I remember the remorseless look on Ash’s face, the way her blade sank into that man’s neck without hesitation. “Men like that?” I ask. “They’re the ones who hurt him?”
“Yes. But a bigger group.” The word comes out on an uneven exhale. “We made a mistake. Not killing them as soon as we were sure of their intentions, and my dad paid the price.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t kill me when you first saw me,” I say. “Caleb probably wanted to.”
“No. He wanted to leave you, though. But I wouldn’t let him.”
“Why not?”
Ash shrugs, her eyes on the knife in her hand.
“Caleb said you were looking for someone to save,” I say carefully. “Was that because of your dad?”
Ash looks up from her knife, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “I made my dad a promise. When he was dying. He always said following my mom out here, saving Caleb, raising me…those were the things he was most proud of. I tried so hard to save him, but nothing worked.” She hurls her knife hard at the tree, buries it to the hilt in the bark. “So yeah, after he was gone, maybe I was looking for someone to help, someone I could save the way I couldn’t save him. Do something good to
honor his memory the way he did so many good things in his life. And when I saw you passed out in the road, half dead…” She shakes her hair out of her eyes, swipes the back of her hand down her cheek to brush away a tear. “I thought of my dad, and I knew I couldn’t just leave you there.”
“I would’ve died if not for you,” I tell her. “I’d gone as far as I could on my own.”
“Nobody can make it out here alone, Ivy.” Ash smiles at me. “Except maybe Caleb.”
I smile back. “He is kind of inhuman sometimes.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Ash says. “He’s tough, but not as tough as he pretends to be.”
“I bet he could hit the damn tree with the knife,” I mutter.
Ash slings her arm around my shoulders. “Sure he can. But he couldn’t at the beginning either, no matter what he claims.” She takes her free hand and closes it over mine, around the hilt of my knife. “Now, stop stalling and start throwing.”
It takes little more than a month for my pact to stay out of Mark’s way and keep my mouth shut to evaporate. I’ve kept busy, helping in the garden, washing clothes in the river with Ash, learning to track and set snares with Caleb, who is uncharacteristically patient given the fact that my still-healing shoulder makes me a slow student. I can skin and gut a rabbit or squirrel almost as fast as Ash. I’m settling into my life here. Accepting that this is who I am now, that Ash and Caleb are the closest thing to family I have. It’s a careful kind of affection, the type that won’t hurt me too much if it ends, but it’s something, at least.
I’m not sure I’m destined for happiness, but I think this is a life I can make work. Except for Mark. The deal I’ve made with him sits in my stomach like a meal of jagged rocks. I tell myself that I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m keeping myself safe, and Mark will have to conform to the morals of the group in order to stay, so there’s no harm done. But I don’t believe it. Every time I see him gather around the fire in the evening, share a bowl of stew with the person next to him, laugh at something Caleb says, the shards in my stomach cut through me. Remind me of who he really is, and who I am to have traded my own safety for his. I remember Caleb’s words about not giving people a second chance to hurt you and know I made a mistake that day on the riverbank.
It’s an early afternoon in late September when I’m returning from bathing in the river, twisting my hair to wring water out of it as I walk. The last days of Indian summer are upon us, sky blue and crisp as a sheet of glass, wispy white clouds floating on a mild breeze. We need blankets at night now, and Ash says we’ll be packing up to move into town in a few weeks. I will be sad to leave the camp behind; I’ve grown used to living outside of four walls, just like Ash.
Mark’s tent is not near ours, but I pass it every time I leave camp, and I can’t resist looking as I walk past. It’s rare that I actually see him during the day, but today is different. He is sitting on the ground in front of his tent, a little girl on his lap. His arms are around her, and he’s helping her make some kind of doll out of sticks.
I stop midstride, go still as death. I can feel my pulse in my fingertips and behind my eyes. Mark looks up, as if the force of my shock has called to him. He gives me a lazy smile, and goes back to talking to the girl. I drop my bundle of dirty clothes where I stand. The little girl looks startled when I crouch down next to them, slap Mark’s arms away from her.
“You need to go home,” I tell her. My voice is hoarse. I sound on the edge of tears, but what I really feel is a clawing, tearing rage. “Go find your mom.”
The girl looks back at Mark, her eyes wide. She is scared of me. Of me. Which would be funny if it weren’t so horrible. “Go!” I say again, louder, and she’s off. Probably to tell her mother about the mean girl who yelled at her. I don’t really care if it gets her away from him.
“Well,” Mark says, “that wasn’t very nice.” He doesn’t bother trying to hide his laugh.
I carry a knife in a sheath on my belt now. One very much like the blade I watched Ash kill a man with not so long ago. My hand finds the hilt without me even thinking about it, another thing Caleb has taught me. Too late, Mark catches the movement, and his smile dries up on his face. I don’t pull the knife. Not yet. It’s enough to watch his eyes go wide before narrowing, his pulse speeding up in his neck. Enough to know he is scared.
“Remember that day by the river?” I ask him, still crouched down beside him. “Remember how I let you live?”
He doesn’t answer me. Anger radiates off him; I can feel it like the blast from an oven against my face. He hates that I got the best of him, that I’m not turning to bones on the riverbank and I’m here to throw my triumph back in his face.
“If I see you even talking to another child, looking at one, I’ll finish what I started that day, you sick bastard.” I’ve never talked this way before in my life. My words have always been almost uncontrollable when my temper flares, but not like this. I’ve never threatened someone. It’s like ever since Mark returned there’s been a balloon expanding in my chest, making it hard for me to breathe, and today it finally popped, leaving me with room to fill my lungs. I have an insane urge to cackle with something very close to glee.
Mark looks from my hand on the knife to me. “No, you won’t,” he says, finding his voice. “Because I’ll tell them about you. Who you are. Who you love.” His blue eyes twinkle. I can understand how a child would be fooled by them; it takes experience to recognize the evil lurking in those blue pools. “They’ll rip you apart.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I think they’re good people. Better people than you, that’s for sure. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t even care if you’re right. It’ll be worth it. Just to slide this knife between your ribs. Just to watch you die first.” Whatever he sees in my face must convince him it’s better to shut up than keep talking. I stand and look down at him. “I’m not scared of you.” It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s the closest I can get in words. I’m still frightened by him; I’d be a fool not to be. But it’s not enough to be scared anymore, not enough to stop me or silence me.
Mark mumbles something under his breath, but it doesn’t matter what he says. He can’t meet my eyes, his shoulders slumped. I’m not stupid enough to think it’s over between us, but I’ll take this victory.