Edge of Control: (Viking Dystopian Romance) by Megan Crane

Author:Megan Crane [Crane, Megan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2016-07-04T18:30:00+00:00

9

It wasn’t the caravan itself that bothered Eiryn.

Sure, it was a rickety old thing held together as much by chance as the various things Lang, its remarkably hairy and pale owner, and Xela, his thick and weathered mate, used to patch up holes and paper over potential issues inside and out. And it lacked pretty much anything in the way of amenities. There were a series of bunks in the back and a sitting area in the middle, and neither part of the vehicle was remotely luxurious or even particularly comfortable.

Eiryn had always taken her rooms in the Lodge back home for granted, she realized now. All those warm and toasty furs. Hot water and a private shower. Heat in the winter and cool breezes from the sea in summer. Though as the days wore on, while Eiryn didn’t dream about life back home any less, she somehow . . . got used to the endless, jolting ride. She started finding the bunk she shared with Riordan almost comfortable—or at least, more comfortable than the disgusting ferry ride, that cot in Louisville, and sleeping on the ground during raids. She found that after a day or two she even relaxed a little bit while sitting on one of the built-in couches, as long as no one else tried to creep up behind her.

Eiryn wouldn’t want to live in the ratty old caravan any longer than she had to, but she was fine with it. More or less.

The people she was sharing her space with weren’t the problem, either, though having to deal with mainlanders up close and personal had certainly taken a small period of adjustment. This was one of the smaller caravans that had lined the green lawn across from Union Station, with only four built-in bunks. With one reserved for Lang and Xela, that left space for two couples other than Eiryn and Riordan. And they were all . . . fine. Or relatively unobjectionable, anyway.

Eiryn knew how to judge a person by their prowess in battle and the strength of their swing. The honor by which they lived—or didn’t. In the absence of a battlefield where she could read opponents instantly in the ways they attacked or held back, feinted or struck, who could tell how to measure these mainland creatures? She understood that not one of them was a threat, which instantly downgraded them in her eyes from potential opponents to . . . curiosities.

Dimitri, long-limbed with freckles on his light-brown face, was a carpenter on his way back from a job in Atlanta to spend the winter with his people in Wyoming. His woman, Gretchen, with her deep-set eyes, olive skin, and strong nose, was nursing their ten-month-old baby. Jonathan, meanwhile, was a stern and burly butcher by trade with sallow white skin, thick black brows, and a fierce, downturned mouth who spent a lot of his time quoting dire church teachings, particularly to his much younger previous winter’s wife. Kamala, for her part, bared

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