We stop for the night in the shelter of a concrete box of a building with only two sides still standing against the ravages of time and weather. We left the King’s City behind two hours ago, and I’m grateful. The twisted metal remains of buildings that once housed a vibrant civilization are now blackened husks coated in ash and wrapped with kudzu. Walking among them makes me nervous. A harsh reminder of what the Cursed One is capable of doing to us if we don’t remain with those who’ve proven their ability to protect us.
Since I have no intention of remaining beneath anyone’s authority again, I turn my back on the ruins of the city and refuse to consider the idea that I may have just glimpsed my future.
Melkin hasn’t spoken to me since our words on the riverbank, and that’s fine with me. I have nothing left to say. I just want this leg of the journey over with.
Thankfully, I have flint and fuel in my pack, so we don’t have to worry about keeping ourselves warm or keeping wild animals at bay. I work with Melkin to gather firewood and stack it in the center of the makeshift shelter. I also still have my flask of fresh water, and I offer it to him.
He raises a brow at me, but accepts it and swallows three times before handing it back. I lay my pack against one of the still-standing walls of our shelter and grab my bow and arrows.
“Where are you going?” he asks as I stride out of the shelter.
“To catch dinner.”
“I’ll come with you.”
I toss a glance over my shoulder. “I can handle this. You get the fire going, and stop worrying that I need a babysitter.”
Which might not be fair, considering I needed his help twice today. But I can handle hunting, and I need some time alone without his watchful eyes tracking my every move. Without the strain of trying to appear like I don’t want to scream in frustration when we’ve traveled for hours, and I still don’t know where we are.
He doesn’t follow me, though he moves to the edge of the ruined building and watches me as I go.
Our shelter is settled against a soft swell of land covered in tall grass already gone to seed. Beyond the hill, the broken remains of an old road wind through the grass and disappear for yards at a time. On the other side of the road, a copse of trees stretches as far as I can see.
The sun is drowning beneath the weight of a purple twilight as I enter the trees, walk twenty yards into the middle of them, their skinny trunks and thin, graceful branches reaching for the heavens as if hoping to scrape against the stars, and find what I’m looking for.
A bush hugs the base of a tree, its branches curving like a bell, its leaves brushing the ground. Beneath it, a small, hollow space rests, and I crawl inside, string an arrow, and wait.
Night has nearly reclaimed the sky when I finally catch a glimpse of movement. I tense, hardly daring to breathe. My patience is rewarded as a creature about the size of a small sheep wanders close, nose to ground, snuffling. I draw in a slow, deep breath, rehearse each step in my mind, and then whip the bow up, close one eye to sight down the center, and release the arrow.
It flies true, striking the side of the animal, and I leap from cover as my quarry jerks around and starts to run with faltering steps. Crossing the distance between us in seconds, I yank my knife free, leap on the animal’s back, and swing my arm beneath its neck to slice open its throat.
It dies instantly, and I wipe my knife clean on the ground beside it. Retrieving my arrow, I clean it as well and pack my weapons away. Flipping the animal over, I see I’ve caught a boar. A young one, by the size of its tusks.
I can’t easily lift it, plus I refuse to get its blood all over me. The thought makes bile surge up my throat, and I cough, gag, and spit on the forest floor. I solve the problem by grabbing its hind legs and dragging it to the edge of the trees. I don’t want to drag it across the grass and broken pieces of road to our shelter because the trail of blood could lead a wild animal straight to us while we sleep.
I don’t have to.
Melkin is standing on the road, watching the tree line, his knife in his hands.
He doesn’t see me at first, and I’m struck by the harsh, predatory silhouette he makes, caught in the moment before the sun’s final death and the moon’s rise. Before I can continue this line of thinking, he notices me and approaches, his long stride eating the distance like it’s nothing.
“Nice,” he says as he sees the boar.
I shrug, though his continued attitude of tolerant courtesy toward me is starting to make me feel uncomfortable in my own skin.
He lifts the boar with a grunt and turns back toward our camp. I follow and list the reasons I have for keeping my distance from him. For being angry with him.
It all boils down to the fact that he’s in the Commander’s pocket.
Of course, he could think the same of me.
I mull this over as Melkin carves the boar, separating muscle from bone with swift hacking motions, and tosses choice pieces of meat onto the flames to sizzle and snap. Maybe I’m supposed to feel enmity toward him. Maybe the Commander knew anyone he used to replace Logan would be a target for my mistrust. Maybe we aren’t supposed to be a team working toward the same goal, because if we begin to think for ourselves, the Commander could be in danger.
The idea warms me with something more than fury.
Something that feels like another tiny fragment of hope.
I lay my damp cloak out to dry near the flames, and take a seat beside Melkin. Far enough away that I can draw my knife before his long arms could reach me, but close enough to indicate I’m not trying to shut him out.
He glances at me, but says nothing.
I force myself to say the words I know he deserves to hear. “Thank you.”
He uses a stick to nudge the meat and flip it over. The scent fills the air and makes my mouth water.
“For what?” he asks.
“For saving my life. Twice. For carrying the boar. And for”—here I choke on the words and have to push them past my lips, their inflection sounding wooden and insincere—“understanding my attitude.”
He stays silent for the time it takes to skewer three large pieces of meat on a stick and hand it to me. Then he says, “Didn’t think I’d hear that from you.”
I shrug and bite into the meat, which burns my lips but explodes against my tongue with glorious flavor. I watch him skewer his own before answering. “You work for the Commander.”
“So do you.”
“Not by choice.”
“And you think I do?” He looks at me, and I’m struck by the depth of misery etched into his too-thin face.
I feel my way carefully through my next words. “You’re a tracker. You’ve worked for the Commander for years. I figured this was just another assignment to you.”
He looks into the fire. “You figured wrong.”
I’m not sure I have. I have only my instincts to rely on, and my instincts tell me that Melkin doesn’t wish me harm, and that he carries an inner grief of his own. If I can soften him toward my cause, maybe we can be a team against the Commander.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” I say. “But how am I to know for sure?”
He laughs, a small, brittle sound, and looks at me. “How can either of us know anything for sure? We’ve been backed into a corner, threatened with losing everything, and then set loose to circle each other like South Edge dogs afraid to lose a prize bone.”
I stare at him, my mind racing. Is he really in the same situation as me? Or has he been coached to say this so I’ll trust him?
He shakes his head. “One of us has to tell the truth here. I’ll start. You can do with it what you will.”
I say nothing, but watch him carefully for signs he might be lying.
“It’s true I’ve worked for the Commander for eleven years now. And it’s true that he assigned me to accompany you.”
“Why?”
“Apparently, he thought you might need the help. You’re just a girl, after all.” A ghost of a smile flits across his face. “A girl who knows how to keep her head in the face of the Cursed One, who can nearly drown and still trek for four hours, and who has the skill to bring down a boar. Bet the Commander has no idea how far he’s underestimated you.”
I bet the Commander hasn’t underestimated me at all, and Melkin’s true role is to make sure I don’t commit treachery. Which means Melkin could make it look like we’re on the same side when all he’s trying to do is buy my confidence. Calculating the odds makes me ache for Logan, who could assess the options, list the worst-case scenarios, and come up with plans to address it all in half the time it will take me to decide if I should just sneak away from Melkin in the middle of the night and do my best to survive the Wasteland alone.
“So why do you say you didn’t take this assignment willingly?” I ask, and Melkin swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat like a cork.
He’s quiet so long, I begin to think he won’t answer the question. When he finally speaks, he addresses his words to the flames in a voice so low, I have to strain to hear him.
“I would have. I would’ve tracked the package with you and returned it, just like I’ve done with every other assignment he’s given me. But he didn’t give me a chance to prove my loyalty.” He looks at me suddenly, desperate grief in his eyes. “He threw my wife in the dungeon. She’s due to give birth in a few weeks, and he threw her in the dungeon.”
I don’t doubt him for a second. The raw, aching pain in his voice reminds me of my own loss, and I want to stuff my fingers in my ears and pretend I can’t hear him. His emotions are real, but that still doesn’t mean I can trust his words.
“What do you have to do to get her out?” I ask quietly, because here is the crux of the issue. If he tells me the truth, perhaps we can work our way toward trusting each other. But if he lies … if I even think he’s lying, then I’ll have to think like Logan and start planning for worst-case scenarios.
He scrubs a hand over his face, breaking eye contact with me and looking at the fire again. “I have to deliver the package. Whether you agree or not.” He looks at me. “I can’t allow any obstacles to stand in my way.”
And there it is. If I plan treachery against the Commander, he’s the one tasked to stand in my way. No matter what it takes. And he will. Because his wife and unborn child are at stake.
I can’t blame him for doing exactly what I would do myself.
And I can’t help feeling empathy for his position. I know what it’s like to have the Commander hold my loved ones over my head at the point of a sword. The difference is that I no longer believe the Commander’s promises.
I don’t share my conviction with Melkin, though. It wouldn’t change the danger his wife is in. It would only wound him further. Or turn him against me.
Instead, I slide a little closer to him and say softly, “I have to deliver the package too. Or I lose someone I care for.”
“And your chance at revenge?” he asks, and captures my gaze with his as if the fate of the world hinges on my answer.
Maybe it does. Maybe he needs to know someone is willing to take a stand against the Commander, and his current suffering won’t be swept under a rug.
“Yes. I need to deliver the package so I can rescue Logan. And so I can get my revenge.” The words sting the air between us.
Melkin nods once as though he’s gained the answer he sought, and turns back to the fire to take first watch. I curl up on my still-drying cloak, my back to the fire, my face toward Melkin.
We might have reached a new accord between us. We might be working toward the same goal. But my knife is a comforting weight in my hand as I quietly pull it from its sheath and hold it, blade out, where I can strike anything that comes for me.
Just in case I’m wrong.