She chews her lower lip.

“I’m telling the truth about Rachel. She’s a fierce warrior. And she went out there already angry and hoping for blood. Melkin isn’t coming back unless I get out in time.”

“Then leave.”

“I will. But I need one more piece of information first. A piece I hope you have for me.”

“What is it?”

There’s no resistance in her tone. She believes me. Believes I can save her husband from becoming a killer, or worse, getting killed himself. I dislike the sudden weight of responsibility I feel in the face of her trust.

“I need to know the signal Melkin is supposed to give the Commander when he returns.”

A frown puckers her face. “Why do you need to know that? Melkin will give the signal.”

“Things happen in the Wasteland. It’s a dangerous place. I give you my word I will do all I can to save both Melkin and Rachel, but if I fail, don’t you want me to have the means to draw the Commander out of the city so I can deliver the justice he deserves?”

“I don’t know.”

“He said it himself. He doesn’t care which of them comes back alive as long as he gets what he wants.”

“If Melkin ��� if you’re too late, why would you ever come back here?”

“Because Rachel and I aren’t leaving you here. Any of you.” The words roll easily off my tongue, and I wonder how long they’ve been breeding in the back of my mind. Probably from the moment I saw life leave my mother’s eyes at the whim of our leader. I can’t stomach the thought of one more innocent victim crushed beneath the bloody boot of Baalboden. “It’s time for change, and we’re going to deliver it.”

She’s silent for a moment, her hands tearing at the blanket, and then says, “He’s to light a torch in the eastern oak at daybreak.”

The eastern oak is a mammoth tree marking the edge between Baalboden’s perimeter and the Wasteland, in direct line of sight of the far eastern turret, on the opposite side of the gate. I give the Commander credit for coming up with a signal I wouldn’t have guessed on my best day, and nod to Eloise.

“I’ll do my best to reach them in time, but either way, I’ll come back for you.”

Then I wait until snores tell me the other prisoners are all asleep before struggling to my feet for the first time in a week. Tearing my shirt into a long strip of fabric, I wrap my chest tightly and drizzle a pinch of medicine on my tongue. I need to be able to run and fight without the interference of pain. I have the information I need, and if any guard happens to be watching, the Commander could right now be learning of my lengthy conversation with Eloise.

It’s time to escape.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

RACHEL

While the Cursed One laid waste to every densely populated area across the land, many of the individual houses built far outside a city’s limits were left standing. Some of those houses are uninhabitable due to time, weather, and neglect. But some are still safe enough to use as stopping points along our journey through the Wasteland. Every courier has found his own safe houses, stocked them with supplies, and hopes the outside still looks rundown enough to avoid catching the interest of a passing band of highwaymen.

We reach Dad’s first safe house as dusk is falling. The itch on the back of my neck warning me we’re being followed hasn’t abated, though Melkin insists he senses nothing.

I’m not sure Melkin’s mind is on the matter at hand, though, so I don’t trust his instincts. He’s been unapproachable since lunch, and I can’t read his expression. However, he does take me seriously enough to keep his knife unsheathed for the rest of the journey.

The safe house is a two-story brick house with a wide, wraparound porch and a line of stately columns across the front that used to be white until a century of sun faded them into something that resembles grayish clay. Ivy clings to the bricks, wraps itself around windows, and hangs down from the roof like glossy green drapes.

The front yard may have been a perfectly manicured gem once upon a time, but now the grass stretches past my thighs, wild and thick, and the trees behind the house creep closer with every passing year. Still, the house’s location affords decent visibility for the entire circumference of the structure, a quality Dad insisted on in a safe house.

The wires on my arm cuff glow without flickering now, though the light is faint enough that I doubt he’s still here. I don’t care. It’s enough to keep the wild, restless hope within me alive.

“This where he hid the package?”

“No.”

“Then why’re we stopping?”

I brush past him and mount the sagging front steps, making sure to skip the second from the top, where the wood is rotted to the consistency of fig pudding. “Because it’s almost dark. And someone is following us. I want the protection of four walls around me.”

Plus Dad might have left another sign for me inside.

Besides, Melkin looks wound tight enough to snap. He needs a break from fireside watches too.

A large padlock with a keypad on the front—another of Logan’s inventions—bars the door. Dad made sure both Logan and I knew the codes to each of his safe houses. I type in the code, blocking the keypad from Melkin’s view as he carefully climbs the steps behind me, and the lock opens with the barely audible snick of metal releasing metal.

The air inside is musty and heavy with mildew, and dust lies across every visible surface like a layer of gray snow. I move past the entryway and see it—footprints, faint outlines coated with less dust than the rest of the house.