Free The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) by Tarah Benner Page B

life was gone.
    He pulled me along in silence for a moment, and I took the chance to study the farm. Although the fields along the perimeter of the woods looked pretty barren, the smaller plots closer to the house were thriving.  
    Amory was walking so quickly as he dragged me that I stumbled and fell twice. Both times, he made a reflexive move as though he was going to catch me, but he thought better of it at the last second. He settled with tightening his grip on my arm and hoisting me back upright when I went down. My stomach lurched and my head spun, but I didn’t want to let on how weak I felt. There was no reason to make it easier for them to finish me off.
    We walked past a large chicken coop, a small paddock with a few goats, and the barn I’d seen from the woods. The wood looked old and slightly warped, but the barn had a fresh coat of paint and still seemed operational. He led me around a pocket of trees that concealed a house and another large outbuilding farther back.  
    The farmhouse was painted a dark forest green with white shutters turning the color of driftwood. It had a big porch and that old, cheerful look of a house well lived in.
    “What is this place?” I asked in awe.
    “This is the farm.”
    “Whose farm?”
    He glowered down at me, and I knew I had reached my limit on questions. Amory wasn’t going to tell me anything else until he was sure he could trust me.  
    “It’s wonderful,” I muttered, staring up at the house. And I meant it. It was so strange to see a home that looked as if there was a big family residing there still intact. And even though I was a prisoner and didn’t know who might live there, I wanted to stay.  
    Amory led me up the porch steps, which creaked loudly underfoot. Next to the front door sat a muddy pair of rubber boots and an old orange cat that looked as though he had seen better days. The cat hissed.
    “Easy, Magnus.”  
    The cat got to its tufted feet and arched its back in a yawn.
    The front door was painted a dark blue over years of scratched wood and had a tiny window with a simple wreath hanging there. A familiar scent wafted toward me when he swung the door open.
    “What’s that smell?” I asked.
    “Sage.” He gestured at the wreath. “It’s a sign of good faith. It means a house welcomes undocumented travelers.”
    Stepping inside, it took several seconds for my eyes to adjust. I was standing in a long hallway with dark wood paneling and a tall ceiling with rafters. It was old and warm and smelled like home: cinnamon, oranges, coffee, and firewood.  
    The light streaming in through a window in the front room illuminated what looked like a sitting room that had been converted into an office. Magnus followed us inside and jumped up on a long oak table that was covered with stacks of newspapers. With a sagging teal armchair and an old cup of coffee resting on the mantel, the room looked untidy but cheerful.
    Nervous perspiration prickled on the back of my neck, and my head continued to throb dully. I followed Amory down the hallway lined with an eclectic collection of mementos: black-and-white photos, framed newspaper clippings, and old presidential campaign posters. The wooden floor creaked in a friendly way, but if the place were less homey, it might have been spooky.  
    As we went, I could hear the sound of laughter up ahead. To the left was a study — shelves bursting with dusty books — and across from that was a living room with a blazing fire. The laughter stopped as we reached the oak-paneled archway, and three heads turned up to look at me.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    “What’ve you got there?”  
    The voice belonged to a guy with expertly tousled dark brown hair lounging on the couch with his head in the lap of a pretty blond girl. He looked as though he was in his early twenties, and I could tell he was devilishly handsome. He had playful bright-blue eyes that looked uncharacteristically menacing.  
    “Stray cat,” said Amory with a