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  I set my jaw, and continue calmly. “The elders are so used to us protecting the borders, they’ve forgotten to appreciate the service we provide.”

  Dad straightens abruptly, and I feel the heat of his glare even though darkness shadows his features. “What are you talking about, boy? We’re respected.”

  “We’re feared.”

  “What’s the difference? The elders know that if they don’t pay us our due, we could let the next band of scavengers destroy the village.”

  Actually, I think the elders are afraid that if they don’t pay us our due, we could slit their throats as they sleep. But I don’t say that.

  “They don’t realize we can be valuable for more than this.” I gesture at the bodies scattered across the forest floor. Sensing movement from the man behind me, I speak louder. “What if we brought them a prisoner? Someone who had information about what’s going on in the northern city-states? Surely providing a prisoner for them to question would be worth more money and more respect.”

  Dad doesn’t have a chance to answer. Instead, the man behind me moans, a guttural sound of pain that instantly ends the discussion.

  I close my eyes and feel sick as Dad steps past me.

  “We got ourselves a survivor,” he says, kicking the man in the stomach.

  Willow climbs over the body of a man at the edge of the clearing and heads our way. The sickness in me spreads.

  “He’s unarmed. We could bring him to the elders—”

  “We don’t take prisoners, Quinn.” The note of finality in Dad’s voice warns me not to argue. “Now, I’ve had my fun for the night. Who wants him?”

  Bending closer to the ground, I plunge my gloved hand into the snow so I can scrub the arrow clean.

  I can’t convince Dad to take the man prisoner. Either I stand back and let this unfold in front of me, or I defy my father and give the man a quick death. Dread sinks heavily into the pit of my stomach as I consider my meager choices.

  Dad hauls the man to his knees and balances him against his legs as Willow comes to stand beside me. Slowly, I get to my feet and hand her the arrow.

  “Come on. Which one of you wants him?” Dad’s tone is less pleasant now. We’ve taken too long to respond to his generous offer. His eyes slide past me and rest on Willow. I’m hurtling toward the inevitable. I see it in the way he smiles at her, the way she’s already shrugged off the carnage behind her, the curiosity on her face as she assesses the injured man.

  I look in her eyes, and I see my father peeking through.

  How many more can she kill outside the heat of battle before she forgets to remember they’re human? Before the coldness that lurks inside of her takes over?

  My pulse pounds, and my skin feels flushed. I was wrong. Those who protect their sisters even if it costs them everything aren’t brave. They’re desperate.

  Willow says, “I’ll take him.”

  “He’s mine.” I shoulder my way in front of her, my knife already in my hand. My heart feels like a stone carved into my chest. The truth that bloomed inside of me moments ago wilts beneath the realization that I can kill an unarmed man if it means my sister doesn’t have to.

  “Oh, ho! Look who suddenly has a taste for blood.” Dad’s laughter clings to me like a disease.

  “Hey! I claimed him!” Willow says.

  I can ignore them both. But I can’t ignore the pleading in the eyes of the man on his knees. His gaze burns into me, another black mark on my soul.

  I swallow, though there’s no spit left in my mouth, and raise my knife. Better my soul than Willow’s. At least mine still knows how to feel guilt.

  “How do you want him?” Dad asks, and pulls the man to his feet. The man struggles briefly against Dad’s grip. “Looks like he’s got some life in him yet. Maybe we should let him run. Give him a little head start before you hunt him down. Been a while since you’ve done any decent hunting at night.”

  The dread crawling through me bites the back of my throat. This isn’t a game. This is someone’s life.

  Willow steps forward, and I block her with my body. Dad releases the man.

  “Run, you worthless scavenger! Run!” Dad laughs again, and tosses one of his knives to Willow as she tries to get past me again. “Both of you can hunt him. May the best one win.”

  I close the distance between myself and the highwayman in two steps and slice my blade through his throat before he can move. He stumbles back, half raises one hand to his throat, and then crumples. His blood gushes onto the ground, a fast-blooming rose consuming the snow beneath him. I turn away and struggle to breathe past the sudden tightness in my chest.

  “What was that?” Dad strides forward and slams his fist into my chest. “What was that, Quinn? What?”

  I absorb the blow like I’ve absorbed every blow he’s aimed my way the last few years, and meet Willow’s eyes instead.

  “We didn’t come here to hunt an injured, unarmed man. We didn’t come to torture and kill for sport. We came to protect the village.” I look at the ground, at the river of blood creeping toward my boots, and say, “It’s finished.”

  Dad grabs the front of my coat and shakes me. “I say when it’s finished, boy. We do things my way.”

  The man’s eyes are open, staring at the silver-studded sky without blinking. I know I’ll see him in my sleep, another face joining all the others that haunt me.

  Dragging my eyes from the man, I look at Dad. “Either way, he’s dead. But this way, maybe we keep a little piece of our integrity.”

  Dad’s face grows ugly with rage. “You think protecting the village costs us our integrity?” His fist plows into me again. “We’re warriors! We’re respected because everyone knows what will happen to them if they don’t give us the honor we deserve.”

  “Dad, don’t!” Willow tries to come between us, but he shoves her to the ground.

  The dam of restraint I’ve built up over the years cracks as she sprawls at our feet, and I clench my fists. “What’s honorable about taking joy in killing? What’s honorable about torturing injured men to death just because they’re at our mercy?”

  “We don’t show mercy!” He’s screaming.

  I block his next punch, and catch his other fist as it swings toward my face. Crushing his hand in mine, I push him until his back is against the nearest tree. The air leaves his chest in a painful gasp as I slam him against the bark.

  For a moment, he’s afraid. His eyes slide past me, looking for options, and for one terrible second, I imagine ending it. Breaking his neck. Freeing us from the disease that flows in our veins because of him.

  “Quinn?” Willow is beside me, her hand on my arm, her voice worried.

  My fury slowly seeps back behind the dam within me, and I shake away the thought of leaving my father dead on the forest floor.

  He stares me down.

  “I don’t know when you got to be so thick-skulled, boy. Lord knows I’ve tried to teach you. Lesson number one: Kill or be killed. Lesson number two: We. Do. Not. Show. Mercy,” he says, biting off each word to spit it in my face.

  Meeting his eyes, I say with quiet clarity, “I do.”

  I release him and step back. He shakes the hand I crushed, and glares at me. “You’re a coward and a fool. Now, clean up this mess. You no longer deserve our help.”

  Wrapping his arm around Willow’s shoulders, he pulls her toward the village, leaving me with nothing but the echo of his words and the ghosts of those I’ve killed.

  Chapter Four

  Something hard lands on my chest, jerking me out of a fitful sleep. Instantly, I lunge out of bed, landing in a crouch, fists clenched while I whip my head around to find the threat.

  “If you take a swing at me, I’ll knock out your teeth.” Willow stands a few yards from my bed, her dark hair lit from behind by the morning sunlight that forces its way through the cracks in my wooden shutters.

  “That’s harsh. My teeth are my one good feature.”

  Willow cocks her h
ead to study me. “You have a good feature?”

  “Do you have to be so insulting this early in the morning?” I ask, forcing myself to relax, even though my heart still pounds a frantic tempo against my chest.

  “I see we’re using the word ‘insulting’ when really we mean ‘incredibly smart.’” Willow smirks, but there’s a shadow behind her gaze. A shadow I know I’ll see in my own eyes when I look in the ancient, cracked mirror that hangs from the back of my door.

  It’s the residue of death. Of scrubbing blood from your fingers and guilt from your soul.

  A few days of peace will banish the shadow from Willow’s eyes. How long until a few days becomes a few hours? How long until, like our father, killing doesn’t bother her at all?

  “You’ve got that look again,” Willow says quietly as I turn away from her and bend to pick up the object she threw against my chest.

  “What look?” It’s a book—leather worn shiny and thin, spine cracked with age. I open it slowly and read the title page: The Collected Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson.

  “The look that says you’re thinking things that are only going to get you into trouble.”

  Ignoring her words, I thumb past a few pages. The paper feels slippery and frail. “This is poetry.”

  Willow snorts. “You have a stunning grasp of the obvious. I figured it was something you’d like. Just don’t tell Dad. He said you didn’t deserve anything.”

  “Where did this come from?” I look up from the book in time to catch the worry in her eyes before she blinks it away.

  “From the loot we recovered last night.”

  “The things we took from the highwaymen we killed,” I say, because I want her to remember that everything we gained had a price.

  She nudges one bare toe against the braided rug that rests on my floor. “They were threatening the village, Quinn.”

  “They were.” I hold her gaze. “But once they were injured and disarmed, they weren’t a threat anymore. Don’t you ever consider the possibility that we go too far? That Dad forces us to go too far?”

  She shakes her head, a quick movement designed to cut me off before I say too much. “Stop it. If you keep questioning Dad, he’s going to hurt you.” Her throat seems to close over the words, and she glares at me like it’s my fault she’s having trouble speaking.

  “It’s not me I’m worried about.” I run my fingers over the book’s spine, feeling the jagged ridges in the well-used leather as they catch under my skin. “It’s you. He asks more of you every day.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “He pushes you—”

  “I said I can handle it.” Her voice snaps, a quick flash of anger that isn’t really aimed at me. “I’m doing what I have to do to survive.”

  I step closer to her. “So am I.”

  The worry doesn’t leave her eyes. “What you’re doing is going to get you killed.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Not if I’m the one Dad orders to do the killing.” Her voice is as hard as the wooden floor beneath us, but the death-shadow on her face darkens.

  I close the distance between us and bump her shoulder with mine. “Do you trust me?”

  Her dark eyes meet mine, and a long look—a look full of shared horrors and years’ worth of scars—passes between us. “You know you’re the only one that I trust.”

  I nod my head, willing her to believe me. “We’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I just need a little time to think things through and figure out how to handle Dad.”

  “No one handles Dad.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Hope flares briefly in my sister’s eyes and then fades as the sound of our father’s angry voice cuts through the house, his tirade punctuated by drunken sobs from our mother.

  “I won’t hold you to that,” Willow says as she slips over to my window, pulls the shutters away from the opening, and climbs out of my room and into the spacious oak that serves as the main pillar for our tree house.

  The shutters fall against the window as she disappears, leaving me with poetry in my hands, a promise on my lips, and my father’s fury ringing in my ears.

  Chapter Five

  “Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence.” Dad’s voice is full of mean as I leave my room and walk down a short set of stairs to our home’s main room, which is built around the trunk of the oak tree. I push my shoulder-length black hair away from my face and skirt the edge of the trunk, heading toward the cooking stove in the corner where a pot of Mom’s stewed apples bubbles over a low fire.

  The chill of the winter morning seeps in through the cracks in the walls. The scattered rag rugs, faded from years of use, do little to block the cold. I pull my leather coat tight, the book of poems securely tucked in an inner pocket far from my father’s prying eyes. Mom hovers near the stove, her eyes on her husband, her hands already shaking with the need for her next drink.

  “Guess you were tired after having to do the cleanup all by yourself last night,” Dad says.

  I grab a chipped porcelain bowl from the rack above the stove and scoop apples into it.

  “Hope you used that time alone to do some hard thinking, boy, because I’m not putting up with you questioning my authority again.”

  I dip a spoon into the apples and take a bite. The stew is tangy, verging on sour. Either Mom forgot to add sugar, or we’re out of it again.

  “Look at that, Cora.” Dad’s voice is menacing as he circles the trunk and comes closer to the stove. “Your son thinks he can ignore me.”

  Mom’s hands flutter toward her neck and latch onto the frayed edges of her knitted shawl. “Answer your father,” she says in a weary voice. When I take too long to finish chewing and swallowing, she whips her head toward me, desperate anger flaring in her bloodshot eyes. “Now, Quinn. Answer him!”

  “Yes.” I carefully set the bowl into the sink beside our ancient water pump, the sour tang of the apples still ripe in my mouth. “Yes, I did some hard thinking.”

  “Better make sure you came to the right conclusion.” Dad strides forward and grabs the front of my coat. I hold my arms tightly to the sides to keep the book from sliding out of its pocket while he gives me a hard shake. “Who’s in charge of our missions?”

  “You are.” The words are easy. The effort to stop myself from arguing that we should approach the village’s protection differently is not.

  “You forget that again, boy, and I’ll have to teach you a lesson.” The threat of violence lies heavy in his voice. I nod but don’t look at him. He lets go of my coat slowly and straightens. “You’ll do the scouting run today.”

  My eyes snap to his as panic sears me. If I’m scouting for potential threats during the day, I’ll be kept at home tonight. There will be no one to stand between Willow and my father’s desire to mold her into another version of himself. And I won’t be there to absorb the violence he turns against us when things don’t go his way.

  “I’m not a scout.” I keep my voice calm and expressionless. “The elders gave Sorra and Matthias that job. If I take their place—”

  He slaps me. I see it coming. I could’ve dodged the blow, but it’s better to take the first hit than risk provoking him into the kind of beating that will leave me hobbling for days.

  Leaning close enough that his breath fans the stinging handprint on my cheek, he says, “You’ll scout if I tell you to. And you’ll keep scouting until you’ve learned to hold your tongue and do as you’re told. I had hopes for you, Quinn. Thought you’d follow in your old man’s footsteps and make me proud. But now I’m thinking maybe your sister is the true warrior in this family.”

  His dark eyes flash with challenge, and my stomach lurches as I realize he knows I’m trying to protect Willow. He knows I’m willing to do anything I have to do to keep her from becoming like him. He knows, and he’s recovered from his shock at my defiance last night and is ready to answer me with the kind of violence that has kept Willow
and me doing his bidding without question our entire lives.

  Mom picks up a glass jar filled with pale-yellow corn liquor and walks out of the room without looking at us. I do the one thing that will pacify my father and put me on the road to being in his good graces again, where I can watch out for Willow.

  “If you want me to scout, I’ll do it.” My voice is calm and controlled—at odds with the frantic pounding of my heart and the fury that blazes through me with almost unbearable ferocity.

  For one moment, I imagine striking him back—using the skills he’s taught me to hurt him, disable him, and then hurt him some more. Watching his face as he realizes that the monster he’s created has turned against its master.

  Then I take a slow breath, ignore the anger that pounds through me, and walk out the door. The morning sky is winter gray as I climb onto the walkway that circles our home and stretches tree to tree, connecting our home to the buildings around us. The village occupies five hundred yards in the center of the southern forest. Every home, council, and community building is built high up in the trees, centered around thick trunks and then branching out with the use of walkways, rope stairs, and support beams.

  Below us, a thin crust of snow remains on the forest floor, though spots of dark earth are peeking through in places. Snow never lasts long in the southern forest. I don’t know which direction Sorra and Matthias went this morning, and I’m not going to hunt down the elder in charge of scouting to ask.

  Not when it means trying to explain why my father is displeased with me. And why I’m struggling to obey him.

  I head south, running silently along the walkways, past the council building, the butcher shop, and the schoolhouse until I come to the edge of the village. A thick forest of oak, cypress, and elm surrounds us. Most of the people who enter our borders are either highwaymen traveling to pillage or trade or couriers from other city-states looking for a shortcut to Rowansmark, a three-day’s journey south.

  None of the strangers who enter our borders uninvited make it out alive.