Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 110757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
“This is Artemis. I need a restock on arrows. I just used six to put down a lion that was coming into camp.”
Amira’s message brings me back to reality. I sigh softly and lock my eyes onto Stella’s.
“I’m sorry. That was bitchy of me.”
“I’m sorry, too. I’m tired and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“Would you rather restock Amira or stay here?”
She shrugs. “I’ll do either, but you’re already soaking wet and I’m dry, so I won’t be mad if you go restock her.”
“Sure. If you need a nap, call me and I’ll come relieve you.”
“I’ll be okay.”
I go into the kitchen, where Vadim and another kitchen worker are working on what looks like soup. Vadim’s dark braids are gathered and tied at the nape of his neck.
“V, can you spare anything at all for the people on perimeter guard?”
“How about some dried mango and bananas?”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
He sets down the knife he’s using to chop dried spices. “I’ll pack some for each of them. How many?”
“Sixteen.”
The kitchen is usually buzzing with activity, no matter what time of day it is. It worries me that only Vadim and one other person are working.
“How are the supplies looking?” I ask.
He bends his knees to reach a base cabinet, and he pulls out a large container, moving it to the counter.
“We’ll make it work. The chickens are producing plenty of eggs again. We’re making bread and soup for tonight’s dinner with bigger portions than usual. Soup is easy to stretch.”
“My mom used to always make soup on rainy days.”
He smiles. “My grandmother used to say soup feeds the belly and the soul.”
I tie up the small burlap sacks he’s filling with dried fruit. Our camp keeps stores of canned and dried foods just in case of emergency, and that foresight is keeping all of us alive right now.
“Thank you,” I say as I tie the final bag closed.
“Of course.” He walks over to the stove and picks up a slice of bread, offering it to me as he says, “You missed breakfast.”
I shake my head, my growling stomach giving away my hunger. I was so revolted by what Dion and Grady did that I won’t take a single bite more than my share of our rations. Our perimeter guard usually only gets one meal a day on rations, so I’m not giving them more than anyone else will get today.
After tucking the fruit bags into the small pack on my back that holds my canteen and extra weapons, I pick up a one-gallon water jug I can fill and top off the perimeter guard’s canteens with.
“Briar,” Vadim calls as I’m about to exit the kitchen.
“Hm?” I look over my shoulder at him.
“Remember—there can be no rainbow without a cloud and a storm.”
My smile is the first genuine, warm one I’ve felt in a while. “This is one hell of a storm, so hopefully that means one hell of a rainbow.”
“Indeed.”
31
“I’m alive. I got shot in the shoulder and I was unconscious for a long time. My wound got infected. If I hadn’t been found by a former surgeon, I wouldn’t have made it. I’m still recovering. Will be in touch when I’m strong enough.” -- Decoded message from ILF undercover operative Nightingale to ILF handler Hiro Tanaka
Two Years Ago
Briar
He’s looking at me. I always know when he’s behind me because it feels like bugs crawling all over my skin, invading every inch of my being.
“Hello, wife.” Lochlan unbuttons his olive-green jacket, takes it off, and passes it to one of his assistants, who bows his head and leaves the room with it.
Every fucking evening, the same routine. No one in the house gets dinner until he gets home, and it’s usually late. The later, the better, as far as I’m concerned. Every hour I don’t have to be in his presence is a win.
“I said hello.” He glares at me from the end of the oblong wood dining table.
“Hello,” I respond robotically, my gaze locked on the small painting behind him.
Leonardo’s original Ginevra de’ Benci painting belongs under lock and key in a museum. That’s where it was when the world I knew ended four years ago. Soren Whitman was prepared, and his forces looted priceless artistic treasures while others killed each other over canned goods and bullets.
Lochlan was an art history professor before the virus, and the original works of art Soren has gifted him are his most prized possessions.
I have something in common with the woman in Leonardo’s painting—I’m also Lochlan’s possession. Her cool, detached expression is my visual mantra.
Don’t engage. Bide your time. Survive.
Servers fill our wineglasses and deliver our chilled dinner salads. It’s the exact same salad every night, precisely as Lochlan likes it: cold, crisp iceberg lettuce, a single sliced Roma tomato, six Kalamata olives, and freshly shredded mozzarella. Buttermilk ranch is served in tiny silver pitchers we’re each given on a saucer.