From the shadows, red eyes, snapping jaws. A pounce. Lark wheeled toward it, hit the dirt. The charging warg launched, sailing over her prone body. She sprang to her feet—the beast barreling at thepigeon cage.
“No, you don’t!” she yelled and hit it with a bolt. If the homing birds were lost, the mission died with them. Her magazine was almost out. Diego descended on the wounded creature with his hatchet, finishing it with a wet crunch of bone and blood. The remaining warg must have had enough. As quickly as they had appeared, they vanished, leaving only rancid carcasses and their fading growls behind.
Lark leaned her hands on her knees, crossbow dangling from its cord, as she caught her breath. “I told you something was out there.”
“Plebe,” Skye replied wryly. “There’s always something out there. Now help us drag these things downwind while Diego gets our fire going.”
The insect whines had returned as the last, faint light filtered through the trees to the west, clouds veiling the moon and stars. Five more minutes and it would be pitch. Lark nodded, grabbed the nearest tail in a firm grip, and tugged. The team piled the steaming carcasses in silence that echoed louder than the fight.
The grizzly task accomplished, Lark collected her spent bolts and joined the others around the fire that Diego had magically conjured from wet fuel. Even her bedroll was soaked. Lark hung it over a branch near the crackling campfire. She also hung her shirt, pants, and socks, undisturbed by sitting on a stone in her underwear. Everyone else had done the same. She stole a glance at Skye—not out of personal interest, merely comparing muscle and curves, telling herself she could take her if it came to it.
They ate their meal while everyone related stories of previous ventures or imagined what their friends and family members were doing back home. Lark didn’t join in. No point getting attached to these people—even if she was starting to like them. Instead, she focused her thoughts on Tommy, Milena, Gramma, Leif, and Bryn. They were her family. They were who mattered.
The team drew straws for keeping watch, though Luke said he didn’t expect another attack. As soon as her blankets were dry, Lark wrapped herself in them under the tarp. Skye took the spot beside her.
“You did all right today, soldier—especiallyfor a newbie.”
“Thanks.” Something had been itching at Lark’s brain. “If the captain has this GPS on his tablet showing him where the hospital is, why not just send a balloon? Why do we even need this mission?”
Skye blinked at her like she’d just asked the dumbest question ever. “To secure the position, of course. Queen Frost only has three working hot air balloons. Silk is the rarest of commodities, and we can’t risk losing one. We don’t know what we’ll find there, and, if there are hostiles, we have to take them out before sending a pigeon with the all-clear.”
Lark sighed. “That makes sense. I didn’t know.”
Skye’s expression softened, and she swatted Lark on the shoulder. “Of course not, silly. You’re a plebe. But you’ll learn. Let’s get some sleep.”
“Yeah, OK. Goodnight.” As she inhaled the scent of the fire and the woman beside her, Lark’s thoughts turned to home.I wonder how Tommy’s doing, if Milena is taking care of herself too. Bryn’s probably in bed. I’ll bet Gramma made a delicious gator stew. Hot cornbread …
The next thing she knew, Harlan was shaking her awake. “Your shift.”
During the night, the clouds had given way to the moon and stars. A pale light rose in the east. “I’m awake.”
After eating, the crew packed up, put out the fire, and continued toward their destination, yesterday’s encounters fresh in Lark’s mind. The pigeons cooed softly from where she’d strapped them to her back while her darting glances constantly scanned the woods. The feeling that danger hadn’t passed weighed as heavily as her gear.
When the abandoned town with the unexplored hospital came into view, Captain Moreau stopped them, sending Harlan ahead as a scout. Lark and the others sat in silence, sipping water, taking a relief break. Wes smoked a homeroll. Diego ensured his magazine was full.
All eyes shot to Harlan when he returned. Standing before them, rifle cradled in his hands, he swallowed; a deadly serious expression marked on his face. “We’ve got trouble.”
Chapter seventeen
Price of the Cure
Lark hid the pigeon cage in a clump of wild lungwort and ferns, quietly following Harlan and the crew. Fifty meters ahead, across a cracked parking lot, loomed the hospital—five stories high, windows broken, canopy collapsed, walls strangled by vines and streaked black—and its new residents. A campfire blazed under a breezeway where a couple of humans roasted meat on a spit. Men and women drifted in and out of the building through the breezeway doors. Warriors in animal skins approached from the rear, lugging a whitetail deer, its feet strapped to a pole between them.
Some were talking, speaking English, the activity revolving around a burly, bearded man in a wolf skin mantle. Most wore buckskin, calico patchwork tunics, or shirts and trousers fashioned from cloth scraps. Several had hats, and most wore shoes. Lark couldn’t make out faces clearly, but it looked like an entire community—at least two dozen adults. Men. Women. Children.
“Taken over by squatters,” Skye whispered.
“Not just squatters,” Luke amended. “Wildlings.” He passed his binoculars to Skye, who pressed them to her face.
“Well, scorch me sideways,” she uttered, handing the field glasses to Lark.
Adjusting the sight, she studied the trespassers. Matted hair stuck out in wild clumps. Piercings decorated with bone shards. Animal pelts. Bone talismans. Crude tattoos. A warrior grinned with teeth filed to points. No mutant characteristics, though. Relieved, she gave the binoculars to Diego.
“We can just talk to them,” Lark suggested in a hopeful hush. “Tell them we mean them no harm and just want to collect the medicines.”
Wes scrunched his brows with a frown. “Did you eat the wrong mushrooms? Those are wildlings.”
“Yeah, but they’re still people,” Lark argued. “And they have children in the camp.”
