“Water,” the assistant says, passing me the glass with ice. “And chets.” She holds up a packet with maybe twenty inside. The value of this in my air-barracks back on the Base would be stunning.
“Thank you.” I accept the chets, resisting the urge to take a whole one now, and drop them in the pocket of my sweater for later, when I can better afford to be dull. Right now, I need my wits.
Clifton’s deep voice greets the liaison at the entrance to the reception area. He looks immediately to me, cuts off the man in front of him with his hand, and walks in my direction. “Roselle.” He says my name with such relief that I feel as if he cares. Large hands reach out for me and hug me. It’s shocking that he’s embracing me in a setting like this. He’s firstborn. I’m secondborn. The intimacy is taboo. It’s also causing excruciating pain in my ribs.
“Clifton,” I whimper and exhale.
Reykin puts his hand on Clifton’s shoulder and shoves him away from me. “Don’t touch her.” Clifton looks at the hand on his shoulder, then their eyes lock. The arms dealer isn’t used to anyone coming between us, and he doesn’t like it. Not one bit. “She’s injured,” Reykin adds.
Clifton throws Reykin a murderous glare. It was a trying night for him. Many of his friends and associates were murdered. He’s probably still adjusting to the shock.
“I’ll be better in a day,” I explain gently.
Clifton’s expression softens. “I’m sorry. I’ve been worried about you. I thought you died last night.” Real sorrow shines in his eyes. I want to fall back into his arms. He’s not emotionally bereft like all the other people here. It makes me almost forget he’s dangerous. Almost.
Clifton still has an agenda, and I’m a huge part of it.
“Excuse me, sir,” a Star assistant interrupts Clifton. “I was told that you have the surveillance footage?”
Clifton nods. He lifts his hand and unlocks his sword-shaped moniker. His eyes open menus made of holographic energy. “Where do I send it?” The man indicates his moniker. Clifton nods and initiates the transfer. Dropping his arm, he says to me, “You haven’t introduced me to your friend.”
“Firstborn Clifton Salloway,” I begin, “may I introduce Firstborn Reykin Winterstrom.”
“Winterstrom,” Clifton says, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“We haven’t,” Reykin says.
Clifton gazes at his left hand. “You’re a Star. How do you know my Roselle?”
“Your Roselle?”
“I’m her commanding officer.”
“She’s an advisor to the Halo Council, of which I’m a member,” Reykin replies with an entitled firstborn air he has perfected.
Suddenly The Virtue storms in, lifts a vase of irises from a mirrored side table, and throws it against the glass wall. It shatters into pieces. A ripple of flinches moves through the assembled assistants, but I’m used to the tides of war. Breaking glass merely gets my attention.
“Every unapproved secondborn out!” The Virtue bellows.
Secondborns claw each other in their haste to leave. Glisten is among the wiliest, leading the way. I don’t move. After the mass exodus, only an intimate number of secondborns and a slightly larger number of firstborns remain. Some I’ve met before, like Valdi Shelling. Others I don’t even recognize—except maybe the one in the corner, staring at me.
“How could you let this happen in Virtues? In my city!” The Virtue rages at Dune. Dune remains silent, unruffled. “And you!” The Virtue points at Clifton. “You should have seen this coming!”
Clifton begins making his apologies and shifting the subject to the plan for upgrading security features around the city. “With the massive wartime technology my team is developing . . .”
My eyes return to the firstborn in the corner. He’s still watching me. This older man seems so familiar. I don’t know why. My head tilts. He smiles at my who-are-you gesture, and then recognition dawns—I should say, Gates of Dawns.
Adrenaline crashes into my bloodstream. He’s Sword Commander Walther Petes. Dune’s fraternal twin brother. Here, in the Halo Palace. It must be him. My eyes go to his moniker, expecting to see a silver secondborn sword, but it’s gold. He’s a firstborn Sword.
He has the same build as Dune, with the same chiseled bone structure and the same full-lipped smile. His hair is a warm chestnut color. He wears it short—military length. His nose is different from Dune’s. This man’s nose has been broken a few times and never repaired. He’s clean-shaven. I try to see the color of his eyes, but he’s too far away.
“And you!” The Virtue rages on, his finger jabbing at me. “How are you still alive after you fell from the top of the Sword social club?”
“I’m hard to kill,” I reply.
His eyes flare. He glances from my face to Dune’s, and then back. “You’re ‘hard to kill.’ That’s your answer?”
“Yes.”
A rumble of surprised laughter shakes his shoulders. “She’s hard to kill,” he roars, laughing furiously and looking over everyone in the room. Others join him tentatively. His rage-filled gaze returns to me. “So am I. If I find that you were a part of this, I will rip your throat out.”
I nod once, not looking away.
Clifton intervenes. “I brought the security footage from the social club. We can review it now.”
“Show it,” The Virtue barks. Clifton nods to the secondborn Star behind us. The security shutters lower over the transparent wall, blotting out the sun. Soft lighting illuminates the room. The security doors close, imprisoning us inside.
The Virtue remains standing, but others find seats. Grisholm gets Reykin’s attention and indicates a chair for him. I choose not to sit with them, drifting to the back of the room near the wall of flowing water and its tranquil pattering sound. Clifton takes a position on one side of me. Maybe he’s already seen the footage, and he was present for the event, but he doesn’t watch when the holographic images of the main ballroom, the gallery level, and the Gods Table take shape. The noise of the party is clamorous. I tense, waiting for the mayhem.
A warm hand brushes mine with a gentle stroke against my smallest finger. I glance up at Clifton’s face, a mask of remorse. Impulsively, I latch on to his hand for the briefest of moments, squeeze it, and then let it go.
The holographic recording flares with light. Death Gods invaded the club through a rooftop terrace entrance in pairs. More than likely, they used gravitizers, which means they had extensive military training. The assassins trickle in and blend with the revelers, taking up positions near doors, exits, security drones, and the club’s private security.
Hawthorne and the Death Gods entered the building in the same way. That bothers me, although it makes strategic sense. It’s how I would enter if I wanted to get in and weren’t invited.
“Why aren’t the drones picking them up?” The Virtue bellows.
“Pause,” Clifton orders. The footage stills. “They didn’t have monikers.”
“The drones should have alerted us to that.”
“We believe they used a device that reflects the moniker closest to them. At such proximity, the drones cannot discern there are multiple people. It fools them into believing the person has simply moved.” From the pocket of his trousers, he holds up a black cuff bracelet with a flat, square chip embedded in it. “We recovered these from the bodies of the attackers. We’ve never encountered this type of technology before. My engineers are pulling them apart as we speak. We should know more soon.”
“Do you suspect Burton?”
“I do,” Clifton replies without reservation.
“Resume!” The Virtue orders, his hands clenched into fists.
My holographic image enters the social club. I can hardly watch. The burn of adrenaline, of knowing what lies ahead, sickens me. I want to reach into her world of light and warn her—tell her to save her father—but I can’t. The sound transports me back to that living nightmare. Panic seizes. My vision blurs. I’m gasping. No one n
otices. They’re all riveted by the footage. Then the carnage begins.
Reaching into my sweater pocket, I take out the packet of chets. The cellophane wrapper crinkles loudly beneath the recorded screams of a violent massacre. My shaking fingers have a difficult time tearing open the seal. Walther eases the packet from my grasp, deftly opening it and offering me a small white stamp in his palm. I don’t take it all. Instead, I rip off a corner piece and put it in my mouth. Dune’s brother stuffs the rest of the chet back into the cellophane and slips them into my pocket. Slowly, my breathing eases, though everything still has a faraway perspective.
My holographic image enters the gallery, sparking cheers from some of the group assembled here. The firstborns are enjoying this, as if it were some form of entertainment. I stifle a snort of derision.
“Who is that Sword?” The Virtue shouts.
“Pause,” Clifton orders. “That’s Hawthorne Trugrave. He’s a newly Transitioned firstborn. You remember him—he was at the Sword Palace the night you acquired Roselle.”
Acquired. Have I been acquired? Is that what they’re calling my internment here?
“Get him here!” The Virtue barks.
“Of course,” Clifton replies. “Resume.” He sends a message with his moniker.
Under the influence of the chet, I analyze the Goddess Roselle before me. She’s possessed, eviscerating her enemies with the vengeance of a wrathful deity. Ruthlessly, she hunts them. The fusionmag is an extension of her will. With Tyburn behind her, shielding her back, she’s the north, south, and east winds.
The men watching shout thunderously and applaud when Roselle slices open the leg of the flying Death God with her dagger. Her fall to the ballroom floor elicits gasps. More cheers roar as she targets the flying assassin and shoots him out of the air. But when she dons goggles and spews a billowing cloud of red dust into the ballroom, the firstborns jump to their feet, clapping uproariously at the wholesale slaughter of assassins, as if she’s some favored competitor in the Secondborn Trials.
I am unable to look away. I feel nothing when the war goddess tackles the bomb-wielding assassin, crashing with him through the window and out into the night sky. The grenade explodes. All the glass blows inward, shooting shards toward the surveillance cameras. The firstborns raise their arms to their faces and gasp.
The holographic footage ends. Whoops of laughter seize the group. Grisholm is one of the most riotous, as if he’s been on a thrill ride and can’t stop talking about the experience. He turns to Reykin, chatting boisterously. Reykin glances over his shoulder at me. His expression is grim. I look away.
The Virtue calls Clifton back to the front of the room. He and Dune brief Fabian Bowie and his advisors on their preliminary findings about the massacre.
I’m barely listening.
“You were brave,” Walther says. I meet his eyes. They’re jade colored, not sand.
“It wasn’t bravery,” I reply. “It was rage—a Sword-Fated threnody.”
“Remind me not to upset you.”
“I’ll do that. Walther.”
His smile is one of pure pleasure. For a moment, it soothes the ache in my chest.
Dune says, “I’d like to introduce Firstborn Walther Petes.” He gestures in our direction. “He’s a newly Transitioned firstborn, a former secondborn commanding officer at the Twilight Forest Base in Swords. His brother, Fergusson Petes, was among the casualties at the club last night. He flew in this morning to assume his new position as a military consultant to The Virtue.”
“Please excuse me, Roselle,” Walther says, turning and making his way to the front. He calls for the holographic footage to be replayed and begins to dissect the crime, pointing out all the crucial elements The Virtue hadn’t noticed.
As I analyze the players before me, questions take shape in my mind. I’m no longer so certain that my mother and brother perpetrated this crime. For one thing, they weren’t the only ones who had strong motives. Fergusson Petes was at the social club. His death not only elevated Dune’s twin brother to firstborn, but it also afforded Dune the opportunity to infiltrate The Virtue’s trusted advisory panel with yet another Gates of Dawn operative.
Clifton explains the device that mirrors monikers. The accusation that it may be Burton’s technology certainly plays in his favor, but is it enough of a reason to make him shoot up a Sword social club? Maybe not, but the plan to install Salloway security technology everywhere throughout the city of Purity—that is. A plan like that allows Clifton to control the capital, especially when The Virtue no longer trusts the Sword military.
My mind reels with all the possible political motivations for last night’s slaughter. The problem is that neither the Rose Gardeners nor the Gates of Dawn wants me dead. Maybe they knew I could handle myself if given the proper motivation? Killing my father wouldn’t only motivate me, it would get them both one step closer to making me the most powerful person in the world.
Reykin nudges Grisholm. The Firstborn Commander rises from his seat. Approaching The Virtue, he leans down and whispers in his father’s ear. The Virtue glances at me absently. He gives a dismissive wave of his hand and then turns back to the briefing. Grisholm nods to Reykin, who makes his way to me. “You’re cleared to leave and seek medical attention,” he says. “I’ll accompany you.” He holds my upper arm in a tight grip. I can’t pull away without making a scene.
I walk with him to the exit. Reykin scans his moniker, opening the security doors. Together we descend the stairs and pass by the mob of assembled guards. Neither of us speaks as we wait for the air elevator. A car arrives, and the glass doors open. A single passenger steps forward. My knees weaken.
“Hawthorne!” I say in a hushed tone.
Hawthorne’s eyes widen. He looks at Reykin’s hand on my arm and then to his face. With an instant snarl, Hawthorne swings his fist, connecting with Reykin’s jaw. A lesser man would hit the ground, but Reykin doesn’t fold. He strikes back, thumping Hawthorne in the throat with the heel of his hand. Wheezing and reeling, Hawthorne stumbles sideways. Reykin kicks him in the side. Hawthorne lurches forward and tackles Reykin. They crash hard onto the marble floor. Exo guards surround them and pull them apart.
“Enough!” I shout. I wait for them to stop struggling against the guards. “Let them go,” I order the security team. “They both have important business with The Virtue. Firstborn Trugrave was summoned here.” But I’m secondborn and have no authority. I’m completely ignored.
A female guard scans Hawthorne’s and Reykin’s monikers. She nods to the other guards. Both men are tentatively released, but burly Exos surround them. Drones circle, their weapons trained on the pair. The female guard turns to Reykin. “Do you want to press charges, Firstborn Winterstrom?”
Hawthorne jerks in my direction. His eyes burrow into me. He recognizes the name as the Winterstrom crest seared into my palm. “Reykin,” I say in my sweetest tone, “can you decide on that later? I missed breakfast, and I was hoping you’d join me. I know you like ham and eggs.”
Hawthorne’s aggressive posture slowly eases. He understood that I meant our friends, Hammon and Edgerton. Reykin straightens his black sleeve, pulling down on the cuff. “Anything for you, Roselle.” From his pocket, he takes out a small square of cloth and dabs the blood from the corner of his mouth. He turns to the female guard. “Let him go. Trugrave has a meeting with The Virtue, and I have an appointment for brunch.”
Reykin joins me by the air lift. We enter the elevator car together. I don’t turn to see Hawthorne’s expression as I leave. I can’t bear it. He knows now that I’ve been hiding how I got my scar, and what it means. If he doesn’t already suspect that I’m a Fate traitor, he will soon.
Chapter 11
The Promise of Dawn
The air elevator descends. Tears brighten my eyes. My body begins to tremble.
“He won’t talk,” I whisper. “You control the lives of the people he loves.”
“Shh,” Reykin replies.
/>
Our eyes meet. Fear drives through my heart. “Don’t do anything. Please.”
He stares ahead at the city skyline as we descend into the main Palace, toward the medical facility on one of the subterranean floors.
Upon arrival, I find that the Atom physicians on duty have been expecting me. I’m ushered into a private room, where a male technician cuts my taped bandages away. He provides me with a white bodysuit with cutouts that expose my ribs. After donning the flimsy garment, I’m joined by a team of physicians. I expect Reykin to leave, but he doesn’t. He presides over the medical team, scrutinizing every device. My ribs are scanned. Knowing what’s ahead, I want to forgo it, but Reykin convinces me to submit to the bone fusion and skin regeneration procedure. I lie down on the table beneath the white lights and looming laser arm.
A secondborn female technician enters and takes a seat behind the laser’s control panel. The rest of the Atom-Fated medical team leaves. Reykin sits beside me. The laser emits a nauseating whine as it boots up.
“I hate this part,” I murmur.
Reykin lifts his chin toward the technician. “Give her something for pain.”
“She’s secondborn,” the woman replies. “Pain relief isn’t protocol in noncombat situations.”
“How much to circumvent protocol?” he asks.
The technician looks around. “A hundred merits.”
“Done.”
She slides from her seat and leaves the room.
“You’re going to make me soft,” I murmur.
“I’ll risk it this one time.”
In minutes, she’s back with a cylindrical tank. “I can’t give her the regulated drugs—they track them—but this will do the trick. It’ll make her happy and sleepy. It’s a little old-fashioned but effective.” She threads tubes over my ears and into my nostrils, instructing me to breathe deeply. I do. A heady rush of euphoria softens my pain. I smile broadly and giggle.