Forged

Forged by Erin Bowman



DEDICATION


For my sister:

who was my very first fan,

and for all the fans that followed.




ONE


MY SURROUNDINGS ARE BECOMING FAMILIAR. I never expected this to happen. I thought we would have done something by now, made progress, marched on Taem, lobbed a threat Frank’s way. Anything. But no. There’s been no forward action, not that I can see at least. We are falling into routines and growing comfortable in them. We are letting the days drift by like we have time to waste.

I’ve complained—politely at first, bluntly after that. They keep telling me the same thing: We’re planning. Planning takes time. As far as I’m concerned, the longer we sit around, the more advantage we give Frank.

“I’m saying something again tonight,” I tell Blaine. “This is ridiculous. We should be out there doing something. Not sowing crops.”

He stops breaking up the soil he’s working on and rests a forearm on the handle of the rake. “You’re just gonna stir the pot.”

“Maybe it needs to be stirred.”

He raises his brows knowingly, then stretches, arms reaching toward the gray, segmented ceiling of the greenhouse. It looks like the notches of a giant pill bug. Sterile. Unattractive. The hum of artificial lights fills the space between us.

“It’s been two months,” I say, “and all we’ve done is sit in a few meetings and pull weeds.”

“And what do you think we should be doing? Marching to Frank’s door? Knocking and asking him if he’d mind stepping down and letting someone else give things a go?”

“It would be better than doing nothing.”

“It would be reckless.” He goes back to hacking at the soil. “And a death wish.”

“Dammit, Blaine. His Order only gets stronger while we sit here. Screw whatever Adam and Elijah are dreaming up with Vik. I’m ready to swipe a rifle from the stores and round up my own team to head east.”

“I don’t remember you being so bloodthirsty.”

“And I don’t remember you being so content to coast. To let everyone else make decisions for you. Especially important ones. Don’t you miss Kale?”

“Of course!”

“Well, you could have fooled me.”

Blaine doesn’t take the bait about his daughter. Doesn’t snap or yell or even give me a good shove. He just frowns. “Do you want to talk about it yet?”

“It?”

“Whatever happened during your mission with Pa that caused this rift between us.”

I catch Sammy and Bree in the corner of my vision. They’re working two rows away and have both paused, eyes drawn by my raised voice.

“There’s nothing to say,” I mutter to Blaine, and return my attention to the soil.

He doesn’t argue. At least his hatred of confrontation has remained constant. It feels like the only thing I can count on these days.

We were fine the first few weeks following our reunion at Sylvia’s—an Expat safe house west of the border—blinded by the joy of being together after so much time apart. Then friction started to surface. Awkward silences. Moments when I realized I had no clue what he was thinking. Situations where I could have used support and he didn’t bother backing me up. Like with all this stalling, this inactivity. We used to read each other so well, and even if we didn’t always agree, we understood. The way only brothers—twins—can. But now I catch him looking at me sometimes—eyebrows drawn, mouth twisted in a puzzled pinch—and it’s like he’s regarding me as a stranger. In the time that passed between my departure from Crevice Valley and our reunion, something changed. Something drastic.

I probably shouldn’t be so surprised. How could Blaine understand? He didn’t see Pa take a bullet and go down with the Catherine. He didn’t have to kill a Forgery of his own brother or watch friends fall around him. He doesn’t wake up every morning knowing that half of Group A’s people died on account of his decision to strike an allegiance with the Expats.

It’s no wonder I find myself relating better to Sammy these days. And Bree. Always Bree, though she’s been as forthcoming as a brick wall since we left Sylvia’s for Pike. Still, they understand because they’ve been through it with me. They know the true extent of Frank’s ruthlessness, the way a Forgery can be merciless and sly. It’s practically a part of us now, those horrors. It’s like witnessing it made it crawl beneath our skin and leech on to our souls.

Emma as I last saw her flashes through my mind—Forged, her eyes narrowed, her gun pressed to the back of Xavier’s skull. Frank still has her—the real her. He has Emma in his grasp, and Claysoot under his palm. Maude and Carter and Kale. Kale with her blond curls and small nose and pudgy fingers. I don’t think I appreciated how amazing it was to be her uncle until I was separated from her.

I hack at the earth beneath my feet. A hard chunk of soil crumbles into finer particles. The bond between Blaine and me isn’t fully broken, because he senses my temper.

“Just hold off on saying something ’til tomorrow, okay? Today’s Clipper’s birthday. Let’s enjoy it.”

A reminder of the date—the last day in February—only unsettles me further. We’ve been in Pike working with the Expats for two months and have nothing to show for it. Although I am farming in the middle of the winter. That would impress anyone in Claysoot.