Shadowmark (The Shadowmark Trilogy Book 1) (25 page)

“Get rid of him. Discreetly. See if the traitors show themselves.” How were they hiding from her?

The man nodded and left. Calla itched to go herself, but couldn’t risk being recognized by one of the rogues. No matter. Once the captain was removed, the rogues would naturally be tempted to seek command for themselves. She was surprised they hadn’t already done so.

Later that evening, Calla received word. <
Done
.> Not long now.

The rain began again overnight and continued throughout the day, so Mina and Doyle passed the next day in the dark cabin. Mina rested on her bunk, looking out the window at the downpour. She welcomed the change from hiking and gathering, even though she assumed Doyle would want to move on again as soon as he healed. He paced around the cabin, then sat on the couch, only to rise again minutes later to check his backpack or go through the cabinets again.
 

Mina caught him rubbing his chest a couple of times and asked about it, worried he had another injury from the dog or worse, that he was becoming ill. Doyle insisted he was fine, and stopped rubbing at it.

Tired of watching Doyle’s anxious pacing, Mina went into the bathroom and opened the toothbrush she had found. She retrieved a bottle of water from her pack and used it to brush her teeth. Feeling better, she sat on the couch and tried to ignore Doyle, who busied himself with starting a fire in the fireplace.

That night, Mina dreamed about finding Lincoln. She smiled and ran to him, eager to see his blue eyes and curly hair.
 

“I missed you,” he said as he pulled her into a hug. His emaciated body frightened her, his ribs protruding through his shirt. She pulled back and craned her neck to look at his face. It had changed. One eye socket drained yellow pus.
 

Mina’s blood froze, and she let go. His freckled face turned black, the skin peeling away from flesh beneath. She backed away. “You’re dead,” she said. Lincoln reached for her, stretching out his hands in a plea for help. Mina backed against a tree as Lincoln closed in on her.
 

“Mina,” he pleaded. She turned and stumbled over something, falling to the ground. When she looked up, the hound was circling, snarling, its hackles raised. When it lunged at her, she sat up in bed with a gasp, her body covered in sweat.

Doyle, sitting on the floor by the fireplace, looked over at her. “Everything okay?”

Mina’s heart raced. “No.” She ran her hands over her face. “Um. Yes. Just a dream.” She lay back down and tried to forget it, tossing and turning for some time before she finally slept again.

In the morning, Mina insisted Doyle change his bandages. He winced as she peeled off the gauze over his arm, anticipating swelling and infection. But the arm was clean. In fact, his wounds had healed much faster than she had expected. Already, fresh pink skin surrounded even the deepest cuts.
 

“Do you always heal this quickly?” she asked as she cleaned his arm and rewrapped it.
 

“I guess,” he said. “Don’t you?”

Mina snorted. “Well, I’ve never been attacked by a dog, but no. It’s kind of amazing.”

“Good genes, I guess. Thanks,” he said as she finished.
 

“What about your shoulder?”

“I’ll look at it later. Doesn’t even hurt.”

Rain pummeled the cabin again, and the air was much colder than the days before. The blaze in the fireplace warmed the cabin nicely and lit everything with a soft glow. Mina paced around, absentmindedly opening doors without looking behind them. Then something occurred to her, and she began searching the cabin in earnest.

“Doyle.”

“Yes?”

“Where are his guns? He had a hunting dog, he was wearing camo, and he even has a gun rack in this closet—but no guns. So where are they? If he really just had an accident, wouldn’t they be here? Did you find any near the body?”

“No,” he said. He walked around, rechecking the cabinets she had just opened. Mina noticed his limp was gone. “Maybe he didn’t have any. Maybe he found this cabin like we did,” he said after he’d searched the entire cabin again.

“But the dog and the camo,” said Mina doubtfully.

“So someone found this place after he died and took them.”

“Or someone was with him when he died,” said Mina. “And why would they leave the food?” Perhaps whoever had taken the gun or guns would come back to retrieve everything else they had missed. The new sense of security Mina had been cultivating disintegrated.
 

“We need to leave, don’t we?” she asked.

“Were you planning on staying?”

“I told you I wanted to, but I guess I didn’t expect it, no.”

Doyle sighed, some of his usual brusqueness returning. “This cabin is a target for anyone who walks by. Do you want to spend all your time defending this place because it feels like a home?”

“It’s easier to defend ourselves here than out in the open. We need shelter.”

“If someone sees you wandering around in the forest, he might think you don’t have anything worth risking his own skin for and leave you alone. But some might think this place is worth fighting for.”

“Because it’s essential to survival!”

“Only for someone who doesn’t know how to live like we’ve been living. Think about what you’re saying—you haven’t died yet, have you?” Doyle tapped the bar counter. “You can stay here if you want. I won’t.”

“You’d leave me here?”

“Only if you want to be left.”

Mina’s temper flared. “So the only way I can stay with you is to leave? Don’t I get a say? Or do you just want to get rid of me? This isn’t the first time you’ve asked me if I want to stay behind.”
 

“You always have a choice.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Why do you need one? If I didn’t want you with me, I would have left you behind a long time ago!” Doyle straightened, startled by his own outburst. Pulling himself together, he said, “Forget it,” and stormed out the door into the rain.
 

Mina let him go. She huffed and sank down onto the couch, cracking her knuckles to give herself something to do. Then she stood and marched into the bathroom and found her toothbrush, scouring her teeth with bottled water and spitting angrily into the sink.

Doyle infuriated her. And scared her a little. Normally distant and calloused, he had been anxious and distracted the last couple of days. He should have figured out about the guns long before she did—the old Doyle would have. She recalled her dream and shuddered. Maybe Doyle was experiencing some kind of PTSD. She certainly would love to erase some recent memories from her own mind.
 

When the rain eventually stopped, Mina walked out onto the porch. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and she took a deep breath, smiling into the warmth. Not too many months ago, she’d had no problem with small, enclosed spaces. Now she suffocated in the small cabin. Maybe Doyle had influenced her more than she thought.

The air turned cooler after the rain, and Mina returned inside to get a blanket. When she pulled it off the bunk, a roll of gauze fell onto the floor and rolled underneath. Mina lay on her stomach to retrieve it, careful to avoid the cobwebs in the dusty corner under the bed. Something caught her eye as she put her hand on the gauze. A rifle. No—not one. Several guns, of varying sizes and models, all attached to the bottoms of both bunks with Velcro straps.
 

Excited, Mina jumped up and ran outside to look for Doyle. But he didn’t return to the cabin for several hours. Soaked and irritable, he ignored Mina when he came in and only paused to look her way when he saw the guns on display on the kitchen bar.

“Under the beds,” she said in answer to his silent question.

Doyle picked up one rifle to examine it. “Well, that’s solved.” He glanced at Mina as she joined him.

“He must have stowed them under there when he left the cabin.” Mina felt smug, despite the fact she’d found them by accident.
 

Doyle placed the gun back on the counter. “It doesn’t mean we’re staying.”
 

“It doesn’t mean we’re leaving, either.”

Over the next week, neither of them broached the subject again, silently agreeing they weren’t in a hurry to make a decision. The weather remained unseasonably cold and damp, and the cabin provided a warm, dry place to spend their evenings after long days of hunting and gathering.
 

Doyle brought home a deer one day. He must have been hunting a long way off because Mina had not heard a gunshot. While he prepared to smoke the meat in the smokehouse on the side of the cabin, Mina noticed he had removed the bandage on his arm. The wound had healed completely, and only faint scars remained.

“Your arm looks great! What did you do to it? Find some magical plant in the forest?”

Doyle shot her a withering look. “I told you, I heal quickly.”

“No, really, Doyle, that’s crazy. Those bites were deep. What did you put on it?” Mina reached for his arm to look at it, but he pulled away.

“I’m fine,” he said sternly. “No need to jab at it with your finger. You can see that it’s healed.”

“What about your shoulder? Is it healed, too?” Mina was so fascinated she ignored his protest and tried to push up his shirtsleeve.
 

Doyle grabbed her hand. “It’s fine, okay?”

Mina almost laughed at his modesty but thought better of it. “Okay,” she said, and let it go.
 

They sat by the fire that evening wrapped in blankets, having turned the couch around so it faced the fire instead of the windows. The crackle of the fire mixed with the distant rumble of thunder. Mina snuggled into her corner of the couch, feeling at peace.

“The deer meat will be ready tomorrow,” Doyle volunteered. He chewed the end of a small twig.

“Who took you hunting as a kid?”

“Why do you assume someone took me hunting?”

“Oh come on. You mean to tell me you taught yourself to hunt?”

Doyle didn’t answer.

“I don’t believe it.”

Doyle smirked. “Why do I always feel like you’re interviewing me?”

“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but most people feel the need to talk about themselves sometimes. Or to talk in general. It’s a basic human need, to crave connection with others. To seek out conversation.” She said it teasingly, not searching for another fight.

Doyle remained relaxed at the end of the couch. “You don’t talk about yourself much.”

“You don’t want to hear it.”

“I never said that.”

“Still, you made it pretty obvious.”

Doyle remained quiet another minute, the stick resting in his mouth, forgotten. Then, “I could tell you all kinds of stories. Most of them would be lies.”

“So you’re a compulsive liar.”

“Only when I need to be.”

Mina scoffed before glancing over at him. The corner of his mouth twitched. She smiled and turned to face him on the couch.

“You’re not fooling me, Mina. You may ask a lot of questions, but you don’t chatter incessantly. You like quiet, too.”

“I wasn’t trying to fool you.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the fire burn lower.

As Mina glanced at Doyle, it occurred to her that although she didn’t know anything about him before he plucked her out of the woods, she felt a sense of loyalty to him, despite his prickly demeanor. Hadn’t he proven himself already? Why did she still doubt him? This train of thought did not erase Mina's curiosity, but she resolved to let Doyle tell her about himself in his own time. If that ever came.

“Do you ever wonder,” asked Doyle abruptly, “what the Glyphs are doing here?”

“Of course. Do you know anything about them?”

“They are methodical and intelligent, obviously. I wonder what they want.”

“Water? All those newscasts before the blackouts speculated about them wanting the Earth’s oceans.”

“Hmmm. Maybe.”

“They must have been working on this plan a long time to execute it so well.”
 

“Or maybe we’re not the first planet they’ve invaded, and they could put everything into place quickly.” Doyle reached for a new log.

“Makes you wonder if they gathered intelligence on us in advance. Like maybe all those crazy alien abduction stories were true. Or they had spies?”

“That seems unlikely. It’s not as though the Glyphs blend in.”

Mina remembered her first real glimpse of the Glyphs at the gas station, and the man they let pass.

Doyle placed the log on the fire, making it crackle. “They must have technology we can’t even dream about. Likely they observed everything from space, cloaking their whereabouts from our satellites.”

“Is that even possible?”

“Apparently it is, or we would have noticed when those towers showed up overnight in every major city. No one recorded them arriving. No one heard them. It’s as if they were conjured there.”

“I wonder if the government knew about them but kept it secret.”

“I didn’t take you for a conspiracy theorist,” he said, smiling, “but we’ll never know now, will we? There’s no government left.”

“We don’t know that.”

Doyle frowned. “But it’s a pretty good bet. Still, I wonder what is going on. We’ve been out here a long time.”

“At least we’re alive,” said Mina, unsure of Doyle’s line of thinking.

“Yes,” he said. “We are.”

Lincoln was lost in thought as he walked alone through the quiet, darkening camp. His fingers absently rubbed one of the sketches in his pocket. The worn page had almost fallen apart, but Lincoln had already copied it again in better detail. He felt so far removed these days from anything resembling normal life, normal conversations. Work—if he could call it work—consumed him. What else did he have to distract him at this point? Even the team’s plot to sneak out of camp failed to tempt him tonight. It reeked of finality. They wouldn’t be able to return. And once they left, where would they go? They talked of leaving, but not where the leaving would take them. Because none of them knew.

As Lincoln drew closer to the campsite, he heard voices. Alvarez and Schmidt were sitting beside her tent in front of a low-burning fire. Lincoln paused, not wanting to interrupt.