The tracks take her east, through dense trees and up, the air becoming more frigid as she rides into open plains that send wind slicing across her bare cheeks. Grey clouds roll through the sky like billows of smoke, promising more rain to drench the already sodden land.
Enough of Warren's men were travelling to keep their tracks fresh even after the couple of weeks that have passed. Broken branches, extinguished campfires, scuffs in rocks from the hooves of horses, all such things lead her straight to their camp like a stark line on a map.
Slipping from the mare's back, she runs her hand along the horse's side before settling her palm against her snout.
"Thank you," she whispers to the animal, gazing into her brown eyes before she reaches for the buckles for the saddle and undoes them. It thuds to the ground, then she smacks the horse's side with a cry. The mare whinnies before galloping off down the hill in the direction she'd come.
Alicia won't leave the animal tied up, powerless to escape any Grey Bloods that may stumble upon her, but she also knows she might not walk away from what's waiting for her.
After collecting her pack, she begins to walk, her wounds flaring with every step she takes, but she can't turn back now and must continue on the path paved before her.
She knows she's close by the smoke that curls through the air, a thin line snaking above the trees that she can easily make out from atop her grassy hill. Descending again into the shadowed trees, Alicia touches the revolver tucked into the waistband of her trousers. She has some idea of what she's walking into, which is why she knows she must be prepared to do anything to get to Warren.
She has to be the girl she honed herself into during the war, when the dirty streets of the slums were the fires that forged her. She can only hope she remembers who that girl is.
As the dark embraces her like an old lover, Alicia begins to become aware of the other figures in the trees and kneels amongst the shadows, keeping her breath steady so it doesn't fog the air and give her away. The patrols amongst the trees are few and far between, but she still crawls through mud to avoid them, leaving her skin icy and her clothes dripping. She clenches her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.
She peers at the glowing encampment ahead, keeping her senses open for any men that approach her position in the shrubbery.
They're well established, carts and horses loaded with supplies, tents pitched for a semi-permanent stay, and a dozen or so exiles. Alicia's hands curl into fists—mud slick between her fingers—as she wonders how she's going to reach Warren.
She shifts, her leg beginning to cramp and she winces, rubbing her sore thigh. The wound in her knee isn't the worst of what Warren has given her. Regardless of how many men he has, Alicia needs to do this. The wounds in her heart need to be cauterised in some way.
The centre of the camp has less activity than other parts but a large tent has been erected. That must be where Warren is, away from the boisterous singing of his men but still nestled amongst safety.
Alicia has a target, a plan forming in her mind as she scours the forests around her, but still she doesn't move, stuck in the shadows like they've chained her in place.
She feels the weight of the gun against her lower back, the knife in her boot, knowing she'll have to use them tonight. Maybe that's why she hesitates. Killing isn't a new thing to her. Her soul is tainted, her hands are stained with blood. But she doesn't want to. Not again. Never again. But this is different. This isn't for money or fame. This isn't for her mother's ambition. This isn't so her belly is full and her clothes are warm. This is to save lives. This is what she should have done in the Commons.
At least, that's what she tells herself. Something far darker churns in her gut, but she pushes it aside.
Alicia settles her hand on her gun and takes a breath. She'd grown weak in the palace, soft in places she'd hardened to a cutting edge. She won't be weak anymore.
She will kill Warren. And she won't let anyone—not Sam, not Oliver—bloody their hands for her again. This is her burden to bear, no one else's.
The blonde hair is what sends her into motion, like the gods themselves are guiding her plan. She gets her feet under her and scurries through the underbrush. The gun is in her hand, the hammer is pulled back, and then she has it pressed to Sasha's side before the woman can even turn.
"Make a sound and I'll pull this trigger."
Turning her head, Sasha's gaze finds her in the dark. "And bring the entire camp down on you? Sure."
Alicia bares her teeth in an almost feral way. The years she spent as something other than human coming back to her like a crushing tide. "Dying here and bringing as many of you down with me would be an honour."
Sasha studies her, green eyes scrutinising her before she comes to some sort of a conclusion to herself and nods. "What do you want?"
"Get me to Warren's tent and only one will have to die here tonight."
"Fine, but hide the gun."
Alicia tucks the weapon into her coat, but keeps the muzzle pointed at the woman. She nudges Sasha with it so she knows Alicia is still in control, then they begin to walk towards the camp.
The glow of the camp comes into view through the trees, tents and barrels set up around crackling fires.
Alicia keeps her footing steady, studying the men, their weapons, the way they seem to stay relaxed as they spot them, not suspecting Alicia's motives or disregarding her simply because of her heavy limp and feminine features.
She likens their gazes to those of ravenous dogs, stray and starving, like those she had to scare away with a flaming rag in the slums. Hoots reach her, laughter pouring from them. That's all the greeting she receives before Sasha shoves Alicia's gun with her elbow, twists around and sends a fist into Alicia's jaw.
Not wasting a moment, Alicia dives for Sasha as the men lurch into action. Her tackle takes them through the fabric of a tent and then they're wrapped in shadow.
Sasha grabs her by the hair, and she cries out as her scalp burns then knuckles split her lip.
Alicia knows in her blood she should be fighting harder before more are upon them, but instead she feels a strange numbness within her. Numb, like that first shot in the dead of night when she had her first taste of killing.
She remembers the blood, her eyes wide as smoke curled from the muzzle of her pa's revolver.
Alicia comes back to herself as Sasha's fist continues to rain down blows. That familiar darkness in her heart spreads, taking over, reminding her sharply of the person she used to be and who she never wants to be again.
Some things buried deep need to stay that way.
When Sasha's arm pulls back to prepare for another blow, Alicia reacts. She pulls the blade from her boot in one swift motion and plunges it between her ribs in the next. Sasha doesn't manage to let out a scream before she rips the blade out of her ribs in a spray of crimson, rolling them over.
She looks down at her, the Reaper curling his taloned hand around her bloodied one, aiding her in bringing the blade down again. Sasha suddenly looks no different from the many scum she's given over to the Reaper, no different as she's drenched in her own blood, choking on it.
If the Reaper taught her anything, it's that a wolf is still a wolf, even in a cage, even dressed in silk. She spent years trying to forget that lesson.
Alicia stands, watching the blood soak into the dirt floor of the tent at she tucks her blade into her boot again. She feels that familiar numbness, the gallop of her heart as it begins to race, pumping her blood in her ears.
Alicia lets the numbness take over as she did so many times in those two years of war.
She grabs the repeater that sits by the flap of the tent, cocks the weapon and exits the tent. She raises the stock to her shoulder as the cold pierces her, no different from the ice in her heart.
The first man to bite the bullet doesn't know what's happening until he's lying in a pool of his own blood, the gunshot sending crows screaming into the air. Alicia cocks the weapon, the casing of the bullet not even hitting the ground before the next man is jolting back with a hole between his eyes.
Someone screams, a terrified thing that Alicia doesn't hear, squeezing the trigger and silencing the scream.
She keeps shooting, ducking behind a barrel when someone finally manages to reach their own weapon, their bullets sinking into the wood of the barrel. She shoots back until the gun clicks. Then she's diving from cover, rolling to her feet as a man raises his gun to end this fight. But Alicia tosses the rifle at him, the man stumbling back as it collides with him. By the time he recovers, Alicia has swept up her revolver from the ground, and a bullet is tearing through his head.
A man runs, sprinting into the trees. Alicia aims and squints. The man makes the mistake of looking back, stumbling over his own feet. The bullet goes through his spine, and he crumples like the others, dead before he hits the ground.
She lowers the smoking gun, the silence around her deafening. Her heart is a war drum in her ears, reminding her that she's alive, that she isn't the Reaper. She takes in the bodies around her, the massacre that lasted a few heartbeats.
None of them are Warren.
She walks forward, stepping over bodies, her grip on the revolver steady. The large tent in the middle is where she finds herself, and she doesn't hesitate as she barges inside.
Warren is in the centre of the tent, gun in his grip, but it's held loosely, his other hand pressing a cloth to his mouth as he coughs into it. A bloody cloth, and she's suddenly reminded of the first time she met him when he'd been wiping blood from his gloves. Before he killed Kathryn before her eyes.
Rage flares, hot and vivid, tinging her vision red as his dark blue eyes meet hers, sweat glistening on his pale brow. That darkness within her widens like lengthening shadows. He lowers the cloth, his lips stained crimson and he blinks at her.
Alicia can't speak, her mouth dry, her tongue like lead.
"So, you survived," he speaks, his voice a shaky rasp.
Alicia steps further into the tent, her fingers slick with blood as she touches the trigger of her gun, the weapon lowered.
"Didn't expect you to come here." He tilts his head, a sly smile curving his lips. "You here for yourself or for Kathryn?"
Alicia's back is rigid as that name is uttered from his lips. Kathryn's name doesn't belong in his retched mouth, he has no right to even think about her.
Warren comes closer, his grin widening, deepening the lines in his face. "It wasn't meant to be Kathryn who died. You know that, right?"
Bile rises in her throat, burning its way into her mouth.
"She gave her life for yours," Warren continues with a tilt of his head. "Can you honestly say it was worth it?"
Alicia clenches her jaw, fire burning in her gut, searing her insides.
"Your aunt survived four years as an exile, yet look at you, limping in here, barely able to survive without your prince's hand to hold. Or is it Oliver's now?"
Her breath comes from her in short bursts as she trembles, emotions raging through her. He wants her to hate herself, to blame herself for what happened. He needn't try so hard.
"So, kill me if it'll make you feel better about yourself, but we both know you'll never be worth more than the woman you got killed." He laughs at that, but that initiates a coughing fit and he lifts his cloth to his mouth again.
His words shake her, remind her of why she's here, and she finally raises her gun.
"For what you did to Kathryn, to the Commons?" Alicia presses her lips together, clinging to her anger as she narrows her eyes, his cough fading. "Yes, I think I will." She squeezes the trigger and the bullet is in his gut before he can take another shaky breath.
Warren lets out a strangled gasp, his eyes bulging, and Alicia shoots again, blood soaking through his tunic. He stumbles forward, suddenly too close to her, and reaches out to grip her shoulder, steadying himself as he presses his hand to his wound. His touch makes her want to be sick.
"I didn't think," he says through gritted teeth, "you had it in you, girly."
Alicia's lip curls and she shoves him to the ground. He tumbles onto his back, blinking as he stares up at her. But she's not done. Her rage is a living thing as it swirls inside her. She sees Kathryn, her blood glimmering in the moonlight, her eyes becoming glassy. She smells the fires of the Commons, hears innocent people screaming and dying.
Warren is laughing, a rasping laugh that rattles in his lungs. "At least I didn't die from the Ruga flu," he says, but Alicia has stopped listening to him, her rage consuming her like a tidal wave of flame.
He shouldn't be laughing.
Alicia straddles Warren, reaches for her bloody blade in her boot, and plunges the blade into his chest before she can think. She rips it out, her teeth bared as he gasps, his laughter gone. Raising the blade over her head, she sinks it into his chest, again and again until she tastes his blood in her mouth, until it drips into her eyes, until it soaks her clothes and stains her hands. She barely sees anymore through the red haze as she yanks the blade out and shoves it back in, over and over. She destroys him as he destroyed her.
Her world is blood and anger and hatred and she revels in it.