Worst Case Scenario: We’re caught before we reach the city-state, Lankenshire refuses to work with me, or the tech is beyond my skills.

Ian is watching me, his question still lingering in the air, and even though I know he wants to be taken in my confidence, I can’t bear to put into words the thought of failing. As we crest the top of the hill and start down the other side, I meet his eyes and say with as much confidence as I can muster, “Yes. I can duplicate the tech in time to protect us all.”

As the rain lets up and the late afternoon sun begins baking the ground we travel, I pull Jeremiah’s map from my cloak pocket and begin planning tomorrow’s route, hoping that somehow I can deliver on everything I’ve promised.

Chapter Fourteen

RACHEL

We make camp on the eastern edge of a small clearing. The rain stopped hours ago, but my cloak has yet to dry. Once we’ve erected our shelters and eaten a cold dinner—Logan refused to allow torches or cooking fires in case Carrington is following us already—I hang my cloak over the thick tree limb that props open the jagged canvas flap of the tent I share with Logan and crawl into my bedroll.

I expect to lie awake, listening for threats. Thinking about the Commander. Trying to figure out how to make a plan to separate him from Carrington’s army so that I can honor Logan’s wishes if possible.

But instead, the soft carpet of moss beneath my blanket cushions my body, and the sight of Logan hunched over his tech bag, muttering to himself while he tries to work by starlight, makes me feel safe. Before I know it, my eyelids drift closed, and I sink into the dark embrace of sleep.

Blood surrounds me. It stains the sky with viscous swirls of crimson and snakes down tree trunks to drip from leaves. Thick garnet drops cling to me. I raise my hands above my head to ward it off, but it flows over me in a river of rust. Sticky trails of heat bite into my skin and burrow toward the bone. Tilting my face up, I stare in horror. The blood has drained from the sky and abandoned the trees. Instead, it leaks from my fingertips and gushes from my palms, an unending tide that covers me from head to toe.

“Guilty,” it whispers, and Melkin lies beneath my blade, calling for his wife.

“Alone,” it says, and Dad turns to dust beneath the shining white cross on his grave.

“Broken,” it cries, and Oliver’s cold hands grasp mine while the bloody wound in his neck pours and pours and pours.

Their voices waver, solidify, and then join together into one deafening stream of accusations. Guilty, alone, broken. Guilty, alone, broken.

Worms, pale and wriggling, pour from Dad’s mouth, leak out of Melkin’s eyes, and squirm in the gaping wound at Oliver’s neck.

I scream and the crimson crawling over me slides past my lips and coats my tongue with bitterness. I gasp for air, but the blood is there instead. Tearing at my throat and plunging down to fill my chest, my stomach, and my lungs. I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

“Shh,” someone says.

Another scream gathers at the back of my throat and claws its way through the blood filling my mouth.

“It’s all right,” someone says.

I stretch my lips wide, seeking air that refuses to come. Something warm and heavy presses against my cheek. Jerking my head to the side, I snatch a quick breath of blood-tainted air.

“Rachel. Wake up.”

My eyes fly open. A shadow looms over me, blotting out the faint light from the tent’s doorway. The shadow’s hand rests against my cheek, pressing close.

I whip my knife up and aim for the throat. The shadow twists, water-quick. Grabbing my wrist with its free hand, it slams my arm to the ground with enough force to knock my weapon loose.

I dig my heels in and wrench my body to the side. The shadow pins me and leans down.

“Shh, it’s Logan,” he says quietly against my ear.

It takes a moment for his words to penetrate the panic. My heart pounds against my chest, and my lungs are convinced I don’t have enough air. Not nearly enough air.

“Rachel?”

Slowly, the scent of blood fades, and I exhale, forcing my muscles to relax beneath him.

He releases his grip on my wrist and slowly slides his hand over mine, tangling our fingers together. I press my palm to his, desperate to imprint his skin where seconds ago the slick heat of blood had poured.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

My body shakes, my teeth chattering like I’ve been left out in the cold for hours, but I say, “I’m fine.”

It’s a lie, and we both know it, but I can’t bear to remember. I can’t bear to strip myself down to nothing but the blood that haunts my dreams. If I let it into my waking hours, I might drown in it.

“You’re shaking,” he says, but what he means is, “You’re lying.”

“I’m cold.”

He pulls me close, fits me against his side like a puzzle piece that was always meant to be there, and warmth seeps onto my skin.

“Rachel, please talk to me,” he whispers, but the voices in my head are louder.

Guilty. Alone. Broken.

A chorus that sounds like the only truth I have left. I push it away from me with desperate strength. I refuse to feel it. I refuse. It sinks into the silence, but I still feel covered in blood and shame. Logan leans closer, his dark blue eyes filled with worry, and opens his mouth as if to ask me another question. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to sift through the nightmare and find the reasons behind it. I just want it all to go away.