She’s too still. Too unresponsive. And I can’t take the time to see if she’s breathing. Quinn is already crawling out of the smoke, coughing like his lungs are overflowing with soot. The flames are close enough that their heat stings my exposed skin. The newly healed brand on my neck aches in sharp, jagged pulses.

I lower my face to the ground again, cover my nose firmly, and draw in as deep a breath as I can manage. Then I stand, cradle Rachel in my arms, and run.

I nearly stumble over Quinn as I clear the smoke and flames. Leaning down, I pull him to his feet, but before I can figure out how to help him back to the group and carry Rachel at the same time, Frankie arrives and reaches for Rachel.

“I’ll carry her back on the horse and get Nola to take a look at her. You help him.”

I gently lift Rachel onto the horse. She lies over the front of his saddle with her hair hanging down below her fingers on one side and her feet hanging down on the other. I grab her arm and press against her wrist.

Her pulse flutters against my fingers.

The stone in my chest eases.

Frankie kicks his horse into a gallop, and I support Quinn with my left hand so I can carry a sword in my right. We make slow, steady progress as we listen intently for sounds of pursuit. I hope the tracker who set the fire comes for us. I can’t wait to punish him for his lengthy list of crimes.

Best Case Scenario: I catch him tonight and teach him a thing or two about pain atonement before he dies.

Worst Case Scenario: He goes free for a little longer, and we remain in danger until I build the tech it will take to eradicate him.

The Commander isn’t the only person with a unique sonar signal I can manipulate. Every Rowansmark tracker has an incendiary device rigged to an anatomical trigger in his chest. Surely I can figure out how to set it off from a distance.

No matter which scenario is true, those who’ve hurt us are dead.

Chapter Forty-Four

LOGAN

We take shelter about a hundred fifty yards away from the fires. There aren’t any convenient open spaces, but I’m done with open spaces for the night. Instead, I wedge us between a stone outcropping and the steep incline that leads to the river. No one can come at us from the east or the west, and I have so many guards posted at the north and south entrances of our camp, even a tracker will have trouble getting through.

Leaving Drake and Frankie in charge, I climb into one of the wagons Nola is using to treat the injured. Rachel lies silent and pale, and the burned skin on her right forearm makes my stomach queasy. A line of blackened skin peels away from a jagged split down the underside of her arm. The rest of her forearm is a deep, crisp pink.

Six others, including Quinn, sit or lie about the wagon with burns eating into their skin. We need to deprive the wounds of oxygen to stop the white phosphorous from burning down to the bone, and then we can figure out how to treat them.

I have to swallow hard before I can speak. “Their wounds will keep burning until we cover them. Come with me.”

Nola follows me out of the wagon, and I quickly scan those around us to find others who can help. “You two”—I point to a woman with broad shoulders and a man who stands with his fists clenched like he needs something productive to do—“get to the canteen and bring back four buckets of water.”

Pointing toward a pair of middle-aged men who look strong, I say, “Get four buckets from the highwayman supply wagon and bring them back here full of dirt.” When they frown and look at me like I’ve lost my mind, I snap, “Get moving or so help me, I’ll punish you in ways you’ve never dreamed.”

I refuse to consider the idea that the words coming out of my mouth sound like the Commander. He punished to keep his people too scared of him to consider rebelling. I’m trying to save lives.

That has to count for something.

Turning to Nola, I say, “Mix the dirt into mud and pack it onto the burns. Then wrap a wet rag around it. Keep it damp. When daylight comes, we’ll flush the wounds and make sure all the phosphorus is gone, and then figure out where to go from there.”

Seeing that everyone is doing my bidding, I jump back into the wagon. Quinn leans against the wall beside the doorway, his head tipped back as he breathes in harsh pants. Rachel lies beside him, her chest rising and falling in jerky movements. I can’t look at her arm.

I settle on her other side and glance around the wagon’s interior. Six others lie on the floor, on the benches, or sit propped against the far wall. Most are moaning in pain. A few are still coughing in painful bursts. None of them are looking at us.

“Thank you,” I say to Quinn, and my voice shakes as those two small words struggle to carry the weight of my gratitude.

He coughs, then wheezes, “A man.”

My jaw throbs as I clench my teeth. “A tracker, yes. He dropped those fire bombs in the field. Probably did it while we were organizing ourselves and cooking our dinner.”

Bitterness eats at me like poison. I should’ve seen him. I should’ve noticed him walking the perimeter, planting destruction stone by stone. If I had, Rachel wouldn’t be lying here beside me, barely breathing, her arm a mess of still-burning flesh.

“Not the tracker. Too . . . tall. Another man . . . had her. Baalboden cloak. Couldn’t . . . see his face.”

I go absolutely still as his words sink in. “He had Rachel? Are you sure?”

He nods. “Had . . . all of them. Lined up.” He coughs and presses his hands to his forehead like his head wants to come apart. “Trapping Rachel’s injured arm and hurting her. I found them . . . by following her screams.”