“Where do you think you’re going?” Oliver asks. There’s a bite of apprehension in his voice now.

“I’m going to the Wall.”

“I can’t allow this.” He starts toward me.

“I’m going.” I edge to the back of the tent.

“What am I supposed to tell Logan if I let you put yourself in danger?” Oliver asks, still moving toward me, though we both know he can’t catch up.

That I’m sorry? That I no longer meant any of the things I’d said two years ago? That he brought this on us both by not listening to me and helping me search for Dad? I square my shoulders, flick my hood over my hair again, and pat the sheath strapped to my waist.

“Tell him he’s too late,” I say, stepping out of Oliver’s tent and into the shadow of the Wall.

CHAPTER EIGHT

LOGAN

“I’m here to pick up Rachel,” I say when Maria Angeles opens her front door. “I hope the girls enjoyed learning how to host a dinner party.”

Actually, I’m hoping Rachel didn’t shock the Angeles family by expressing her strong distaste for setting a table with more than one fork per person unless you were expecting to use the second fork as a weapon. My lips quirk, and I suppress a grin before I have to explain to the formidable figure of Mrs. Angeles what I find so amusing.

She opens her mouth, snaps it shut, and stares at me. “Rachel?” she asks, as if uncertain. As if I might be at her doorstep to pick up someone else.

Dread pools in my stomach, and a lick of anger chases it up my spine. “I dropped her off here two hours ago. She said … never mind what she said. Is she here?”

Mrs. Angeles shakes her head, turns, and calls over her shoulder, “Sylphia, come to the door, please.”

Sylph obeys immediately, but when she sees me, she flinches and her steps falter. Mrs. Angeles’s voice cracks like a whip. “Where is Rachel?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice trembles. She’s a terrible liar. I’m grateful.

“Sylph, please. If Rachel gets caught—” The unbidden image of my mother lying broken and bloody on the cobblestone streets while a crowd of citizens slowly back away fills my head. The air is suddenly too thick to breathe.

Sylph looks at the floor. “She just wanted to spend the afternoon at Oliver’s.”

“I would have taken her there.” My tone is harsher than Sylph deserves. She isn’t the mastermind. Fear drives the anger that pounds through me now with every heartbeat. I couldn’t protect my mother from the Commander’s ruthless punishments. But I can protect Rachel. I have to. I can’t bear the thought of adding that failure to my list.

“She wanted to spend time there without …” Sylph doesn’t continue, but I can fill in the blanks on my own. Rachel wanted to see Oliver without having to worry about me looking over her shoulder, listening in, telling her when to leave and what road to take on our journey home.

I can’t blame her for chafing at the restrictions placed on her by Baalboden law, but the proof that she’d rather risk a public flogging than spend time with me hurts more than I want to admit. Barely pausing to say good-bye to Sylph and her mother, I hurry through North Hub.

As I rush through Lower Market, I note the unusual number of guards present. A flash of double gold bars above a talon on one of the guard’s uniforms catches my eye.

Brute Squad.

Suddenly panic claws at me, threatening to fill my head with useless noise, and I beat it back. Rachel is okay. She has to be. I’m going to get to her before the Brute Squad notices a girl walking without her Protector. And then I’m going to lock her in my loft for as long as it takes to finish working out my plan to go looking for Jared.

I reach Oliver’s stall in record time, burst through the tent flap, and say, “Where is she?”

Oliver waves his hand impatiently at the back flap. “There you are! Took long enough. She left me in the dust fifteen minutes ago. She knows I can’t keep up with her.” He gestures at his considerable bulk, and then snaps, “Why are you still standing there? Brute Squad is out there!”

“Where did she go?”

“To the Wall.”

I stride forward and yank the back flap of the tent aside. I should’ve known that in the face of my refusal to make a plan to escape Baalboden with her, she’d leap headfirst into a plan of her own.

The alley behind Oliver’s tent cuts through the remaining stalls on the western edge of Lower Market before merging with one of the last paved streets on this side of the city. I keep to the side, head down, looking like I’m doing nothing more than hurrying home.

Dark clouds cover the sky, and a chilly breeze is blowing, carrying hints of the storm to come. I calculate no more than ten minutes before a fierce round of early spring rain hits, reducing visibility to nothing.

I pick up my pace. I can track her through the rain if I have to, but that isn’t what worries me. A glance around the streets shows the number of guards has increased in just the last few minutes. I don’t believe in coincidences, which means somehow Rachel tipped them off to her intentions. She’s smart, resourceful, and knows her way around weapons, but she’s no match for the Brute Squad.

I’d rather not be a match for the Brute Squad either, but I’m not about to fail her.

I exit the alley, turn right, and stride along the street, my cloak wrapped close, my expression neutral. There’s a guard in the doorway of the feed merchant, another pair outside Jocey’s Mug & Ale, and I’m certain I caught the glint of a sword on the roof above me as I make the left into the alley between the armory and an abandoned warehouse. Under the pretense of adjusting my cloak, I scan the street.