Reckoning, page 29
The fire was nearly gone, its glow weak against the Ironedge night, when I felt a shadow fall across me. I blinked blearily, tears blurring my sight until the shape resolved into him—Walton, crouched low, his rough hands reaching to ease the tin cup out of my shaking grip. I tried to clutch it tighter, but my fingers betrayed me, trembling too badly to keep hold. He didn’t force it. Just slipped it from my hands like it was nothing more than a burden I shouldn’t have been carrying, anyway.
He didn’t scold me. Didn’t tell me how stupid I looked, sitting there with ale smeared across my chin and my cheeks blotched from crying. He just watched me, eyes shadowed, and spoke soft enough that the words cut straight through me.
“Jesus couldn’t save everyone either, angel. He wept on the cross for the ones who wouldn’t believe. We can only do what we can do.”
I knew this.
He had said as much.
But something broke harder inside me at that—his voice steady while mine had gone to ruin.
I shook my head, hair falling into my eyes, my words slurred with drink and tears. “That’s not enough,” I rasped. “It’ll never be enough.” My chest hitched, my breath coming ragged. “There are still children in there. Girls still locked away. I didn’t save them all, Walton. I couldn’t. They just… they just stood there. And I walked away.”
He reached out, brushing back my hair with a hand that was still streaked faintly red from battles past, his jaw tight like stone. “Maybe not,” he said, low and certain. “But it’s all we got.”
I wanted to fight him on it. Wanted to scream that he was wrong, that if I was chosen for anything, if God had pulled me out of those bunkers and put me here, then I should’ve been strong enough to save every last one of them. But the weight of his hand against my temple stilled me. His touch wasn’t gentle, not really—Walton didn’t know how to be gentle—but it was steady. Like the fire I couldn’t keep alive in myself.
Tears streamed hot again, dripping off my chin, burning down my throat as I whispered, “They’ll keep suffering. The children—”
He cut me off, firm but not unkind. “You can’t save everyone.” His gaze bored into me, red eyes dark in the firelight, voice rough as gravel. “You gave them a chance, angel. That’s more than most ever get.”
The world tilted, heavy with drink and grief. I slumped forward until my forehead touched his shoulder. I hated myself for how small I sounded when I whispered, “Then why doesn’t it feel like enough?”
His arms came around me, pulling me against him, wrapping me in the kind of shield no bunker walls had ever offered. “’Cause it ain’t supposed to,” he muttered into my hair. “That’s the curse of giving a damn. It never feels like enough.”
I curled tighter into him, my tears soaking into his shirt, my breath shuddering against his chest. He didn’t push me to stop. Didn’t tell me I was weak. He just held on—like he’d keep holding on even when I couldn’t.
His hand closed around mine, rough and steady, and he pulled me gently to my feet. My knees wobbled, and the room tilted, the ale still burning hot in my veins. I leaned into him without thinking, my whole weight pressing against his side as if my body had already decided it couldn’t carry itself anymore. He didn’t flinch. Just shifted, bracing me like I was something he’d been built to hold.
We moved slow, step by step, through Ironedge’s common hall. The fire still roared at the center, faces glowing orange in its light. People parted for us, but not without stares. I felt their eyes scrape against me—wide with awe, heavy with expectation. Whispered words slipped through the hush like needles: That’s her. The savior. The girl who broke the Bunker.
Savior. The word made bile rise in my throat. I kept my chin down, my hair falling like a curtain, but it wasn’t enough. I could feel their gazes pulling at me, weighing me down like chains I couldn’t shake off. Every time someone’s eyes softened, every time I heard “blessing” or “God sent her,” it twisted into something ugly inside me. How could they call me that when I hadn’t saved them all? When the doors I opened stayed full of prisoners too afraid to step through?
I hated it. Hated every whisper, every reverent glance. They didn’t know what I really was—broken, frayed, trembling in Walton’s arms because I couldn’t stand steady on my own. They didn’t see the girls who stayed behind. They didn’t hear the children crying as the gates slammed shut.
My stomach knotted tighter with every step. Shame burned through the alcohol, hot and suffocating.
Walton’s arm tightened around me, his voice rumbling low against my ear, meant only for me. “Let ‘em think what they want,” he muttered. “Only thing that matters is you and me.”
I swallowed hard, blinking tears that threatened to fall all over again. His words should’ve soothed me. Instead, they hurt, because I wanted to believe them so badly. I wanted to let it all slide off me—to stop caring about what the world saw when it looked at me.
But I couldn’t.
The weight of it pressed too deep, carved too sharp into my chest.
Still, I leaned harder against him, letting his steadiness carry me where my own strength failed. He walked us past the whispers, up the creaking stairs that led to a quieter corner of the hall. Every curious eye followed, but Walton didn’t so much as glance at them. His jaw stayed locked, his stride even, his mutter still echoing in my ears, You and me.
By the time we reached the upper room, I could hardly breathe. But his hand stayed on me, firm and grounding, and I clung to it like a lifeline—because maybe, just maybe, he was right. Maybe in the end, the only thing that mattered was us.
The door shut behind us with a dull thud, muffling the hum of voices and the crackle of the fire downstairs. Only a sliver of light flickered under the crack, the rest of the room swallowed in quiet shadows. For the first time all night, no eyes were on me—no whispers, no prayers, no weight of expectation. Just him.
I sagged into Walton’s arms the moment the latch caught, my body finally giving out. My cheek pressed against his chest, and I let my eyes close, the burn of tears still raw. The words slipped out of me, broken and small, before I could swallow them down. “Why wasn’t it enough?”
His arms tightened, drawing me closer, like he could hold me together through sheer force. His voice was low, rough, a growl softened by weariness. “Because it never is,” he said, and I felt the rumble of it beneath my ear. “That’s why we keep going.”
I clutched at his shirt, as though he might vanish if I let go. Maybe he was right. Maybe the ache in my chest, the gnawing grief and guilt, would never be enough to measure against what we lost. But his words carried a promise too—that as long as we were breathing, we’d keep moving.
Keep fighting.
Together.
Chapter 32
Walton
The sounds of Ironedge woke me before the sun fully claimed the sky. Smithies hammering iron, guards calling out their shifts, and the faint laughter of kids already running the streets. For a long time, I just lay there, staring up at the ceiling beams, smoke and soot still clinging to the wood like scars of another age.
But when I turned my head, I forgot about all that.
Everly slept curled against me, her hair spilling loose across the pillow, face softened in the pale morning light. For once she didn’t look like a woman dragging the weight of the world on her back. She looked younger—almost untouched by the filth and ruin we’d walked through. Peaceful. And God help me, I didn’t know what to do with that.
I lit a cigarette, the scratch of the match loud in the quiet room. Took a long drag and let the smoke roll out slow, muttering under my breath, “Too damn good for this world, angel.”
My voice sounded rougher than I meant it to, like gravel over steel. Truth was, I wasn’t sure if I was cursing her or praying over her. Maybe both. She stirred a little at the sound, brow twitching, but didn’t wake.
I sat up on the edge of the bed, cigarette dangling between my fingers, and stared at her like a fool. She’d dragged me back from places I didn’t think a man could crawl out of. Every time I told myself she deserved better, every time I thought about letting her go, I couldn’t. Not when she’d chosen me, scars and all.
She shifted in her sleep, turning toward me, murmuring something too soft to catch. It damn near broke me. All that fire she had when she was awake—the fury, the conviction—was gone now, leaving nothing but the girl who prayed for the world to be better than it was.
And here I was, a demon with blood on his hands, watching her dream like I wasn’t already halfway to ruining her.
I crushed out the cigarette, the ember hissing against the stone. Reached down and brushed a loose strand of hair off her cheek with my calloused thumb. She sighed, leaning into the touch even asleep.
“World don’t deserve you,” I whispered, jaw tight. “Neither do I.”
The words burned coming out. I didn’t know if they were a confession or a lie I needed to believe. Maybe both.
But as the town outside roared louder—hammers, boots, life pushing forward—I knew one thing for certain: whatever the hell came next, I’d walk through it blade-first. For her. Always.
Even if the world tried to take her from me again. Especially then.
The common hall was packed tighter than a saloon at payday, the smell of bread and woodsmoke clinging to the air. I sat with my back to the wall, plate of eggs cooling in front of me, cigarette pinched between two fingers I hadn’t bothered to wash clean of ash. Everly was across from me, hair still mussed from sleep, cheeks flushed with that kind of quiet beauty that made men think she’d been carved straight from scripture.
And damn if they didn’t flock to her like bees to honey.
One woman knelt beside her chair, clutching Everly’s hand in both of hers. “You saved them,” she whispered, tears brimming. “You brought those girls home. God sent you to us.”
Everly smiled—thin, nervous—but she didn’t pull her hand away. A man followed close after, asking if they ought to arm themselves, if they should be tearing down the Bunkers here the way she had in the Forsaken. Another voice from the crowd, “What do we do now?”
Every word felt like another stone being laid on her shoulders, and I saw it in the way her smile stiffened, the way her gaze darted like a cornered animal looking for a way out. But no one saw it but me. To them, she was deliverance wearing a woman’s face.
I stubbed my cigarette out in the yolk of my eggs, the hiss sharp enough to make a few of them glance my way. I leaned forward, growl low enough for only her to hear. “We can’t stay here long, angel. Praise turns into worship. And worship gets you crucified.”
Her eyes flicked to me, startled, almost guilty. But I didn’t soften. Couldn’t. Because I knew what came next. I’d seen it before—small towns pinning their hope on one soul, turning that hope into hunger, and when the angels or the Purifiers caught wind, the fire that fell on them burned everything to ash.
She whispered back, “They just want guidance.”
“Guidance don’t stop bullets,” I snapped, voice rougher than I meant. My hands curled into fists on the table. “You start lettin’ ‘em follow you, next thing you know there’s an army at your back. And armies draw war.”
The people kept pressing in—touching her, asking, pleading. Some wanted to fight. Some wanted absolution. Some wanted her to tell them how to pray. And every one of them wanted to name her something she wasn’t ready to be.
I shoved my chair back, wood scraping loud against the floor, and the crowd flinched at the sound. “She ain’t your savior,” I barked, eyes sweeping across their eager faces. “You want salvation, go pray to the sky like the rest of us. Don’t lay it on her.”
Murmurs rippled through the hall, some indignant, some ashamed, most just confused. Everly’s face fell, but I couldn’t take the words back. Didn’t want to.
I leaned close again, voice low, tight with a fear I’d never admit out loud. “You ain’t dyin’ for them, angel. Not while I’m still breathin’.”
The common hall buzzed with voices, bowls clattering, boots scraping against the wooden floor. I kept close, one hand on my mare’s leg under the table, always waiting for the wrong kind of attention. Without warning, a woman pushed through the crowd, her face streaked with tears, her voice breaking as she stumbled toward us.
Everly froze, her whole body going still beside me. Her lips parted in a whisper so soft it barely reached my ears. “Zoey?”
I’d seen my wife’s face in every kind of storm—rage, grief, prayer, passion—but this one was new. Wide-eyed, trembling, like she’d just found a scrap of herself she thought was gone for good.
The woman looked worn, older than her years, the Bunker carved into her shoulders the way it carved into all of them. But her tears came easy, her smile shaking as she cupped Everly’s face like they were kin. “Everly? Lord above, it’s you.” Her voice cracked. “I thought you were dead. I thought—”
Everly didn’t wait. She threw herself into Zoey’s arms, clutching her like salvation, like proof the world wasn’t all rot and ruin. I caught the hitch in her breathing, the way her shoulders heaved. Relief, joy, desperation—they all mixed together until she was shaking in the other woman’s grasp.
I didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t join in the tearful reunion.
I watched.
The way Zoey’s eyes flicked around the room too quick, like she was measuring exits. The way her hands trembled a little too much, not the trembling of emotion but of nerves. And the way she looked at Everly—not with awe like the rest of them, but something sharper buried beneath the softness.
I dragged a slow pull off my cigarette, smoke curling between us, and let my gaze cut into her. I’d seen plenty of liars dressed in sorrow. Plenty of killers who could weep on command. Something about her didn’t sit right.
But Everly didn’t see it. Couldn’t.
She was starved for something—anything—that still tied her to home. Her voice broke as she clutched Zoey tighter. “I thought I’d never see anyone again. Not after…” She trailed off, but I knew the word that wanted to fill the silence: Michael.
Zoey shook her head, murmuring, “I’m proud of you. You’ve done what none of us could. You’re saving people.”
And Everly crumbled at that. Tears ran down her cheeks, her smile quivering. She needed to believe it, needed this one shard of her old world to not be poisoned. I could see it in her eyes—that desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, not every piece of her past was tainted.
My hand twitched toward my knife without thinking. Not to use it—yet—but because instinct told me to be ready. I didn’t like the way Zoey’s words landed too cleanly, too sharp, like they’d been rehearsed.
I leaned against the wall, silent, letting Everly have her moment, but my jaw ached from clenching.
Maybe Zoey was real. Maybe this reunion was what Everly needed.
But in my gut, I knew better.
Hope made Everly soft. Trust made her reckless. And I’d be damned if I let either get her killed.
So I stayed quiet, smoke curling in the lamplight, eyes never leaving Zoey’s face.
Because if she made one wrong move, I’d cut her down before Everly even knew she’d been betrayed.
The night had settled thick over Ironedge, the common hall finally quiet after hours of noise. I sat on the edge of the bed, cigarette half-burned between my fingers, Silence stretched at the door like a sentinel. Too many footsteps just outside, too heavy for just drunk townsfolk heading upstairs. My spine went rigid. I reached for the mare’s leg, but before I could even stand, the door slammed open with a crack loud enough to rattle the frame.
She stood there—Everly’s so-called friend. Her eyes were hard now, her face stripped of all that tearful warmth she’d worn earlier. Behind her poured several Purifier guards, rifles raised, runes glinting in the lamplight. Their muzzles all swung toward me like they’d been waiting for this exact moment.
Michael.
His shadow filled the doorway before his form did, wings faintly aglow like false fire, his presence sucking the air out of the room. Those eyes of his didn’t even glance at me first.
No—every bit of his gaze locked on Everly, like she’d never been gone, like she’d been his possession all along.
My blood went hot, my grip tight around the gunstock. I could feel Everly’s breath catch beside me, the whole room narrowing to the sound of my heart hammering. Whatever game Zoey had played to lure us here, it was done. Michael was here. And I’d be damned before I let him take her without tearing through every last one of them first.
I didn’t think. The moment Michael’s shadow blackened that threshold, I lunged. Rage carried me forward, mare’s leg in my grip, the taste of gunpowder and blood already on my tongue. But Michael—he was ready. Always too damn ready.
His arm flicked out like a serpent. From his sleeve came a glint of steel—a long syringe, the barrel filled with a sickly, black-green fluid that shimmered under the lamplight. I’d heard of it whispered in backroom deals and Purifier camps. Hellroot. Poison brewed from the twisted veins of the wasteland, meant for one purpose only: to break demons.
He didn’t stab it into me. He fired it. A sharp hiss, a dart launched with precision. I twisted, but not fast enough. The steel head punched into my shoulder, sank deep. For half a heartbeat, I felt nothing. Then agony roared through me like wildfire poured into my veins.
I hit the floor hard. My body betrayed me, muscles seizing, jerking like a marionette in the hands of a cruel puppeteer. My teeth clenched so hard I thought they’d snap. Vision blurred, the ceiling warping in waves of white and red. It wasn’t just pain—it was corrosion. Like my own blood had turned against me, burning me from the inside out.
I heard Everly scream my name, but it came muffled, distant, like I was already underwater. My limbs convulsed against the stone, useless, flailing. Every instinct screamed to get up, to protect her, but nothing obeyed. My strength—everything I’d ever leaned on—was slipping through my fingers.
