Veracity (The Seven Cities Book 1) (7 page)

"Why is everything destroyed?" I ask when there is a lull in conversation.

The soldiers look up and stare at me with various degrees of uncertainty. Their eyes bounce from me to Grayson, searching for some kind of sign.

"What did I say?" I ask.

"Nothing," Grayson says, matter of fact. "They have been instructed not to answer any questions, but I don't see anything wrong with you knowing what happened here."

"There was a war," one of the younger soldiers says. "We don't know much about it anymore. Most of our history was lost when our grandparents were young. There aren't enough resources to clear all the damage, but we clean it up as our city expands."

"How far does the damage go?"

"As far as I have ever been," Grayson says.

"Why was there a war?" I ask.

"A group of scientists developed the scanners," another soldier piped in. "Using those and a few other . . . things . . . they cleansed the world of all the evil. The people that were left came to live in the Seven Cities. As far as we know, that's all that that's left."

"Deep down I must have already known that, but . . . it just doesn't seem real," I say.

"Those rebels probably filled your head with all kinds of nonsense," one of the soldiers says. "Doesn't make much sense to just wipe it all out though. Maybe they just wanted you good and confused when we found you."

"You think I was with rebels?" I ask, my interest piqued.

Grayson casts a disapproving look in the soldier's direction.

"He is just making assumptions." Grayson says, standing up. "There are not many people out here, so rebels are a logical choice. Enough questions for now, it's time to load up."

Grayson lifts me back up on the horse, and it's just as terrifying as the first time. The beast shakes his head back and forth, neighing loudly and pawing the ground. Grayson saddles up behind me, and the horse instantly settles down.

He definitely has that quality to him, a quiet fierceness that compels people, and apparently animals, to feel safe. I am certainly not immune to it. When he is close, the anxiety that plagues me subsides, and I feel calmer. His stray glances and soft words, on the other hand, make me feel something quite different all together.

The second half of today's ride is more entertaining, with the soldiers passing time telling jokes to one another; some of which I probably shouldn't be hearing. As the sun starts to set, we come upon an old farmhouse with several stories and porches that wrap around the entire first floor.

One of the soldiers hops off his horse and walks to the tall razor lined fence surrounding the property. He pulls out a set of keys and unlocks the narrow gate. Throwing a big smile back to us, he swings it open.  The other soldiers let out whoops and hollers, unexplainably excited to be here.

I have to admit, the farmhouse is a dream, nicer than the safe house even. I'm no fool; I understand why they take such care with these houses. Even I wasn't totally convinced the city was where I belonged until I was safe and warm inside the first one. When you have been out in the wilderness with all its horrors, nothing is as alluring as comfort. After only a few days of travel, clean sheets and sweet smelling shampoo is almost hypnotic.

The young men arrive at the house first, laughing and shoving each other as they walk through the door. Gone are the intimidating soldiers, and in their place are boys ready for some time off. Grayson, of course, is steady and silent behind me as we finish our trek up the drive. He dismounts without a word, putting his hands around my waist to help me dismount.

Grayson doesn't step away when he pulls me down, and with the horse at my back, there are only inches between us, his gaze dark and intense as he stares down at me. Standing very still, I meet his stare, clueless to what he wants from me. His expression looks hungry. I fear he would eat me up if he could, and I have the fiercest desire to let him. How can a stranger make me feel this way? My nerves run wild, radiating out from where his hands are still tight against my waist. He shifts, bringing his body closer to my own.

"Are you okay?" he asks breaking the silence, but not the tension, between us.

"Y-Yes." I stammer. "I'm fine."

"We better get you inside." he says, backing away suddenly and heading for the door.

I am grateful for the opportunity to walk behind him, needing a few moments of clarity. Why was I being such a girl? I am in the middle of no-where, surrounded by strangers with no clue as to who I am or where I am headed, and all I can think about is whether or not I was blushing.

We walk into the farmhouse and join Grayson's men who have already made themselves at home by kicking off their dusty boots and starting a game of cards. One lone soldier rummages around in the kitchen, heating up what smells like soup over a wood-burning stove. I want to stop in the kitchen and take a peek, but Grayson is herding me upstairs.

He directs me to what will serve as my bedroom, a tiny thing at the end of a long hallway. The only furniture is a narrow double bed, dresser, and a chair by the window. Grayson scans the room quickly, before pointing down the hall to the bathroom. With a curt nod he is out of the room, heading back downstairs to join his men. Talk about blowing hot and cold!

I use the bathroom quickly, trying to avoid an awkward run-in with one of the soldiers, and close myself back in my room. I am hungry, but also exhausted, sore, and eager for a little time to myself. Although perfectly nice boys, they are a little on the rowdy side and I could use a break after a full day of riding with them.

Tucked away in the tiny bedroom, I curl up in the chair beside the window, moving the curtains slightly to sneak a glance outside. Several soldiers are milling around in the yard while Grayson ties up the last of the horses. I watch him cross the yard, seeking out the soldier who claimed I had been with rebels. Their conversation seems heated, but neither of them are yelling. The soldier shakes his head, talking fast and using his hands in dramatic gestures. While Grayson still looks upset, he nods in agreement, patting the soldier on the back.

Letting the curtain fall back as I sink further into the armchair, I recall Grayson's disapproving look when the soldier mentioned the rebels. Was that why they were arguing? If I was with rebels, and they knew about it, why wouldn't he want me to know?

I move to the bed, longing for another dreamless night. It's not that I don't enjoy my dreams; it's just that they leave me so conflicted. On one hand, I relish feeling a connection with my past; even if it is just something my damaged brain is creating. But on the other hand, I am at odds about my feelings for the young man who stars in them. While dreaming, I am so in love with him I feel like I could burst, but when I wake up, the feelings disappear. I know it is absurd, but even after my intense feelings for him fade, being attracted to Grayson feels like a betrayal. Why should I feel so loyal to a man who drugged and then abandoned me?

My mind runs around in circles for hours, and I lay awake long after the house grows quiet. I hear the last of the men walking up the stairs, their heavy steps echoing as they make their way down the hall, pulling shut creaking doors. The house settles then, morphing from an active military post to vintage farmhouse. Without the noise from the soldiers I can hear every pop and groan as the tin roof and ancient wood frame start to cool after a long day in the hot sun.

Hours after I hear the last human sounds, I decide to risk a quick trip to the bathroom. Throwing the covers back, I climb out of bed, tip toeing across the cold floor. Turning the knob as quietly as I can, I ease the door open, cringing at every squeak. I am stunned, but pleased, when I find Grayson by the door, sprawled out in an armchair. He is dead asleep and snoring softly, his long legs stretched out, nearly touching the other side of the hallway. His elbow is propped on the arm of the chair, his handsome face squished against his hand. He looks so young this way. Boyish even. I wonder how old he is, and I realize I don't even know how old I am.

Making my trip to the restroom in record time, I sneak back into my room with minimal door creaks. Huddled under the blankets, I spend more time than I should thinking about Grayson, memorizing his voice and the feel of his strong hands; comparing him to the young man in the clearing. What's wrong with me? How can it be so hard to stay focused on the bigger picture? I don't know who I am. I am heading to a place I have never seen at the request of a General I have never met; yet I am unable to get these boys out of my head. I fall asleep conflicted and confused.

I dream of blood. I am surrounded by it. Ripped from the arms of those I love, I'm thrown aside and forced to watch as they are carved up and gutted like animals. I can't see their faces but they are a part of me, and I die with every cut and slice. Their screams fill the air, mingling with my own howls and the rough voices of their murderers. Pain rips through my soul, and everything good in me drains away as their blood soaks into the ground.

This is anguish. This is my heart being ripped from my chest as the world screams in agony around me. There is so much death, so much pain. My entire life has been reduced to this flash of gore and violence. Splashes of blood streak across my vision and I frantically try to wipe it away, not knowing if it is my own or of someone I love. A scream boils up from deep inside me, wrenching from my body in one massive explosion of terror and rage. I am grabbed and beaten with a heavy hand, but still the shriek continues, never ending until I am coughing up rivers of blood. There will be no way to recover from this horror. There is no way to stop the screaming. They can butcher me as well, bury me in the ground even, but my screaming will never stop.

I wake up frantic, chest heaving, and with tears running down my face. Unable to catch my breath, my sheer panic could rip me apart. Strong arms wrap around me, holding me as I am wracked again and again with desperate sobs. He pulls me hard against him, running his hand down my back and through my hair, trying to sooth away the terror of my dream. He rocks me gently, his lips touching lightly against my forehead. It seems like hours, but the sobbing finally slows, morphing instead into slow tears of exhaustion. I have cried myself out. He leans back slightly and looks down at me, his face full of concern and fear.

"Just a nightmare," I tell him, untangling one of my hands from his shirt to wipe my face.

"That was one hell of a nightmare."

"Yes." I say quietly. "It was."

"We could talk about it if you wanted to."

"I don't even remember much, just a lot of pain . . . and blood."

"Will you be alright?"

"Yes, I think so. Thank you for . . . helping me."

"I suppose I should go," he says without making a move to do so.

"Do you have to? I mean . . . I know it's wrong to ask, but could you stay? I won't tell anyone."

He tightens his arm around me and brushes my damp hair out of my face. He lies back on the bed, pulling me down with him. I have a fleeting pang of guilt, that reoccurring feeling of betrayal. Pushing it deep down in my heart, I snuggle closer to Grayson. I am probably crossing a line that will be difficult to come back from, but for just this moment, I couldn't care less. Something deep inside me was obviously broken, and lying next to this stranger made it feel so much better. Was I wrong for that?

In the morning, I open my eyes to an empty bed. Relieved, disappointed, and embarrassed all at the same time, I roll over and bury my face in his pillow. I climb out of bed and try to straighten my gown back out, but it is hopelessly wrinkled. Eyeing the closet, I hope it's packed full of clothes like the one in the safe house, but it's empty. Disappointed, I walk over to the dresser and pull the drawers open one by one. In the bottom, I find a gown folded neatly and pushed toward the back. It's not as nice as the one I am wearing but at least it's neater. The red linen is a little shorter than the white gown, stopping just below my knees, and the one shoulder is held together with tiny gold pins. The dress is both simple and beautiful.

When I make my way into the kitchen, I am met with astonished looks and barely contained laughs. I look down at my dress, run my hands through my hair, and look behind me. What are they giggling about? Grayson walks in, stopping in his tracks when he sees me, his face turning bright red. Is he having a stroke? He casts a horrified look at his men before rushing across the room and grabbing my arm. He hauls me back up the stairs like a child, the back of his neck and ears bright red. What have I done? He drags me into the room and slams the door.

"I'm sorry!" I cry. "I don't know what I did but I'm sorry!"

"Where did you get that dress?"

"The dress? That's what this is about? It was in the dresser.  What's wrong with it?"

He stares at me for a few minutes before sitting down heavily into a chair. He shakes his head, and unbelievably, starts to laugh.

"I don't know what I am going to do with you," he says. "You need to change your dress. There is only one type of girl who wears a dress like that, and it's . . . inappropriate. I can only imagine why it's even here in the first place."

"I think it's pretty." I say. "I guess it is a little short."

"It's the color," he says. "There are women in the city who make a living entertaining the soldiers and government officials. They are the only ones who wear the color red."