Milken’s soft cheeks puff out. “She’ll always have the secondborn taint on her, though. That never goes away.”
“True,” Reykin agrees. “A secondborn will always be inferior.” His knee nudges mine beneath the table—an apology. I step on his toes with my bare heel, grinding them as hard as I can. He stifles a small grunt and edges his foot from beneath mine.
I almost need to bite my tongue to keep from cursing Milken out. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your concern for my brother’s well-being, but he’s in good health and liable to outlive all of you.”
“Gabriel is as good as dead,” Grisholm replies with an amused look. “It’s time that everyone at this table knows it, especially you, Roselle. These are my closest advisors, part of my Halo Council, except for Reykin, of course. But he’ll be added soon enough. You’ll be called upon to advise us when you’re not presiding over the Sword Heritage Council. My father has already anointed you. Now it’s just a matter of killing your brother.” He says it as if he has accepted the truth of it. My stomach churns. I was counting on turning him into an ally on this one issue.
“I know you and Gabriel were never friends, Grisholm,” I acknowledge, “but he’s firstborn. He’d stand by your side and defend you—no matter what.”
Grisholm lifts an eyebrow. “You always surprise me, Roselle.”
That’s not difficult, I think. You never see anything coming.
“A plot is brewing,” Grisholm continues. For a moment, fear runs rampant through me. Does he know of my involvement with the Gates of Dawn?
“Please do elaborate,” I reply.
“Initial reports say Rasmussen’s death is assassination,” Grisholm says.
“Do you suspect his brother Orwell?” Reykin asks.
“It’s the logical choice,” Grisholm replies. “Secondborns murder us all the time for power. It’s in their nature.” I want to pull my hair out. It isn’t nature. Most secondborns accept their fates, no matter how unjust. “I’m bringing in an expert to get us answers.”
Grisholm tries to hide his grin, and my stomach tightens in dread. He scrapes the cards together in front of him and forms a stack. Choosing two from the top, he positions one against another. When he pulls his hands back, they remain standing. Carefully, he sets another one against them. “My specialist should be here any moment to meet with us.”
The others at the table casually converse about the Secondborn Trials galas planned every night for the next few weeks until the Opening Ceremonies. I listen as Cindra details the glowing electron-inspired dress she had made for an Atom-themed party she’s attending this evening. Dune has already advised me that I’m to attend the Gods and Goddesses Ball tonight at a Sword social club, to be hosted by an aristocrat named Firstborn Shelling. Speculation is high as to whether the parties will go on as planned, despite Rasmussen’s murder.
I lift my glass to my lips and take a small sip. It’s mostly water with a little bit of alcohol. It won’t get me intoxicated. I nearly curse under my breath after I swallow it. I need a bit of the courage that alcohol could provide. Reykin is trying to keep me sharp, but a part of me longs for oblivion.
The clipped sound of sharp-heeled boots rings in the lofty room, pulling my attention away from Grisholm and his house of cards. I set my glass back down on the table. A solitary man approaches us from the entryway. His blond, slicked-back hair is neatly trimmed. The long black coat that he normally wears is absent, shed for the warm weather of Virtues. His crisp white dress shirt and tight black slacks I remember from when I first met him at the Stone Forest Base in Swords. When he sees me, Agent Crow’s lips stretch across his steely front teeth in a possessive smile. My hand unconsciously goes to the hilt of my fusionblade.
Bile rises in my throat. Inky-black death-tally notches line his temples and neck. His hands are clasped behind his back, and yet I feel as if he has a dagger pressed to my throat. I dare not look at Reykin beside me for fear of giving something away—a thought, a connection, anything that might unmask us both. Agent Crow tears his blue eyes away from me and greets Grisholm. “Firstborn Commander,” he says. His deep voice sends chills down my spine. “I’ve been briefed by your undersecretary regarding the death of Firstborn Keating. May I offer you my condolences?”
“No,” Grisholm says. “No condolences necessary. I thought Rasmussen was a pathetic weakling who would ruin Virtues if given it to rule. I don’t really care if someone wipes out his entire family. What I care about is why he was killed. That’s the reason I sent for you, Agent Crow. I have it on good authority that you are relentless in your pursuit of justice.” Grisholm’s eyes flutter to me, and I can only hope that he cannot hear the rampaging thumps of my heart. A ferocious smile curves his lips. He knows my history with Agent Crow—knows of this man’s obsession with me.
“You suspect it was something other than an inheritance issue?” Agent Crow asks.
“I wouldn’t rule that out.” Grisholm sets another card against the growing house of cards. “But it could be something much more sinister.”
“You believe someone covets the title of ‘Firstborn Commander,’ by chance?” Crow’s eyes shift from Grisholm to me, as if they cannot stay away. His voracious stare takes in my every detail. My mind flashes with images of Agnes Moon, Hawthorne’s ex-girlfriend, who helped gain my release from the underground cell where Agent Crow had planned to kill me. Grisholm had sent Agent Crow a gift basket of soaps on my behalf once I was freed. Agent Crow used them to bludgeon Agnes to death.
My eyes move between Grisholm and the Census agent. Grisholm sets another card up. Its balance is precise, the angle correct. I suddenly feel buried in a cell with no way out.
They continue to talk about the murder of Rasmussen Keating, neither knowing many of the details, but I’m no longer listening.
A thigh nudges mine. I pretend I don’t feel it. I can’t look at Reykin. Agent Crow will know. He’ll see. A part of me believes I’m being irrational. The cold-hearted Crow who drowned his own sister to gain his firstborn status couldn’t possibly know anything about Reykin, but I stare straight ahead just the same.
Without looking up from his house of cards, Grisholm asks, “What do you need to start your investigation?”
“I’ll need security access to all of your systems,” Agent Crow replies.
“That won’t be possible, but I can grant you limited access to systems that lie outside the Halo Palace.”
Agent Crow’s eyes smolder, but Grisholm doesn’t see it because his attention is on setting the next card. “We can start outside the Halo Palace, if you wish,” Crow says. “I’m particularly interested in tracking the movements of Sword monikers.”
“Why Swords?” I ask.
“Swords are the second-best killers in the Fates.” Agent Crow believes the best to be Census agents, like himself, hunters tracking down thirdborns and terrorizing them before killing them. I disagree. Swords fight other soldiers who have weapons. Census kills unarmed people without the power to fight back. “And Swords have the most to gain from the death of Rasmussen.”
“Not true,” I reply. “His Virtue-Fated brother has the most to gain. The next in line after that is—”
“Kennet Abjorn,” the agent states. “Your father.”
“He’s not Sword-Fated.”
“I know. He’s a Virtue, but he’s your mother’s husband—the Fated Sword.”
“My mother wouldn’t lift a finger to help my father, especially if it were to obtain a position of power above hers.”
“What about you, Roselle? You’re not above suspicion.”
Grisholm snorts. “Someone just tried to have her killed a few nights ago. I think it’s safe to say she’s not involved in this plot.”
“With all due respect, you’re assuming whoever attempted to kill Roselle is the same person who murdered Firstborn Keating,” Agent Crow replies. “They’re separate incidents. I’d like to speak with Roselle Sword about the details of the so-called fail
ed attempt on her life.”
“I don’t answer questions, Agent Crow, unless I have—” I stop. I was about to say “Dune present,” but I don’t want him anywhere near this Census agent. Agent Crow’s eyebrows rise as he waits for me to finish. “—my family fusionblade back.” I couldn’t care less about the weapon. It means nothing to me now, but I know it’s a trophy for Agent Crow—one he’s unwilling to part with. But it has the desired effect of throwing Agent Crow off, and giving me a reason not to be alone with him.
“I cannot accommodate your request,” he says, “but you may come and visit it whenever you wish.” He touches its hilt on his hip. Etched upon the hilt is the St. Sismode crest. Roses and vines entwine along its length. Agent Crow’s possession of it used to be salt in a wound, but it’s only a symbol of bad blood for me now. “And I don’t need permission to talk to you.”
Reykin yawns, stretching his arms with an obnoxious groan. With the unmistakable tone of firstborn privilege, he says, “If I have to sit here for another second and listen to the boring details of your investigation, I might die.” He slaps his palms against the top of the onyx table. The impressive house of cards comes crashing down, prompting Grisholm to hiss and scowl at him. “Last one into the pool has to be my slave for a day.”
All around me, chairs slide away from the table. The Firstborns fight tooth and nail to get to the water. Arms flail. Elbows fly. Palms cover faces and shove them in opposing directions. Grisholm is first in the pool, cannonballing with the biggest splash I’ve ever seen. The others follow with ungraceful twists and harrowing belly flops. I’m as surprised as Agent Crow at the lack of decorum among this so-called elite. They act like children. Frivolous children.
Reykin snatches me from my seat with little effort. I clutch him around the shoulders, afraid he’ll drop me. His strong fingers grip my thigh. Sweeping me up, he rests me against his abdomen as he runs to the water’s edge. The last thing I see before Reykin tosses me like a coin into a wishing well is Agent Crow’s homicidal expression over Reykin’s scarred shoulder. The Census agent’s favorite prey is snatched away once more.
I plunge into the cool water and sink down. The whoosh of Reykin entering the water just next to me pulls me toward him. As the bubbles clear, his dark hair waves hello to me. Concern lines his fuzzy expression. I press my index finger to my lips, and then I run it across my neck like I’m slitting my own throat. When I point upward to the pool deck, Reykin nods. Everyone else is at the surface, treading water. Agent Crow appears at the edge of the pool above, casting a shark-shaped shadow over us.
I kick to the surface. Reykin emerges just after me. Grisholm splashes me in the face. “You were the last one in! You have to be Reykin’s slave for a day!”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” I reply, unwrapping my skirt and tossing the sodden fabric to the side of the pool so that it splashes Agent Crow’s boots. “I can train him at your sparring circle. If we go in the morning, I can cut him in half with my fusionblade and have the rest of my day to myself.”
Reykin chuckles. “Show me the blood I’ll bleed,” the roguish firstborn replies. He glances at Grisholm beside me. “You up for this, Grisholm?” His tone is a challenge. “Between the two of us, we can defeat this tiny Sword and then make her evaluate the stock with us. She can probably help us separate the secondborn winner from all the losers.”
Grisholm arches an eyebrow at me, as if he’s just seeing me for the first time. “Maybe you’re right. Tomorrow we’ll see what she knows.”
The sinister voice of my nightmares interrupts. “Firstborn Commander, might I take my leave now so that I may begin my investigation?” Agent Crow gives Reykin a lip-curling scowl. My belly quivers at the sight of his steely teeth.
Grisholm makes a shooing gesture with his hand, dismissing Agent Crow. “Yes, yes. Go and report back.” The death-tally notches by Agent Crow’s eyes are the feathers of a black bird, twitching before flight. Whatever he’s planning, it’s coming soon.
Chapter 7
The Gods Table
When I return to my apartment, I’m met outside the door by the cold, assessing look of a secondborn Diamond-Fated attendant. I was supposed to meet Crystal here over two hours ago to get ready for the Gods and Goddesses Ball. Dune arranged for her help because I have no one else, Phoenix being utterly incapable of helping me dress for a costume party. Crystal’s disapproving frown makes me remember that I’m still in my silver bikini, with only a long towel wrapped around my waist. I look like a layabout.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I apologize. The sole of her dangerously sharp high-heeled shoe taps against the marble floor in decisive clicks. She’s a slight woman in her early sixties. Her silvery hair is pulled back in a severe knot, but it doesn’t hide her beauty. “I was on lockdown at the—”
“I’m secondborn. No explanations necessary for wasting my time.” Apparently, Crystal is a master at the passive-aggressive arts. My cheeks heat with a blush.
“Can I help you with your things?” I ask. Over her thin arm is a black garment bag. Under it is a long box. Clutched in her other milky-white hand is the black handle of a large black case. The case hovers above the ground. Judging by her small frame and the enormity of the bulky coffin-like box, I doubt she could carry it. The stress lines around her mouth pucker in disapproval.
“I’m capable of performing my duties,” comes her clipped response. “Please hurry, we have less time now.”
I’ve selected a non-goddess character to impersonate this evening. After Dune informed me of the invitation to the ball and assigned Crystal to help, I explained to her via hologram that I wanted to go as Roselyn. She’s not technically a goddess. She was Tyburn’s lover. I first saw Roselyn’s image on the side of the Tyburn Fountain, the monument to the God of the West Wind. Roselyn points to the door that ultimately leads inside the Sword Palace grounds. Hawthorne kissed me in that fountain. I can still feel it. All the costume entails is a crown of roses and a skimpy gown. Done.
I close the door behind Crystal. Phoenix’s clanging footsteps ring in the hall. He greets us with the bright-red glow of his eyes. Crystal’s already severe disdain turns to scorn at the sight of Phoenix.
“What is that creature?” she asks, recoiling.
“My mechadome. It’s harmless.” I’m pretty sure that it’s Phoenix, and not Reykin, greeting me now, because I left Reykin in the bathhouse with Grisholm and the others. I’ll have to watch the mechadome to see if it gets clingy. The minute that happens, I’ll know Reykin is at the controls.
“Where would you like to work?” I ask.
Crystal gives Phoenix a wide berth as she passes. She stops in the drawing room, her black coffin case still hovering by her side. “This will do.” She lets go of the black handle and touches her blue-diamond moniker. The crate opens and unfolds, becoming a vanity with a mirror and studio lights. Crystal hangs the garment bag on a hook on its side and sets the long box beside it. She lifts an ornate, gold-leaf-encrusted chair from near the bureau and places it in front of the vanity. “Please, sit.”
After I do, she opens a drawer that contains ropes of thorny vines and small red roses in various stages, from buds to full bloom. She pulls on gloves with polymer protectors on the fingertips and palms and immediately goes to work on my hair, creating a halo effect with a crown. She braids thorny vines into the full length of the long hair in the back, weaving the rosebuds and blooms into the thorns and around the crown. It’s a decidedly un-Roselyn-like look. Tyburn’s lover was soft, with flowing hair. This is very warrior-like. This reminds me of—
I stand up just as Crystal is about to place another rosebud. Opening the garment bag on the hook, I spread it wide. Instead of a flowy medieval peasant gown, I find an ancient warrior-goddess ensemble consisting of a fawn-colored leather halter that will barely cover my breasts. It laces in the back but leaves the shoulders and midriff bare. Low-rise leather pants of the same hue and a primitive cut hang behind it, and a ti
ght vest of brown suede with a brown fur mantle hangs behind that.
“What is this?”
“Your attire for this evening.” Crystal eyes it with approval.
“This isn’t what we discussed.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Why did you change it?”
“Your name is Roselle. You should be the Goddess of War, your namesake.”
“I don’t want to be the Goddess of War. I want to be—”
“Tyburn’s lover.” Crystal’s austere posture takes on an even more rigid mien. “Why would you be subservient to a god when you could be the goddess who presides over him?”
I blink. I have no good answer, except to say, “That’s not the point.”
“It’s exactly the point. But it wasn’t me who changed your request, it was Commander Kodaline, so you should bring it up with him if you have a problem with it. Now, if there’s nothing further, I’d like to continue my work.”
I want to argue, but I know that she’s just following instructions, so I relent. I sit back down, and she releases a small, handheld drone into the air. The drone flies in close, airbrushing makeup onto my face. It draws an intricate vine of inky thorns on the side, beginning above my eyebrow and drawing sharp points near my eye and over my cheek and jaw. Continuing down my throat and over my shoulder, the thorns grow down my arm and wrap around my right index finger.
Crystal directs me to stand. The drone inks more thorny vines down the side of my abdomen. When it’s finished, the little drone flies back to Crystal’s hand, and she returns it to a drawer in the vanity. The makeup dries instantly.
With Crystal’s help, I dress as the Goddess Roselle. She ties the bodice laces, and I take care of the rest. Reaching for the box, she extracts long mocha-hued suede boots. The boots are lined at the tops with brown fur and reach to just below my knees. The leather pants tuck into them. Without the suede and the fur mantle of the vest, my thorny braids would slice my skin to ribbons.
Traitor Born (Secondborn Series Book 2) Page 9
