The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(35)

Tim came up to congratulate the boys, grinning as hard as them. “Awesome!” He beamed at Jay.

All the energy of adrenaline inside me gave way to relief—and exhaustion. My right hand felt like a painful, swollen, useless club.

I wanted Viggo.

With some effort I managed to squeeze my aching body through the small window into the cab of the truck. When I slid awkwardly down and leaned against Viggo’s still-bare shoulder, he reached around and stroked the back of my neck, driving with one hand for a bit.

“The boys got back safe?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said. “As crazy as it sounds.”

“I knew they’d make it,” Viggo said.

I sighed. I wished I could stop the discomfort that was still twisting my stomach into knots, despite the fact that they had returned safely. I knew that Quinn and Jay—and my brother, for that matter—wanted to help, but I hated that the boys had put themselves in such danger. I also hated my sneaking suspicion that they would have to do it again—and there wasn’t much I could do about it. Samuel laid a sympathetic head on my lap, and I scratched his ear in silent gratitude.





13





Violet





It was completely surreal to be sitting in Viggo’s cabin, the place where we’d shared our first kiss. Of course, at that time, I had been recovering from a concussion and feeling emotionally battered after being kidnapped by the Porteque gang. Still, I had never expected to see this place again after Lee and I had fled Patrus.

Viggo sat beside me at the round little kitchen table, across from a very irate King Maxen, negotiating with him for a deal that would secure Maxen’s participation in what was rapidly turning into our rebellion… or at least for him to get out of our way. The king of Patrus had a nasty purple bruise spreading across the lower portion of his face, and he was still in cuffs, having lost his privileges after a pathetic escape attempt shortly after breakfast (for which he had conveniently stayed put). I could see Jay and Tim outside through the window, throwing sticks for Samuel to chase, the dog’s furry brown body a blur as he scrambled over the pine-needle covered dirt surrounding the cabin. It seemed strangely idyllic.

Owen stood in the hallway with Amber and Quinn, presumably explaining everything that had happened over the last three or four days. Quinn had taken our story of Desmond’s betrayal silently, his normally chipper face tightening into a frown; though he didn’t ask questions or make objections, I couldn’t tell whether he believed us or not.

Even now, the morning after our escape, Amber remained sullen—her body stiff as a steel rod and her arms crossed over her chest. She was arguing with Owen, who seemed to take it in his stride, his body language more relaxed and confident. I wasn’t sure whether Amber could be swayed, but Owen was doing his best.

It had taken us a little more than two hours to get up here from the corner of the city where we’d kidnapped the king, avoiding the major highways in case there were wardens about… or, worse, in case the bridges had collapsed or been blocked by burning rubble. In my half-asleep, aching state, afraid for the city and everybody in it, I’d almost come to believe that there would be nothing left of this place, either, until Viggo pulled into the familiar drive and carried me from the truck.

My first true glimpse of Viggo’s small, cozy bedroom had been anticlimactic—in that Viggo, ever the gentleman, had insisted that my injury meant I needed the single bed to myself, then stuffed me with painkillers, tucked me in, and spent the night dozing in the armchair by the fire. He had wanted to check my wound, but I felt too worn down to cope with the trauma of unraveling it before I’d gotten some sleep. The rest of the group had simply sprawled anywhere they could find in the small cabin. When I awoke, it was to the sight of my brother curled up in a tight ball, snoring lightly, in the space between Viggo’s bed and the window.

Everybody else was already up—they’d let me sleep in. As the smell of cooking food suffused the house from the kitchen—the most eclectic food was left over in Viggo’s cabin after he’d been gone for months, but somehow, he and Henrik had made do—I’d stumbled into the bathroom and washed myself as best I could. I’d started to undo the electrical tape binding the piece of Viggo’s shirt to my hand, then stopped as a wave of nausea sent me reeling back against the sink. I would find a first aid kit and deal with it later, I promised myself.

During breakfast, Owen had updated us on what he knew. He’d gotten ahold of Thomas last night on the secure handheld, managed to convey our spiraling situation, and been on the receiving end of a frantic rant about the bombings. Thomas had confirmed that Desmond had sent out multiple teams yesterday after he’d told us about Amber’s team’s mission, and that she’d instructed all of them to leave him out of the loop—it was highly likely that she suspected he’d followed Owen in defecting. Owen had, with infinite patience, instructed him to start looking at evacuation routes to get himself and Solomon out of his hideout in the sewers. Thomas had been sure that there was less than a twenty-one percent chance of success if he included Solomon in the escape, but to my relief, Owen had firmly insisted, and now we were waiting for Thomas to call back as soon as he came up with a plan.

On the drive next to the yard where the boys played with Samuel, Ms. Dale and Henrik stood by the battered truck, carefully checking and rechecking our mostly stolen stockpiles of weapons and ammunition. I watched as Henrik pushed a lock of hair out of Ms. Dale’s eyes and behind her ear, and caught a glimpse of her surprised expression—noting the way her cheeks started to redden again, visible even through the window. It was definitely a bit odd to see my old teacher flirting.