CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BY DAY TWO OF PATROL, the shiny gloss of novelty had dulled to a lackluster matte. Today marks our fifth day monitoring countless hectares on horseback, checking in on the fincas and small villages positioned near the edge of the Wilds. The most remarkable surprise I’ve encountered in our travels —besides the otherworldly size of the bug bites —is the courage of the women who face isolation and the threat of predators in exchange for lush, fertile farmland in the shadow of the foreboding Divisaderos. The rest has proved painfully anticlimactic.

This evening we travel north, returning to Highway Volcán and the camp we utilized the night we arrived —the spot where Bri almost did me in. How removed that seems now. The endless hills and valleys, barely touched by Nedéans, the days stretching as long as the wild grasses, have all but erased life before this week. The Arena, Finca del Mar, the Succession itself —they could be a dream, with my real life an eternal Alexia patrol.

As we ride, the light warms and then fades, draining the fields of color and shrouding the Wilds beyond in shadow. We’ll be lucky to reach our site by dark, but the prospect doesn’t worry me as it would have five days ago. I’m growing accustomed to pitch black nights and uncertain sleeping arrangements. I am also getting used to the mist thickening around the mountaintops each evening, as if the peaks sleep best wrapped in a cool, gauzy blanket. As we ride, I watch the thin clouds encircle the largest mountain, then fill the hollow crater that was once its peak. Mist also rises from a distant point on the horizon. That haze is thicker, grayish, and rises like a plume from the earth.

“Fire!” Trinidad yells. She digs her heels into Midas, galloping away like a shot.

We take off after her. Fallon, Angelica, Valya, and Merced trail fifty meters behind but keep pace. Bri might not be a great rider, but her horse knows how to run, and she barely lags behind. The superior stamina of the Lexanders shines through. For the first —and hopefully last —time, I wish I was riding one. I keep my own Callisto at a full gallop, but within five minutes the others have shrunk to pebbles on the horizon. She’s simply not fast enough. I urge her on; I may not be able to keep up, but I can’t lose them completely.

The column of smoke grows taller with each passing minute. The others are out of my sight now. When I reach the top of a rise in the road, the small finca next to our camp comes into view, maybe half a kilometer ahead, angry flames engulfing the villa walls.

Adoni’s voice echoes in my mind, the information I overheard her give Grandmother: “. . . then burned the place down.” I rein in Callisto as I consider: Could this be an attack?

A few dark figures dart across the road thirty meters ahead. One startles at the sight of me and shouts something at the others. The pack picks up speed. They’ve seen me, and yet they run. That narrows the possibility of their identity. If I waste time getting Trinidad, they’ll disappear into the thick Jungle, and we’ll never know for sure. If there’s even a small chance these raiders are the same savages that attacked and burned Jonalyn’s finca, I can’t let them get away.

As soon as I lead Callisto off the packed dirt road, thick grass and growing darkness slow her pace. I urge her on, carefully, quietly, and ready my bow. Trinidad told me once that my horse was my greatest weapon —that if she wasn’t prone to fear, I should trust her instincts.

“Be brave, Callisto,” I whisper. “Take me to them.”

I coax her into the unknown, hoping to overtake the figures before they reach the wall of Jungle that marks Nedé’s boundary. But when we collide with the seemingly impassible tangle of Wilds, I still haven’t spotted them. I scan the area, looking for signs of movement. Instead I discover a barely cleared path heading due west, straight into the belly of the Jungle. Freshly trampled grass at the trail’s opening hints that Callisto has proven Trinidad right.

I weigh my options. Abandon this mission —go back to the burning villa and lose the chance to learn their identity —or press on? Quickly, Reina —think. If I find out who is doing the raids, we have a chance of stopping them, don’t we? And if apprehending a raider wouldn’t prove to Grandmother that I have what it takes —that I’m Matriarch material —I don’t know what would. She wouldn’t need to test me. I could prove my competence and avenge my sister.

I press into Callisto, moving us forward into the unknown.

The trail scarcely cuts a path through thick, encroaching brush. We pick our way through the walls of darkening green, ducking under vine-covered branches and skirting around an occasional boulder. Minutes pass, my every sense painfully alert. I can practically taste the hum of life around me —plants, animals, and insects, all aware of my intrusion, but refusing to hint at my targets’ whereabouts.

Entering a surprisingly open glade, we move faster. Then I see it: a flash of movement, darting behind one of many trees on the far side of the clearing. I push Callisto into a run, readying my bow.

Faster, faster.

I am a centaur, my human body running on equine legs. I lift an arrow to my bow, ready to release as soon as I get the shot.

Then, without warning, Callisto buckles under me. I’m thrown from her and hit the ground hard, fire shooting through my left shoulder. Scrambling back to her, pain blurring my vision, I find her front legs tangled in lengths of rope attached on each end to leathery spheres the size of my fists. I have to free her, and fast. I unsheathe my sword, but before I can touch the blade to the rope, a massive force barrels into me, knocking me flat on my back. Before I realize what’s happening, my attacker grabs my wrists and pins my legs under him —too easily. I squirm and twist frantically, trying to pull a limb free, but he’s stronger than me. He’s stronger than me. What in Siyah’s name? Adrenaline pumps through my shaky limbs as I struggle in vain. If I was helpless against Jamara, now I’m prey. I’ve never been more scared in my life.

“Well, well . . . what do we . . . have here?” he says, the staccato of his mock-playful words the only sign that keeping me down requires effort. His upper lip curls curiously as he looks me over.

My face blazes with heat; blood pounds through my ears.

Think, Reina! Think like an Alexia.

I force myself to slow my lungs and suppress the seizing panic so I can assess the situation, like Adoni taught us. Observe, decide, act, I hear her say. I register the fiery red of his hair first, illuminated in the moonlight that settles on the open clearing. It curls and twists at odd angles, like the flames engulfing the villa just a few kilometers away. Then the dark freckles mottling his strangely pale skin. But it’s the attack itself that points to his identity. Ciela was right. There is no other possibility.

He must be a Brute.

He’s too strong, too dangerous to be anything else. And that means I need a weapon.

My sword glints atop a clump of stringy grass close enough to reach if I can manage to free an arm. I channel every iota of strength into a quick twist of my right hand. My wrist slips from his grip, and I strain for the hilt, but before I can curl my fingers around it, he wrenches my arm back. Lightning-sharp pain shoots through my injured shoulder, down my arm and across my back. I can’t hold back a scream.

“No, no, no,” he chides, breathlessly. “You don’t want to do that.”

Laughter erupts from unseen accomplices, gathering closer. One cackles, “A little sooner with the bolas next time, Dáin? She almost skewered me.”

Another voice, “What are you going to do with her?”

The red-haired Brute pushes his tongue into his cheek, pretending to give this question deep consideration. Is this a game to him? While he toys with his catch, a trickle of blood torments me, itching fiercely as it rolls across my forehead and into my hair. My limbs grow tired from straining against him, but I won’t give up trying.

Finally, he issues his verdict: “She’s seen us. She can’t live. Bring me my club.”

A scraggly, smaller Brute thrusts a stout club toward my captor. The head of the intricately carved weapon resembles a harpy eagle, its beak tapering steeply into a menacing hook. Sharp, bony teeth protrude down the entire ridge of its back, mimicking neat rows of deadly feathers. The carved wooden chest bears symbols and swirls. I try not to dwell on how the weapon will feel colliding with my head, instead readying myself to surge with one last escape attempt should he release his hold on me for even a second.

But instead of reaching for the club, he tilts his head to one side, seeming to reconsider.

“But she’s a pretty one, she is. Maybe I should keep her a little longer.”

He bends low, his face so near mine his hair forms a canopy over my head, and I can smell the stench of his breath, can see thin scars beneath peeling scabs.

“Would you like that, girl?” he whispers. “Would you like to stay with me?”

He licks my cheek, as if tasting me. Bile stings my throat, revulsion instantaneously morphing into a fresh wave of panic.

What . . . what is he going to do?

My body shakes with wild fear, but I won’t die without a fight. I resort to the only act of defiance I can: I spit in his terrifying face.

His dark eyes narrow, and his grip tightens with renewed hatred. He wipes his cheek with his shoulder, then shifts his body so he can choke me with one hand while still immobilizing both my arms and legs. His fingernails dig into my flesh, constricting my windpipe and pressing the breath out of me.

He’s going to kill me. By Siyah, he is going to kill me. I writhe frantically, to no avail. I have to get away.

A sudden rustling at the edge of the clearing, followed by a loud voice —somehow familiar —interrupt my attacker. “Rohan, over here!”

The monster jerks toward the sound, revealing the slightest flicker of worry. His grip slackens —just enough for me to arch my back and slam my head into his with all the force I can muster, transferring the energy of my hysteria to the strength of the blow. Stars explode in a galaxy of pain through my head. My captor yells —a deep guttural sound. In a flash of anger, he releases a hand, raising it in a clenched fist, intending to strike. But before the blow reaches my face, someone knocks the savage off me, colliding with him like an arrow piercing a target. They roll over and over, limbs intertwining and swinging, but the red-haired Brute isn’t as big or as strong as his assailant.

I fight against dizziness and pain, fumbling for my sword in the grass with the arm that still functions. I have to free Callisto. We have to get out of here.

“You did it again, didn’t you? Stupid peccary!” With Dáin pinned under him, a large, dark-haired Brute shouts into his face. I recognize that thick hair, the angular face, the broad shoulders . . . the teak forest. He was the one who carried me. He was the one who carried me. If I wasn’t beside myself with fear, frantic to escape, curiosity might get the better of me. But as it is, I have only one aim: get far away.

“So what?” Dáin barks back. “It’s better than waiting around for Torvus to do something!”

The larger Brute punches him in the face, and I hope he never stops. But to my terror, after the first blow he gets up, releasing his hold on Dáin. I instinctively scramble toward Callisto, away from the Brute that . . . that . . . that was going to kill me or I don’t know what if these others didn’t show up. I won’t let him get me again —I won’t.

But he seems to have lost interest in me. Now he focuses his fury on the dark-haired Brute, who stands a full head taller. Dáin wipes his bloodied nose with the back of his hand and grabs his club, but he doesn’t take the offensive. In fact, I notice he doesn’t even meet the larger Brute’s eyes.

“What were you thinking?” the big one shouts. “Torvus warned you what would happen. You don’t think he’ll find out?” He shoves a hand into Dáin’s chest again and again, pushing him toward the clearing’s perimeter as he speaks. “Don’t come back to Tree Camp. You have no place with us anymore.” He scans the darkness for the accomplices I trailed here, who now cower beneath the watchful eye and outstretched spear of his companion. “None of you do.”

Dáin spits red into a bush. “You know it’s time,” he hisses. “You can’t wait for Torvus forever.” But he gathers the rest of his weapons and hurries into the tangled Wilds with the other attackers.

The biggest Brute yells something else after them, but I’m not listening anymore. Instead, I’m working furiously at the ropes around Callisto’s forelegs. When the last strand breaks, I help my frightened horse to her feet.

“Quick, girl. We’ve got to get out of here.”

I want to stroke her neck. I want to bury my face in her mane and disappear from this nightmare. But I grab the saddle instead, getting ready to swing myself onto it —as best I can with one busted shoulder.

“Easy there,” the same deep voice reverberates behind me, only a breath away, as strong hands grab my hips, preventing me from mounting the only safety I have. “You’re in no shape to ride. You’re hurt.”

He may have saved me from one terror —maybe even helped me before —but now I know he’s a Brute too; I can’t trust him. I understand now, firsthand, why they could never be trusted —why the foremothers feared them and the world was better without them. They’re all dangerous. Stronger than us, and dangerous.

The other one —whose voice first stopped Dáin —joins us now. “We’re not going to hurt you,” he says. “I’m Jase. And this is Rohan. We won’t let Dáin get to you again.”

Something about Jase’s face seems familiar, though I’m sure I only got a proper look at his dark-haired partner, Rohan, in the teak forest. The shape of this Brute’s eyes —no, the sound of his voice? I can’t place it, but it calms me somehow.

No —I have to get out of here, one way or another. I reach for my sheathed sword, preparing to fight for my life.

“We’re going to help you,” Jase continues, hands held up in surrender. “But you have to trust us.” His eyes plead with me, and I waste precious time wondering where I’ve seen them before. I’m so preoccupied with the battle between familiarity and terror that I fail to see the hand come from behind and prick my neck with a needle-like object.

I whirl around to find Rohan —yes, I recognize that striking face —a dart poised between his fingers. I strain to reach for Callisto, but my limbs turn to water, and I melt into his waiting arms.

So much for trust . . .