Page 13

In the kitchen, Tristan pulls out one of the padded leather chairs near the dark, amber-colored table for me. They’re in incredible condition and look far more comfortable than anything we have in Hanook. It’s a punch to the gut. A stark reminder of their hoarding and all they’ve done to leave the clans with nothing but crumbs. I opt to lean against the wall, staying closest to my exit, all while trying to hide how out of breath I am.

Tristan opens a large metal cupboard, and I’m shocked when cold air drifts out and touches my legs. I move closer and the coldness intensifies. But from what I can see, there’s no block of ice.

I sense Tristan’s amusement, which makes me self-conscious. I return to my spot by the wall. “I’ve read about these cold storage units in books.”

Tristan bites his bottom lip. “It’s called refrigeration. Some people only have freezers because they’ve lasted longer. If you want, I can explain how it works.”

There’s a gentleness to his offer, and I am curious. But the only information I should be extracting from him right now is clues on how to escape. “Maybe another time.”

“Okay. Can I get you something to eat?”

I shake my head, thinking of all the food I hid in my room before Enola took away the supper tray. He closes the door, and I watch him move about the kitchen with the same grace he had in the forest. There’s nothing weary or weak about his movements. “Is fesber tea really all you’ve been drinking to make yourself better?”

He glances back at me over his shoulder, then opens a cupboard. “Pretty much. But I had to guzzle the stuff for days. I’m still not feeling great.”

I’m not sure I buy that. “You’re a million times better than me.”

He turns to face me. Takes a slow breath. “I know you think I only want to get inside your head, but I could . . . help you share the load of the remaining poison. Make up for time you lost getting better because of Caro and Annette.”

A knowing smile slips over my face. That didn’t take long. “No, thanks. I’ll stick with the tea.”

He shrugs, then opens another cupboard and pushes the items around before grabbing a medium-size bowl from the top shelf. “I’ll keep the fesber and white thistle here, so you can make it yourself as much as you’d like. The mugs are . . .”

I point to the cupboard he just shut. He reopens it. “Right.”

“Why does it seem like you don’t know where anything is in your house?”

“Because it isn’t my house. Or, it wasn’t until a few days ago. It was my father’s.”

“Oh.”

My ribs constrict as my gaze drops to the floor.

“Me, Samuel, and my cousin, Ryland, have a place a couple of streets over.”

Ryland is his cousin—that’s why they look alike. That also explains why Tristan’s bedroom was so impersonal—like a guest room with his extra clothes and leftover childhood things.

The kitchen grows silent as he stuffs two mugs with the herbs, then fills a funny-looking metal pot with water. With the press of a button, it begins to heat. It’s like magic.

What a world of privilege he gets to live in.

Questions burn on my tongue, and I rethink not asking them. After all, it was Annette, and not Tristan, who locked me in my room. I point to the pot. “I’ve seen other small appliances like this before, but nothing that would power them.”

It takes work to keep the bitterness from my voice. “What do you use to make electricity?”

Tristan’s eyes narrow on me before he props a hip against the counter. “There’s a hydropower facility on the river. It’s been there since before the bombs hit. We’ve managed to maintain most of that, and traders know we’re always on the hunt for parts. We also have a coal mine, which may one day be a source of power if we get a few more parts, but for now is how we heat our homes.”

I exhale, stunned. “So, this place”—I gesture around me—“really is a piece of the old world? How was it spared from everything? The bombs? The war for resources that came after?”

It’s such a blow to learn they haven’t struggled like we have by being forced to build everything from scratch. How could we not have known that? “Have you always been here?”

“No.”

Tristan fills our cups with the boiled water. “Our founding families discovered this place because my father had a dream. They walked, half-starved and fighting for their lives every step of the way. But after a few months, they located it like an oasis in the desert. Or as my father would say, ‘a miracle.’”

Pain flickers across his face. “It was abandoned but intact. Truthfully, I think the original residents evacuated when the bombs started, but the location of the town meant that it ended up sheltered. The mountains on one side protected it from the fallout and tainted dust, which also kept the watershed clean. It’s taken work, but we’ve maintained everything the best we could. As more people arrived, we took them in until violence escalated, and then we built an electric fence to keep out the thieves. Vandals. Attackers.”

He gives me a funny look, but when I only wait for him to continue, he does. “Nothing much has changed. We’ve been fighting to protect ourselves and what we have ever since.”

That’s a delicate way to say they use terrorism to hoard resources. I cross my arms. “So in your mind, the clans are nothing more than thieves and vandals. You think the decades of fighting between us boils down to the clans wanting what you have?”

He holds my gaze, his face remaining neutral. “Yes.”

“No.”

My head shakes so hard my hair falls into my eyes. I run my fingers through it and flip it out of my face. “How can that be when we didn’t even know you have all of this? Which I see was your intent. It’s easier to hide what you have when you don’t let us get close.”

“We don’t let you get close because when we do, people die.”

He exhales. “But we’re not the ones perpetuating this, and we certainly didn’t start it.”

I have never been more grateful for all the stories I learned at morning academy. “But you did start it. The first slaughter of our people was over three decades ago. There were ten mutilated bodies found on Hanook land, all missing their eyes and some fingers.”

Tristan turns away to pour the boiling water into our mugs. “You think we just decided to murder a bunch of clansmen one day? For no reason?”

“There’s only so much land that’s habitable. Only so many supplies left over from the old world. Are those not reasons?”

He shakes his head.

I can’t believe he’s denying it. “We’ve found beheaded animals. Guards that have gone missing and never returned. Dead bodies along our border. Your terror is intermittent, but it has never ceased.”

“Violent vagrants,”

he says flippantly. Too flippantly. “We have them as well.”

No. He doesn’t get to pretend that they haven’t been anything but barbarians to us. “What about our soldiers who have come back with gruesome stories of torture? All of them missing their eyes, thumbs, and forefingers as a result of your soldiers, a disability that guarantees they’ll never hold another weapon again. As a healer, I’ve mended them. I’ve seen it all myself. We know it as your trademark.

“And then there’s all the raids on us and our traders, limiting supplies,”

I continue. “The little bit that does come through needs to be searched for booby traps and poison. Your army is nothing but a terror.”

When Tristan finally turns around his face is hard. “So you’re saying we should just let you ride through with a cart of weapons to be used against us? We’re not that stupid. But booby traps and poison—that’s your father’s playbook. He’s the sole reason we have our own traders and trust no one except our own people. And raiding you—”

Tristan laughs, almost cruelly, and something hot stirs in my gut. “You live in a shack, Isadora. What exactly is it that you think we want?”

I step closer, my face flushed. “And whose fault is it that we live that way, Tristan? You kill our animals, pick off our soldiers. Then you take from our traders so we can’t replenish our supplies.”

But making us weak isn’t their only goal. Why does a bully crush a bumblebee? “It’s really about power, isn’t it? Because what you ultimately want is to control everything.”

I boldly meet Tristan’s eyes. “And you’re well on your way. Look around. The evidence of your people’s crimes is everywhere.”

His eyes tighten. “Or, these things you see”—he gestures to the room—“were here from before the bombs, or they were traded for. The Republic is a big place, and although most of it is uninhabitable now, if you search hard enough, anything can be found. You can’t fault us for having more resourceful traders.”

He really is a master manipulator.

Tristan pushes off the counter and takes a step closer. “You know, I’ve trained most of my life to be an elite guard, and we are very good at what we do. But there hasn’t been a single time we’ve struck first. As far as I’m concerned, the tolerance, even lenience, we’ve shown is unjustifiable. Criminal. It can’t be sustained, especially now, after what the clans have done to my father.”

Impossible. Again, I shake my head, but my thoughts are derailed by the tightening connection between us with every inch he moves closer. We’re far from touching, but his anger and zeal are leaking into me with increasing intensity. There’s something else there—a swirling heat that stirs in my gut. It’s so contrary to the rest of him.

And so very pleasant.

I clear my throat as if that might help push Tristan’s emotions away from me. It doesn’t work, so instead I hold on to what I know: he wants to hurt the clans. “So now you’ll get your revenge.”

Tristan’s cheek pulses.

“I’m right, aren’t I? You’re planning an attack.”

His anger coats my mouth, burning like scalding oil and reveals the truth before his words do. “Of course we are,”

he says. “Someone must pay for my father’s murder. And something must be done to prevent mine. Your father won’t stop until he takes it all.”

He’s lost his mind.

But as Tristan’s pain, thick and heavy, burrows between my ribs, I can’t help but see his side. Even his need to retaliate against my father is beginning to sound like a good idea. I push against it. “And then what? How does this ever come to an end?”

There’s no doubt in my mind that the bad blood between our people started, and continues, because of the Kingsland’s greed. But if they attack us, then we will attack them, and this never-ending bloody cycle will continue, leaving the clans to never know peace.

“There is no end without justice,” he says.

But what does justice look like to him? Killing Father? Or slaughtering a path through the clans?

And even if there is no end without justice, can there ever be justice in revenge?

Our breath falls hard in the air. We’re getting nowhere. “Then take me with you,” I say.

“No.”

My heart begins to pound. “Why? What are you planning?”

Tristan glances away, looking tired. “It’s not me who’s doing the planning. The town council decides what happens next.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re the”—I throw my hands up—“the king of the Kingsland or whatever. You have power. I’ve seen it.”

Tristan draws in a slow, deep breath, but a tingle of his amusement tickles my throat. “First off, it’s not the Kingsland. The name of our town is Kingsland. We live in Kingsland. And our leadership is decided by elections, not competitions or favors. We each vote for who we feel is best. My father was mayor of Kingsland for thirty-six years. I was trained to be an elite guard under Vador, but my father also trained me to be his second-in-command. I was to follow in his footsteps.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Now that he’s dead, I’m temporarily in charge. Acting mayor. Yes, I have influence, but decisions of this nature will never be decided by me alone, and even if they were, an official leader will be voted in. Soon.”

You can’t do it with her by your side. There isn’t a person among us who will support you. Annette’s words make a lot more sense now.

“So essentially, the Kingsland—sorry, the town of Kingsland—is planning an attack on my home, my people, and I’m supposed to—what? Just sit here?”

My frustration grows to a fever pitch. “I’m useless to you. Whatever you think you can get from me, you won’t. Why did you even save me?”

Tristan pulls a leaf out of his tea and casually drops it in the sink. “I don’t know.”

An overwhelming sense of wrongness fills my chest, and I know with absolute certainty that’s a lie.

But there is a way to find the truth, and the answers to all my questions.

The connection.

“The house is yours.”

My gaze snaps back to his face.

“And everything in it. If you need something, tell me, and I’ll find a way to get it. I don’t suggest you go out alone just yet, but I’m happy to take you anywhere. Or Enola could.”

He’s granting me some freedom? More manipulations, I’m sure. But then I remember that in the parable, the bumblebees didn’t resist the fox’s kindness. They did something surprising: they responded in kind.

Until they could lure him off a cliff.

“Thank you,”

I say, trying to soften my voice.

A smile splits across his face.

It’s a stunning smile. The kind that makes him immeasurably more handsome. A flutter kicks up in my stomach, and then from the threadbare tether between us, there’s a pull to move closer to him.

I wasn’t lying when I said I’d rather die than give him full access to me again through the connection. Not when the information he’d gain could be used to kill my people. But this connection works both ways. I’ve sensed his anger and amusement. What else is there to glean?

And can I do it without him noticing?

As an experiment, I slowly cross the floor to the jar of honey beside him and scoop a spoonful into my tea. He’s within arm’s length now, and his curiosity comes through so loud it feels like my own. I’m undoubtedly also exposed. I imagine closing off my mind to him, building a wall between us, but quickly give up. I have no idea what I’m doing.

“You like honey?”

Tristan asks. His body angles toward me, and the heat of his gaze slides over my cheek. But then it seems to dive into my chest and somehow wrap around my bones. A tremendous warmth gathers in my belly.

In a burst of panic, I mentally hurl a question at him.

What do you have planned for me?

“Because I’d—”

His words cut off. “Are . . . you trying to sneak into my head?”

Tea splashes onto the countertop as I shove away from him and retreat to my spot against the wall. Fire scalds my cheeks at getting caught. “I-I’m going back to bed.”

He swallows hard. His lips part. I feel the razor blade cut of what he’s feeling: betrayal.

Is he for real? Has he not done the exact same to me?

“Okay,”

he says slowly. “I’ll be across the hall.”

Of course he will be. I can’t escape him. Spinning, I flee the kitchen, annoyance over a multitude of things hastening my steps—until I’m reminded of his little dig earlier. I whip back around. “You know, not having running water doesn’t mean I live in a shack.”

Tristan’s lips dissolve into the tiniest of smirks. Then one of his memories floats to the surface of my mind.

I don’t think he meant to send that, so now I’m really intrigued. Only it’s like a bubble that won’t pop. An important thought I can’t remember. It’s infuriating. My head tips to the side as I try to parse out what he accidentally sent me. “Have you seen where I live?”

A flutter emerges in my stomach. It’s briefly there and then gone. Tristan’s face reveals nothing.

“Is that how you knew what I looked like in the forest? You’ve seen me before? At my house?”

The flutter kicks into something stronger.

But then Tristan’s cup lands on the counter with a thud, and he slips by me like I haven’t said a word. “Good night, Isadora.”