C. Redwine - Deception

This isn’t Oliver.

I’m not in a wagon.

I’m not at the Commander’s mercy.

“Press harder.” There’s an edge of worry in Sylph’s voice, and when I focus on Keegan again, I see why.

The cloth is soaked through, and still his blood gushes.

“Nola!” Sylph’s voice rings across the space between Keegan and the wagon. In seconds, Nola is by our side staring at the wound.

“Maybe the sword cut his artery?” she asks.

I shake my head and try to ignore the wet, slick heat of his blood against my skin. “This is nowhere near an artery. I know because my dad taught me exactly where to slash a man’s leg to make him bleed out so I could get away.”

Sylph shoots me a look that manages to be both horrified and impressed.

“I don’t know. It should be slowing.” Nola reaches down and pulls the cloth away from the wound, and we stare in silence at the shallow cut, right across the meat of his calf, and the unending flow of thin, orange-red blood that runs out of him like water.

“Blood shouldn’t be that thin,” I say quietly, though a glance at Keegan’s white face tells me he’s too far into shock to understand what we’re saying anymore. “And it shouldn’t flow this fast.”

“Pressing harder isn’t stopping it. We need to cauterize.” Sylph reaches for the torch. “Give me your knife, Rachel.”

I hand it to her, and she thrusts the blade into the flame until it glows red along the edges.

“Hold him still,” she says. Nola grabs his shoulders, and I lie across his thighs, pressing down as hard as I can. Sylph bends swiftly and presses the flat side of the blade to the wound.

His flesh sizzles and burns, filling the air with a sickly sweet smell. I turn my face into the grass at Keegan’s waist and gag. He doesn’t jerk away from the knife. He doesn’t scream. He just lies on the ground trembling, his skin waxy and white.

I climb off of his thighs and look at the wound. The flesh is seared shut, an angry red welt of puckered skin. The blood no longer leaks out of him like a stream, but I don’t think it matters. His eyes roll back in his head, and his entire body shudders. And then he sighs, a long puff of air that hisses from his lungs before they go still.

“No!” Nola rips at his tunic, yanking the laces until she has his chest bare. She presses her hands to his heart and pumps up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Leaning forward, she blows air into his mouth, listens for a heartbeat, then starts the process all over again.

I don’t know how long she tries. Long enough for Keegan’s too-thin blood to soak into the ground like it was never there. Long enough for others to bring two more injured recruits to the wagon.

Long enough for me to notice the ugly bouquet of purple-black bruises spreading along Keegan’s stomach and chest like flowers crushed beneath someone’s careless heel.

Sylph finally leans in and gently pulls Nola off Keegan, whispering reassurances as Nola cries against her shoulder.

I have no reassurances to offer. No condolences. Nothing but the terrible fear gnawing away at my chest as I stare at the fresh bruise circling Sylph’s wrist and wonder if Keegan woke up yesterday morning beneath a bloody X.

The day dawns bright and beautiful. Somehow that makes our current situation feel so much worse. I didn’t sleep much after the attack. Just caught a few light naps in between circling the camp, checking on the medical wagon, and worrying about Keegan’s death and what it might mean for the rest of us.

The list of names I took from Drake in the wee hours of the morning is a leaden weight in my hand. Nineteen names, including Keegan’s. The last time I checked the medical wagon, five of those nineteen were dead. Two of them bled out almost instantly after receiving light wounds in last night’s battle. The other three complained of exhaustion and pain and then eventually bled out through their noses, gums, and eyes.

Each of them had deep purple bruises all over their bodies.

Bruises like the ones on Sylph.

I don’t know what kind of poison causes blood to refuse to clot, but I’m racking my brains to come up with an antidote. A plant. A mineral. Surely something in this neglected wilderness we’re stranded in can cause blood to clot.

I have to find an antidote before Sylph gets worse. Before any of the remaining fourteen get worse. So far, the ones who died without an injury to speed the process have all been older than fifty. I’m hoping the younger names on the list can fight the effects of the poison for a while longer, but the reality is that I have no idea how much time they have left. And no idea how to help them.

A few of the older men work quietly to divide up the last of our food rations for breakfast as I pass the supply wagon. We’ll need to hunt today. And we’ll need to bury our dead.

We also need to leave the meadow behind and push forward. Staying in one place before we’ve reached Lankenshire is suicide.

I reach the medical wagon and find Sylph asleep on a blanket inside. Rachel sits beside her.

“How is she?” I ask quietly. Three others injured in last night’s attack are sleeping in the wagon bed as well. The medical supplies have been stacked against the back wall or shoved under side benches to make room.

Rachel meets my gaze, and I shiver at the bleakness in her eyes. “She’s tired. And her stomach hurts.” Her voice is like an empty room swept clean of any sign of life.

Something hot and thick burns in my throat, choking off my air. Sylph is going to die if I can’t figure out a way to fix this.

“Where’s Smithson?” Rachel asks, and her pale fingers gently trace a pattern against Sylph’s hand. “He should be here.”

“I sent one of the recruits to call him to the medical wagon. He was on guard duty all night, and I didn’t realize she was already . . .” My words fade as Sylph moans and opens her eyes.

“Rachel?”

“I’m here,” Rachel says, and reaches up to comb stray curls from Sylph’s forehead.

“I think I’m sick,” she says.

Rachel makes a tiny choked noise. I step forward, and fumble for something to say that will comfort Sylph without lying to her. I can’t think of anything.

“Yes, you’re sick.” I can hardly hold her gaze—this girl with a heart big enough to take in a sharp-tongued, independent girl and an orphaned, outcast boy. This girl who deserves so much better than to bleed to death in the middle of nowhere.

She lifts the neckline of her tunic and stares at herself. Then she lowers the neckline and swallows audibly. “I’m sick like Keegan was sick, aren’t I? Was he marked, too?”

I nod, and work hard to get my lips to form words that will give her hope. Comfort. Something . But words won’t come. Maybe they don’t exist. Not for this.

“Smithson?” she asks, and her voice is already threaded through with exhaustion.

“He’s on his way,” Rachel says just as Smithson pulls the flap aside and climbs into the wagon. He takes one look at Sylph and nearly shoves me to the ground in his effort to reach her side.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks, his hands hovering over her bruised arms and sweat-slicked face as if he just needs to find where the sickness started so he can fix it.

“Are you sick too?” she asks, her fingers trembling as she reaches for him.

He shakes his head and catches her fingers in his hand. “I’m fine. Shh.” He brushes her palm against his lips. “I’m fine. Let’s worry about helping you get better.”

Rachel’s shoulders bow as if an impossible weight has just landed on them, and she curls toward her knees.