Daughters of the King |✓|

Chapter Two

Out here in the harsh wilderness, supply trains only came every so often. They ran on automated tracks, without conductors, and followed a very strict schedule.

And there was one scheduled for today.

I'd been waiting for an opportunity like this for a while. I already had the bag ready in the closet, stuffed with supplies I'd been secretly hoarding for months. The trick to being a good runner was to not waste time with belongings, so all we had were the necessities.

I shoved in an extra sweater, in case of bad weather ahead, and zipped the bag shut while my mother watched from the edge of the bed.

"I'm not going," she said, arms crossed, chin lifted. Her mouth was a slash of dark lipstick, one of the many gifts the Drunk had offered with shaking hands, usually after a particularly bad beating.

I ignored her and shouldered the bag. The Drunk was downstairs, passed out on the couch. He'd been drinking for two days' straight. This was as good of a chance as we could hope for.

"Did you hear me? I said I'm not going."

I pinned her with a stare. We used to be good at this sort of thing, running together. What had become of us?

When she still refused to move, I grabbed her by the arm and she flinched as if it hurt. Sometimes she forgot that her tricks didn't work on me.

"Cut it out," I said. "What's in that safe that you want so badly?"

She just kept shaking her head. "If you don't stop this, I'll scream."

"Go ahead. He's practically dead to the world."

I pulled her to her feet, towards the door, with her struggling the whole way like a stubborn mule. I practically had to throw her down the stairs, but it was working. She was moving.

In the foyer, she stopped and looked around with a pair of wistful eyes, as though sad to say goodbye to the old house. Across the room, you could see Sky squished into the couch, mouth open.

I still had her arm in my grip, squeezing as tight as I could, and yet she didn't appear fazed by the pain.

"We don't have time," I reminded her in a low voice.

Sky stirred, and for a second, I thought she might scream after all. But all she did was sigh, and I thought she looked as crazy as ever, and then we both slipped out the door without another sound.

We didn't make it to the end of the driveway.

He didn't scream—didn't shout threats at us. He simply stood on the front porch, calling, "Wait."

One word, and my mother stopped dead in her tracks.

"Don't leave me," he slurred. He still had the pattern of the couch imprinted on his cheek, and my stomach churned.

"Olya—" She looked at me with sad eyes.

A rage engulfed me like a red mist, and I yanked her forward so hard she nearly tipped over. A gasp ripped from her throat, maybe a half-hearted attempt at a protest, and she only managed to right herself at the last second. I dragged us both towards the treeline with blind determination. There was a shortcut through the woods to get to the station. I knew it well, I'd walked it many times, rehearsing for this.

We pushed through the vegetation, the forest thick with shadows. It took a moment to locate the path, and then I forcefully pulled her into a run, my grip never easing on her arm.

"We have to go back," she pleaded.

I ignored her and kept moving, while she struggled to keep up in her ridiculous silk shoes. They would probably end up giving her blisters, but it was her own damn fault. Twice she almost fell, and I had to wrench her back into motion.