True North Read online

  “I can’t.” I shake my head. My stomach roils with upset. “Can’t,” I say again when she spends too much energy gripping me harder. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Will need…healthy mother.” The voice thins, grows weaker.

  “Yes,” I rasp. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

  She shakes her head as though it pains her and finally looks about. All around her the hordes stir restlessly. My own eyes occasionally light on a woman, eyes averted to our little scene, desperately tending to her own brood. The woman before me swallows painfully. “Help,” she commands.

  The Upper Circle says Lasters don’t feel for their children. Too close to the shiny bright teeth of the Plague for love, they tell us. But I see a different tale in the feverish eyes of this mother. How old is she? Hard to say, as she’s taken by the ravages of Plague.

  I kneel down before her, squeezing her hand tight between my two. I’d do just about anything to take her baby in my arms and keep it safe. But there is no safety with me. I may not even survive this train ride. I keep my eyes on hers, willing her to see I speak the truth.

  “Trouble…follows me.” The Russian tongue fits in my mouth like marbles. “No good…baby.” Her head nods down, defeated. I squeeze again, tilt her chin up with gentle fingers. “Hello?”

  It’s defiance I see glittering in her eyes. She’ll fight for breath. I admire her suddenly. As much as I’ve ever admired anyone.

  “Mother,” I say softly, just loud enough for her ears. “I go now. I look and return. Look for good mother.”

  She nods, sinks deeper into her skin.

  “Fight,” I tell her fiercely.

  A shadow hulks over me then as Ali leans over the woman and whispers something—a blessing, a promise maybe—into her far ear. It’s only because I’m watching intently that I see he’s palmed his little pet rock in one hand, presses it to the woman’s cheek as he talks.

  But as his words die, I feel something hot and electric course through the woman’s fingers, heating her skin. I drop the woman’s hand as though she’s electrocuted me, which in a way I guess she has. Ali straightens, all evidence of his little rock disappeared as the woman sighs and smiles and shifts her body so it’s more comfortable.

  But she wears a peaceful smile on her face. Her baby relaxes into those thin arms and closes its eyes.

  “What did you do?” I ask under my breath as Alastair hauls me up and points me toward the bathroom at the end of the car.

  “Nothing,” he tells me.

  But he won’t look at me. Who is this boy?

  An old man holds on to the doorframe ahead of me, his eyes rheumy. Coated with cataracts, blind and milky. Like Serena’s eyes. The eyes of a Salvager. I try not to stare and instead send Ali a question with my gaze. Leaning into an arm against the wall, Ali stares down at me with his own question.

  “What the hell was that, Lucy?”

  The door opens and a young girl darts out. The old man shuffles past her into the small stall and closes the door with a harsh rasp. I compose my face, the careful mask of the diplomat’s daughter. “What was what?”

  “You’re about as jumpy as a flea. What the hell kind of deep game have you and Jared pushed me into?”

  I blink hard, clear my eyes. “You don’t know everything, Alastair. This isn’t a game.”

  “I have two eyes, don’t I? I’ll ask again. What kind of storm are we heading into?”

  I look around. Curious eyes light on us from all corners. “Not here.”

  I turn, but Ali grabs my arm so I have to meet his eyes. “Who are you running from? Do I need a gun?” He bites his lip in frustration. “What does he suspect, Lucy?”

  “Trouble,” is all I can say.

  The lock to the door trembles and finally opens. I dart past Ali into the foul-smelling stall and hang my bag on the door peg. The lights, dark and tinged with green fluorescence, flicker on and off. There’s a square of a mirror over the little pump sink, spackled here and there with dark spots that could be anything from mold to dried blood. I stare at my reflection and shove my fingers through the wild tangles of my hair. Stare at the wan, still face in the mirror. Her likeness so close to Margot’s it’s like having my sister back. But then the differences give way: the way she holds her head, stiff and square. Her eyes more gray than Margot’s. And what the eyes hold: Margot has always looked more innocent, no matter what’s happened. Even after her time as a captive.

  When my eyes finally light on it, I don’t know how I could have missed it. My stomach plummets as my breath hitches in my chest, coming out in shallow gasps. Faint red lettering angles out behind my head. I turn. It’s smeared in places, like lipstick after kissing. As though someone was in a hurry to remove it.

  I pull on a change of clothes quickly and rush out the door, surprising an older woman who supports her weight with a cane. I push past her, tugging a bewildered Ali along with me.

  And I’m looking. Everywhere. Eyes roving to the seats, the crevices above the luggage racks. When we hit the front of the car, I see it again. This time more elegantly scrawled, high above the sliding door that will let us into the “special guest” car. Two conjoined circles in red. And beside it, lettering.

  Evolve or die.

  They’re here.

  16

  Once we return to our seats and I mumble my secret into Jared’s ear, he jumps into action. He pulls out a tiny notebook I’d not seen before and starts scribbling letters in it. He tips the letters toward us, one by one, then crosses them out, all the while making sure the cameras can’t see what he’s doing.

  “Giggle every so often,” he murmurs to me, his breath a hot tickle against my ear. “A game.” The giggle sounds forced even to my ears, earning me a sharp look.

  Across from us, Alastair stays silent, watchful. An outsider to our secret language.

  “Your turn, Ali,” Jared says loudly, plastering a big smile to his face. Alastair blinks and sits up straighter. “Hang on.” Jared scribbles something in small, neat capital lettering. He rips it from his notebook and hands it to Ali.

  KNOW THE PREACHERS?

  “Ha-ha!” Ali chuckles and shakes his head like Jared has passed him a dirty note. “Yes, I know this one.”

  He hands the paper back to Jared. “That doesn’t belong in this game.” He smiles, but his eyes stay inky black and hard.

  “Well put!” Jared thumps him on the arm. “How about this one?”

  Jared scribbles something else. I catch only a word or two as he hands it over to Ali. PREPARE FOR ANYTHING, I think it says. But it’s gone in a blink, crumpled up and tossed into the heap of other scraps.

  “Well.” Ali leans over and drapes an arm across his knee. His fingers reveal his little orange rock that he pinches between his thumb and forefinger. “If we’re bored with this game, there’s always Hangman.” He shrugs.

  “I was a merc once, you know,” Jared says suddenly. He’s a charming loafer again as he leans back and regards Alastair from beneath heavy lids.

  “No kidding.” Ali smiles.

  “Yeah. We’d do these exercises. Little jogs, we called them. We’d set up these human alarm systems to help protect our clients. Gives the guys who stay put a chance to figure out what the enemy would do if the targets split up, how closely they’re being tailed.”

  “How many of you went at a time?” Alastair’s voice stays devil-may-care, but he sits up straighter and shoves his little pebble into his pants pocket.

  “Oh, sometimes we’d be a whole team. Sometimes just one or two of us as a time.”

  Alastair tilts his head as though confused. “Why one or two?”

  Jared blinks. “Recon, but protected.”

  I can smell the change in the atmosphere. Feel the tension rippling through Jared’s body, just this side of transformation. I’m amazed that the room doesn’t suddenly erupt in flames. “Pfft,” I start. “All our father’s mercs ever did was ride the gate…present company excluded, of course.”
<
br />   Ali glances sharply at me, a question in his eyes. Jared tap-taps two fingers on the armrest. A code, a command spoken in a language Margot and I know so well. I yawn and stretch, big and messy, before shaking my head.

  “Jared, we’ve been on this train for days,” I whine, putting on a production of yawning and stretching out. “I need to move my legs,” I say, not looking at either man.

  Jared bobs his blond locks at me. “Take Ali with you. Don’t want you alone on this train full of Lasters.” He curls scorn into his voice, like he can’t think of anything worse.

  “Fine,” I huff, crossing arms against my chest. “Just—keep your distance, Alastair. None of your breathing down my neck this time.”

  Alastair stands and bows, extending one arm into the aisle. “Your wish is my command.” I roll my eyes and step past him, putting on my best princess routine.

  The lights have gone dim in the other car, though by accident or design I can’t say. Keening fills the dim, soft and low, keeping the rhythm of the train. I smell death. A baby draws in and wails in loud, hiccupping cries.

  “Leave it.” Behind me, Ali plucks at my sleeve. “Don’t even go there. You guys going to tell me?”

  I round on him, putting a finger to my lips. “Shhh,” I admonish in our mother’s frostiest tone. “People are sleeping.” I turn quickly and walk faster, putting a bit of distance between us the way a princess with attitude would, and then hurry toward the back of the car where the sounds of crying grow louder.

  Evolve or die. Copycats out with their red markers? Travelers all the way from Dominion, like us, only searching for a miracle? Possibly. It’s the Watchers’ bywords, though, sure as death. But what it means…

  My tired brain shuffles through the possibilities. Either Jerry Westfall has escaped Dominion and is tracking Margot, just as I am—the thought sends shivers down my spine—or…or something worse.

  If the Watchers are here, halfway around the world, I can’t help but think that maybe Jerry Westfall isn’t the only one leading a passel of crazy Lasters. There would have to be other men, men slick enough to cause a stir over here, where it’s harder for news to travel. Which means—

  The train lurches and I stumble as blank terror overtakes me. A crack and thud. The crying grows louder at the back of the train. Ali clutches me from behind, holds me up.

  “We should get back.” His voice pitches anxiously.

  I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. My legs are too shaky still.

  “Ali.” Ali’s dark eyes are framed by almost girlishly long lashes. Now those eyes pool with anxiety. “The baby.”

  The train jumps and stutters to a sudden, grinding halt. The air screeches, all of us in the car holding our ears as the train comes to a full stop. A hiss of air. Seconds later the doors at the far end are ripped open, revealing a drab shoulder, another rapidly filling the space behind him.

  I hear myself whimper. We’ll be cut off from Jared in less than a minute.

  The other passengers crane their heads but don’t move. No one says a word. And neither do the soldiers, who search their faces and move on. They’re not the target, I realize quickly. Not the dead, nor their survivors.

  Us.

  As the car fills with soldiers, the penny finally drops. If the Watchers are in Russia, it can mean only one thing. The preacher men aren’t the ones pulling the strings. Someone else would have to be. Someone more powerful—and that someone must also hold sway in Russia. Enough sway, at least, to lead the Protocols doctor to stop the train before it reaches Starry Oskol. For what reason? The feverish thoughts fire through my head. For ransom? Money? Power?

  There’s just one more thing I figure out as rifle scopes turn to bright-red flares around the now-dark car. They’re coming for me.

  Ali grabs my arm and spins me round so I’m facing the way we came in, leaving Ali’s back exposed to bullets. My hope that they won’t shoot, worried they’ll hit their target, proves false a moment later when a bullet rips into the wall beside our heads. We race back the way we came but stop at the door. Shouts fill the air. A loud crack echoes through the car. The cries of the baby disappear.

  “Don’t stop,” Alastair hisses and pushes me to the doors between the cars. Just as he pulls the heavy steel open, another bullet goes wide and ricochets off its metal frame. The screams of children cover the tromping of boots down the rubber-lined floor. Shoving me through and tugging the door closed, Ali struggles with something until I hear a loud twang as he pulls free an iron bolt, locking the door behind us.

  The tiny space between the cars smells like cold metal and oil and rotten food. The air is burned and unhealthy here, and I shiver with more than cold. We stare at each other, mute with horror. I don’t say the words, but I think them. Over and over, like an alarm bell. The baby. That poor baby.

  Hands on hips, Ali regards me. “They’ll be on the other side, too.”

  “Jared.”

  And as though I’ve conjured him, a massive thud slams behind us, where our backs rest against the door. The slim rectangle of glass in the middle of the door smears with flesh and blood.

  It isn’t Jared’s. I reckon it’s that of a soldier dumb enough to jump him.

  I tug on the handle but Alastair covers my hand. “I don’t think you should go in there.”

  “I think you should leave me be.” His hand tightens over mine for a moment, but I pull anyhow. The door sticks. I pull harder. A bloody limb wrapped in olive-green is caught in the rails. I kick at the sleeve and step over the body.

  The car’s lights have been blown out. The air is already tinged with blood and thick with Jared’s peculiar form of violence. A harsh cry toward the back of the car tells me where he is and I follow it, ducking low in case there are more guns. A touch on my back tells me Alastair has decided to join me. We creep forward through the mess.

  And it is a mess. The rubber runners are slick with something, but I’d as soon say it isn’t blood. Bits of things—chunks of olive-green fabric, a large black button, a boot—litter the floor. They must have really annoyed Jared, I think hysterically, for him to tear them to pieces like this. I don’t have time to feel disgusted by the flippant way I think about death. I am not that person anymore.

  I reach him at the other end of the long car. He’s partly changed, more animal than man. Sleek-boned face, feral eyes and teeth, and a chest of rippling lean muscle, he lets a body slump to the floor. Two? No, I realize, spying another by the back entrance. Three. I know the moment he’s smelled me. With a slight twitch of his nose and a subtle toss of his head, he begins to visibly relax—his animal side recognizing that I’m close, safe.

  “Jared,” I call out quietly. Relief floods my voice and I get a good look at him. “You’re all right.” There might have been a time when this animal side would unnerve me. But as I stare at Jared’s inhuman form, I realize his shifts don’t faze me. We’ve been through far too much for that.

  He shapes his words awkwardly around a panther’s teeth. “More coming. Time to go.”

  I nod my understanding. “Do we jump?”

  “Hell yeah,” Alastair says fervently. He surveys the gore with a practiced eye. No surprise, no fear. I haven’t time to think it through, though, as another uniform bangs on the door Ali locked behind us.

  “Jared?”

  Two unearthly eyes travel over my body, each bone, each scent traveling through his inventory. “Need to keep you safe.”

  The words come out dripping sass, though I don’t mean them to: “So catch me, then.”

  17

  The eleventh farmhouse we break into turns out to be the lucky one. The floors are a rich, painted tile with intricate design work, the walls a creamy stucco plaster. Here and there Oriental rugs cover the tile, lending the simple dark wood furniture a regal air. In a place like this, no one will notice a little missing food.

  “Why is there no one home?” Ali whispers in my ear.

  It’s a good question. I smel
l no death. Nothing seems to worry Jared.

  But there are no portraits of a family on the walls or side tables. No children’s rooms upstairs. It’s like a perfect, empty hotel.

  Perfect, except when the wrong guests come to stay.

  “We don’t camp here,” Jared mutters. “We bunk out in the barn.”

  Careful not to leave footprints, we quickly raid the larder—stocked for an apocalypse, apparently—and tramp out to the barn. Jared pulls two bottles of water and one of wine from his bag. Ali sets a blanket down in the hayloft where we make camp.

  I watch as Jared turns, muscles rippling through his back. He hauls up the ladder and rests it against a wall. He comes and sits down between Ali and me.

  “Open the beans and the soup,” Jared orders with a grunt.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” I grumble. But it’s Ali who takes the rustic can opener and does the honors, pouring the cold contents into three oversize mugs and handing them to us.

  We’re quiet for a moment, gulping down our first meal in what feels like an eternity. The air grows cool, the sky outside the hayloft beginning to marble despite the heavy cloud cover. I sneeze, the hay tickling my nose and throat, and settle my back against a bale. Real hay is so much different than the synthetic stuff we’ve sat on during class trips.

  Occasionally Jared flips out his phone and tries to get a signal. It’s been as blank as a dead Feed in every one of the farmhouses we’ve tried. At first I thought we’d been moving on so we could find a signal, so Jared could check in with Storm.

  It wasn’t until the third house, at least ten miles from the one we’ve camped at, that I finally understood. The farmhouse was small, with a quaint red-tile roof sagging down over the door like a bushy eyebrow. There’d been a woman outside, dressed in a simple cotton work dress. Her hair hung in a limp braid under a kerchief. She hummed to herself as she hung laundry on a line. I’d been about to get up from our hiding spot, wave at her, beg her for running water and food and maybe even a bed, when Jared clamped one large hand around my arm and the other across my mouth.