True Born

by L. E. Sterling

  “Our apologies, Father.” Margot reaches out to give our father a kiss on both cheeks before crossing to embrace our mother on the other side of the living room. I take my turn, noting the extra security, strapped with big guns and bad attitudes, positioned on either end of the room.

  “Girls,” our father breaks in while I fill my nose with our mother’s expensive perfume, “I want to introduce you to Mr. Leo Aleksandrovich Resnikov. Mr. Resnikov will be our guest for the next few weeks as we hammer out the final details of an important business deal.”

  Margot and I curtsy to the figure we have already glimpsed sitting in the wingback chair, our father’s favorite. But when he stands with a mocking smile, my heart stops.

  Not Richardson, my scrambling mind tells me. But near enough to be kissing cousins. This man is as tall, shoulders sculpted in the severely tailored black suit and white shirt. His bow tie has come undone and hangs limply on both sides of his collar. Our mother must itch to retie it, I think as I study him. His hair is longer than the other man’s, streaked with a distinguished gray at his temples, just a bit messy. But where Richardson has an eye patch, this man, Leo Resnikov is intact.

  Leo Aleksandrovich Resnikov bends into a slight military-style bow. His eyes rake over first Margot, then me, with a proprietary gaze. “I see you did not lie, Fox. Your daughters are as beautiful as you claimed.” Our mother gives her guest a tight smile and gestures to one of the maids, who wordlessly fixes us the drinks our father prefers we enjoy on such occasions. “And how interesting,” he continues, gazing at us in rapt fascination, “to have such identical beings in your care.” He comes closer, folding the cigar he holds in one hand behind his back as he walks around us. The maid hands us our drinks and disappears.

  “They’re good girls,” our father returns. His words drip with layer upon layer of innuendo. I briefly seek Margot out. She meets my gaze with a shuttered look of her own before we both look away. We’re in trouble.

  “Father,” I say, clearing my throat. “A party from our remote security team is here to give you a report.”

  “They can give their report in the morning,” our father says with a dismissive wave of his fingers.

  “Yes, Father, but they are here now. Would you like them to spend the night in the guardhouse?”

  Our father’s eyes glitter unhappily. “I see no reason for us to put them up for the night. I will see to them in a while.”

  I nod, knowing better than to say anything further. Margot seats herself beside our mother on the white sofa. I stand behind and drape a hand on Margot’s shoulder, feel her heart slow.

  “Quite remarkable,” our guest continues. “How do people tell them apart?” he says as though we are not in the room.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Resnikov,” I boldly say, “we are quite different.” As different as Resnikov and Richardson, at the very least.

  Our mother clears her throat and fingers the elegant diamond choker around her elegant neck. I am to consider myself warned. When I hear Fritz arguing with Jared all the way down the hallway, I can’t decide if I’m delighted or terrified. Then he appears, grim and unhappy, at the arched doorway. At least he’s wearing a shirt, I think to myself, even if it does have blood spatters all over it.

  “Mr. Fox,” he calls out, “we need to discuss some urgent security matters.”

  Our father meets Jared in the hallway. Leo Resnikov takes it all in, papering over the embarrassing incident in the hallway with conversation and a wave of his elegant and manicured hand. Still, the occasional punch of voices tells us that Father and Jared are having words. Father returns a few minutes later, eyes glassy with anger. He reaches for his leather gloves, waiting for him on the mantle, and squeezes the life out of them as he sits back down.

  “Lucy? A moment please,” drifts a strangled voice from the hallway. I remain rooted to the spot, our father’s eyes locking on mine. “Lucy?” Jared says again. I take a single step.

  My father’s hands are on my shoulders before I’ve made it halfway across the room. I have never seen him so furious. “You will stay exactly where you are. And that man,” he enunciates slowly, as though he’s chewing, “will never step foot in this house again. Is that understood?”

  I frown down at my shoes. “Yes, Father.”

  A moment later I hear Fritz’s voice again. I half expect Jared to appear at the door covered in fur and bristling with bloody blue anger. Wisely, he doesn’t. Their voices drift away, down the corridor to the front door. An engine turns over. Wheels screech as a car speeds away, and Jared with it.

  The rest of the party ignores the scene like nothing at all has happened. Our mother prattles away about our impending Reveal while Resnikov reels off question after question. But Margot taps at her thigh to draw my attention. Her eyes are dark, hooded, filled with an unnamable dread I’d as soon say mirrors my own.

  ...

  “Do you think they’ll find her?” Margot asks me. It’s late. The city has dulled to a quiet hum. A breeze ripples through the floating curtains of her bed where we snuggle together, two peas in a pod.

  “Who? The witch? I don’t know,” I murmur. This particular witch could be anywhere. She could have been eaten by the Plague. Or like the goners, she could have just packed up and left.

  Silence wraps around us, making us feel almost alone in the world. “Do you think we’ll ever see them again?” I can tell how much it costs her to ask me.

  I stroke her hair, her cheek. “Of course we will.” She doesn’t ask how I know. “Picture,” I say, starting one of our oldest games.

  Margot taps her bottom lip with a finger. “Mmm, hot sandy beach, waves that go on forever. Cotton candy clouds.” I smile at her choice of perfect memories, pictures we would like to press ourselves into. She turns to me. “Picture.”

  But as I stare into my sister’s eyes, I realize there is really only one picture worth playing for.

  “Pile of corpses. Our enemies strewn in the streets. Jared and Torch and Mohawk beside us. Nolan Storm standing on top of the pile of bones wearing Dominion’s crown.”

  Margot’s quick intake of breath is horror-filled. “Why would you say that?”

  “I’m tired of being hunted. Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but Lucy,” she pleads.

  “Go to sleep, Margot,” I say, quiet-quiet, brushing my fingers through her hair. “I’ll watch over you tonight.”

  ...

  Tap, tap, tap. Not at Margot’s garden door but mine. I lay still, listen carefully to its unfamiliar rhythm before gathering myself from Margot’s bed and heading to my room. A dark silhouette fills the glass. My heart knocks in my chest like a fist, in time with the rapping. I think about pretending I don’t hear him. But for all I know he can see me. He can probably smell me through the glass. From the darkness a pair of indigo eyes wink owlishly.

  I cross the room to open the door. “What are you doing here?”

  He listens at the threshold before stepping in and closing the door behind him. “What do you think I’m doing?” he growls.

  Something brought him to my bedroom door, but now he seems unsure of himself. I can almost see him sifting through the scents in the room, shoulders relaxing by degrees as he casts furtive looks in all the shadowy areas.

  “You look better,” I say, hoping my relief isn’t too obvious.

  “You smell better.” He grins and flips a lock of his hair. The casual, laid-back Jared is back.

  “So,” I say, “you made quite an impression on our father tonight.” I move over to the bedside table and switch on the rose-colored lamp.

  “Turn it off. It might bring attention.” His voice is so quiet it’s as though it floats through the air on a string.

  I switch the lamp off again. “How did you get in here, anyway?”

  “I’m going to have to talk to Shane about your father’s security measures. They’re paltry.”

  “Says the cat.”

  “Yeah”—his eyes rake over
me—“says the cat.” It’s then I realize that the silence following his words isn’t just awkward. Jared is listening.

  “What are you listening for?”

  “Is your father always such a peach?” He grabs my arms and maneuvers me over to the bed. I sit down while Jared stands over me.

  “No, sometimes he’s even peachier.”

  Jared snorts. “Funny.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here at—three in the morning?” I wince at my bedside clock. Jared rubs his nose like it hurts. “Did you break in so you could tell me my parents have issues? Because—Feedflash—I already know.”

  “Lucy…” Jared sighs and crouches before me. His glittering green cat’s eyes slowly travel up my pajama-clad body. They rest here and there, frustrated and slightly lost, on my thighs, my breasts, my shoulders. “Look, your father made it perfectly clear he expects me to stay away from you two. And he’ll probably fire Storm before he’ll listen to details of the attack. I—couldn’t just leave and let you think I’d abandoned you.”

  It’s not the confession I expect. As I stare down into the shadowy planes of his too handsome face I wonder if he is just as taken aback. “So…what’s the plan? Storm has a plan, right? Because frankly, I’m flat out of leads to follow on my own.”

  The familiar Jared—jerky Jared—resurfaces. He pats a patronizing hand on my knee but forgets to remove it, where it burns a slow hole through me and heats my blood. “Sure.” He snorts. “You won’t see us, but we’ll see you.”

  “Jared.” I move my hand so it sits on top of his. “You didn’t see the man in the living room, did you?”

  A dozen expressions flit over his face. “No,” he says cautiously.

  I lean down slowly and curl a protective hand around his ear before whispering. “It’s like he’s Richardson’s twin, Jared. Tell Storm his name is Leo Resnikov. He’s up to something. Something weird is going on and…I’m scared.” Jared doesn’t move away, not at first. He clenches his fingers around my knee, his back stiff and straight. When his feral eyes meet mine, I’m taken by surprise at the heat burning through them. “Don’t leave us,” I plead, clawing at his hand.

  Jared’s clothes blend in with the darkness of the room so I almost don’t see him move when he cups my cheeks. For a fiery second his lips meet mine, fierce, hungry. He rests his forehead against mine and draws long hauls of air into his lungs. I can’t tell if he’s trying to control his temper or to bathe in my scent.

  I almost don’t recognize him when he sits back on his heels. The lines of his face have become sharper, longer, the nose short and soft. His words are slightly muddled, as though he’s drunk. “I got you,” he pledges, sharp teeth punctuating each syllable. Jared tips his head back and snarls once, a grumpy kitten more than a terrifying panther, before sailing out the balcony door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Don’t be a bore. Play something uplifting,” our mother tells Margot in a tight voice. Then she turns her attention to me. “Lucy,” she hisses. “Do that song you used to do with your sister.”

  As I join my sister at the piano, I feel her heaviness, like a rain cloud about to burst. Margot opens with a soft chord. I follow. At least singing gives me a chance to take in the elaborate scene being played out before us. The room is a giant stage, with the piano and us girls as its centerpiece. Candles flicker romantically from sconces, chandelier lit low, throwing prisms onto the faces of the guests: Senator and Mary Kain to the far side of the room. Betts Gallagher and her husband George seated behind them. Some of our father’s other business associates. A diplomat from France. And the smirking, amused Leo Resnikov.

  His eyes follow us everywhere, as though those eyes have bought and sold us a dozen times over. I can tell from the way Mary Kain flirts with him that people think he’s handsome. Maybe it’s the long face with the dimples, the sandy, boyish hair. Still, underneath his tailored black tie, I’d as soon call him a wolf.

  When the polite spattering of applause for our performance dies down, I overhear our mother speaking with Betts Gallagher. “Of course, due to the timing we’ll keep it small—a hundred or so. But I think the intimacy will make it feel a little more exclusive.”

  Our Reveal party. It’s all our mother has spoken about since she returned. The plans are “shaping up nicely,” she tells everyone within range. “Everyone will just die with envy,” she says. Beside me, Margot mouths, or just die.

  Betts leans over, her signature red sequins falling away from her ample bosom as she tells our mother in a dramatic whisper, “It’s all anyone can talk about. It will be the party of the year.” I listen to them prattle on with half an ear, the other half watching the wolf work the guests across the room. I’m so caught up in the game, I almost miss what passes between the ladies. “He’ll play escort to one of the girls, of course. But I’m leaving it up to him which,” our mother drawls. “A month ago I would have been sure he’d pick Margot, but she’s been so withdrawn lately.” Betts tsks, the sequins across her bosom swaying back and forth like a pendulum as she shakes her head. “Lucy isn’t as adventurous as her sister, but she has a certain edge about her these days that I think appeals to Russian aristocracy.”

  As Betts bobs her head in agreement and gulps down her drink, I finally comprehend something of the larger picture. Resnikov is to be the guest of honor at our Reveal party, not us. It’s a showpiece for him. What I don’t yet know is why. A month ago I would have been offended that my parents were giving Margot and my special day to a stranger. Now, though, I just want answers. Our parents have never let someone else choose who will be our escorts. Leo Resnikov has a kind of power over them I’ve never seen before.

  A ripple in the room alerts me to a visitor. A woman in a long white trench coat stands at the threshold of the living room, flanked by an embarrassed Shane. Her frizzy nest of hair has been pulled into a tall bun. It makes her look even more severe, with a long neck and a gaze that fastens on you like she’s just pulled a gun. Those eyes bead on my sister, then me. There’s a message in them as she argues with our father, who has appeared out of nowhere to “deal” with our unwelcome guest. I meet Margot’s eyes. My sister is near the fireplace—too far to be of any help. And of course, she is trapped in conversation with Resnikov.

  Snippets of their conversation drift over to me as I draw near. “Sir.” Dorian Raines pulls herself up and stares our father down, no easy task. “I will tell you one more time. I am here to see your daughters on medical authority. I am not at liberty to discuss it with you. By right of Section 3. 4.1 of the Health Code—”

  “Surely you’re not invoking the Code in my home. With all my guests here.” Our father’s voice cuts through, silk underlaid with steel. If she had any sense at all, Dorian Raines would turn and run.

  “I’m merely here to seek out a moment with your daughters. Alone.”

  It’s too late. The damage is done—not that I think he ever would have let her speak to us anyhow. The Health Code was something they dreamed up when the Plague came, like writing a eulogy for a funeral that has already taken place. It was supposed to create a Protocol for handling the illness. What it did was, it gave doctors, especially geneticists, unprecedented authority for dealing with the ins and outs of the disease.

  It should have protected her. Had Dorian invoked the Code in any other household, in any other situation, people would have bent over backward to accommodate her.

  But this is the Upper Circle. And here our father is king. The last thing the king will put up with is a threat to his authority. And I’ve done the unthinkable: gone outside his boundaries and seen a doctor not on his payroll. Worse, she’s exposing us in front of our father’s business associate.

  “Dr. Raines.” I sweep in and grab one of her hands. She’s cold, shaking with rage. “I’m so glad you found the place.”

  She stares at me for a long second before I see the shift behind her eyes. “Lucy, how good of you to greet me. I thin
k there’s been some misunderstanding. Your father says I don’t have an appointment.”

  And with that one little line, she overplays our hand. “Dr. Raines will simply have to make another appointment.” Our father’s smile tightens like a noose as my stomach sinks. “You’ll call her office in the morning and set something up, won’t you?” Meaning, of course, never. He waves a dismissive hand at the doctor, which signals a new man sporting a merc-style buzz cut and oversized muscles, to step behind her as Shane melts away.

  “I’ll just escort Dr. Raines to the door, shall I?” Murder is written in our father’s eyes. The merc trails us, but for the next minute and a half, I have Dorian Raines to myself.

  “Lucy,” she starts.

  I shake my head and cut her off. With a smile that might not look too frozen, I ask, “Storm sent you?”

  But Dorian’s blue eyes are startled. “Not exactly.”

  “Did they find the witch?” The door is too close. I slow down, pretending to show Dorian the lintels and the sconces. Buzz cut stops at an appropriate distance. Hopefully, out of hearing range.

  “No, I don’t know anything about a…” She stops, hands on hips. “I’m here because of the blood tests.”

  “What about them?”

  “You need to hear. You both do.”

  “We have about twenty seconds before we’re rudely separated,” I bite out.

  “The blood work showed slightly different properties between your and your sister’s blood. I ran the test again and again, but without more samples the results remain uncertain.”

  I come to a dead stop. “What does that mean?”

  This is not the Dorian Raines I have become accustomed to: the calm, no-nonsense, unflappable doctor. This Dorian has high color in her otherwise pale cheeks, a disturbed, excited gleam to her blue eyes.

  This Dorian Raines has discovered something unthinkable.

  “Tell me,” I demand.

  “We knew there’s something peculiar to your blood. And there is. Listen, your blood type doesn’t even register. I’ve never seen anything like it. And to make matters more complex… Don’t you realize? You and Margot were conjoined. You should both have the same blood phenotype. As in, exactly the same.”