“I will never stop hunting you.” His voice echoes across the water. “Do you hear me, Logan McEntire? I will spend every waking minute of my life hunting you down like the dog you are. And when I catch up to you, I will slaughter you and everyone who follows you. Man, woman, and child.”

“Not if I kill you first.” Before he can reply, I turn on my heel and walk away.

He can’t get to me. Yet. The ruined bridge made sure of that. But he’ll keep coming, and I’ll be ready. I’ll train my people. I’ll build every weapon I’ve ever designed. I’ll make alliances of my own. And on the inevitable day when we finally confront each other face-to-face, I’ll destroy him.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

RACHEL

The medical wagon creaks and sways as it rumbles across the faint path leading north through the tree line. The river is a constant presence on our left. The tangled greenery of the Wasteland presses against our right.

I have to keep reminding myself that I’m not at the Commander’s mercy. Oliver isn’t dying in front of me. No guard waits to undress me and scrub me clean of blood.

Still, the four walls of the wagon want to close in on me, and I struggle to breathe past the rapid beating of my heart.

Willow lies in the wagon bed along with Sylph on a thick pile of canvas covered with a blanket. The others recovering from injuries have been transferred to the highwayman wagon that also carries blankets and bedrolls.

Quinn sits beside Willow, alternating between checking her brow for fever and lifting the edge of her tunic to examine the neat row of stitches he sewed into her skin to close the cut she sustained in the river. She sleeps now courtesy of a pinch of pain medicine, though earlier Quinn had his hands full keeping her from leaving the wagon to resume guard duty.

Smithson sits beside Sylph, his face pale and his eyes red. He holds her hand and leans down to whisper to her every few minutes.

I sit between Sylph and Willow and ache for a miracle. For inspiration. For something more to do than to sit here waiting for my best friend to die.

I don’t know how to do this without losing myself. I don’t know how to pretend to be strong for everyone else when I have no strength left.

Sylph moans and opens her eyes. “Stomach hurts,” she says, and Smithson rushes to comfort her with words and touches and all the things I don’t know how to do.

Guilty.

Alone.

Broken.

I want to fight the voices that whisper to me, but their words sound like the only truth I have left.

Something brushes against my hand, and I look down to see Sylph’s fingers fluttering against mine. Gently, I wrap our hands together the way we used to when we’d lie beneath the stars in her backyard, giggling over our secrets while we ate the sticky buns Oliver always sent with me when I’d spend the night at Sylph’s.

I can’t remember our childhood without seeing Oliver’s dark eyes lit with joy when we tumbled into his stall, begging for treats. Dad scooping us both onto his shoulders and pretending he would forget to duck on his way into our house. Pieces of home that I took for granted would always be there, but I was wrong. All the people I love leave. First Oliver, then Dad, and now Sylph—the girl who loved everyone with equal energy but spent extra love on me. The girl who wanted nothing more than to be Claimed and settle down to a quiet life full of children and laughter.

Instead, she lost her family, her home, and soon will lose her life for reasons that feel far away from me now. Because I wanted revenge? Because the Commander wanted power? Because someone from Rowansmark wants to punish us for crimes unknown?

The reasons don’t matter. Only the results.

“Jeffrey Morrow.” Sylph’s voice is faint. I look down and find her green eyes watching me. “Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Who is Jeffrey Morrow?” Smithson asks. His words sound stretched thin and tired, as if the effort it took to speak used them up before they left his lips.

“Boy . . . Rachel.” Sylph draws a ragged breath and I lean forward, but she keeps speaking. “Beat up.”

“His dad was the Commander’s chief physician. He was a year younger than us, so you probably never had him in any of your classes,” I say to Smithson, though I don’t take my eyes off of Sylph. “He thought because his dad was so rich, he was better than the rest of us. He used to follow Sylph and me through Lower Market and call us names.”

“Pushed me,” Sylph says.

“Yes.” I smooth the curls off her forehead and wince at the heat blazing on her skin. “We were in the alley behind Oliver’s tent playing one day, and he snuck up on us and pushed Sylph down.”

“And you did something about that,” Smithson says in his stretched-thin voice.

I nod, and reach for the damp cloth resting in a bucket of water at my feet. “I chased him. Caught him after only half a block. And then—”

“Punched . . . face.” Sylph smiles. “Bloody nose . . . crying . . . like a . . . girl.”

I dab her face with the cloth and wish things were still simple enough that punching the right boy in the nose would fix it all.

“He told his dad I’d hit him, but when his dad came to Oliver’s tent to confront me, Sylph said she’d done it,” I say, and crumple the cloth in my fist. “Her father wouldn’t let her come to Oliver’s tent for a month.”

“Brave.” Sylph’s eyes lock on mine.

“Yes, you were. You still are,” I say.