The Last Survivors (Book 5): The Last Refuge Read online

  Melora peered out the window, startling a fat pigeon. A few demons scattered in the morning sun, chasing a rat into a nearby alley. Others slunk through the street and made off toward whatever destination might deliver a meal. Animal grunts and screeches faded as the demons wandered farther away from the building.

  Melora stretched her stiff, cold legs. She'd spent the last two nights and the previous day in the building with the strange man, conversing in hushed whispers and gestures while they waited out the threat. In that time, she'd learned that Ivory was a rabbit hunter from Brighton, exploring the Ancient City. He'd been walking nearby when he'd heard the commotion and pulled her into the building.

  Though she had trouble admitting it, his intervention had saved her life.

  Melora appraised Ivory. His brown eyes matched his skin. He was handsome. He reminded her of one of the boys she'd hunted with in Davenport, though she'd never laid eyes on a bow like the one he carried.

  "Do you want some more water?" Ivory asked, pulling the flask from his bag, speaking a little louder now that the demons had left.

  Melora nodded. "Thanks," she said, reaching out for the flask and taking a swig.

  "I bet your family wonders where you are," Ivory said.

  "I'm sure."

  "Almost two days without seeing them."

  "They're probably worried and searching for me, or they think I'm dead."

  After slowly gaining each other's trust, Melora had told Ivory of the massacre in Davenport and the slaughter of her relatives. She'd also mentioned that she was staying with Ella, William, and a man named Bray they had met on the way.

  She hadn't mentioned that Ella and William were from Brighton.

  She also hadn't mentioned William's condition.

  What if Ivory had heard about Ella's escape and decided to turn them in?

  She believed Ivory's story, but Melora was smart enough to be cautious. Her gaze wandered to the door, which was still blocked with the pieces of stone she and Ivory had put there as a barricade.

  "Should we wait just a little longer?" she asked Ivory.

  "Probably smart."

  Her eyes shot back to his bow. She hadn't been able to take her eyes off the weapon the entire time, and she was anxious to give it a try.

  "I still can't believe you found that in one of the buildings," she said.

  A look of pride crossed Ivory's face as he held it up, running his fingers down the smooth, metal contour. "It's probably one of the most amazing things I've found here." Ivory pulled an arrow from his quiver, demonstrating. "The wheels help you build up force without having to use as much strength. It works well against the demons."

  "I want to use it," she said, the words leaving her mouth before she knew she'd said them.

  "I'll show you after the demons leave."

  Melora bit her lip. "Can I hold it?"

  Ivory hesitated a moment, watching her. Melora understood his trepidation—they'd only just met, and he was cautious, too.

  Ivory scooted over the floor, next to her. He held up the bow, allowing Melora to run her fingers over the metal. She examined the wheels and strings, marveling at the sleek composition. She tried to envision battles of the past, but the faces of the Ancients were blurry images that lived in stories, rather than reality.

  "I'd give anything for a bow like that."

  Ivory nodded. "For all I know, this is the only one."

  "You must have come across other treasures while you've been exploring the Ancient City," Melora said with wonder in her eyes. When Ivory didn't answer right away, she asked, "Have you?"

  A smile crossed Ivory's face. "I'd have to be sure I trusted you before I told you more."

  Melora shook her head as she inspected the ancient construction. "My family won't believe it when they see this bow." She was captivated so deeply she had almost forgotten she needed to get back to her family. "We need to leave." She cocked her head, listening to the sound of distant, screeching demons.

  She prayed William was okay. She hadn't seen him since his disappearance several nights ago.

  "I know some shortcuts, so we won't have to travel in the open," Ivory said. "Your family is staying in the building with the smooth floors and pedestals, right? That's what you told me?"

  "Yes. That's the one."

  "That area is less-traveled by demons. It's one of the safer places to stay."

  "How do you know?"

  "The demons tend to roam certain areas more than others. Rumors say they're afraid of certain places."

  "Why?"

  "They have instincts dating back to the wars with the Ancients."

  Melora nodded, unsure of whether to believe it. Her boots crunched on broken, fragmented stones as they stood and peered into the city, checking for demons. Melora feared that a horde of twisted men would make their way back to the building, trapping them. To her relief, the street was empty. They walked over to the stones he'd used to block the entrance and started moving them.

  "You seem to know the Ancient City well," she remarked to Ivory.

  "I used to come here all the time with my uncle, before he died."

  "I'm sorry."

  Ivory's face grew sad. "My father was taken in the last Cleansing. I was in the Ancient City when it happened." Ivory paused as he looked down. "I found out when I got back."

  Melora gave a sympathetic smile as they continued moving stones. She knew his pain, having lost Frederick, Jean, and everyone else in Davenport.

  "I don't really have anyone left in Brighton," he continued. "No one except…" Ivory's voice trailed off and he looked at the ceiling.

  "What were you going to say?"

  "Nothing, I was just thinking we should get back to your family before the demons come back."

  Chapter 3: Tenbrook

  Tenbrook walked through the square, shielding his face from the early morning sun. He smiled as he looked over the row of a dozen blackened, crumbled pyre poles. The smell of smoke and charred skin lingered in the air. He'd instructed his men to leave the piles of ashes burning through the night. Those stinking, smoldering remains were a warning to anyone else who might try to best him.

  He'd slept near the dais in one of the armories instead of his usual quarters. Throughout the night, the insurgents' weak women had crept into the square, pointlessly sobbing and praying, falling into wailing and forlorn dirges. From his bed in the armory, with that song in his ears, Tenbrook had nodded pleasantly off to sleep.

  Let them grieve.

  That will keep my lessons alive through stories to their children.

  Tenbrook approached one of the pyre poles. He recalled the pained faces of Tommy and Timmy Dunlow as they screamed into their gags. That image was almost as satisfying as Evan, uttering useless sounds as the flames burned his legs, his chest, and then his arrogant lips. Tenbrook had condemned the Scholar to silence. That was as ironic as it was fitting. Tenbrook would cherish that memory forever. His only regret was that he hadn't been able to keep the Scholar's tongue.

  He unslung a bag from his shoulder, knelt on the ground, and opened it.

  "Sir?" a man next to him asked. "Do you need help?"

  Tenbrook turned to face Captain Sinko. He'd almost forgotten he was there.

  "No. I need time, Sinko."

  "How much?"

  "Tell your men to have breakfast and come back," Tenbrook said.

  Sinko nodded and strode off to a group of confused soldiers who were awaiting orders to clean up the square. They cast anxious glances over their shoulders as they walked away.

  Let the burnings be a lesson to them as well, Tenbrook thought.

  He paused before digging in his bag. He recalled how Franklin had stood up to him on the dais. Franklin's power was growing among the parishioners. The weak-kneed Bishop had gathered a momentary dose of courage on the dais and the people had responded. They didn't cheer or taunt, but Tenbrook noticed their backs stiffen, he saw defiance in their eyes. None of that would do Franklin
any good, though. For the moment, he was too lovesick over that whore of a servant, Fitzgerald. Franklin kept her in the Temple like a sickly pet. He was overwhelmed by responsibilities too complex for his clergyman's mind, spending his days in the world of old fairy tales and his nights praying for an ever after that didn't exist.

  Only the world existed, and the world was full of demons to be killed, men to be subjugated, and young women to be put to use.

  Franklin knew none of that. That's why he didn't see a spark of obstinate fire in those peasants' eyes. But Tenbrook knew it wouldn't last. Even oblivious Franklin couldn't miss it for long, because that fire was power, and power tempted a man's soul as surely as a young woman's naked skin. And when Franklin finally saw it, Franklin would be a danger, the kind of danger that could take the meek peasants' unhappiness with their lot in life and focus it into anger and rebellion.

  Tenbrook would figure something out. And he'd make sure Franklin's death was as satisfying as what he'd just done to Evan and the insurgents.

  He'd knock Fitzgerald aside again on his way to get to him.

  Maybe he'd have some more fun and kill her.

  Sucking in the smell of ash, Tenbrook dug in his bag and removed a glass jar, an old thing from ancient times. Tenbrook had convinced the previous owner to give up the expensive jars, each fashioned with a leather-wrapped piece of wood as a stopper to keep them sealed, which made them perfect for Tenbrook's purpose. He removed the stopper from one jar and scooped in a handful of ash.

  It was a pity he couldn't have gotten the insurgents' tongues.

  But he needed something for his mantle.

  Chapter 4: Melora

  Ivory and Melora made their way back through the city, sneaking through alleys and passageways Melora hadn't seen when she'd been running through the streets. In one such passageway, they had to creep on their knees to avoid scraping their backs against the ceiling. In another, a crumbled, round arch towered above them, holding up what used to be an ancient road. Dying weeds snaked through the cracks wherever there was light. Demon footprints were captured in hardened mud. They emerged to a bright sun and a sky devoid of clouds.

  Melora surveyed the buildings around her. One of them caught her eye. It was taller than the rest, with a rectangular base and a long, narrowing spire that rose high above the center. Most of the top was fractured, but she could tell how beautiful it must have looked when it was new.

  "What do you think that was?" she asked.

  "A worship building," Ivory said matter-of-factly.

  "How do you know?"

  Ivory smiled. "My uncle told me."

  Melora watched him with wonder. She assumed he'd never had the occasion to talk about these things with anyone else. How could he have? The Ancient City was forbidden for both of them.

  And yet here they were.

  Ivory beckoned between two buildings. "Have you seen the ocean yet?" In the distance, the never-ending river stretched as far as she could see.

  "Yes. Bray—the man we met outside Davenport—took us there the other day, a little while after we arrived. It's beautiful," she remarked.

  "I've floated over it."

  "You mean you've swam in it," Melora corrected him.

  "No. I've floated over it."

  "I don't understand."

  Ivory immediately looked away, the color draining from his face. "I shouldn't have said that."

  Melora stopped in the street, temporarily forgetting the danger. "You have to tell me, now that you've started. How did you float in it?"

  Ivory looked around the street, as if someone might overhear him. The only witnesses were circling birds and scuttling rats. "I'll tell you later. I promise."

  Melora couldn't conceal her excitement. "Do you swear you won't forget?"

  "How can I be sure I can trust you?" Ivory asked, a sly smile on his face.

  "I won't tell a soul." Melora clenched a fist, holding it to her chest. "I swear by The Word."

  Chapter 5: Franklin

  Franklin didn't realize he'd slept until thin rays of morning light crept through the window high up on the walls of his new quarters. His heart pounded from fading nightmares. Those were quickly replaced by the memory of the burnings. He bolted upright and startled Fitzgerald, bumping her out of bed and onto the stone floor.

  "Franklin! You scared me." Fitz got back on the bed, rubbing a mark on her arm that would surely be a bruise. Her face showed she hadn't gotten much rest.

  "I'm sorry." Franklin patted her arm, looking around the room incredulously. Measuring his words, he said, "We're still alive."

  He looked around as if that might change.

  Maybe I'm dreaming and we're already dead.

  But the room looked the same as it had the night before. Several waxy, burnt-out candles remained on his desk. The hallway was no longer silent. Murmurs of conversation floated through the doorway. He imagined the deacons and the servants walking quietly through the Sanctuary, going about their business with the memory of their burnt brothers on their shoulders. In a few days, it would pass.

  But not for Franklin.

  Tenbrook was going to kill him, and probably Fitzgerald. Franklin let that thought drive him as he sprang out of bed and brushed the wrinkles from his robe. They needed to figure out a way to stay alive.

  "What are you doing?" Fitzgerald asked.

  "I need to talk to the clergymen. I need to do something." He retrieved his kitchen knife, looking for a fold in his robe to tuck it into.

  "Franklin," Fitz said tersely, grabbing his arm. He stopped and watched her. "We can't do something rash that will get us killed."

  "But we need to—" Franklin stared at the door, his heart pounding. His body was moving faster than his brain was working. He knew that.

  "Tenbrook's men will be watching," Fitz cautioned.

  Franklin turned the knife in his hands. "Since we came in here last night, I've felt trapped. I can't sit in this room any longer. I have to do something."

  "Sit and talk," Fitz said, her firm tone convincing him to comply.

  Franklin returned to the bed, his legs shaking as he turned to sit down. The situation had him more anxious and frightened than he realized.

  "I thought about a lot of things while you slept," Fitz said. "I spent most of the night going through the details of what happened at the square."

  "Why didn't you wake me?" Franklin asked, feeling guilty for having dozed off and slept through the night.

  "You needed your rest," Fitz said, with a grim smile. "Anyway, I have some ideas. The fact that we survived the night gives me hope."

  "What are your ideas?" Franklin asked.

  Fitzgerald fell quiet for a moment. It looked like she was preparing her own sermon. Fitzgerald was as beautiful as ever. Her raven-dark hair was gorgeous, even though she hadn't brushed it. Her eyes were bright despite her admission that she hadn't slept.

  "I'm going to tell you something I don't think you're going to believe."

  Franklin pursed his lips and looked at Fitz, not sure whether to encourage her to proceed or not, not sure he wanted to hear it. Finally he asked, "What?"

  "First," she said, "We talked about how The People respond to you, right?"

  Franklin nodded. "You mean when I'm proclaiming The Word in the service?"

  "Of course." Fitz laid a hand on Franklin's thigh.

  Franklin looked down at her hand—perilously close to his manhood—and for a moment, her touch made him think only of her beauty, her raven hair, her bright blue eyes, and how it felt when they embraced in the sheets after making love, her sweaty skin pressed to his. Did it matter what she was going to tell him, what she was going to ask? He'd do anything for her.

  "It might not be true yet, but The People might love you in a way they never loved Father Winthrop."

  "Love?" Franklin was unconvinced. "What does that have to do with anything?"

  "People will do almost anything for love."

  Franklin started to s
peak, but looking down at Fitz's hand, he realized she was right. "Maybe if they grow to love hearing my words, they'll develop an affection for me. But what of it? Love will not save me from the fire."

  "Perhaps it already did," Fitz told him.

  Franklin coughed through a harsh laugh. He jumped off the bed, ready to rail at Fitz for such a ridiculous assertion. "How can you even say that? People loved Evan, I'm sure. At least, the other Scholars did. And look at him—he's dead. Everybody who goes on the pyre is loved by somebody, and it doesn't do them any good."

  Shaking her head, Fitz said, "You're both right and wrong." She reached over and took Franklin's hand, pulling him closer.

  Distracted, Franklin took a moment to find his voice. "How can I be right and wrong? The love of a mother does nothing to save her child from the pyre."

  "The love of a few won't do anything. You're right about that."

  "But if all the mothers protested together, the same way they act alone, they might be able to save one child."

  Franklin thought about all those thousands of people in the square on Cleansing Day. Surely they could save a person if they acted together.

  "When we were on the dais trying to save Evan, I was watching you and watching Tenbrook. I was also watching The People."

  "You say that like you witnessed something."

  "I did," said Fitz. "I saw how The People reacted when Tenbrook spoke harshly to you. I think Tenbrook saw it, too. That's why Tenbrook didn't put you on the pyre with the others. I think he saw that love and he knew he didn't have enough men to fight the crowd."

  Shaking his head, Franklin recalled the painful event. "Do you truly believe that, or are you saying this to take away my fright?"

  Fitz pulled Franklin down on the bed to sit beside her. "I'm telling the truth." She took Franklin's hand and laid it on her breast. "I swear with all my heart I'm telling the truth. The People love you, Franklin. The more you speak to them, the more they'll come to love you, until one day, their love for you will be so strong Tenbrook won't be able to hurt you."

  Franklin reluctantly pulled his hand away and folded it with his other on his lap. He couldn't think straight while his hand was on her chest. "Before the army marched out, Father Winthrop instructed me to ask Scholar Evan how many men in Brighton were truly devoted to The Word. At the time, I didn't understand why the number was important to him. I wonder now if he was trying to get a measure of how many people would do his bidding."