That person will reshape our world.
Supposedly.
I’m not sure what I believe anymore.
My back prickling, I stalk for the lifeboat. The goat stares up at me, perplexed. The baby rests in a sling Zuly has provided, twitching in a light sleep. I step in reluctantly, and two pack-members begin to lower the boat.
“You’ve chosen well, Delta of Dead River,” Zuly calls from above. “Safe travels.”
I ignore her, staring instead at the northern horizon. I’ve chosen this only because I know Ma will skin me if I leave the baby behind. I put on the sling not because I want the baby nestled into my chest, but because Indie would. I do it for her. And for our pack. I do it because I can’t bear what they’ll think of me otherwise.
“Gods damn you,” I whisper to the baby.
It’s only when the boat hits the earth that I realize these are the first words I’ve spoken to the cretin. Well, at least they aren’t lies.
“Life is cruel,” I tell her as I set out across the dry ocean bed. The goat tows the dragger, which is loaded with Indie’s clothes instead of Indie. “It’s cruel, and everything’s dying, and no one wants you, because you’re a drain and a burden.”
She looks up at me, her eyes almost fogged, as if she’s staring through me, not at me. But I see Indie in them. Everything else reminds me of Clay, but those green eyes are my sister’s. The little thing’s lids fall shut, and she turns into me, lulled by the rhythm of my march.
“Go ahead and try, Baby. You’re not winning me over.”
But she’s already asleep.
Chapter Five
It takes longer to return to Dead River than it did to get to Zuly’s tanker. In part, because I’m going steadily uphill, climbing out of the ocean ever so slowly, but also because Baby is a rotten pain. I have to stop constantly to feed the wailing beast, and what do I get? No thanks. No gratitude. No patience. I know she’s a baby, and this is to be expected, but gods, I’m glad she’s not my kid. I don’t know how new mothers put up with it.
Zuly left a ceramic pot tucked within Indie’s clothes, and that’s helped with the feedings some. So narrow it’s almost pitcher shaped, the pot is open on one end and has a spout on the side for Baby to drink from. I milk the goat into the pot, then have to hold it just so for Baby because she doesn’t seem capable of controlling how quickly she swallows. I used to watch Brooke burp Wren over her shoulder, but when I do the same thing with Baby, she spits up on me.
After the first feeding, the process gets a bit easier, but her wrappings are another issue. She soils them nearly as often as she needs to be fed, and I’m not about to waste water washing them. Zuly tucked some clean rags among Indie’s things, and I change Baby as needed, putting a fresh wrapping on and leaving the other behind.
By the time Dead River appears on the horizon, it’s well past sun-fall. Twilight hangs heavy, and only a faint glow lingers. Camp is quiet as I close in. I can’t make out our torches or even the bonfire, which should be easily recognizable by now, but the scent of smoke fills the night. Soon I can see it too. Great clouds billowing from the huts.
Did the bonfire spread embers in the storm last night? Was there not enough water to put out the flames?
I break into a jog, and Baby startles awake, crying into my chest.
“Not now,” I hiss, but she goes on wailing.
No one hears her. In any case, no one runs to greet me.
I step into camp and know instantly that this wasn’t an accident. The wind didn’t blow a stray ember. No one knocked over a torch. Every hut is smoking. Every last one.
I reach for my waist, tugging my knife from its leather sheath. One arm around Baby, the other holding out the blade, I edge forward.
Some of the huts are nothing but ash. Others, like the one I called home, still stand but are smoldering. I brush through the curtained door, coughing on smoke. “Ma?” I call. I pull up the driftwood on the floor and tramp into the cellar. “Marin?” Her real name feels clumsy on my tongue. “Ma?”
Smoke has infiltrated even down here. Our jarred reserves are caked with ash.
Baby starts hacking into my chest, and I race back up the steps, breaking outside where we can breathe. “Astra? Pewter? Fang?” Their names fall from my mouth, each one more urgent, until my fear eventually betrays me and I can’t keep my voice calm.
There’s no one here.
I turn in circles beneath the night sky, my throat tight. That’s when I notice an extra plume of smoke coming from the lake. I run the hundred paces from memory, gagging as I get nearer. Three bodies lay prone on the dry bank.
I kneel beside them. I don’t want to look, but I have to.
The first body is Astra. The second Cobel, her son. They’ve both been shot in the chest, the front of their skulls smashed open. I turn away and heave. I’ve had little to eat but goat’s milk, jerky, and water, and I vomit it all up immediately.
“Delta?” the third body croaks. “Indie?”
I roll Astra and Cobel aside, finding Old Fang beneath them. He’s been shot too—once in the shoulder and again below his arm. Dried blood marks his brow, as though he’s been struck with a rock. Both of his legs are broken.
“A raid,” he manages before I can ask. “Came from the north. A dozen of them. Wearing black and riding stallions.”
I haven’t seen a stallion on the plains in more than a year. They’re wild beasts, far more trouble than the mares. How a raiding party managed to rope and break a dozen of them is beyond me.
“Where are the others? What happened?”
“They were looking for something. Don’t think they found it. Killed anyone who fought back”—his eyes dart to Astra and her son—“and took everyone else.”
“Took them where?”
His eyes roll, his breath coming in shallow bursts.
“Where, Fang?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did they say? Did you hear anything?”
He coughs up a spattering of blood. I help him sit and let him drink all that remains in my waterskin.
“They spoke of a general, that he’d be disappointed.”
I’ve never heard of such a man. Not even Flint has mentioned him, and he’s spoken of the raiding parties often in his recent visits. I don’t know what would be worse—for the raids to be random, or for them to be orchestrated by this general.
“Anything else? Please, Fang.”
“They checked our dead to see if they were gods touched. That’s why they . . .” Again his gaze trails to poor Astra and her boy. Gods touched. I have never heard the term before. “I’d’ve been next, but another storm was coming. They didn’t realize I was still breathing. They left with the pack.”
Meaning this all happened last night, when I arrived at the Ark. I barely missed it.
“They’re alive, though? Marin? Pewter? Our pack?”
“Were when they were taken.”
The raiders couldn’t have stayed here, not after setting the huts ablaze. But to leave while last night’s storm approached . . . They must know something we don’t. Another settlement nearby. Somewhere with shelter.
Old Fang’s eyes roll, and he leans heavily into my arms. “I want to lie down, Delta. I want to see the stars.”