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.

Chapter Forty-Five

LOGAN

Lankenshire sits atop a steep rise of land like a glittering white crown made of stone. A long stretch of ground between the Wasteland and the city’s wall has been cultivated into evenly plowed fields with newly sprouted plants poking up from the rich soil. A path paved in dusty, white-gray rock leads between the fields and to the city’s gate.

We’ve made it. Three weeks of staying one step ahead of the Commander, battling highwaymen and the Cursed One, and trying to protect ourselves from a Rowansmark vendetta—all to reach this city. I began the journey with a small group of experienced fighters who were desperately trying to train others on the basics of survival, but I’m walking into Lankenshire with a remnant of battle-scarred, capable people who can handle anything our enemies throw at us.

I’m also walking into Lankenshire with a killer in our midst, but I’d like to keep that a secret until I have a plan in place to catch him.

We arrive at Lankenshire’s ornately scrolled iron gate a few hours after dawn. The city’s wall is made of thick-cut white stone with flecks of silvery gray that glitter beneath the morning sun. Several soldiers in dark green uniforms stand at attention behind the iron bars, watching as we travel the path that bisects the fields.

Rachel is still unconscious. Quinn lapses in and out of unconsciousness as well, as do two of the others. One boy’s leg is burned so badly, I’m sure it will have to be amputated. Another woman might lose her hand.

None of those wounds are treatable while we’re camped out in the Wasteland. I need to get my people inside the safety of Lankenshire and into their medical building as fast as possible. Which means I can’t tell Lankenshire the entire truth.

Not yet.

If they knew we might harbor a killer in our midst, we have both the army of Carrington and a contingent of Baalboden guards, led by the Commander, on our trail, and we’ve incurred the wrath of Rowansmark, we’d be turned away before I ever had the chance to make my case for an alliance.