Veracity (The Seven Cities Book 1) (6 page)

Ruth settles on the bed, finally worn out by her acrobatics. Crawling up beside her, we stare at the dingy celling as she tells stories about her job as a runner for the village.

"To be a runner you gotta be tough and fast, and you ain't allowed to have secrets. If you get stopped by a soldier, you have to be able to pass a scan or else you get in a world of trouble."

"Where do you run to?"

"The old places to find supplies. We make most of what we need but we can trade what we find with the soldiers. It's an important job."

"Aren't you scared to be out and about on your own?"

"Nope. I almost never see anybody and when I do, they know better than to try anything. Folks are real scared of those scanners. Not bein' able to lie about their actions makes people a whole lot better. Their brains are still crooked and their hearts are still evil, but they have to keep it hidden."

Angry, muffled shouts filter through the walls, and Ruth stiffens beside me. Terrified, I pull her close, and put my finger to my lips to quiet her. The shouts grow louder and a scream rips through the air. Ruth whimpers beside me, and I quietly cross the room and throw the lock on the door. Inching my way to the window, I pull the curtain back slightly. As soon as I move the threadbare fabric I hear a loud bang, and scramble back to the bed with a squeal.

That was a gunshot! In a flash, my brain rewards me with images of harsh, unforgiving objects full of fire and death. My adrenaline goes into over load as Ruth starts to cry. Grabbing her by the arm I drag her off the bed and sling her into the tiny bathroom. A loud wail rises up through the wall, an eerie, mournful sound followed by another loud bang. I pull Ruth close to me, giving her a reassuring hug before pushing her further into the bathroom.

"Lock this door behind you." I tell her, "Do not open it unless I tell you to, no matter what."

"There ain't a lock," she cries. "The door don't even close!"

"Just get in the tub and lie down," I grunt, as I put all my weight against the door, trying to close it the best I can. Back out in the room, I panic, dragging the mattress off the bed and shoving it against the window. I don't know what I am hoping to accomplish, but it makes me feel better that the glass is covered. Sitting down on the worn carpet, I stare at the door telling myself I could defend us against anything that makes its way in. I start to cry when I realize I'm lying to myself. Ruth is sobbing softly in the bathroom. For all her boasted bravery, deep down, she is still just a little girl.

My panic slowly morphs into shocked exhaustion, and I curl up in the fetal position on the floor. It's unearthly quiet now. The silence should be comforting, but it's exactly the opposite. As long as I live, I will never forget the intense feeling of helplessness I feel right now. I know there is something violent and angry out there, and I have no defense against it.

When the sun's first rays start filtering in around the mattress, I stand up, stretching my aching legs and back. Pulling the bathroom door open, I find Ruth curled up in the tub asleep, the faded and torn shower curtain pulled down around her as a blanket. Saying her name, I softly touch her arm. Her eyes fly open panicked, but settle once they find mine.

"It's time to go Ruth." I tell her. "We can't stay here."

"It's okay, highborn." she smiles. "This Human girl is brave again. We can go."

"I never thought you were any less than brave." I tell her as she hugs me.

Slowly opening the door, we find the outside quiet and deserted. Opening it wider, I take a step into the sun, half expecting to be gunned down on the spot. The noise had to have come from one of the three other rooms on this side of the motel, and we decide to check them out, just to be sure no one needs our help. Probably not the smartest plan, but I can't bear the thought of leaving some poor person to die because I was too scared to investigate. I have to admit though, that if I were truly brave, I would have checked last night.

The first two doors lead to nothing more than empty rooms and dusty beds. The final door is cracked a bit, and I ask Ruth to stand back as I go check inside. She makes an annoyed face, but after some reassurance, she is happy to play the look out. The hinges creak as I push open the door, light spilling into the darkened room. Ready to turn and run, I stop only when I see the silhouette a man sitting inside. Stepping in, I take a moment for my eyes to adjust, and vomit for the second time.

A young woman is lying on the bed. Shot in the head, her blood pools in a large circle, soaking into the sheets. Her face is distorted in shock, and her eyes are open, staring at the ceiling. It is obvious this was not her idea, and she wasn't ready to die. Being the courageous girl I am, I start to cry. She looks so young. I tear my gaze away, unable to handle the sight of her anymore.

The man who killed her is slumped over in a chair, his own wound oozing at his temple. A gun lies on the floor below his open hand, slowly being painted red by the blood still dripping off his fingers. On the wall above his body I see the words, "Our Only Freedom." It is scrawled in something slimy and red. Something I don't want to think about.

I turn and run out, slamming the door behind me. There is no one left to save in that room. Leaning against the wall, I slide down to the ground, burying my face in my hands. Ruth walks over and plops down beside me.

"Pretty bad in there, huh?" she asks.

"Oh, yeah." I tell her, wiping the tears from my face. "A man . . . and a woman. Ugh, why did I have to go in there?"

"Curiosity is a devil," she tells me, patting my back in comfort.

"Yes, it is." I tell her. "I never could have imagined . . . why would he . . ."

"People do crazy, horrible things," she tells me. "It can drive you nuts trying to figure out the why of it."

"He wrote, "Our Only Freedom," on the wall. What did he mean?"

"As trapped as y'all are in the city, there ain't no freedom for you out here neither. It's just a different kind of prison, nowhere to go, no place far enough out of the reach of the soldiers. The people who run end up feeling like there is no escape. They realize they should have just stayed in the city in the first place. They see death as their only way out."

"You are a pretty smart little girl." I say still shaking.

"That's why I didn't look," she says.

"Should we do something with the bodies?"

"No. The soldiers will do that. They'll want to try and figure out who they are first. I can take them a message when I get back from taking you to the safe house."

As we gather our things and restart down the road, it starts to rain, a cool, soft rain, just hard enough to wash away the grime and negative emotions that cling to us. Ruth starts to dance and spin in the rain, and I am convinced she is some kind of magical creature. How else could this tiny little girl bring so much good to such a bad situation?

We walk in the rain for hours, but I don't mind. There is something refreshing about being out in the middle of nowhere, hearing the rain falling softly through the leaves. I relish the feeling of being washed clean and lift my face up, pretending the cool water is cleansing my soul as well as my body. The thoughts of blood and ash are carried down into the mud, and I feel light again.

And then, too soon, the next town is upon us. One minute it's trees and dirt, and the next it's rows of identical houses and sidewalks. I am relieved, and a little surprised, to see that this town hasn't been destroyed at all. It looks like it has been meticulously cared for.

Ruth speeds up, laughing as she runs. She looks back behind her every now and then to check on me as she winds through the maze of streets. Right turn, left turn, right turn. All the houses look the same to me but she never falters or questions which way to go. Finally, she stops in front of a large white house. There's a green "S" written on the door in faded paint. Ruth is grinning ear-to-ear and hopping from one foot to the other in excitement as I walk up the sidewalk to the house.

"It will have everything you need to be comfortable," she says elegantly. "You will be most happy as you wait for the soldiers to arrive." She does a funny little curtsey and runs off down the street.

"Wait!" I call to her. "You are just going to leave?"

"You bet I am!" she cries. "I ain't hanging around for The Man to show up!"

She waves, turns a corner, and is gone. I wonder if I will ever see her again.

Just as Ruth promised, the safe house is pure perfection. It's the first building I have been in that isn't at least partially demolished, and I can't stop gawking at the pretty papered walls and delicately upholstered furniture. I kick off my filthy shoes and walk barefoot on the plush carpet.

The first floor boasts a nice sized living area with two large couches, several decorative armchairs, and a stocked fireplace. It takes me a few tries, but I eventually get a roaring fire going with the matches I find on the mantle. I know that it is going to be overly warm with it burning, but I have yet to find any candles and it will be dark soon.

Across the room from the front door is an entryway leading to the kitchen.  Long, wooden tables are lined against the wall boasting fruit, bread, and cheese. It is a real test of my self-will not to dig in right away, but I really need to get cleaned up before I eat.

The rest of the first floor consists of two bedrooms connected by a small bathroom. The bathroom is lacking a shower or tub so I head upstairs in search of one. The second floor landing opens to a huge master suite, with the biggest bed I have ever seen and an open walk-in closet full of clothes. The bathroom connects to the bedroom and boasts both a luxurious tub and separate shower.

Turning on the water I undress, mentally preparing myself for the cold. The bathroom starts to fill with hot steam, and I rush to put my hand under the shower's spray. It's hot! I fiddle with the controls until I find a setting I can stand, and step in, the water feeling divine as it slides down my body. Finding bottles of sweet smelling liquid on a narrow shelf, I abandon my plastic bag of toiletries to try them all.

My fears, worries, and lingering anxieties disappear down the drain with the rich soaps and shampoo. Leaning against the shower wall, I close my eyes, letting the water beat against my sore muscles and raw skin.

Finding a thick robe hanging on a hook near the tub, I slip it on and use a towel to dry my hair. Emotionally recharged from the relaxing shower, I slip down to the kitchen to load a plate full of food. Settling in an armchair near the fireplace, I dig in. The food is delightfully fresh and although not as glorious as the village's, I am thankful to have it. The food is comforting in the way only food can be. It fills my stomach and reminds me of some far off place and time. The memory is trapped, right out of reach, but I can smell it in the bread and taste it in the smooth texture of the cheese. The strawberries are especially delicious and I gorge myself on them until the thought of eating another makes me queasy.

Overfull, I lounge in the chair, alternating between staring into the fire and examining the room around me. My mind is having trouble processing the drastic change between this house and everywhere else I have been. There is no dust, no debris, and best of all, no blood. Everything is crisp and clean, and I fully understand why the city dwellers are willing to give up a little freedom. Sitting here safe and warm, I am won over by the magic of it. Would I give up the right to choose a husband, and who knows what else, to avoid living in the squalor of the outside? I wish I was the kind of person who would say no, but I'm not. It may be cowardly and shallow, but I would marry anyone if it meant I could avoid the horrors I have seen.

Full, warm, and happy, I head upstairs. Crawling into the massive bed, I sink down into the fragrant sheets.
Please don't dream.
I don't want the feelings of freedom and love that come with dreaming of the young man. I want this to be all I know. I want to forget all the rest; him, the confusion, the days of walking, and all that came with it. I curl up under the blanket and drift off, wishing the rest of my life could be as perfect as this moment.

GRAYSON

Not the kind of man to believe in fate, I am at a loss to define this moment. I have always rebelled against the belief that things happen for a reason, and I branded anyone who felt differently as dreamers and fools. Not once in my life have I toyed with the possibility of a "grand design" or a predestined path, and destiny is a foreign concept to me . . . yet here she is.

I shouldn't even be here. That's the part that really has my concept of reality tied up in knots. These safe houses have been checked daily for months, and I split my men up into three groups to distribute the workload. This particular house is on the route of my second in command, James, who just yesterday broke his arm falling off a horse. I may choke on the word fate, but I can't deny the miracle of this. This is the only day that I would ever visit this particular house, and here she is. Six months after being taken, I have finally found her, my Katherine.

The rush of emotion is overwhelming, and my legs give out beneath me. Falling to my knees next to the bed where she sleeps, I marvel in the sight of her, unable to tear my eyes from her beautiful face. My heart pounds against my rib cage, threatening to beat its way out of my chest. Seeing her lying there, with her dark hair spread across the sheets in a messy halo, is just . . . too much. Covering my face with my hands, I try to calm my frantic, shallow breathing. I have to get myself under control. She can't see me like this. More than anything in the world, I want to wake her and take her in my arms, but I know she has had her memory wiped.

When we found her parents, brutally murdered outside the city gates, the best we could hope for her was a swift death as well. Rebels don't usually take prisoners, and are not known for being kind. A scenario where they spared her, without malicious intent, was hard to imagine. Her absence ate at me, tearing out all that was good inside, replacing it with a sharp, stabbing despair. The next six months were spent in a haze of rage and depression, each day bringing me further from her and closer to madness. They say a part of you dies when you lose a loved one, but when Katherine was taken, only a part of me remained alive.

Only a month ago, my world shifted again, sending me into a frenzy of hope and fear. A simple sheet of paper, folded twice and slipped under the front door, was all it took to reanimate me. The scrawling black ink delivered me back from the brink, and filled my life with renewed purpose. Kat was alive and unharmed. Held prisoner this entire time, the note claimed she had been right under our noses, hidden somewhere deep in the forests surrounding the city.

Her captor's letter revealed she had been secreted away at the request of another, someone he risked his life by crossing. When the terms of his agreement changed, and Katherine's life was put into danger, the coward wiped her memory to protect himself and sent her home. He claimed we would find her, unharmed, in one of our safe houses.

From the moment I read the letter, I have dreamed of this, but now that I am here I am terrified. I'm afraid to face all that we have lost. How am I going to bear her opening her eyes and seeing me as a stranger? Against my wishes, my father has forbidden me from telling her the truth. His hard stance on the issue is baffling, but he is adamant on being the one to tell her. Keeping this secret from her is going to be the hardest thing I've ever had to do, harder than losing her even. I hate it, but I have no choice but to obey. When the General says to keep your mouth shut, you keep your mouth shut.

KATHERINE

Sunlight filters through the thin drapes, drawing me out of a dreamless sleep. Peeking out from under the covers I see a young soldier kneeling by the bed, his starched uniform a soft green in the early light.

"You must be The Man," I mumble, still half asleep.

"Excuse me?"

At the sound of his voice, I realize that he is in fact, not a figment of my imagination. Sitting up quickly, I pull the blanket tight around me. What is the deal with people watching me sleep? Is this going to be a thing now?

"Who are you?" I demand.

"I am sorry if I startled you, Miss." he says, frowning as he takes a step back, his voice intense but polite. "My name is Grayson Andrews, and I am the soldier assigned to this safe house."

Broad shouldered and muscular, Grayson looks more than capable of holding his own in a fight, but his kind brown eyes reveal a deep well of emotion hidden beneath the surface. With his close-cropped dark hair, he's the picture of a perfect soldier in a green linen shirt tucked into black cargo pants. A holster hangs on his wide belt, cradling a fierce looking handgun. Big, black boots complete the intimidating, yet striking uniform. His identity is etched on his left forearm in the strange series of letters and numbers Ruth's dad described. If I am reading it right, the V01 and V02, mean he is not an ordinary soldier.

"Should I be afraid of you?" I ask.

"Absolutely not," he says, taken back. "I am here to take care of you."

He reaches his hand out to me, and holds it there, waiting for me to respond.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I need to scan you. Hold out your arm, please."

I tentatively reach my arm out toward him and freeze, unsure of what to do next. Closing the distance between us, he locks his hand around my forearm. His wrist is tight against mine and a small metal bracelet presses coldly between us. For the briefest moment, I swear I can feel him trembling, and his dark eyes bore into mine with an intensity I can't look away from.

"What is your name?" he asks.

"Katherine."

The band hums against my wrist and goes quiet.

"What is your last name Katherine?"

"I don't know. My memory was wiped. The man I was with didn't tell me."

The bracelet hums and quiets again.

"How did he wipe your memory?"

"He gave me some sort of a pill, and it took away everything I knew about myself."

"I am familiar with those pills, although they haven't been used for some time," he says concerned. "Why did he give it to you and where did he get it?"

"I don't know," I say, sitting up higher in the bed. "I think he believes I knew something dangerous, that wiping my memory would keep me safe. He didn't say where he got it."

"What was the man's name?"

"He didn't say."

"When did this happen?"

"A week ago maybe? I am not sure on the time, I was ill and lost track of the days while I recovered."

Grayson's eyes widened at the word ill, and I am intrigued by his concern. He doesn't ask any further questions though, and I don't offer any information.

"I have some more, general questions for you, Katherine. We have to ask these of everyone," he says quietly, holding my arm softer than before.

"Are you a rebel?"

"I don't think so."

"Have you committed any crimes to your knowledge?"

"No."

"Have you ever hurt another person?"

"No." I say. "But I did kill a snake."

He smiles, and looking into his eyes, I almost see something, some recognition tickling the back of my mind. Have I seen him before? Suddenly, the moment seems too intimate, too familiar. I sit up even straighter and he does the same, holding my arm outstretched and firm again.

"I think we can let the snake slide. How did you hear about this house?"

"The man I was with told me to travel north and find one, and then I met a little girl who told me she could bring me here."

"That would be Ruth," he says chuckling. "Which explains you calling me "The Man." I know this must be scary for you, but I am going to have to ask you to come with me. The General of Veracity will want to speak with you."

"Can you give me a few minutes to dress?"

"Of course." he says blushing. "Please find something from the closet, any other clothing would not be permitted inside the city.

I take my time getting dressed, hesitant to leave the sanctuary of the safe house. I browse the rows of brightly colored garments in the closet. They hang in color-coded order, one side obviously for men and the other for women. I reach out for one of the gowns, my hand trembling. I know these clothes, or ones like them. Taking a snowy white gown out of the closet, I pull it over my head. Its asymmetrical neckline leaves my left shoulder bare, and a long, sheer sleeve drapes down my right arm. The gown is loose and long, reaching to my ankles. Digging through the closet, I find a silver beaded belt and wrap it around my waist.

The gown is simple but elegant, sturdy enough to travel in, but still very feminine. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I look at my hair falling in waves over my shoulders, and without even thinking, start binding it into a long braid.

Digging through a little vanity next to the bed, I find a handful of hairpins and tie my braid in to a simple bun. My hands move on their own, as if they have done this a thousand times. Finding a pair of sandals in the bottom of the closet, I slip them on and walk across the room, already missing the comfort of my sneakers. My old clothes abandoned, I stare back into the mirror, almost recognizing the girl looking back at me.  I guess that answers the highborn question. I may have redefined myself while sharing "a life" with the mysterious young man, but this is the original Katherine.  Will I like original Katherine?

Grayson knocks before walking in, stopping short when he sees me, all the color draining from his face. He looks like he has seen a ghost.

"Did I pick the wrong one? I can change if this isn't right."

"No." he says quietly. "It's fine. You just reminded me of someone else for a moment. Are you ready to leave?"

Nodding, I cross the room, pausing at the battle-scarred suitcase. It seems so out of place now.

"It's better if you don't bring it. It won't be allowed in the city once we get there."

He holds the door open for me, and we walk side by side through the hall and out the front door where eight other soldiers are waiting for us. Grayson motions to a horse, asking if I need help mounting.

"I can't ride that thing!" I cry panicked. The soldiers laugh, and I feel heat rising in my cheeks.

"Chances are, you've ridden one before," Grayson whispers in my ear, startling me with his nearness. "Let me help you up, and I will walk beside you as we go. I won't let you fall."

I approach the giant beast cautiously, slowly reaching out to touch its nose. I stroke his soft face and he huffs, or sniffs, or whatever it is that giant beasts do when they are annoyed. He doesn't seem to find me as entertaining as the soldiers do. Taking Grayson's outstretched hand, I'm lifted up and dropped into the hard saddle.

Gripping the horn, I hold on for dear life. I can feel the muscles of the horse move beneath me, and I let out a little squeak to the delight of the men. Determined to stay on, I dig my heels into the horse's side as a long, low whistle rises up from one of the men. My dress has bunched up mortifyingly high and is showing much more of my leg than I would like.

Grayson shoots the man a fierce look, and cursing to himself, mounts the horse in one fluid motion. Grabbing me by the waist, he lifts me, allowing my leg to swing back over to sit in a more lady-like position. I smooth my skirt down, covering my offending skin, and Grayson settles in behind me stiffly. The fact that he seems to regret the intimate position is more humiliating than my exposed leg.

"I'm sorry." I say self-conscious.

"No problem." he says gruffly. "It will be an easier trip for everyone if that dress stays where it's supposed to."

Riding a horse is infinitely more interesting when you have company, but even the feel of Grayson behind me isn't enough to truly spice up our full day of riding. The old world city disappears behind us as we go, giving way to the familiar pine and wildflowers. Perhaps the trip wouldn't feel so long and tedious if every bump and bustle from the horse didn't send a sharp pain through my sore thighs.

We don't talk much, but somewhere along the way, Grayson's apprehension to be my riding partner eases and we ride in a comfortable silence. With the sun high in the sky, we stop for lunch near an isolated building. Burned beyond recognition, its charred remains make me uneasy. Memories I have tried desperately to forget push their way to the surface, and I fight to bury them back down. The horrifying events of the last week are not something I ever want to think about again.

Jumping from their horses, the men stretch their cramped muscles and sore backs. Avoiding the building itself, they make use of a covered area off to the side instead. Its metal roof casts shade over the cement patio, and its rusted picnic tables are a welcome convenience once they are draped with heavy cloths.

Grayson slides off the horse and unceremoniously pulls me off as well, depositing me on the ground without a word. He leaves me, busy directing his men, and I just stand there, uselessly waiting for something to do. The efficient soldiers quickly lay a meal out on the tables, and Grayson takes his seat first, another clue he is more than just a normal soldier. His eyes search out mine in the group and when we make eye contact he nods, waving me over to sit by his side.

Sandwiches and sweet-tea are passed around as the soldiers talk. They discuss their assignments, upcoming training, and little else. I had hoped eavesdropping would gain me some information about, well, anything, but they are good little soldiers, and stick to small talk.