outline of a plan is taking shape in my head as the sun melts across the western tree line, and I start looking for a place to make camp. We’re still a day’s journey from Lankenshire. The path we’ve followed along the river is narrow, but fairly defined—worn down by regular trade missions or courier visits.

Drake walks beside me. “What’s the plan?” he asks.

I know he means the plan for making camp, but I have another answer for him. I’m not used to talking through my plans with anyone except Rachel. But in the aftermath of Sylph’s death, Rachel is a pale, silent shadow of herself, and while I’m not exactly sure how to fix it, I’m positive discussing worst case scenarios with her isn’t the answer.

“I need solutions to our problems.” The ground begins to rise, and ahead of us the path disappears down the other side of the hill we’re climbing. “To do that, I need to see every problem clearly.”

“Finding a permanent shelter, whether it’s with Lankenshire or somewhere else, seems like it should be a priority,” he says, huffing a little as the incline strains our legs. Behind us, the rest of the survivors climb in weary silence. Only the creak and groan of the wagon wheels and the faint shuffle of boots against the forest floor gives away their presence.

Even though Drake and I are at least ten yards ahead of the rest, I pitch my voice low. “Yes, that’s a priority. But the real reason we need shelter so badly is because we have human threats after us. Remove the threats, and finding a place to live isn’t as urgent.”

A crisp breeze tangles in the leaves above us, and Drake pulls his cloak close. “How’re you planning on removing the threats?”

“I’m nearly finished designing a piece of tech that will wipe out the Commander. If I take him out of the equation, the army will stop chasing us. The more immediate problem is that we still don’t know which one of us poisoned our people, and we have no idea how or when he’ll strike again.”

“We’ve checked everyone’s wristmarks and searched through every scrap of personal belongings. We didn’t find any evidence linking anyone in camp to Rowansmark.”

“I know.” My fingers skim the rough skin of a branch as I push it out of my way. “But someone who is skilled enough to kill like a professional isn’t going to be stupid enough to leave obvious clues lying around for us to find.”

Drake skirts a half-submerged rock. “Willow could question everyone. One at a time. I’m willing to bet it wouldn’t take her long to figure out every single secret any of us have to hide.”

I shake my head. “I’m not going to torture one hundred thirty-two innocent people on the slim hope that I can catch one man. Or woman. Whichever. Besides, even though I know Willow would be willing to interrogate everyone, what would that cost her?”

“So what will you do?”

“I’ll give the killer what he wants.” My voice is as hard as the stone peeking out of the ground beneath our feet. “I’ll publicly offer to exchange the device for his promise to leave the rest of us alone.”

Drake tugs on his beard. “If you do that and then don’t keep your word, more of us will die.”

“Oh, I’ll keep my word. I’ll give him the device. And I’ll make sure that the instant he takes it from me, he’s dead.”

“How will you manage that? He’ll be expecting a trap.”

“Then I’ll have to make sure to devise something that takes him completely by surprise.”

We reach the crest of the hill and stop.

Far in the distance, the white-gray stone of Lankenshire gleams in the fiery light of the setting sun. We’ve nearly made it. One more night of making camp. Building a perimeter. Watching for threats both without and within. One more night and then hopefully I can convince Lankenshire to help us.

Being so close to my goal lifts a bit of the pressure from my chest. I stare at the distant city-state and take a deep breath. Just one more day and I can deliver on my promise to get us to Lankenshire. I’m afraid to let the relief creep in yet, but it hovers at the edge of my mind, offering a small sense of peace.

Behind us, people shuffle to a stop. Some of them approach the top of the hill and gape at the sight of Lankenshire perched in the distance like a beacon of salvation.

“One more night,” I say, raising my voice so that those around me can hear. “We’ll arrive at Lankenshire tomorrow. Tonight, we’ll camp there.” I gesture to my left.

The patch of land I’m pointing to is twice the size of the meadow we camped in before. Once upon a time, it may have been a farm or a dairy. Now it’s a huge expanse of high grass and collapsing barns. It gives us enough space to establish a perimeter so that we’ll see any threats from the forest long before they reach us. I have no doubt that the Commander worked quickly to find another way across the river. At some point, he’ll catch up to us again. I just pray it isn’t tonight.

We follow the path down the side of the hill and then branch out toward the field. The wagons bounce roughly over the uneven ground, and we have to slow to a crawl to accommodate them.

Once we reach the grassland, I give the order to set up camp with the wagons and the weakest among us in the center, and the others arranged in circles around them until our strongest and most capable surround the camp, armed and watchful.

Then, because twilight is still nothing more than a smudge of gray in the early evening sky, I allow for a cooking fire to be lit so that Nola and Jodi can roast the pigs and rabbits Frankie and Willow caught during the day’s walk.

Frankie is a different man in the wake of Thom’s death. Subdued, introspective, and allied with Willow—something I would’ve sworn to be impossible two weeks ago. Having all of my inner circle at peace with one another eases the weight I carry, but I’d trade it all for Thom’s life in a heartbeat.

I pace through the camp while food is passed from person to person and conversations slowly flutter to life around me. Eloise sits with her back against a wagon wheel and eats with one hand pressed firmly against her bulging stomach. One of the older women who also rides in the wagon during the day sits next to her, talking softly and occasionally reaching out to pat Eloise’s belly.

I’m glad Eloise has a friend. She looked like a lost little bird even before receiving the news that her husband had died in the Wasteland. I’m also glad I chose to tell her nothing more than that he’d died trying to bring the device back to the Commander, and that Rachel finished the job for him. It’s the truth, if you take out the fact that Melkin tried to kill Rachel to get the device, and she took his life instead. And I did remove those facts. Because her husband died trying to save her life. Even if his methods were questionable, his love wasn’t, and she should be able to cling to that. Plus, Rachel doesn’t need Eloise to haunt her during the day the way Melkin does at night.

Moving on, I pass Adam kicking dirt onto the cooking fire to douse the flames for Nola and Jodi. The anger he harbors still simmers just beneath the surface, but he seems to have accepted my leadership now and is trying to make the best of it.

Or he’s learned how to lie, and I should keep a closer eye on him.

The people clustered throughout the field have become as familiar to me as the back of my hand. I can’t remember all of their names yet, but I know their faces. I know which ones will leap to lend a hand without being asked, and which ones will barely wait for my eyes to open in the morning before they bring questions and complaints my way. I know which ones are still in shock over losing their loved ones and their home. Which ones are angry at the Commander, the killer, or both. Which ones are angry at me. The sound of their voices, the shape of their thoughts, and the increasing trust they throw at my feet have become the fabric of my days.

So when I walk through the camp, nodding to this girl or clapping a hand on the shoulder of that man, I’m doing more than making my way toward the guard post I assigned to myself and Rachel. I’m looking in their eyes. Letting them look in mine. Reassuring them that I know them, I see them, and that they matter.

I’m more than halfway between the center of camp and the outskirts when something tingles across the back of my neck. A sense that something I just saw is somehow . . . wrong.

Trying to make it look like I’m simply acknowledging another greeting called out to me, I turn and slowly scan the area I just crossed.

Eloise and her friend still sit against the wagon wheel.

Adam has joined Nola and Jodi for dinner.

A scattering of children play tag around clusters of seated adults.

Jeremiah and a few of the older men sit in a tight circle, heads together, playing checkers.

Behind them, close to the edge of the field, a man with black hair and olive skin stands beside the far corner of the aging barn, watching the camp.

He isn’t one of ours.

My hand is already reaching for my sword when the man meets my eyes for half a second before turning and slipping into the woods.

He’s wearing the uniform of a Rowansmark tracker.