Hadrian sat before a desk. “Tell me which number you need to call,” he said
“It’s not one number. I may need to call two.”
“The agreement was for one phone call,” he stated flatly. “I have a meeting to get to. Call the other one on Tuesday before our tactical briefing.”
Snofrid faltered, then pushed him. “I’ll be five minutes.”
“Choose one number, or you’ll be walking around the city with your cellphone on a pole searching for a signal.”
Bristling, she slapped her phone onto the desk. “Call the first one.”
Hadrian entered strings of code into the computer. Snofrid took the occasion to snoop. The screens displayed satellite images of command posts in Egypt and Yemen; one played a broadcast of President Sebaster Leathertongue’s Veteran’s Day Speech; and a few others showed maps of European countries inked with multicolored dots. That Hadrian was still commanding one third of the Skinwalker Army had slipped her mind.
Peripherally, a flickering silver light caught her eye. She checked the hair falling down his neck and espied a silver web on his nape. Her jaw fell.
“You have a Halo on your neck,” she said, her tone accusatory. “You’re a Selfsame.”
“Yes,” he admitted absently. “And by your lofty tone, I’m thinking you’re adding it to my sins.”
“Why? Did you do it to yourself?”
Hadrian thumped a fist on the desk with impatience; the Dracuslayers in the corner continued working. “If you’re interested in me, read a history book.”
“I’m not interested.”
He returned to typing. She studied his Halo. Having multiple Skinwalker Halos made him what her kind had come to call a Selfsame, which wasn’t viewed as abominable so much as greedy. If Hadrian had Halos of other Inborn species, he’d be dubbed a Mingling, which was abominable; those who made themselves Minglings were condemned, along with their entire House without hope of redemption. Often times, they were hunted down to be brutally dismembered and then executed.
“Give me the phone,” Hadrian said.
“It’s right under you.”
He picked up the phone. The interface exhibited a photo of her, Desya and Lycidius at a street parade. “Your family?” he guessed.
“And yours.”
Hadrian’s pupils dilated. “He finally told you we’re adopted brothers.”
“I figured it out myself.” She paused. “You’re doing the ‘favor’ for Lycidius, aren’t you? If I were recognized for the hunt, I’d be famous, and then he’d never have a chance of being relieved as my Shadow.”
Hadrian didn’t reply and he didn’t have to; it was plain that Lycidius meant more to him than his invulnerable demeanor would seem to allow. This affection for his brother could ruin her. Protocol stated that if she ever married someone other than Lycidius, Lycidius would be reassigned and she’d be protected by her husband’s House; but if she was bestowed a title for aiding in the welx hunt, he’d be stuck with her until she died—regardless if she married him or someone else.
“When are you going to tell him you’re here?” she asked.
“When the welx is destroyed and this city is a scorch mark on the earth. Then I’ll see my brother and tell him that I’ve been working with the piglet.”
She crossed her arms, blushing a little. “Of course. That’s what you two used to call me over your video chats.”
“When you turned ten, we switched to ‘the hog’.” His lips curved in amusement. “Or do you prefer maggot?”
“How much did he tell you about me?”
“Not much. We had more interesting things to discuss.”
“Like about how many people want you dead in the Empyrean City?” she offered. His lips parted in surprise. “I heard what you two talked about.”
“Exactly eighty-seven people wanted me dead this year,” he elucidated. “The majority of them are now ashes.” He spun in his chair to face her. “Before I make this phone call, tell me why you need to make it.”
“I need an important favor.”
Unconvinced, he said, “The person you’ve chosen to call is currently under surveillance by our government. I want to know your real reason for contacting him.”
Suspicion wormed its way into her mind. She set it aside momentarily. “I need him to give me a code.”
“What kind of code?”
“A bank code.”
Hadrian turned on her with condescension. “You’re calling this man for money?”
“There are other things in banks besides money,” she pointed out. “What I need is private.” She eyeballed the keypad. “Why is Atlas of interest to our government?”
“That I won’t tell you. What I will tell you is that you know even less about your friends than you know about Covenant Spells.” Hadrian accessed a private server and pulled up a professional photograph of a remarkably large family gathered inside a grand hall. “Look at this photo,” he told her. “Then ask me again why you think Atlas is of interest to our government.”
Snofrid examined the photo closely. She marveled at the ornate pillars, Renaissance ceiling murals, and crystal icicle chandeliers; she’d never seen a more luxurious room. Under a dome-vaulted ceiling, the hall extended to a silver and gold butterfly staircase, which rose into a portrait hall, where roughly two-hundred more people stood; crossways, tall windows sieved light across the regal assembly. All the men wore bespoke tuxedoes with cufflinks, pocket squares and silk ties while the women paraded lavish evening gowns and costly jewelry. They looked like people who lived in the Golden Circle.
“Do you know yet?” Hadrian prodded.
“I’m still looking.”
She eventually paused on a young man outfitted in a black tuxedo and a white bowtie. The precise way he’d slicked his hair back was identical to the photo she’d found in her room, and she recognized his spirited blue eyes. Her first reaction was confusion. She didn’t understand why a munitions dealer would be caught in such a picture. He was obviously well-off, but most in the picture were beyond well-off. Among them was Julian Forsberg, Julian’s infamous father, Bjarke Forsberg, President Sebaster Leathertongue, Chancellor Albanus Leathertongue, and Sir Northrup Castle. Also in attendance was the current Regional Monarch of Sweden, at least a dozen other Regional Monarchs, fifteen U.S. Senators, and a host of other foreign officials, entrepreneurs and businessmen.
“He’s well connected,” she finally said. “That’s why he’s of interest.”
“That is your worst perception so far,” Hadrian assured. “After his parents were assassinated, Atlas Bancroft was adopted by Bjarke Forsberg almost twenty years ago. Atlas is not only going to be a candidate for the next presidential election, he’s a renowned anti-Inborn activist whose adopted family is responsible for the assassinations of five Inborn Governors.”
The meaning of his words derailed her train of thought. She checked and then rechecked the photo, so shaken that her mind numbed for a few moments. If Atlas was a Forsberg then he was also a member of the Helios Society—the people who’d initiated Regulative, financed the Inhuman War, and created Mongrels—which meant that he wasn’t just her enemy, he was her worst fear. She’d not only been romantic with him, she invited him into the lives of everyone she loved.
“It seems I was right about you,” Hadrian remarked. “You are naïve.”
The Earth Square Fortress
Snofrid left the Spyderweb without calling Atlas. She sprinted the shortest route home, breaking only twice while Coyote swept for laser wire. He seemed pleased by her new urgency; his sudden upbeat mood plainly communicated that he was thrilled to end the day’s babysitting responsibilities.
At the house, she dug her wallet from her desk drawer, and then jogged down Sun Promenade Plaza. Since all hypernet activity was being monitored, she hit every corner store and newsstand within a three-mile radius, buying up all the magazines that featured Atlas Bancroft. The collection ranged from Harvard Business Review, to
Time and Forbes, to the New Yorker, the National Enquirer, and Vogue. His brother, Julian Forsberg, was featured on the cover of Fortune, so she grabbed it just in case.
With her bag of magazines, she set out for home, blending with the blue streak pace of the city. Bluecoats had set up roadblocks on backed-up streets and were directing columns of bumper-to-bumper traffic down back alleys towards hospitals and clinics. Snofrid spotted three blood test protestors getting nabbed outside of the Cosmopolitan Lounge and pulled on her hood; they were lying face down in the snow, red-faced and cussing at the S.W.A.T. officers who handcuffed their wrists. All along the sidewalks, people funneled towards the hospitals like sardines—most on foot or speeding down the curb on bicycles. Many had stopped to view the arrests while others brushed past them in haste.
Near the War Lobby, Snofrid saw a thickset man in a grey business suit. He loitered outside the shop antechamber, smoking through a slide in his gasmask. “You work here,” he called, upon her approach.
“Yes.”
“You closed all day?”
“We are,” she told him. “We open on Monday. 8:00 a.m.”
He muttered an oath. “Open up for ten minutes, hon. I just need ammo.”
“I can’t do that,” she said, put off by his pushiness. “Try Gun Supply down the street.”
He eyeballed the Vogue magazine peeking from her bag and sniggered. “Turn on the news. There are more important things going on in the world than fashion.” Flicking his cigarette to the pavement, he jogged toward a silver electric Cadillac parked on the curb.
“Jerk,” she breathed.
Once inside the mansion, she dumped the magazines across the tatami mats and then flung back her closet doors. Atlas’s white silk suit jacket still hung beside her coats. Taking it down, she flipped back the collar and examined the label. The initials were sewn into the inner collar, A.B.F., Atlas Bancroft-Forsberg.
“No,” she said aloud. She refused to believe she’d been as naïve as Hadrian had stated. Perhaps she’d known nothing of Atlas’s relation to the Forsberg family; this thought offered a dose of much-needed consolation. She wanted to believe her past choices would minimize her problems, not add to the pile. To her credit, she never would’ve told Atlas that she was Inborn. No Regulative agents had hunted her down, so she was reassured. It was likely that Lycidius had known all along about Atlas’s adoption. Being her Shadow, he would’ve done background checks on all her friends—especially her boyfriend.
Once the house was in lockdown, she began sorting through the magazines. Shouts and screeching brakes resounded from the street as she leafed through the glossy pages; they covered topics from slum life to celebrity fashion and politics. In the National Enquirer, she skimmed through an interview Atlas had given three weeks ago concerning his views on equality rights for Inborns. He’d been on a talk show, and halfway through, he’d shown a video of a crowd of diverse people on a grassy field—one person representing each human nationality. Around them was dug the words: Earth is our planet. On its soil, humanity will always be superior to Inborns.
Snofrid flipped the page, finished. Yes, some of Earth belonged to the humans, but all the land humans had failed to defend now belonged to Inborns. Such was the rule of war. Moreover, neither humans nor Inborns had yet proved their superiority—hence, why the war was still ongoing. “No wonder we broke up,” she murmured, tossing the magazine aside.
Time contained nothing insightful, just an article about a space shuttle his family had privately built called Areion. In Fortune, she read that the Aracnid Arms Company was one of 129 corporations either owned or financed by the Forsberg Conglomerate. Most prominent of these companies were Oracle Enterprises, which manufactured autonomous combat robots; Landmark, the number one transport defense company in the world; and Explority, which designed A.I. weapon systems.
Drumming her knuckles restlessly on the mats, she flipped open Vogue. The fashion magazine proved to be the most interesting of the bunch: it featured a two-page photo spread from a war refugee charity gala in the Twin Comets Spacecity. What caught her interest was a photo of Atlas, Julian, Lars Castle, and President Sebaster Leathertongue. They were grouped together on a glass balcony in tuxedos and masquerade masks with a surreal view of the starry cosmos at their backs. The caption below read:
Our favorite brothers, Julian Forsberg and Atlas Bancroft, get an intimate view of outer space with friend, Lars Castle, and cousin, President Sebaster Leathertongue.
Snofrid stared at Atlas’s gold Greek mask, becoming steadily more apprehensive. He seemed powerfully connected at every turn. If his cousin was running the New Global Union, then his family surely had a hand in affairs of state—or two. And taking into account the three families combined assets—Castle, Forsberg, and Leathertongue—they controlled thirty-nine percent of the world’s wealth, which meant they had the world on their dinner table.
Her phone chimed with a message from Lycidius.
I’m in my office. Come down when you have a minute.
Snofrid got to her feet, wondering when he’d arrived home. She hadn’t even heard him come in. Tucking back her hair, she headed downstairs and through the kitchen. His office was adjacent to his bedroom, separated only by a sliding door. It had all the starkness of a barracks, with the exception of a pot of beryl barb flowers beside the gun rack.
She found him packing at his desk. His duffle bag was tidily filled with bottled spells, pistols and a toothbrush. He added a pair of desert boots as she walked in.
“Are you packed?” he asked. His confident stance implied that he was untroubled by their situation.
“No, I was reading,” she answered. “I’ll do it when I go back upstairs.” Crossing the room, she leaned against his desk, her shoulders aligning with his. “I found out Atlas is a Forsberg,” she said. Lycidius’s hands halted in midair. “It wasn’t hard. More than a few magazines confirmed it. I’m guessing Desya didn’t know, but you did all along, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I kept it from you because—”
“I get why you kept it from me,” she assured. “You didn’t want me to worry. Which is why I need to know: did I ever tell him I’m Inborn?”
“No, Snofrid. We set down rules as soon as we left Gehenna.”
She felt like she’d been released from a noose. Atlas didn’t seem to be a threat, at least, not directly. This was all she’d hoped for because it meant that calling him on Tuesday was safe. “Why did you ask me to come down here?”
“I need to show you something.” Lycidius zipped up the duffle and then powered on his main computer. “We’re leaving the city after the shield goes down. I found our new destination and I want you to approve it.”
“It’s not Alaska?”
“No. There’s a stronghold in Crater Lake we can hold up in. At least until we find a permanent location.” She sat in an open armchair before the computer as he loaded photos of a deep blue lake shaped like a bowl. “It’s called the Earth Square Fortress.”
Upon inspecting the photos, she took a liking to the freeness of the Earth Square Fortress more than anything else, though it resembled a human military base. The tremendous, snowcapped cliffs that picketed the lakeshore were a natural wall; a half-mile from the water, a titanium barrier fitted with anti-aircraft guns staked out the borders.
The central fortress stood on Wizard Island—a cinder cone jutting out of the west end of the lake—and housed an airfield and six helipads. Submarine facilities glinted through the water, linked to the fortress by underwater channels; the water had a translucent clarity, reflecting even the clouds in the sky.
“It looks more like a small city than a fortress,” she remarked, using her hands to zoom in on the fortress. “How is the Union not all over this?”
“It has been,” Lycidius assured, “but Earth Square is part of the Sixty Sovereignties. The New Global Union doesn’t own the land or the airspace anymore. After World War III, it had to sell off land to the
central banks to pay back war bonds. The New Global Union intended to repurchase the land eventually, but Crater Lake and the Satar Province in Alaska were two of sixty territories that declared themselves independent before it could get ahold of them again. The Sixty Sovereignties operate as separate countries and survive by trading with each other through secret, underground trade routes.”
“That sounds like a war waiting to happen, Lycidius.”
“It will likely come to that, but the Union is already in a war.” He zoomed in on a symbol of a blue sand spider; it marked the fortress gate. “Earth Square is one of ten forts funded by a famous Trojan Mortal called Blue Spider. The Union listed him as a terrorist, but he’s a die-hard advocate for peace. He started giving asylum to Inborns last year on the condition that they pay well.”
“What is his real name?” she asked.
“No one knows his identity. Not even the Devil from the Devil’s Notebook.”
She studied the symbol again, fascinated. “It’s really no wonder. A lot of people would try to kill him if he came out.”
“Probably half the New Global Union.” He rubbed his temple, as if he had a headache.
“Are you feeling all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
She hesitated, then rose from her chair. “You don’t always have to be strong, Lycidius. We have some feverfew extract in the cupboard. I’ll go grab it.”
She turned to leave, but he snagged her hand. “Snofrid, really. I said I’m all right.”
Hatred Day Page 25
