Traitor Born

by Amy A. Bartol

  “Roselle has a destiny,” Dune says. “If you’re smart, you’ll be a part of it. If not, you’ll be a casualty of it.”

  Valdi moves between Dune and Clifton, separating the two. “I suggest privacy for a discussion such as this,” he says. He scans the room and waves his meaty hand in the air. A secondborn Stone hurries forward. “Show these gentlemen to my private retreat.” The servant nods and gestures to Clifton and Dune to follow him.

  Reluctantly, Clifton nods. He faces me. “I’ll find you when we’re finished.”

  “It sounds as if you plan to discuss my future,” I say. “Don’t you think I should be present for that?”

  Clifton finds my hand and squeezes it. “You should enjoy the party.”

  Around me flutters a garish display of excess. I know there are secondborns who at this very moment shiver in battlefield bunkers, while here, firstborns are packed in every corner of the dance floor, dry-ice fog blowing on them to keep them cool. “I don’t like parties.”

  He cracks a smile. Strong fingers cup my chin. “No, you’re far too serious. I’ll teach you how to have fun. I promise.”

  Turning from me, Clifton and Dune follow the secondborn Stone. I stare broodingly after them until they disappear in the crowd and out onto one of the rooftop terraces at the back of the Palace. I consider following them to see if I can eavesdrop on their conversation, but I’m distracted by the amplified voice of the God of the Sea.

  “Roban, the God of Retribution!”

  I turn to see my father at the top of the staircase.

  Chapter 8

  No Way To Slow

  A soft billow of black mist floats around my father, Kennet Abjorn, God of Retribution.

  He gazes down at the packed crowd as if he were born to rule them. Elegant black eel skin covers him, and thick wolf fur adorns the mantle of the black cape covering his wide shoulders. His hair is dark and slicked back, different than how he normally wears it, but nothing disguises that he’s the Fated Sword—my father. Ebony ram’s horns protrude from either side of his head. Three women dressed as vengeful night spirits accompany him, curving themselves around him. His Virtue-Fated moniker shines against the cheek of the woman his hand rests against.

  There’s no possibility of his spotting me in the crowd. Heavy agony stabs my chest. The last time I saw him was at my former home, the Sword Palace, the night they tried to kill me. Was he a part of the decision to murder me?

  His presence tests my heart’s mettle. My father turns and makes his way along the gallery, mingling with throngs of costumed revelers. I take a step in the direction of the stairs, but Valdi’s hand on my upper arm makes me pause.

  “You need to go to Clifton. Now.”

  “Why?”

  Valdi motions to his security. Armed Sword guards materialize from the crowd. “Because your father wasn’t invited tonight.”

  Confusion crosses my face. “You mean he’s crashing your party?”

  “I mean I don’t know why he’s here.”

  “Maybe he wants to see me.”

  “Perhaps,” Valdi replies skeptically. He nods, and the armed guards close in on us.

  “I’ll go ask him why he’s here,” I insist.

  Valdi’s grip tightens on my arm. “Clifton wants—”

  “I’m going to speak to my father!” I shake him off me. Valdi’s Sword security tries to block my path to the stairs, but I change direction and make my way to one of the long Sword banners attached to the metal framework of the glass ceiling. Climbing the fabric like a rope, I reach the gallery level. The crowd beneath me cheers, as if I’m a performing monkey, here to entertain them. Swinging my legs, I gain enough momentum to hurtle over the gallery’s glass railing. Applause erupts around me. I ignore it.

  My mind races. If my father wasn’t invited by the host, then who invited him? Chills slip down my spine. What will I say to him? Our last encounter was filled with bitterness. Still, I need to talk to him.

  Weaving my way through the people in the gallery, I pass large rooms with more gaming tables, others offering strange cuisine, and still others that are completely nefarious. I scan each room for my father. Nothing.

  I turn the corner into a new hallway, which is domed like a tunnel. The walls and ceiling project wintry scenes. Holographic snow falls around me. The rooms along this corridor are much smaller than the others—virtual rooms. I pause at one, activating a program that transforms it into a salacious dungeon. I back away and pass another with an open door. A few steps past it, I’m captured around the waist and dragged back into the room. The door slams. My cheek is pressed to the wall by a hand that covers my mouth.

  I throw my elbow back and simultaneously attempt to use my heel to crush my assailant’s shin. The man behind me avoids both strikes. He whispers, “Is that any way to say hello?”

  My eyes widen. A small squeak slips from me. He loosens his hand on my mouth, and I turn in his arms.

  “Hawthorne!” I whisper. Storm-cloud eyes meet mine. His sandy hair is hidden beneath an ancient golden helmet. The faceplate has eye slits angled in a fierce scowl. The gold nose guard comes to a sharp point. Cheek protection follows the contours of his chiseled face. A golden half-moon shape adorns the crest of his helmet, slicing through the center of it, deathhawk style. Only his full lips are exposed.

  He’s dressed as Tyburn, the God of the West Wind. A crimson cape hangs from his powerful shoulders. His chest is encased in a hard brown leather hauberk. A warrior’s leather skirt stops at his midthighs, showing his powerful legs in tall leather sandals. His bare arms are cuffed with golden circlets that highlight the sheer enormity of his biceps. A round golden shield is strapped to his back, covering the crimson cape. He sheds the shield, setting it beside us.

  My knees weaken. He doesn’t wait for me to catch my breath. Strong lips cover mine in a searing kiss. His large, calloused hands glide over my shoulders to my neck. The contact sends shock waves of sensation straight through my belly. My lips part. I exhale. Hawthorne’s tongue infiltrates my mouth. I lean into him. My fingers splay over his hard chest. My heart pounds. Blood floods my cheeks, turning them rosy and hot.

  “I found you,” he murmurs.

  His fingers slip to my nape. Sharp thorns from the vines in my hair dig into the backs of his hands. He hisses, but he doesn’t pull away. I break our kiss, taking one of his hands in mine. His blood drips in tears from the scrapes. My thumb runs over the top of it, wiping at his wounds.

  “The thorns cut you,” I murmur.

  “Worth it,” he growls. Hawthorne leans down and kisses me again.

  “I was afraid you were dead,” I whisper. Tears brighten my eyes. I’m having a hard time containing my emotions.

  “I’m devoted to you, Roselle,” he whispers, “and you know it.”

  In this moment, I could believe he’s a god with supernatural powers, capable of destroying all my enemies. His hands move down my back and cup my butt. He lifts me in his arms. My legs encircle his narrow waist, and he presses my back against the wall. His hard torso rocks against me. Heat bursts in my core. Every nerve in my body strains to get closer to him. I want to snatch his golden helmet from his head so that I can see his face. My back brushes against a control panel on the wall, and the lights dim. The walls and ceiling become an ominous, darkening sky. Storm clouds gather on the horizon.

  “Where have you been?” Hawthorne groans, like he’s in agony, but he continues to ravage my mouth. A rumble of thunder reverberates. The deep sound penetrates my soul. Brilliant flashes of lightning ripple through the landscape, turning it white, and then gold, and then gray. Gusts blow across a field of barley, the stalks bowing in the wind. “I couldn’t find you,” he says, breathing the words.

  “Halo Palace,” I whisper. The silver moniker on the back of my hand shines against the gold of Hawthorne’s helmet. I wrap my arms around his nape. His lips slip to my neck. I gasp softly. He groans, and the vibration fills me with fire. Hawthorne forces
me harder against the wall. A thrilling ache of longing shudders inside me.

  “I’ve dreamt of kissing your skin,” he murmurs, trailing his mouth over my flesh. “It’s all I dream about.” His lips find the hollow of my neck. He’s the moon, and I’m a wolf willing to howl and commit mayhem to possess it. Hawthorne’s hand grips me, and my eyes close, feeling the warmth of his touch to my marrow.

  My head falls forward. The iron sword points of my crown battle with the golden, sickle-shaped blade of his helmet. He lifts his chin, finding my lips again, covering them with his. Opening my eyes, I reach for his helmet, sliding my fingers on either side of its dome. I lift it, pull it from his hair, and let it fall to the floor with a loud clang. My fingers tremble when I cup his face. He gazes into my eyes.

  “I walked the beach in Swords where I last saw you,” he says, “hoping to find you, even when I knew you weren’t there. I thought I’d die without you. I’ll give anything to be with you—my firstborn title, my wealth, my soul, all of it.” I lean forward and kiss him. He groans again, as if I’ve stabbed him in the chest.

  “I missed you, too. What are we going to do, Hawthorne?”

  He hugs me to his chest. “Whatever it takes. I need you. Life without you is—”

  A harrowing scream resonates through the rumble of thunder in the holographic room. At first, I convince myself that I imagined it. But then more shrieks and cries bellow from beyond the corridor. Hawthorne goes rigid in my arms. He reaches past my shoulder, cutting off the storm-effect sounds. My legs unwind from him, and my feet slip to the ground. He turns toward the closed door, listening. The ring of fusionmag pulses rises above a cacophony of panicked shouts.

  Hawthorne snatches up his helmet and settles it back on his head. He lifts his shield. The gold reflects the dim light of the storm-clouded room. He pauses by the door.

  I stop behind him. “Do you have a weapon?” I ask, while easing an iron rose from the belt around my waist. The points of the petals curve like claws.

  Hawthorne crouches down on one knee and flips his shield over. The underside has a wide grip that unlatches, revealing a golden dagger hidden within. “When do you know me not to have a weapon?” He grasps the hilt of the blade and extracts it from the shield before latching the handle back into place. He holds the shield in one hand and the dagger in the other. Using the shield, he nudges the door open a crack.

  I squat down behind him. Lifting the iron rose to my hair, I cut the vine that holds my crown secure to my head and then ease the circlet from its bed of thorns and roses. The iron crown is heavy in my fist. I wish I could cut out the rest of the vines, but they’re woven into the braids.

  Movement—the sound of pounding feet. A woman dressed in black runs past the door, crying and stumbling. Blood and brain matter mottle her hair. Streaks of red and pieces of flesh, presumably not her own, dot the black eel skin of her costume.

  Recognizing her as one of the women who came in with my father, I bound up and leap over Hawthorne, pulling the door wide. Fusionmag pulses rip past my cheek, singeing a piece of my hair. I recoil. The bullet connects with the back of the woman’s head, blowing her brains out through her face. Her body crumples.

  I turn to see who fired. A ghoulish man, dressed in all black with raven wings, aims his fusionmag at me. His face is covered by a black leather mask, but his lips are exposed in a sinister smile. He utters a single word: “Roselle.”

  He pulls the trigger. Hawthorne lurches in front of me, holding up his golden shield. The metal dents in and sizzles. Hawthorne flinches and shouts in pain.

  I shift to Hawthorne’s side, draw my arm back, and throw an iron rose. It embeds in the forehead of the dark-clad God of Death, slicing through his skull and exposing the inside of his cranium. I throw two more, hitting his cheeks. He falls backward from the force, bouncing onto the floor. Holographic snowflakes shower down but never reach his body.

  “Incoming!” Hawthorne shouts. He maneuvers around me with his shield in front of him. Another round of fusion pulses careen against it. He pushes me back into the room, closing the door.

  We crouch down. Hawthorne points. I nod and take the position he indicated, hugging the wall across from him. We wait. Fusionmag blasts shatter holes in the door. A gunman pushes it open, and Hawthorne stabs his dagger into one of his knees. The black-clad figure falls forward. I swing my crown down at him, slicing his arm. The iron blades cut through his muscles and the tendons, slicing his flesh to the bone. He screams in agony, drops the fusionmag, and writhes on the ground.

  A second gunman at the threshold fires at Hawthorne, who protects himself with his shield. I dive for the fusionmag the first assassin dropped. Rolling with it, I aim at the man in the doorway and pull the trigger. The pulse caves his face in.

  “They’re all dressed like Vinsin, the God of Death,” I mutter to Hawthorne. “Who sent you?” I demand of the writhing man beside me.

  Hawthorne crawls forward and claims the fusionmag from the dead gunman in the doorway. He gets to his feet and peeks around the corner. Chilling screams come from the main ballroom.

  The Death God at my feet is bleeding out fast. The hue of his skin is ghostly white. Lifting my boot, I kick him hard in the side. “Who sent you?”

  The assassin smiles at me, his teeth smeared with blood. “You’re gonna die,” he croons in a singsong voice. He bites down on a white tablet in his mouth. The cyanide goes to work immediately. His eyes roll back in his head, and froth trickles from the sides of his mouth. The rest of his body twitches.

  I look at his left hand. No moniker shines from it to indicate his Fate. But there aren’t any marks there. It’s like he never had one.

  “We gotta move,” Hawthorne urges, taking my arm and hauling me to my feet.

  “My father!” I whisper-shout. “I was following him.”

  “Which way did he go?” Hawthorne mouths.

  I point in the opposite direction from the main ballroom. He nods, and we both peek out into the corridor. Golden fusionmag blasts light up the gallery entrance. Beyond the railing is the ballroom and the Gods Table one level below. Hawthorne strips his crimson cape from his shoulders and wraps it around his singed forearm before lifting the shield once more.

  He silently signals me to move away from the sound of the massacre. He steps out into the corridor with his shield arm held up and his fusionmag pointed in the direction of the main ballroom. I fall into place behind him. Threading my left arm through the circle of my crown, I let the iron hang on my wrist like a very large bracelet. I place my left hand on Hawthorne’s shoulder. In my right hand, my fusionmag points away from him, protecting Hawthorne’s back. Together we inch away from the ballroom, one tentative footstep at a time.

  We pass several more rooms. Each time, I swing my weapon toward them, only to find them empty. The snowy scene on the wall of the corridor has a streak of blood spattered across it. I tap Hawthorne on the shoulder with the barrel of my fusionmag. He slows his pace. I pivot my gun in the direction of the room on my right.

  A Death God runs into the winter corridor from the gallery. Hawthorne fires and picks the target off with one shot. The assassin crumbles onto the floor. Distracted, I miss the target at my side until almost the last second. The Death God seizes my arm, wrenching the hand that holds the fusionmag. My other hand slips from Hawthorne’s shoulder. The iron crown slides into my palm. The Death God almost pries the fusionmag from me, but I swing the crown, slicing his jugular vein. He falls onto me, clutching my forearm, attempting to hold himself up while his blood gushes out.

  I slide the crown back on my wrist, clutch the dying man to me, and use him as a shield. The Death God behind him shoots his accomplice several times in the back, struggling to hit me. I position my fusionmag under the now-dead man’s armpit and fire pulses into his partner. The hit man falls back, his head in pieces. I shrug off my human shield, letting him fall to the ground.

  I peer into the room. It’s a bloody mess of body parts.
A strange sound chokes from me. Beyond the dead assassin on the floor is the body of my father and two of the women he arrived with. They’re in pieces. Kennet’s tongue has been cut out and placed in his hand. The ram’s horns are twisted into his head for real. His eyes have been plucked out.

  Two more Death Gods infiltrate the winter corridor. Hawthorne picks them off. He looks past me into the room and swears softly. “Don’t look,” he whispers. My shoulders round. I’m rooted in place. “We can’t help him. He’s gone. Move! Put your hand on my shoulder.”

  This isn’t happening.

  “Put your hand on my shoulder!” Hawthorne repeats.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. Hawthorne takes another step backward, nudging me to do the same. A fusionmag pulse strikes the front to his shield. He swears again and returns fire, hitting one of the handful of Death Gods at the mouth of the winter corridor.

  Something inside me clicks.

  I maneuver around Hawthorne and his shield, raising my fusionmag. Squeezing the trigger in rapid succession, I strike each enemy in front of me with a shot to the head.

  “Roselle!” Hawthorne howls.

  I sprint toward the gallery. Behind me, Hawthorne’s feet pound as he tries to keep up. “They’re looking for you, Roselle. They’ll kill everyone until they find you.”

  “Well, here I am!” I snarl as I rush into the gallery.

  Then I stop, overlooking the ballroom and the Gods Table. Carnage everywhere. A crush of firstborns is trying to move up the glass stairs. The gallery is lined with Death Gods firing into the mob. The black-clad devils are swarming the Gods Table as well. The door to the balcony where I last saw Clifton and Dune has been barricaded against the horde.

  I pick off a handful of Death Gods without even trying. Another one rushes at me from the side. I swing my iron crown, slashing his face and blinding him. I cross my arm over my abdomen and shoot him in the chest. Blood spatters the wall.

  Touching my moniker, I engage the hoverdiscs on the soles on my boots. Skating forward as if on ice, I gain momentum. With my arm out straight, I shoot every Death God in my path. In my peripheral vision, a black-clad figure, the feathers of his raven wings stretched wide, flies right into me, knocking me over the gallery railing. The hoverdiscs thwart our fall as the winged assassin seizes me around my waist and lifts his gun to my temple. Before he can fire, I throw my head back, breaking his nose. I trigger the bracer on my left arm, and the blade thrusts out. I stab downward, cutting open his thigh. He lets go, but his hoverpack keeps him airborne.