Free Raging Star by Moira Young Page A

he’d be grateful to him. If it warn’t fer Jack, we’d of never reached Freedom Fields in time to save his life. Maev was the one who told me why. Said I was hopeless not to figger it out myself. The way Lugh sees it, Jack stole me from him while he was weak an helpless, prisoner of the Tonton. I’m sure that’s right. After all, twins ain’t like any other. Till the day the Tonton took him from Silverlake, Lugh an me together was bindweed.
    Fer now Jack’s dead an must remain so. But if we win this fight, he’ll step back into life an it won’t jest be Lugh not overjoyed to see him, there’s Tommo an Ash an—this ain’t the time to think about all that.
    If we win this fight. To win. In seven nights. Seven to the blood moon, if Slim’s right. An he is he is I know he is. A new plan. Fast. I gotta think of one, make one. Another blown bridge or road or checkpoint an DeMalo will do like he threatened.
    You hit me again, I’ll hit you back tenfold
.
    If he unleashes his full power aginst us, we won’t survive. We’ll be jest like the Hawks at Darktrees, butchered in the night as they slept. There, he was only gittin rid of a possible problem. They warn’t nowhere near New Eden an barely even a thorn in his side. His reach is long an bloody.
    I’ll have your whole misstarred mob hunted down and killed. Wherever you run to. Your brother. Your sister. Weigh your chances
.
    I bin foolin myself. We’re all fools. Deluded to think we can beat him. We’re the few. The weak.
    The few an the weak. Suddenly it hits me. It’s bin starin me in the face from the start. It’s only thanks to DeMalo that we’re still alive. This whole time—today at the bridge, an way back to Hopetown an Freedom Fields, the fight at Pine Top Hill, then Resurrection—we bin bold an reckless an oftentimes lucky. It ain’t that we didn’t fight hard. We did. We do. Sometimes we even fought smart. But we ain’t bin smart or lucky enough to keep us alive. When it came to the point, DeMalo pulled back from destroyin us. An it’s bin about me every time. Whatever it is that he wants from me … that’s what’s kept us alive.
    I’ll guarantee everyone safe passage over the Waste, your friends and family
.
    An in return?
    You
.
    Me. Marry him. Death ain’t so bad. You only do it once. Married to him, I’d die each day.
    Nero’s bin dippin in an outta the trees round about. Almost like he’s keepin a eye on somethin. Now, a little ways ahead, Tracker’s caught a scent on the wind. He’s stopped dead. Stiff-legged. Head high. As I come up to him, I’m shruggin off my bow an nockin a arrow. The scrub pine crowds thick here. I cain’t see nuthin. I motion him to me an we slip behind a tree together. I tighten myself fer action.
    There’s a sudden commotion. In a flurry of branches, three little mosstails crash from the woods. Huge eyes red in the night. They spring across our path, not twenny foot in front of us, with Nero chasin behind. That’s what he was on about.
    I relax. Tracker stares after ’em. He’d never chase. Never beg. He’s too noble a beast. But, nose to tail, he quivers with desire. Not jest one mossy, but three. He looks at me. Nero shouts at him, anxious, urgent. I remember their lean squirrel supper. The chance of such a feast is rare.
    Go on then, I says.
    He’s gone in a streak. I can hear the mossies crashin about, changin direction in their desperate race. Almost right away, I curse myself fer lettin ’em go. They’re my sentries, Nero an Tracker. They can see things, hear things, sense things that I cain’t. Damn. That was stupid. Dammit.
    I go on, but it ain’t long till fears rise. What if DeMalo’s had me followed since this mornin? What if he never meant to let the bridge go unpunished? Why should I trust him? He said it’s the endgame. New rules apply.
    I double back a short ways. Start to beat a trail east. At a scatter of rocks, I haul off my boots an cross them barefoot. After a weave