The Offering (The Pledge 3)

The girl paused and counted on her fingers, then nodded once more. “Yep, that’s right. Four,” she corrected with a quick jerk of her head. “Four that we had to persuade to leave.”

“Why?” I wondered aloud, hating that I might somehow be responsible for putting others like the Chief in positions of authority over these children. “Were they all so terrible, like the chief?”

She waved the idea away. “Nope. They was fine. We just didn’t need ’em, did we?” She wasn’t asking me now. She was asking the other children, and the response was resounding.

They were all in agreement as “no” echoed through the bunkhouse. They most definitely did not need adult supervision. Caspar was their leader. He’d take care of them.

“So.” I was almost afraid to ask my next question. “Where did they all go exactly? The adults, I mean.”

The fiery-haired girl shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. Long as they don’t come back.” She started swinging her legs again. “I’m Koo,” she announced, grinning widely at me, and I could make out a wide gap between her two front teeth.

“I’m Cassia,” said another girl.

“Santiago,” said the little boy who’d corrected Koo.

And then they were all saying their names. All of them at once, a snarl of voices that twisted together, making them sound like one jumbled mess.

These were the children who’d been sent to the work camps. Abandoned by parents and relatives—by society—and now they’d banded together to form a new family. Taking care of one another.

And now taking care of us.

“I’m Cha—” I stared to say, but Brook elbowed me so hard in the ribs, I gasped, reminding me that even my real name was too dangerous. I faltered, trying to think of something else to say, struggling for a lie—a name I could offer in place of my own.

And then I heard Sabara, offering me a name that no one else would recognize, one that hadn’t been used in decades . . . centuries. Maybe eons.

When it hit my tongue, it tasted bitter, but there was no going back. “Layla,” I said instead of my own name. “My name is Layla. And this is Brook.” I wanted the attention off me, and off the fact that I’d just given an entire room of people— children or not—permission to call me by the name Sabara had confessed was her original name. The name she’d been born with all those many, many years ago.

Before she’d taken possession of the first body that hadn’t been her own—her sister’s body.

Before she’d killed to stay alive time and time again.

I hate you, I silently told her, hoping my message was clear. Hoping she understood how badly I wished I could just be myself again. Alone inside my own head.

When there was no response, I thought maybe our connection wasn’t as strong as I’d thought it was, that maybe she couldn’t hear me as clearly as I could her. But then her response came, as slick as oil as it slithered up my spine.

I know you do . . . Layla. Hearing her call me by that name was as inciting as knowing what the chief had done to these poor kids in his work camp, and I could feel myself responding, my skin growing hotter.

I hoped Sabara wasn’t right, that I wasn’t walking into a trap.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Queen Elena and wondering what exactly she’d meant when she’d written, I’ll give you everything you want. Because I wanted too many things.

I wanted Xander to still be alive. I wanted peace for Ludania, once and for all.

And above all, and most selfishly, I wanted to believe she really did have a cure for me. That she really did know a way to banish Sabara’s Essence. Forever.

I considered that long after the children had settled down in their bunks, and long after Brook had given up keeping watch and had drifted to sleep, her back pressed against mine.

And long after I’d stopped worrying about Xander and Ludania, and whether Max would ever forgive me for keeping yet another secret from him.

sage

Bare feet were best for this kind of work, the kind of work in which she needed to be furtive. As quiet as a sigh. No one could know what she was doing. If she were caught, even her title wouldn’t be able to save her head.

But it wasn’t unusual for her to be skulking about under the cover of darkness with no shoes. The calluses on her feet proved as much. She prided herself on her ability to become one with her surroundings—day or night. To blend and go unnoticed. To find things that others considered unfindable.

And to kill without a second thought.

Yet she’d need none of those skills this night. Tonight she knew exactly where her quarry was, and she had no intention of killing him. At least not yet.

“You,” he barely managed to croak out, a strangled sound caught somewhere between a moan and a whimper when he caught sight of her. He didn’t even bother to lift his head from the cold ground he was lying upon. A bad sign, she thought as she studied his motionless form.

She glanced all around, noting the fact that no one had heard his feeble attempt to voice his contempt for her. She couldn’t have cared less that he despised her. She had every intention of being his salvation, whether he wanted her help or not.

Noiselessly she removed the key from her front pocket and slipped it into the lock. Without a single creak or scrape, she slid open the door to his cell. Had he been stronger, he would have stormed her, mounting an attack to try to regain his freedom. She knew because she’d seen him fight before. But he’d been a different person then. As it was, he stayed down, unable to even lick his own swollen and bleeding lips.