I find a large oak, its thick branches forming a cradle several yards off the ground, and I climb carefully, my rib screaming at me the entire way. Wrapping my cloak around me to better blend in with my surroundings, I settle my head against my knees and admit Melkin isn’t Rachel’s biggest problem.

The tracker will torture her before he kills her.

I shake my head and force that thought away. She won’t die. I won’t allow it. I’ll come up with a plan. I’ll find a way to reach her in time.

I will.

Closing my eyes, I give myself permission to take one hour of sleep before I move again. I conjure up the memory of Rachel’s face and cling to it like a lifeline as I allow my weary eyes to close.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

RACHEL

My fingers ache with stiffness. I’ve been lying face-first on my father’s grave for hours, clutching fistfuls of dirt as if by touching what covers him now, I can somehow touch him.

At some point, I realize the Tree Boy is sitting quietly beside me as if to let me know I’m not alone.

He’s wrong.

I’ve never been more alone.

I turn my face to look at him and realize darkness is falling, obscuring the tree line and hiding the ugly remains of the safe house. He sits cross-legged, the package resting on his lap, his wide palms braced against his knees. His dark eyes seem to penetrate the emptiness inside me with something that looks like regret.

He can keep his regret. His sympathy. His quiet understanding.

I don’t want it.

I don’t need it.

All I need is the Commander’s blood on my hands.

I’m still staring at him, and he slowly offers me his hand as if afraid I’ll shy away at any sudden movements.

“Willow made dinner,” he says as if this should make sense to me.

I ignore his hand. I’m not hungry.

“Willow’s my sister.” He turns to look over his shoulder. I follow his line of sight and see the Tree Girl bending over a pot on a small fire. Melkin hunches down on the opposite side of the pot, watching me. “She made stew.”

Doesn’t he know I don’t care? I turn my face away, letting the ground scrape against my cheek. The pain feels good. Real. A tiny piece of what I should be feeling but can’t now that the silence inside me has swallowed everything but rage.

“I’m Quinn.”

I can’t make small talk. If I open my mouth now, all the hate and fury bubbling just below the surface will spill out and consume him.

His voice is husky with something that sounds like grief. “Your father was a good man. I’m very sorry.”

I look at my arm. The cuff is still glowing, confident that it’s reached its intended target, and I’m suddenly, illogically, angry at Logan for inventing it in the first place.

For giving me something as cruel as hope.

“You can’t stay here.” The boy is still speaking, though I show no indication of listening. “There are men from Rowansmark moving through the forest to the northwest searching for what’s in this package. Your dad said if anything happened to him, I was to retrieve this from its hiding place and give it to you or to a man named Logan McEntire.” He sounds urgent, and I’m surprised to see genuine grief and worry in his eyes.

I can’t leave. What will be left to me if I walk away from this spot?

He leans forward, his eyes looking so much older than the rest of him. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I wish you had more time, but you don’t. If you get caught, everything Jared did to keep this out of the wrong hands will be in vain.”

His words find their mark. If I’m caught, Dad died for nothing, and I lose my leverage against the man I hold responsible. I sit up slowly, still clutching fistfuls of grave dirt. I can’t bear to let it go.

He looks at my hands, a tiny frown creasing the skin between his eyes, and then digs into the front pocket of the leather vest he wears. “Here.” Stretching out his hand, he offers me a small pouch.

I take it. The dirt slides into the pouch with a whisper of sound, and I pull it closed. The strings are long enough to tie behind my neck. I knot them securely and let the final piece of my father rest over my heart, just below the necklace Logan gave to me.

“Come eat. You’ll need your strength.”

He’s right. I can’t travel back to Baalboden and destroy the Commander on an empty stomach. I stand and follow him to where Willow is now using dirt to smother her cooking fire before the flames alert someone to our presence in the gathering gloom.

My body moves just like it always has. My feet follow one after the other. My nostrils capture the scent of wood smoke and meat, and my ears note the creaking of branches and the crunch of ash-coated debris beneath me. But it’s all meaningless. I’m a stranger beneath my skin. I wear armor on the inside, a metal forged of fury and silence, cutting me off from myself.

I’m no longer a daughter.

No longer a granddaughter.

No longer a girl with dreams. With hope.

I’m a weapon, now.

I embrace my rage. Let it sink into my secret spaces and make me its own as I sit down beside the ruins of the fire, accept a bowl of stew, and begin to plan.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

LOGAN

I overslept.

It’s already dark when I wake, and even while I curse my stupidity, I can tell the sleep helped. My body aches, but the overwhelming fatigue is gone. Best of all, my thoughts are clear again.

I’m two days’ hard travel from the second safe house if I use short cuts and only stop twice more for brief rests. A check of my arm cuff shows the wires glowing steadily, though the light is too dim for her to be close yet. Still, I’m reading the remnants of her signature and it’s getting stronger the further south I go. I’m on the right trail.