Traitor Born

by Amy A. Bartol

  Inching up my black shirt, Hawthorne pulls it over my head and tosses it haphazardly on the floor. “How are your ribs?” he asks. His eyes move with his fingers, stroking a path down my skin, gently touching the ones that were broken. It’s both sensual and ticklish. Gasping softly, I suck in my bottom lip to keep from giggling. A rush of desire overtakes me. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” I breathe the word, but I don’t know if it’s true. I ache for him to keep touching me—to never stop. “I’m okay now. I had them repaired.”

  His lips travel with whisper-softness over my ribs, his warm breath against my cool skin. I inhale sharply. His finger hooks in the fabric of my black bra—the valley between the cups where the clasp lies. “If I’m not mistaken, this isn’t military issue,” he murmurs. His fingertips rim the edges of the fabric.

  Heat pours through me. My skin flushes. “They gave me girl clothes.”

  “Oh, I noticed.” His finger deftly unclasps my bra.

  His shadow of a beard skims against my breast. His mouth latches on to my hardened nipple. I arch up against his lips, my eyes closing, my mouth opening. His tongue flicks, and my ache intensifies to a burning need. I grip his arm, digging into his muscle. “Hawthorne,” I whisper harshly.

  “I missed your voice.” He growls low against me, kissing the valley between my breasts. “The raspy way you say my name when you want me. It rushes under my skin.”

  “I always want you.”

  “You’re all that matters to me,” Hawthorne confesses. That, too, is an act of treason. He rests his forehead against my belly and sighs. “This isn’t how I saw this night ending.”

  “Hawthorne, this is how I want every night with you to end.”

  He closes his eyes. “I love you, Roselle.”

  “Maybe it’s okay . . . maybe just this one time . . .”

  Hawthorne opens his eyes and shakes his head. “We can’t, Roselle. They’d murder you. I won’t risk it. We shouldn’t even be doing this—especially here. Just kissing could get you flayed. I’m so weak around you.” He gets off the bed, finds my shirt, and hands it to me. I reclasp my bra and slip my shirt on.

  He sits beside me and then lies back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. I rest my cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. He wraps his arms around me. I know I need to go. Dawn is coming. I try to sit up, but his arms tighten.

  “Hawthorne,” I whisper.

  He kisses my hair. “I know,” he replies, but his arms don’t loosen.

  “How long are you staying at the Halo Palace?”

  “I have to leave first thing in the morning.”

  “Why?” I apply a bit more pressure, and he relents, easing his grip on me. I rise on my elbow so I can see his face. He reaches for my hair, tucking strands of it back behind my ear.

  “They already know what happened at the social club,” he says. “It was captured by the surveillance drones. They just wanted to know why I was there.”

  “Do they know about us?”

  “Not in the winter corridor—just in the gallery and ballroom. Salloway told them that the snowy hallway isn’t monitored because it’s private, and the members like it that way. But you only had to watch us together in the gallery to see my devotion to you.”

  My voice softens, “You jumped after me, even when you thought I might already be dead.”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty clear I’m in love with you.”

  “And I love you, Hawthorne, but . . .” I think for a moment. “How did you explain being there?”

  “I told them I came there to see you because we were secondborn friends.”

  “How did The Virtue take that?”

  Hawthorne exhales deeply. “He didn’t like it—said I was firstborn now and I ought to know better than to try to maintain friendships with secondborns. Then he gave me another honorary title and a small piece of land in the Fate of Seas for my ‘bravery’ at the social club, and told me I’m not allowed to see you anymore. Then he wished me well with my engagement.” Hawthorne’s jaw ticks with tension.

  My throat tightens. Now there’s no hope in appealing to The Virtue to break the marriage contract between Hawthorne and Fauna. “Will I see you again?”

  “Seeing you again is the only thing that will occupy my mind,” he says, “until I find a way.”

  “I hope it’s soon. I have to go,” I whisper. “Good-bye, Hawthorne.” My own devastation is almost more than I can bear. I kiss his cheek, get to my feet, and retrieve the orbs and night-vision glasses. Shoving the orbs in my pocket, I put on the glasses and move toward the door. I tug on the handle, but Hawthorne’s hand reaches past my shoulder and holds the door closed.

  “I’ll never talk,” he whispers. “Your secret is safe, but you knew that already. I have to think about everything else.”

  A shiver slides through me. I lean back against him, feeling the strength in his powerful body. I turn around and meet his eyes. He leans down and kisses me with a yearning that threatens to destroy us both. When he lifts his lips from mine, I murmur, “Thank you, Hawthorne,” and then slip out the way I came.

  Chapter 12

  Lullaby of Insomnia

  I’m confined to the Halo Palace.

  It’s even worse than prior to the attack. Now I’m followed everywhere by hovering Virtue stingers for my “protection,” just like Grisholm. And like Grisholm, I’m restricted to the Firstborn Commander’s private residence. Security has been reinforced with increased Exo presence and heightened technology provided by Salloway Munitions. Huge mechanized weapons were airlifted and placed on the cliff outside my balcony, just beyond the garden. The guns can track and shoot just about anything out of the sky without much trouble. They can do the same to people.

  Reykin hasn’t visited me in a couple of days, even though he can. I told him that Hawthorne agreed to stay silent and to think about helping us. I thought Reykin would be happy to hear that, but he didn’t take the news well. Instead, he stomped around my apartment, giving me the silent treatment while working on Phoenix’s hover mode. I was too tired to argue with the firstborn Star, but Phoenix doesn’t clang anymore. It silently glides everywhere it goes.

  Reykin left shortly after dawn the morning I’d returned from speaking to Hawthorne in his room. He’d mumbled an excuse about discussing everything that’s happened with Dune and Daltrey. I haven’t seen him since. Not that he hasn’t seen me. Through Phoenix, he can surveil me anytime he wants, although I think I can tell now when Phoenix is in auto mode and when the mechadome is Reykin-possessed. It’s a subtle changeover. Phoenix doesn’t “watch” me in the literal sense. It sort of just keeps track of me. But Reykin-possessed Phoenix is a stalker. Like now. It’s just parked in front of me, staring, as I lie on the sofa in the den. I’d throw a blanket over its head, but it will just pull it off, so it doesn’t seem worth the effort.

  With my cheek against the seat cushion, I stare blankly at a vapid holographic announcer describing how to get the most from my next virtual vacation. Yawning, I couldn’t care less. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. Not much anyway. Only a few hours, and then I’m awake—panicking about whether Hawthorne will change his mind and decide he never wants to see me again, or maybe the Gates of Dawn will conclude that it’s safer to kill Hawthorne, or a hundred other equally terrifying scenarios. It’s exhausting. So I just watch virtual access, hoping for something so boring it forces me to sleep.

  I search through what’s on. The face and profile of an Atom-Fated man flashes inside my den, while anchors from a news organization flitter about in excitement. Along with the man’s image are a description and a short bio of his physical traits. “Before we go to our live coverage in Swords,” the commentator says, “we have a Secondborn Deserter Bulletin in effect for the Purity area of Virtues.” I sit up, recognizing the morgue director Reykin and I encountered a few days ago. His sandy, wiry hair and goonish leer are unmistakable. “Cranston Atom, master mortician, has failed t
o report for duty in over twenty-four hours. If you know the whereabouts of Cranston Atom, you’re asked to contact your local Census agency.”

  Before I have time to process the implications of the missing secondborn, his image is gone, replaced by the soaring city skyline of Forge, where citizens are lining the streets, waving blue flags adorned with a golden sword in the center of each. The female newscaster smiles somberly. “We’re just about ready to witness the procession coming down the Avenue of Swords,” she says in a hushed tone, “on their way to the memorial where they will lay to rest a cultural icon, the Fated Sword. It’s a sad day for the Clarity of Swords, the Firstborn Sword, and all their Fate. As you can see, mourners line the streets, hoping to get one last glimpse of the Fated Sword before his interment in Killian Abbey.” The anchor is firstborn. It’s customary for only firstborns to cover such prestigious events. She peers directly into the drone camera’s lens. “The Fated Sword is, of course, the father of Firstborn Gabriel St. Sismode and his arguably more famous younger sister, Secondborn Roselle Sword.”

  Wisps of her dark hair blow in the cold air. The tip of her nose is red. White plumes of breath show as she continues. “I’m standing in front of one of the largest tributes to a secondborn ever erected.” She gestures with her hand. The drone camera pans to a skyscraper behind her. On the side of it, a holographic image plays the footage of me tackling the Death God and shattering through the glass wall of the Sword social club. My stomach twists in a knot. I know what that is. It’s propaganda designed to undermine Gabriel and his inherent position. Most people won’t understand that they’re being influenced, but my mother will. The drones turn back to the newscaster and the Avenue of Swords.

  Slowly, I lie back down. My cheek rests against the cushion. I stare at the funeral procession playing out in front of me. I want to feel nothing, but a wave of crushing sorrow hits me. Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes, but I don’t bother to wipe them away. I just sob.

  The channel changes on its own. It stops on a cuisine program. Rows and rows of crellas line the case at a bakery in the Fate of Suns. With the handheld remote, I turn the hologram back to the funeral. The three-dimensional image of my mother and brother leaving the Sword Palace scurries across the den. I can hardly make out their shapes behind their Vicolt’s tinted windows.

  The image changes again, to some sort of dance recital. I glare at my mechadome. “Reykin, stop!”

  Reykin-possessed Phoenix shakes its lenses—no.

  “Yes!” I yell. I can’t remember ever being this angry in my life. I try to turn it back, but the entire virtual-access unit completely dies. Frantically, I point the remote at the receiver. Nothing happens. I turn and glare at Reykin-possessed Phoenix. “I hate you!”

  Getting up from the couch, I storm out of the room, and then out of the apartment. Stingers flank me as I run down the corridor to the nearest exit. The bright sunlight is a shock after hours of being inside with the privacy shutters drawn. Wiping at my cheeks, I try to hide my hot tears from the Sun-Fated secondborns I pass in the garden.

  Before I know it, I’m down the stone steps and onto the beach. I jog along the shoreline, trying to outrun my demons. When I get to the bend, I find Balmora, once again staring off at her sea castle. She’s in front of a hovering easel, painting the structure as if her life depends on it. Beside her, the little twelve-year-old girl watches her.

  Balmora lowers her brush and looks at me. Her smile is big and toothy, until she reads the look on my face. She sees my limp hair and lounging attire. “Roselle,” she says, “what’s wrong? What’s happened?” She reaches out and touches my arm.

  “Do you have virtual access in your residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Of course!” She sets aside her paintbrush and locks her arm in mine. The nearest death drone begins to wail and hover nearer. “Oh, hush!” she exclaims, waving it away. It silences and settles back to hover at a distance. She walks with me across the sandbar toward the gigantic doors of her Sea Fortress. Her attendants scramble to gather up her belongings behind us. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “No,” I reply honestly, trying to hold back tears. “They’re memorializing my father today, and my visual access is broken.”

  “Oh,” she replies in a sympathetic tone. “I hadn’t known that you two were close.”

  “We weren’t.” My toes sink into the damp sand, leaving a trail of footprints.

  “And yet, you’re upset,” she says, puzzled.

  “I’d hoped that someday things would be different between us.”

  “Oh,” she says softly, “and it wasn’t because he was a narcissist?”

  “Did you know Kennet?”

  “No. My father always said yours was a narcissist. I sort of envied you for that.”

  “What?” I sniffle. “Why?”

  “Well, mine’s a tyrant, so yours didn’t sound so bad,” she replies with a wink. Despite everything, I feel myself smile. As we walk, Balmora chats about the architectural features of her castle, pointing out each of the nine spires that represent the nine Fates. Seagulls perch and gossip overhead. We pass through the enormous portico, and the shade of it feels several degrees cooler, the damp air heavier. An inner courtyard lies within the high stone walls. The sun finds us once more as we walk across the lawn. The ever-present sound of the waves follows us until we climb the steps and enter the royal stone edifice. Dimness greets us. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust.

  The ceiling is high in the foyer. Exposed wooden beams are draped with colorful banners from all the Fates. Sunlight dots the floor from high windows. Ancient painted portraits of past secondborn commanders are everywhere. It’s like going back in time.

  “You have a beautiful home,” I murmur.

  She looks around with a critical eye. “There are some days that I think I’ll go mad if I have to stay here one more second.” Her honestly is surprising. “I sometimes wonder if I’d have been better off born into a lowly Fate of Seas family in a fishing village somewhere. At least then I’d be allowed to sail away. Go places. See things firsthand.” She gazes at me. “But we can’t change our Fate, can we?” The way she says it, it sounds more like a challenge than a certainty. “Come, my media room is this way.”

  We pass through a glass sunroom and into a round room with a grand balcony that overlooks the sea. Balmora stops. “Quincy,” she says to the girl, who is still following us, “make sure no one comes in. I want privacy.” The freckled girl nods solemnly and stands guard outside. Balmora closes the doors. She goes to the airy balcony, drawing the curtains, shutting off the stone terrace. The beautiful white fabric waves in the breeze.

  Using her silver halo-shaped moniker, she dims the lights and turns on her virtual access to holographic mode. Rapidly changing the station, Balmora pauses on one showing nothing but holographic smoke-filled gloom. Dust obscures the visual, but the audio is something else entirely. Screams of chaos swirl from the audio feed. Balmora turns to me, shocked. “What’s happening?”

  I shake my head in confusion. “I don’t know. Try another channel.”

  Balmora changes it. It’s the same, except firstborns with red-rimmed eyes and golden sword monikers are emerging from the smoke with their hands over their noses and mouths. “Is that Swords?” Balmora asks, with a catch in her voice.

  “Try another station!” I demand.

  The next one is similar, but an announcer is saying, “An explosion, or what we believe was an explosion, has occurred in the city of Forge, where the Fated Sword was being memorialized today on his way to Killian Abbey.”

  “Swords has been attacked,” I say to Balmora, though I hardly recognize the voice as mine.

  “It’s unclear how many casualties there are,” the announcer continues, “and whether The Sword or Firstborn Gabriel St. Sismode were harmed in the incident that some are now calling an attack.”

  Balmora reaches out impulsively and take
s my hand in a death grip. She’s biting her bottom lip, holding back tears. She studies my left hand, and a look of relief crosses her face. My moniker still shines silver. My brother is alive.

  Balmora wipes away a tear. “Who would do this?” she demands.

  It could be any number of factions. Retribution from the Rose Gardeners for the social club. The Virtue’s response to my mother’s bid for power. The Gates of Dawn. Then I think about Reykin. Did he know? Is that why he didn’t want me to watch, or was he just trying to protect me from more sorrow?

  I sink into a silk lounge chair. Another massacre.

  Balmora joins me on the long cushion, still holding my left hand. Her eyes keep darting to it. The announcers are at a loss for what to say. No one knows exactly what happened, except that an explosion went off along the route to the memorial.

  Footsteps approach Balmora’s room. A few of her secondborn attendants storm in, young women in elegant sundresses with flushed faces. Quincy seems flustered, wringing her hands. “Get out! All of you!” Balmora screams. Their retreat is hasty, and they close the double doors behind them in a flurry.

  Neither of us speaks. Time is strange. Sometimes it doesn’t exist. The two of us stare, waiting for the clouds of smoke to clear enough for us to see the damage. I think I experience every kind of emotion there is to feel. Survival guilt threatens to choke me. None of this would be happening if I’d died on my Transition Day. Another part of me exults in supreme satisfaction that my mother’s attack against me is being avenged. A part of me died that day, and I’ve never fully mourned its loss. Shame and disloyalty tangle with the realization that I truly, deeply want my mother dead.

  The smoke finally dissipates, uncovering horrific carnage. In a replay of the events leading up to the attack, a glass hearse hovers down the avenue. Nothing appears to move toward the vehicle. Then it explodes outward. Whatever weapon was used, it was inside the vehicle—the vehicle that carried my father’s corpse.