Defiance

  DEFIANCE

  C. J. REDWINE

  Dedication

  For Clint, who cheerfully sacrificed his free time to support my dreams. Thank you for believing in me. I love you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  RACHEL

  The weight of their pity is like a stone tied about my neck. I feel it in the little side glances, the puckered skin between frowning brows, the hushed whispers that carry across the purple-gray dusk of twilight like tiny daggers drawing blood.

  He isn’t coming home.

  It’s hard to ignore the few citizens still milling about the gate leading out into the Wasteland, the guards who flank the opening, and Oliver’s solid, reassuring bulk by my side, but I have to. I can’t bear to let one sliver of doubt cut into me.

  Peering out into the forest that presses against the fifty-yard perimeter of scorched ground that we keep around the city to prevent any threats from approaching our Wall undetected, I look for movement. The Wasteland is a tangle of trees, undergrowth, and the husks of the cities that once were, all coated in the bright, slippery green growth of early spring and the drifting piles of silvery ash that remind us of our fragility. Somewhere in its depths, bands of lawless highwaymen pillage for goods they can trade at the city-states. Somewhere beneath it, the Cursed One roams, seeking to devour what little remains of a once great civilization.

  I don’t care about any of that. I just want Dad to make it home in time.

  “Rachel-girl,” Oliver says, his brown, flour-stained fingers wrapping gently around my arm as if to prepare me for what he wants to say.

  “He’s coming.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “He is.” I dig my nails into my palms and strain to see movement in the thickening twilight, as if by the force of my will I can bring him home.

  Oliver squeezes my arm, but says nothing. I know he thinks Dad is dead. Everyone thinks so. Everyone but me. The thought that I stand alone in my conviction sends a bright, hard shaft of pain through me, and suddenly I need Oliver to understand.

  To agree.

  “He’s not just a courier, you know.” I glance at Oliver’s broad shoulders, which carve a deep shadow into the ground beneath him, and wish for the days when I was little enough to perch on his back, feeling the rumble of his voice through my skin as we walked to the gate to meet Dad after yet another successful trip. “He’s also a tracker. The Commander’s best. There’s no way he got caught unaware in the Wasteland.”

  Oliver’s voice is steady as he says, “He is good at his job, Rachel-girl. But something must have … held him up. He isn’t coming home in time.”

  I turn away, trying to see where the perimeter ends and the Wasteland begins, but the sun is nothing but a fiery mirage below the tree line now, and the shadows have taken over.

  “Last call!” one of the guards shouts, his shoulders flexing beneath the dark blue of his uniform as he reaches for the iron handle beside him and begins tugging the gate inward. I flinch as it slams shut with a harsh metallic clang. The guards weave thick, gleaming chains through the frame, securing it until the guards on the morning shift return with the key.

  For a moment, we stand staring at the now-closed gate. Then Oliver wraps an arm around me and says, “It’s time.”

  Tears sting my eyes, and I clench my jaw so hard my teeth grind together. I’m not going to cry. Not now. Later, after Dad has been officially declared dead, and my Protectorship has transferred to Oliver, I’ll let myself feel the pain of being the only one left who’s willing to believe that Jared Adams, Baalboden’s best tracker, is still alive.

  I use the wooden step box to climb into the wagon that waits for us, and reach a hand back to help Oliver hoist himself up as well.

  As the wagon sways and lurches over the cobblestone streets to the Commander’s compound, I wrap my fists in my cloak and try to ignore the way my stomach burns with every rotation of the wheels. Oliver reaches out and unravels my cloak from my right hand. His palm swallows mine, his skin warm, the maple-raisin scent of his baking comforting me. I lean into him, pressing my cheek against the scratchy linen of his tunic.

  “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

  For a moment, I want to burrow in. Soak up the comfort he offers and pretend he can make it better. Instead, I sit up, back straight, just the way Dad taught me. “He didn’t come back today, but that doesn’t mean he won’t come home at all. If anyone knows how to survive the Wasteland, it’s Dad.” My voice catches on a sudden surge of grief—a dark, secret fear that my faith in Dad’s skills will be proven wrong, and I’ll be left alone. “It isn’t fair that he has to be declared dead.”

  “It’s probably my job to tell you life isn’t fair, but I figure you already know that.” His voice is steady, but his eyes look sad. “So instead, I’ll tell you that hope is precious, and you’re right not to give it up.”

  I look him in the eye, daring him to feed me a lie and tell me he still believes. “Even when it looks like everyone else already has?”

  “Especially when it looks like everyone else already has.” He pats my hand as the wagon grinds to a halt, its bed swaying long after the wheels have stopped.

  The driver hops down, walks toward the ba
ck of the wagon, and jerks the canvas flap aside. I climb down and watch anxiously as Oliver follows. Though only faint creases mar the brown skin of his face, his hair is more gray than black, and he moves with the careful precision of age. Reaching for him, I slide my arm through his as he navigates his way off the heavy wooden step box. Together, we turn to face the compound.

  Like the Wall surrounding the city of Baalboden, the compound is a massive expanse of weather-stained gray stone bolstered by ribbons of steel. Darkened windows are cut into the bulky exterior like lidless, unblinking eyes, and the roof holds several turrets manned with guards whose sole job it is to cut down any intruders before they’ve gone twenty paces.

  Not that any citizen of Baalboden would be stupid enough to defy the man who rules us with a ferocity rivaled only by what waits for us out in the Wasteland.

  Before the guard manning the spiked iron gate can open it, another wagon rumbles to a stop behind ours. I glance over my shoulder and heat stings my cheeks as Logan McEntire strides toward us, the dying sun painting his dark-blond hair gold.

  I will my pale skin not to betray me and do my best to pretend I don’t see him. I’ve spent so much time today hoping Dad would finally return from the Wasteland, I neglected to consider that any reading of his will would naturally include his apprentice.

  Which is fine. As long as I don’t have to speak to him.

  “Oliver. Rachel,” Logan says as he comes to stand beside us. His voice is its usual calm, I-bet-I-can-find-an-algorithm-to-fix-this tone, and I have a sudden desire to pick a fight with him.

  Except that would make it look like I care that he’s here.

  And I don’t.

  His presence won’t change anything. My Protectorship will be given to Oliver, Logan will take over Dad’s courier duties, and I’ll keep checking off the days until Dad comes home again, and life can go back to normal.

  Oliver reaches out to clap his free hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Good of you to come,” he says. As if Logan had a choice. As if any of us have a choice.

  “It feels too soon,” Logan says softly as the guard opens the gate and waves us forward. “Jared’s tough. We should give him more than sixty days past his return date before we’re forced to declare him dead.”

  I glance at Logan in surprise, and find his dark blue eyes on mine, the fierce conviction in them a perfect match for what burns in me. My lips curve into a small smile before I remember I’m not going to act like I care about him.

  I’ve had enough firsthand experience with caring about Logan McEntire to last me a lifetime.

  I look away and walk into the compound without another word.

  Oliver and Logan follow on my heels. A steward, dressed in black, leads us into a box of a room and quietly excuses himself, shutting the door behind him.

  Straight-back wooden chairs surround a long polished table, and six torches rest in black iron brackets against stark white walls. The air feels smoky and closed off, but I don’t know if the choked feeling in my throat is from lack of oxygen or from the fact that facing us at the end of the table is Commander Jason Chase, ruler of Baalboden.

  The torchlight skims the gold braid on his crisp blue military jacket, scrapes over the twin furrows of the scar that twists a path from his left temple to his mouth, and dies in the unremitting darkness of his eyes.

  “Sit,” he says.

  We obey. Our chairs drag against the stone floor, a high-pitched squeal of distress. Two men sit on either side of the Commander’s chair. One worries a stack of parchment lying in front of him with nervous fingers. The other wears a studious expression on the doughy folds of his face and holds a quill poised over an inkwell, a sheet of blank parchment unfurled before him.

  The Commander examines each of us in turn before sitting in his chair, his spine held at rigid attention. Without sparing a glance for the two men beside him, he says, “Oliver James Reece, Logan McEntire, and Rachel Elizabeth Adams, you have been called here today to deal with the matter of the death of Jared Nathaniel Adams.”

  I jerk forward at his words, leaning past Oliver on my left so I can meet the Commander’s gaze, but Logan grips my right arm and pulls me back.

  “Shh,” he breathes against my ear.

  I yank my arm from his grasp and swallow the protest begging to be unleashed. We aren’t here because Dad is dead. We’re here because the Commander won’t allow more time for us to prove he’s alive. Anger hums beneath my skin.

  The Commander continues. “Upon his failure to return from his courier mission to the city-state of Carrington, I invoked the sixty-day grace period for return. Those sixty days are now over.”

  The round man scratches furiously on the parchment without spilling a spare drop of ink from his quill. I want to speak. To make him record my protest. Anything could have gone wrong in the Wasteland. Dad could’ve taken sick. Been kidnapped by highwaymen. Been driven off course by the Cursed One. None of those events are necessarily fatal. We just need to give him more time. My body vibrates, tension coiling within me until I have to clamp my jaw tight to keep from interrupting.

  “Therefore, by right as ruler and upholder of law in Baalboden, I now pronounce Jared Nathaniel Adams dead.”

  The small, nervous-fingered man gathers the stack of papers in front of him, clears his throat, and begins to read Dad’s will. I let his words slide past me, willing him to hurry up so we can leave. But when he suddenly falls silent and frowns, I start paying attention.

  “Is there a problem?” the Commander asks in a tone meant to convey that there’d better not be.

  “It’s, ah, just a bit irregular. Highly irregular.” The man’s fingers clench the parchment, curling the edges until they begin to crumble.

  “Continue,” the Commander says to him.

  A hard knot forms in the pit of my stomach.

  “‘In the matter of the Protectorship of my daughter, Rachel Elizabeth Adams, I do hereby appoint as her Protector …’” Another clearing of his throat. A swift glance in my direction.

  No, not in my direction. In Logan’s.

  I grip the table’s edge with clammy fingers and feel the bottom drop out of my world as the man says, “‘I do hereby appoint as her Protector, until such a day as she is legally Claimed, my apprentice, Logan McEntire.’”

  CHAPTER TWO

  LOGAN

  It takes a second for the news to sink in. For me to realize he said my name. Not Oliver’s. Mine.

  Even as I absorb the sucker punch of panic to my gut, I’m scrambling for a plan. Something we can all agree on as reasonable and just. A Protector is an older male family member or a husband. Not a nineteen-year-old orphan who carved his way out of poverty and desperation to become the apprentice to Baalboden’s best tracker.

  Maybe the Commander will intervene and tell us how preposterous this is. Acknowledge that I can’t possibly be expected to take on a sixteen-year-old ward. Not when a man of Oliver’s age and reputation is willing and able.

  Instead, the Commander looks across the long expanse of table between us and smiles, a small tightening of his mouth that does nothing to mitigate the predatory challenge in his eyes.

  He won’t step in without seeing me beg him for it first. I press my lips closed, a thin line of defiance. I’d rather combine every element on the Periodic Table and take my chances with the outcome than humble myself before the Commander. Even for the worthy cause of giving both Rachel and Oliver what I know they want. I’ll have to come up with another way to put Oliver in charge of Rachel. Maybe as her new Protector, it’s within my rights to assign her to another?

  Before I can pursue this line of thinking, Rachel leaps to her feet and says, “No!”

  Oliver grabs for her, tugging her toward her chair, but she shakes him off.

  “No?” The Commander draws the word out with deliberate intent, looking at her properly for the first time since we entered the room. Dread sinks into me at the way his eyes scrape over her like he’d enjoy tea
ching her how to keep her mouth shut.

  I’ve seen that expression on the kind of men who frequent the back alleys of South Edge. It never bodes well for the woman they’ve selected as their prey.

  Rachel’s voice shakes. “He’s not … I can’t be.... This is crazy.”

  I snatch her arm and forcibly seat her again before she says something that gets her in the kind of trouble I can’t save her from. “What she means is that this is very unexpected.”

  “What I mean is there is no way in this lifetime that I’ll ever willingly answer to you.” She glares at me, but her words are laced with panic.

  I understand the feeling. I don’t know how to be a Protector. Especially Rachel’s Protector. And I don’t know what words to say that would make her despise the situation less.

  “You dare argue against your father’s wishes?” The Commander leans forward, placing each palm flat against the table.

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “You don’t.” I meet her eyes and try to convey with my expression that she should be quiet and let me handle this. Not that I’ve ever known Jared’s headstrong daughter to be quiet about anything. But the thought of what the Commander could do to her if she angers him makes me sick with fear.

  She throws me a look of absolute loathing, then pulls her arm free and turns to the Commander. “He’s only nineteen. Wouldn’t a man of Oliver’s years and experience be a better choice?”

  Her words hurt, a sudden sharp ache that takes me by surprise. The fact that I was about to suggest the same does nothing to lessen the sting.

  “Your father didn’t think so,” the Commander says dismissively, turning his gaze from her as if she couldn’t possibly have anything more to say.

  “But … I’m nearly Claiming age. Just three months away. Surely I’m old enough not to need to stay under the roof of my official Protector—”

  The Commander straightens abruptly and glares Rachel into silence. “First, you question your father’s wisdom over you. Now, you question the Protectorship laws of Baalboden itself?”

  “Sir, she’s just a bit off balance right now. It’s been a difficult day for her.” The calm in Oliver’s voice is strained around the edges.