Deception

Chapter Forty-Four LOGAN

We take shelter about a hundred fifty yards away from the fires. There aren’t any convenient open spaces, but I’m done with open spaces for the night. Instead, I wedge us between a stone outcropping and the steep incline that leads to the river. No one can come at us from the east or the west, and I have so many guards posted at the north and south entrances of our camp, even a tracker will have trouble getting through.

Leaving Drake and Frankie in charge, I climb into one of the wagons Nola is using to treat the injured. Rachel lies silent and pale, and the burned skin on her right forearm makes my stomach queasy. A line of blackened skin peels away from a jagged split down the underside of her arm. The rest of her forearm is a deep, crisp pink.

Six others, including Quinn, sit or lie about the wagon with burns eating into their skin. We need to deprive the wounds of oxygen to stop the white phosphorous from burning down to the bone, and then we can figure out how to treat them.

I have to swallow hard before I can speak. “Their wounds will keep burning until we cover them. Come with me.”

Nola follows me out of the wagon, and I quickly scan those around us to find others who can help. “You two”—I point to a woman with broad shoulders and a man who stands with his fists clenched like he needs something productive to do—“get to the canteen and bring back four buckets of water.”

Pointing toward a pair of middle-aged men who look strong, I say, “Get four buckets from the highwayman supply wagon and bring them back here full of dirt.” When they frown and look at me like I’ve lost my mind, I snap, “Get moving or so help me, I’ll punish you in ways you’ve never dreamed.”

I refuse to consider the idea that the words coming out of my mouth sound like the Commander. He punished to keep his people too scared of him to consider rebelling. I’m trying to save lives.

That has to count for something.

Turning to Nola, I say, “Mix the dirt into mud and pack it onto the burns. Then wrap a wet rag around it. Keep it damp. When daylight comes, we’ll flush the wounds and make sure all the phosphorus is gone, and then figure out where to go from there.”

Seeing that everyone is doing my bidding, I jump back into the wagon. Quinn leans against the wall beside the doorway, his head tipped back as he breathes in harsh pants. Rachel lies beside him, her chest rising and falling in jerky movements. I can’t look at her arm.

I settle on her other side and glance around the wagon’s interior. Six others lie on the floor, on the benches, or sit propped against the far wall. Most are moaning in pain. A few are still coughing in painful bursts. None of them are looking at us.

“Thank you,” I say to Quinn, and my voice shakes as those two small words struggle to carry the weight of my gratitude.

He coughs, then wheezes, “A man.”

My jaw throbs as I clench my teeth. “A tracker, yes. He dropped those fire bombs in the field. Probably did it while we were organizing ourselves and cooking our dinner.”

Bitterness eats at me like poison. I should’ve seen him. I should’ve noticed him walking the perimeter, planting destruction stone by stone. If I had, Rachel wouldn’t be lying here beside me, barely breathing, her arm a mess of still-burning flesh.

“Not the tracker. Too . . . tall. Another man . . . had her. Baalboden cloak. Couldn’t . . . see his face.”

I go absolutely still as his words sink in. “He had Rachel? Are you sure?”

He nods. “Had . . . all of them. Lined up.” He coughs and presses his hands to his forehead like his head wants to come apart. “Trapping Rachel’s injured arm and hurting her. I found them . . . by following her screams.”

Everything inside of me trembles as fury spills out of my chest, courses through my veins, and consumes me.

I was right all along. Someone in our group has been helping Rowansmark. I have no idea why one of the Baalboden survivors would turn against his own people in favor of a Rowansmark pain atonement vendetta, and I don’t care.

I will kill him. I will flay the skin from his bones in tiny little pieces. Hold his head underwater until he nearly drowns, and then revive him just to do it all over again. Pour white phosphorous over his body and watch while he screams the way he caused Rachel to scream.

“Logan?” a voice asks right behind my ear.

I whip toward the doorway, my fist rising, and stop when I see Willow. Slowly lowering my fist, I get to my feet and climb out of the wagon.

The night sky is split in two. To my left, brilliant chips of silvery light twinkle and glow. To my right, a billowing cloud of smoke spreads across the horizon, obscuring all but the bright licks of orange flame cavorting in the depths of the hell we just left.

Willow pokes her head into the wagon, says a few words to her brother, and then comes to stand beside me. Her eyes glow, feral and dangerous, beneath the starlight. I meet her gaze with something feral and dangerous of my own and feel connected. A well of deep, unwavering rage forges a link between us that cannot be broken until we see the killers dead at our feet.

“Our assumption about one of us working with Rowansmark was right. Quinn said—”

“He told me,” she says. “There’s another message. A large piece of paper lying under a regular white stone. Right in the middle of the path.”

“Did you read it?”

“I didn’t touch it.”

“Good. We’re leaving it right where it is.” My voice is cold. “We’re done playing Rowansmark’s games. From this point forward, if they want my attention, they’re going to have to give me the message face-to-face.”

“And then we kill them,” Willow says in a voice as dark as the sky above us.

“Then we kill them.”

Her smile is a vicious baring of teeth.

“I’m sorry Quinn got hurt. I’m grateful he saved Rachel and the rest of those trapped in the western quadrant, but I’m sorry he’s suffering as a result.”

She looks at me. “I warned Rachel that if she did anything to cost my brother his life, I’d make her pay for it.”

“She didn’t do this. I sent her out there.” I sent her straight into the hands of the killer. The thought is like a splinter in my brain. I can’t leave it alone.

“And Quinn followed her because he’s determined to protect her. I know.” Her voice sounds weary. “I tried to talk him out of it weeks ago, but he wouldn’t listen. And it doesn’t matter if you sent her or if she chose to go. If there’s danger involved, Rachel will be right in the middle of it. I wanted her to know about Quinn’s . . . determination . . . so she’d think about the cost of her actions.”

“This isn’t Rachel’s fault. If you want to be mad at anyone, be mad at me. Or better yet, be mad at the killer who put us in this position in the first place.”

“Oh, I know exactly where to put the blame for all of this,” she says softly. “And I’m better suited than most at killing someone in ways that will leave him begging for death before I end it. But Quinn would’ve followed Rachel into the smoke no matter who sent her there. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

She moves away, and I let her go, her words ringing in my ears as the memory of Quinn holding Rachel close to him after Sylph died burns my throat like acid.