I scream, an unrelenting wail of agony, and he snarls at me. “Don’t you feel alive?”

My scream dissolves into choked gasps. He leans down to whisper next to my ear. “Judge and be judged, Rachel.”

Someone shouts, and he lets go of me. I try to stand. To find my equilibrium. But the buzzing in my head spreads down my body, and I tumble to the ground as everything goes dark.

Chapter Forty-Three

LOGAN

I don’t know how many survived the fires. It’s too dark to count heads, and I’m more concerned with getting those who are still alive as far from the burning field as possible. The path leading back up the hill is completely closed off to us. Not that I want to backtrack when we could have Carrington on our heels. With the field destroyed, our only option is to travel toward Lankenshire and hope to find another place to stop.

I’m not leading them, though. I’ve handed that job over to Drake. I can’t concentrate on the territory we’re approaching until I know for sure if Rachel and the others in her western quadrant have joined the group. We left before they could catch up with us, and every second of not knowing stretches my nerves to the breaking point.

Striding quickly past clumps of silent survivors, I check faces and look for that confident I’m-about-to-teach-the-world-a-lesson attitude that marks her movements as surely as her red hair marks her appearance.

She isn’t here.

I reach the wagons and hop on the back step of the first one. Pulling the canvas aside, I say, “Is Rachel in here?”

“No,” a timid voice answers me.

Eloise? It doesn’t matter. All that matters is Rachel.

The next two wagons are full of the elderly, the injured, and those desperate to catch their breath after inhaling too much smoke. Rachel isn’t there either. But in the fourth wagon, a man answers me, his voice hoarse.

“She saved our lives. Me and my little girl. And she got burned. It looked . . . bad.”

A fierce pain stabs my chest, and I clench my hands around the wagon’s frame to keep from shaking the information out of him. “Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. She told me to go north, and then kept looking for more people. It was really smoky there. Really bad. I don’t know if she—”

I leap from the wagon before he can say something I don’t want to hear.

Rapidly working my way through the rest of the crowd, I pray that I’ll see her. That she made it out.

She isn’t here.

I can’t breathe. Can’t make a plan. Can’t think.

She isn’t dead. She can’t be. She’ll walk out of the field at any moment. She’ll race to catch up to the group. And she’ll glare at me for doubting her survival skills.

Please.

Please let that happen.

I pass Frankie on his horse at the end of the group without sparing him a glance.

“Where’re you going?” he asks.

“To get Rachel.”

The field is a blaze of dancing white-gold light whispering in and out of the thick white smoke that chokes off my view of the other flames—the crimson and orange ones that have spread from the phosphorous and become regular fire greedily consuming the long grass and heading steadily into the forest.

Another reason why we can’t turn back up the hill. Who knows how fast and how far this fire will spread through the Wasteland?

“I’ll help,” Frankie says.

It never occurs to me to turn him down. To ask him to guard my people’s backs as they flee. I’m about to enter a blazing inferno, thick with smoke, to search for one girl. I need all the help I can get.

Before we go more than five steps toward the field, shadows move inside the smoke at the northern edge.

“There!” I say, and Frankie spurs his horse forward.

In seconds, the first in a long line of people crawls out of the smoke on hands and knees.

She did it. She gathered them all up and crawled her way across the field with them. I race to the leader of the group, throw back the hood, and frown as a man with brown hair and a short beard coughs hard enough to choke. I recognize him. Clint, I think. Usually walks in the middle of the pack as we travel.

“Rachel?” I ask, but he’s coughing too hard to answer me.

More people crawl out, coughing and gagging. Disoriented and faint. None of them is Rachel.

The relief I felt at the sight of these survivors turns to bitter dregs as the last person crawls to freedom, and it isn’t her.

“Take them north, Frankie,” I say, and cover my nose and mouth with my cloak. Dropping to my knees, I crawl onto the field.

My world narrows down to the roar of flames, the searing heat that batters me from all sides, and the suffocating waves of smoke that want to steal my breath and leave me with nothing.

I slide one hand over the grass, searching for obstructions, and with the other hold my cloak to my face. Finding nothing in my way, I crawl forward a yard and repeat the process. On my third attempt, my hand slaps something.

Someone.

I lunge forward as the person digs elbows into the ground and slowly moves toward the edge of the field. Pressing my cheek to the dirt, I look into the person’s face, lit by the flickering light of the flames that are closing in on us from three sides.

It’s Quinn.

Before I can react, I see that one of his hands is firmly grasping a pale arm he has looped around his neck. He struggles to move forward again, and I reach for the person lying across his back.

Rachel.

I know it’s her even before I see her face. The shape of her body is as familiar to me as my own thoughts. Relief gushes through me. Pushing myself up into a crouch, I take her from Quinn’s back. My hands shake as I hold her close. But on the heels of that relief, fear slides through me.