Chapter 72
Rook presses me forward, through the opening, and then I’m standing on the outside of my world with only trees and earth and rocks stretching in every direction.
The storm has cleared. I’ve never been so . . . free, and yet, the air sticks in my lungs, nearly choking me.
Rook is right behind me, and I spin around to snatch a glimpse of the Guards on the other side. I see Knox. His twisted face. His hair falling in his eyes. What is he doing with them?
They’re approaching, shouting at us. Telling us to stop.
Rook flips another switch, and the door begins to close.
The cavern shakes, rocks tumbling down. I realize it’s been designed to cave in.
My gaze locks on Knox, and I see so much written on his face.
I wish . . . I don’t know what I wish exactly, other than I wish things hadn’t turned out the way they did. I wish we could have stayed friends. I wish he hadn’t humiliated me. I wish . . . this all could have been easier.
Everything is happening in slow motion but also at light speed as the tunnel shakes, the ceiling falls, and the door closes and then seals shut. A roar punctuates the air, and I know—I just know the cavern has started collapsing.
I cover my mouth, stumbling back, tripping over the edges of my tattered skirt and landing in the dirt.
The rumble of stone fills the air, and I will them to run. I know they were after us, but I don’t want anyone else to die. There’s nothing I can do. Just watch.
It takes about a minute while I try not to picture what’s happening.
Then everything goes silent save the crackle of settling stone.
The rush of the wind.
A moment later, it’s over.
Stillness surrounds us, giving me a moment to catch up.
“Are they . . .” I ask in a whisper.
Rook is on his hands and knees, his head hanging, one of our bags lying on the parched grass. “I don’t know,” he grits out.
I crawl over to Rook, shirking off the pack I was wearing. “Knox was there. I saw him.”
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “It was the only way to make sure they couldn’t follow.”
We both glance at the door, the nondescript wall of rock belying everything that just happened.
That’s when I start shaking. My limbs tremble, my heart pounds, and I clutch my chest, my lungs turning to lead.
“Poet,” Rook whispers as he collapses onto his back. “Poet, it’s okay.”
“Where’s the city?” I ask. “Where is New Manhattan?”
I feel untethered, unmoored, like I’m coming apart and drifting away into nothing.
The city and its barriers are the only things I’ve ever known.
“On the other side of the rocks,” he assures me. “It’s there.”
“Will I ever see it again?”
He says nothing for a moment and then finally answers, “Probably not.”
It might be the most honest thing he’s said to me in a while.
“Are you okay?” I ask, leaning over him. “You’re bleeding too much. What do we do? You need help.”
“I’m . . . fine,” he says. “I just need a minute.”
“You’re not fine!” I shout. “Did you pack a first aid kit?”
I open the closest bag and start rummaging around inside it.
“Front pocket,” Rook says, and I dig around for it.
I snap it open and find a needle and thread.
Then I stare at Rook.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing with that?” he asks.
“No,” I say primly. “But you fixed my bear, and now I’m fixing you.”
“Skies, I’m fucked,” he groans.
Then I crawl over and settle on my knees. I pull up his shirt, revealing his soaked bandages. Using a small pair of scissors from the kit, I cut them away to reveal a long gash up his side.
“That asshole,” I say, speaking about Knox. “Shit. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Nah, I’m sure he’s fine. He’s like a cockroach,” Rook says.
I can’t help the snort that bursts out of me. “That’s terrible.”
“But you laughed.”
I shake my head and use some wipes from the kit to clean his wound. He lies still, and this must hurt like hell, yet he doesn’t complain.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I say. “Something no one knows.”
“What?”
“You promised you’re exactly who you said you were. So tell me something, Rook, if that’s even your real name.”
He winces as I finish cleaning the wound, his lips pressing together as he groans.
I shake my head, then unwind the thread and feed it through the needle.
“Sterilize it,” Rook says. “Whiskey.”
I fish out the tiny bottle from the kit and dip the needle in.
“Drink the rest,” I order. “For the pain.”
He offers me a skeptical look, but he lets me tip it into his mouth.
Then I inhale a deep breath and study the gash. It’s a few inches long, and it’s still lightly bleeding.
“A story,” I demand. “Now.”
“When did you get so bossy?” he asks as I press my fingers to his skin and squeeze the wound together. He groans, his head twisting to the side.
“Stop being a baby,” I say, and he almost laughs. “Story time. Start talking.”
“Okay,” he breathes as I pierce him with the needle. “I was ten years old, and I was afraid of the dark.”
“You afraid of something? I don’t buy it.”
He chuckles, then inhales a sharp breath as I feed the thread through his skin.
“My mom gave me this flashlight,” he continues. “She told me it had magic powers.”
I smile at the wistfulness in his tone.
“That if I clicked it on and off three times, nothing scary could ever come into my room.”
He grunts as I keep sewing, slowly closing the gap.
“My brothers would have mocked me until the end of time if they knew about it,” he says.
“So it was always our little secret. When she’d kiss me good night, she’d always remind me to click it when I needed it.
I kept that thing for years, even when I was a teenager.
Before I left home, I’d still use it sometimes. ”
I swallow thickly as his voice cracks.
Another stitch, and his chest heaves up and down.
“Your mom sounds awesome,” I say.
“She’s the best.”
“You’re very lucky.”
“I know.”
I meet his gaze and offer him a small smile before I study my handiwork. I don’t think it looks very good, but at least it’s closing the wound. Nevertheless, he’s clearly in pain, and I need to keep him distracted.
“You know,” I say as I keep working, “now that I’m living in the Wastes, I do have some expectations.”
“Oh yeah?” he asks. “Like what?”
“I’m not sleeping in the dirt. And I’m not going more than a day without a bath.”
He grimaces as I push the needle in again. “Seems reasonable.”
“And I want dinner served on real plates with silverware. Crystal goblets, too.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“New clothes. A big closet. Weekly hair appointments.”
He groans, inhales a long breath. “Whatever you want, Your Highness.”
Finally, I finish up, tying off the knot. Then I cover the wound with a set of fresh bandages. Rook is flushed, his skin hot. I whisper a curse, hoping infection hasn’t set in.
I find some painkillers and make him take twice the recommended dosage as his eyes drift shut.
“Skies, I feel like shit,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“You are not fucking dying on me, do you hear?” I say. “You owe me answers, and you’re not getting out of this so easily.”
“Fuck, you never talked to lover boy like this. Can’t a man die in peace?”
He’s right. I never really fought back against Knox, did I? I learned the lesson from my father never to resist, and I carried that with me until this very moment.
It’s like a light suddenly comes on, bright and clear.
“Knox was never worth fighting for,” I say, and Rook looks over, blinking at me. He reaches out, takes my hand.
“Thanks for sewing me up.”
“Anytime,” I say.
“And I’m not dying. There is no fucking way I’m going down because of that asshole.”
I snort out another laugh, and then his pale face breaks into a smile.
“I don’t think I can get up, though.”
“You need some rest.” I look up, noticing nothing around us. Just sparse trees and dead grass. “Are we safe here?”
“Probably for a little while.”
I nod and clean up the first aid supplies before finding some crackers and water in one of our bags.
I share them with Rook, and I think he might be looking a little better despite the amateur job I did on his stitches.
It’s the first time since I noticed the blood on his shirt that I allow myself to breathe.
“Lie with me,” he says, lifting his arm. “You must be cold.”
I shuffle toward him and lay my head on his shoulder as he pulls me against his unwounded side. He presses his nose into my hair and inhales deeply.
“I can’t believe we did all that,” I say. “Why did you carry me out? You could have just left me there.”
He scoffs. “I would never have left you.”
“But I’m nothing but trouble.”
I feel the rattle of his chest as he laughs softly. “Poet Graves, you are the best kind of trouble I’ve ever found in my life.”
Then I feel his breathing slow as his eyes drift shut. I lift my head to find him asleep, his dark lashes forming shadows across his cheekbones. I study the map of freckles bridging his nose.
Softly, I kiss him on the lips.
I’m still furious with him. He still has things to tell me, but I also don’t think I could go on if he died.
After another moment, I lay my head back down and snuggle into him.
I stare at the sky. At the clouds and the stars, and I wonder what comes next. I think of the stories Rook shared with me in our cozy little room. Any place that has books can’t be that scary. Right? Especially if we’re doing this together.
With a smile on my face, I fall asleep, too.