THIRTY-EIGHT
LIFE CONTINUES IN CREVICE VALLEY. Even amid all the darkness and death, babies are born, people are married. When you don’t have to worry about Heists and losing your society’s ability to reproduce, people really do settle down like the birds.
Emma transitions into a nursing job and I avoid her. I am alone with her only once, when I visit the hospital to have my burned arm treated. She dresses the burn with salve and bandages. I’d forgotten how gentle her hands are, how their touch makes my chest ache. I’m thinking of kissing her, of grabbing her chin and saying, “Let’s start over,” when she turns her back on me to retrieve more salve. The impulse vanishes with her. The burns on my arm heal, turning to rippled and uneven skin over time, but the tension between us does not.
Bree washes the dye from her hair, visits the hospital several times to tend to her bullet wound, and in a matter of days it’s as if she never set foot in Taem at all. We fall back into our regular banter. When we train, we egg each other on. In conversations she interjects ridicule and I tease her endlessly. We avoid repeating our display around the fire on the eve of Harvey’s death, at least publicly. But on quiet nights, when she knocks on my door and stands before me with her blond hair framing that perfect face, I never turn her away.
There is little sleep on those evenings. We become a flurry of hands and lips and skin, but she always stops me when things get too heated. She doesn’t want a baby, and neither do I, but deep down it’s like I know sleeping with her will make it impossible to repair things with Emma. I find myself oddly relieved each time Bree presses her palms against my chest, whispering, “Not now. Not tonight.” If it weren’t for her words, I know I wouldn’t stop.
One day, as we sit bundled outside in the graveyard, I ask Bree how she deals with all the death, how she was able to spin and so quickly shoot the guard in the Union Central’s surveillance corridor.
“Gray, have you ever killed a man?” she asks, staring me down with those blue eyes of hers. I think it over, and amazingly, even with all I’ve been through, I haven’t. I couldn’t even kill an Order member, begging to be shot.
“I’ve only been hunting,” I say.
“Well it’s different from hunting. It’s so very different. When I had my first kill, on a mission here with the Rebels, I cried. Imagine that—me, crying. And then, after time, as the numbers added up, it grew easier. I’m not saying I like it, or ever want to do it, but you come to a point where, if your life is on the line and you see your path of escape closing before your eyes, you don’t think about morals or right and wrong. You think about life and death. You think about survival. In Taem, I did what I thought would keep us alive, and that included pulling the trigger. There will come a day, as this battle continues, that you will face that same decision, and believe me when I say that you will choose your own life over sparing another.”
“It just seems so heartless, the way we are killing each other. And you act like it’s necessary. You’re proud to do it.”
“I’m not proud of killing, but I am proud to be a part of the Rebellion. I’m proud to fight for our people, and that’s never going to change.”
I smile at her certainty. “Are you always going to be so blunt?” I jest.
She misses my playful tone and frowns. “No one said I was easy to love, Gray.”
“Is that was this is, then? You and me?”
“I guess that depends on how you feel. I’ve made myself clear. You’re the one who has to make up his mind.”
She leaves me there, in the graveyard beyond Mount Martyr, and as she walks away, my thoughts fall on Emma.
Winter approaches and on a blustery day when the first snowflakes have started to fall into the Basin, Ryder calls an impromptu status meeting. When I arrive, the captains are sitting about the table, while Bree, Xavier, and even Clipper stand with their backs against the wall. Bo is there, too, and he winks at me as I enter.
The two of us have talked often since our return to Crevice Valley, discussing what we’d seen in the control room and how those visuals might give the Rebels an extra edge. This wink from Bo can only mean that he finally spoke to Ryder about our ideas.
“We need to talk about next steps,” Ryder says, calling the meeting to order. “I believe our time of hiding, of fighting only in defense, has passed. It is time to fight for everything that first brought us together. It is time for offense, for strategy. It is time to attack.”
“But even if everyone in Crevice Valley were to fight, our numbers aren’t enough,” Elijah says.
“Precisely why Bo’s suggestion is so valid,” Ryder replies.
Fallyn looks at Bo. “What suggestion?”
“We’re going to Group A,” Bo announces, beaming. I’m smiling with him, but everyone else looks shocked.
“There’s nothing left of Group A,” Raid states, and several of the others around him nod in agreement.
“No, there is,” I chime in. “Well, there might be. It warrants checking out.”
“We are going to trek halfway across the country?” Fallyn shoots back. “Leave the safety of Crevice Valley and go on some wild-goose chase, all on the hunch that there might be a few survivors in Group A?”
“Not everyone will go,” Ryder says. “Just a few, a select team.”
“Fine, so this select team gets all the way out to Group A, assuming we even know where it is, which we don’t, and brings back what? Savages? Wild animals? How does this help us?”
“First of all, I know exactly where it is,” Bo says, tapping the side of his skull with a fidgeting forefinger. “Well, not exactly, but I overheard enough conversations in Taem to have a more than rough idea. Furthermore, if anyone is left in Group A, I doubt they are savages.”
“And why would you think that?” Fallyn asks, but I start speaking before Bo does.
“Because we saw them. In the control room, in Union Central. There are dozens of screens still watching Group A. If you looked carefully, you could see them moving about the shadows, ducking out of view. I think they know they are being watched and I think they are undercover purposefully. They are staying out of sight and under the illusion of a wrecked society in the hopes of something. I’m not sure what. Escape, maybe? If we can get in there, break them out, we will have willing participants for our fight against Frank.”
“Sounds an awful lot like a Heist to me,” Bree says.
“Yes, but a very different Heist,” I say. “A Heist they want. A Heist they are waiting for.”
“Precisely.” Ryder smiles, and then pushes a list of team members before us.
There is a mere dusting of snow on the ground when we pack our bags for the Western Territory. We leave today to begin a journey that will take many weeks; and with luck, we will secure the numbers to beat Frank for good.
Saying good-bye to Blaine is so difficult it hurts. He wants to come, begs to even, but Ryder refuses. While Blaine is stronger, he’s still not strong enough. It’s his stamina. I worry he’ll never be quite the same. He puts on his best big brother face and tells me to be careful. Even though it is a vow larger than life, I promise him I’ll keep myself in one piece.
I head outside and wait for the group in the cemetery. There is a new headstone in the forefront, carved with Harvey’s name even though the Rebels had no body to bury beneath it. I stop beside it and watch my breath smoke through the late November air. A black crow joins me and takes to pecking at the stone.
“Go on. Get.” I swat at the bird. He caws at me viciously, black feathers gleaming in the white landscape. Footsteps approach, and annoyed by them, the bird flies off.
“You ready?” Emma asks. She wears a thick coat and is loaded up with gear, our medic for the journey.
I nod.
“I hope we can put things right on this mission, Gray,” she says simply, her dark eyes darting between me and her palms. “I don’t like when we are like this, so distant.”
“Me neither,” I confess. I should say a million other things, but I can’t find the words.
“It’s a long trip,” she adds. “Maybe we could talk a little.”
“Yeah. We should.”
She smiles and it is the first one I’ve ever been able to truly read. Her lips are wistful, pinched to one side and upturned, full of promise. It makes me hopeful, which is the clearest emotion I’ve felt in weeks.
I hear voices and turn my attention to the rest of the team that is appearing behind her. My father is first—he’ll be heading up the expedition—along with Xavier, Bo, and even Clipper, who will be our technical edge. Bo looks surprisingly ready. After several weeks of conditioning he has abandoned his usual hunched-over state for a limber, upright one. This alone made Blaine furious, but of course, Bo was never in a coma. A few other faces join us, additional team members. The rest of the captains are staying behind. There will be scouting missions and other things to attend to while we are gone.
And then Bree appears, stepping from the safety of Crevice Valley last, a pack on her back, rifle in her arms, and a scowl on her face as stubborn as ever. There is a thick hat pulled down over her ears, but her blond hair spills from beneath it.
“You ready to perform your first Heist?” she jokes.
“You know it.”
We shift the weight of our bags on our shoulders and start moving, following the team before us.
I hear the crow before I see him. He appears overhead, a dark silhouette against a pallid sky. He tails us for a while, overseeing our hopeful caravan and our boot prints, which leave soft impressions in the shallow snow as we head west.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Numerous people made this book possible. I’m near positive my gratitude could fill a second novel and then some, so I’ll attempt to restrain myself. Many thanks, in no particular order:
To my fearless agent, Sara Crowe. This has been one heck of a journey and I’d have lost my way a long time ago had it not been for you. Thank you for taking a chance on me. And for answering all my emails. Especially the ones that started with “This is probably a silly question, but . . .” You are a godsend.
To my brilliant editor, Erica Sussman, for getting it and loving it and making it better. Until your purple pen started scrawling questions in the margins, Gray’s story was only a fraction of what it is now. I can’t thank you enough.
To the folks at HarperTeen / HarperCollins Children’s for welcoming me to the family and being nothing short of awesome. Erin Fitzsimmons for a cover that still makes me giddy with happiness, plus gorgeous interior pages to boot. Alison Donalty, Alisdair Miller, and Howard Huang, who were also instrumental in the creation of Taken’s artwork. Tyler Infinger for the smile-inducing emails (and packages!). And to everyone else at Harper who worked on this book, championed for it, and helped see it into the world, please know I am terribly appreciative of all you do.
April Tucholke, for reading this novel countless times and always providing insightful feedback. You’re the best critique partner a girl could ask for.
All my writer friends in the Twittersphere and beyond: You’ve kept me sane. Particularly Sarah Maas and Susan Dennard. Thank you for squeeing with me at the high points and holding my hand at the lows. I owe you both a cupcake. Or four.
Every teacher who has touched and inspired, but especially Lynn McMullin. That creative writing class my senior year of high school changed everything.
Michelle Sinclair, for being a positive, radiant, inspirational force in my life. I adore you. Alanna and Tammy, for cheering me on and promising to buy a million copies. (I’m half-tempted to hold you to that.) Dave, for always brainstorming with me. And to the rest of my old coworkers who put up with my weird part-time schedule that allowed me to chase a dream, thank you. (Carin, I can’t tell you how grateful I am that I had such flexibility.) You guys all rock.
Kara, Katie, Kristen, and Nikki, because friendship is priceless.
Ava, Becca, and Dave (see above).
My extended family, large and sprawling: It is a blessing to be surrounded by such wonderful people.
An endless thank-you to my parents, John and Maureen Snyder, for being the very best teachers around. For filling my childhood with books and adventures and travels. For encouraging me to dream big. And for not having cable television. I may have hated it when I was younger, but it was because of the mere two-channel reception that I spent so much time with my nose deep in books. Years later, I am eternally grateful.
My sister, Kelsy, for being my first reader, best friend, and number-one fan. This novel would still be a mere handful of chapters on my laptop had you not begged to know what happens next.
My husband, Rob, for being patient. And supportive. And believing in me all the times I stopped believing in myself. You are my bird and I’ll fly with you anywhere.
And above all, to you, dear reader: Thank you for picking up this novel. Thank you for loving stories and words and Once upon a time. Thank you for giving books a home. The world needs more people like you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Tamara Namaste (www.tnamastephotography.com)
ERIN BOWMAN knew she wanted to write from the moment she uttered her first “once upon a time.” Now a full-time writer, she lives in New Hampshire with her husband. You can visit her online at www.embowman.com.
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