Daughters of the King |✓|

Chapter Thirty

We drove only at nightfall. We drove five people in a car at once. We drove through shadows, through half-abandoned streets, because cars were a thing of the past but these savages knew how to stay in the undergrounds.

We snuck out much in the same way I'd been snuck in. Only this time, I had my eyes wide open and I saw every bit of it.

The piles of rubble where towns had once been—smoke and death—destruction, most of it from the early days of the invasion—and then, suddenly, the parts of the country left eerily untouched.

The King's Country already looked like a wasteland to me. There was wastefulness at every turn.

I leaned against the window at times, listening to nothing but the crunch of gravel and dirt beneath the wheels, seeing nothing but blackness, because we drove without headlights, and I thought to myself how strange a place the world is.

I thought of Gunnar's shoulder blades and his unexpected tenderness. I thought of Wolfe telling me I was pregnant, and I realized how much I wanted it to be true—how much I hoped he hadn't lied. Because I wanted to carry a piece of Gunnar with me forever.

...

The City of Clouds existed beneath a permanently overcast sky, thick with smog, so the bit of light that filtered through was colored brown, the exact shade of oppression. It was suffocating, but it wrapped around you like camouflage. The perfect hiding spot.

People had lived here once, but that was long ago. Now, it was a ghost town. Populated by machines alone, used solely for the purpose of production. It was overgrown to the point that you could hardly tell the difference between forest and city, and it was ancient-looking. The buildings stood like abandoned skeletons, with their shattered windows that looked like empty eye-sockets and gaping doorways that seemed to be sucking air in and out like a mouth.

Then, there were the factories. They were nestled in the near distance, making up a skyline of jagged peaks. They looked like white concrete castles, with hardly any doors or windows, and a constant stream of automatic trains that ran on a network of rails suspended high above ground, circulating the goods in, out, and anywhere between. The factories themselves were guarded by 10-foot tall electric fences, but the outer neighborhoods were accessible on foot, if you managed to cut a path through the vegetation. Our only point of entry had been the old, abandoned roads, which were so overgrown it was impossible for any vehicle to get through. We had to venture in on foot, and at times it was hard to distinguish what used to be the road from the forest all around, but at least we were completely shielded by a canopy of trees above. There was no way we could be spotted.

Wolfe walked alongside me, a gun held at his side, in case we encountered any manner of wild beasts, human or otherwise. It was his constant presence, his protectiveness, that gave me hope that the baby was real—that he hadn't lied about that part, but about something else.

We walked for so long it started to feel like we might have gotten lost, until we spotted them. The first buildings, the first signs of a civilization long past. The wind howled, sounding like distant screams as it echoed through the bare bones of the ruins. It was difficult to believe the forest we were walking through had once been a residential street. The leaves in the trees ruffled all around us in the breeze, whispering secrets from ancient times. This neighborhood wasn't even that old—technically—but there was just something eerie about it, like it wasn't from the same world as all the rest of the country. Not anymore.

How quickly things can change. How quickly the wilderness can creep up and reclaim what once was hers.

"That one over there looks like it still has its windows." Wolfe pointed to a house between the trees.

We trudged over thick tree roots that had shattered the ground beneath us, but then, the closer we got, the more apparent it was that the house was beautiful. Built of brick and glass, a style long out of fashion now. Our companions, two savages by the names of Po and Jade, hurried along behind us, the sudden excitement contagious. Our fifth companion had gone back to camp with the car. There was going to be a lot of back-and-fourth before we were settled, but as I climbed the part of the front stoop that was still intact, I felt a spark of assurance.

The door was locked, but Wolfe had no difficulty breaking it down, and then we were inside.

Po gasped. "It's in such good condition."

"Probably one of the rare houses that hasn't been rampaged by animals," Wolfe said.

The air was stifling as we moved into the house, inspecting each room carefully, but Po was right. It was in very good condition.

"Olya?" Wolfe came to find me in the kitchen, seeking approval. "It will need work, but..."

"It will do," I finished for him.

He nodded and stood to attention, awaiting his next orders, his expression all business now. It's like he expected something more of me than a simple plan to take the city. It's like he was still hoping for a cause.

Little did he know I intended to keep us here for as long as I was able—keep us in hiding. Little did he know that I intended to cut out the world, same as my mother had done, and pretend it didn't exist. There would be no acts of heroism to appeal to his ego. Bjorn, most of all, would hate me for it. But I wasn't in the business of heroism. I was in the business of survival. And as long as the country remained divided, as long as it was each man for his own, I would bury this whole camp in the dustiest corner of the continent, under a permanent cloud of gray, and keep us safe.