Secondborn

“How long has it been?”

  “I was nine.”

  “I remember. Your brother died. What was his name, Astra?”

  “Aston.”

  She ashes her cigar. “He was always so funny!” she flirts, but it feels callous and cold. Clifton takes my hand under the table. Marielle is oblivious, clearly accustomed to being the most desirable woman in the room. “My father wouldn’t let me see you after that—when you lost your title.”

  “Your father was protecting you.” Our food arrives. A plate is set in front of me.

  “There’s a lot more to miss now.” She gives him a girl-of-summer smile. “You should never let your firstborn high go to waste, Clifton.” Her eyes fall on me.

  “You have no idea what gets me high, Marielle,” he replies. He looks away from her to me.

  “I’m interested in what gets you high, Salloway,” Gabriel says. He pushes his food around on his plate. I wish he’d eat some of it. It might make him feel better.

  Clifton lowers his eyes, cutting his steak. “Visionary highs, Gabriel. Creating something from nothing. Collaborating with brilliant minds who don’t understand muted emotions or thoughts.”

  “Like visionary plans for rose gardens?” Gabriel asks with a hollow tone.

  “Exactly like that. I’d like to plant one in a cemetery that I know. It’ll cover up the bones of the dead. I was showing my plans to some investors in the Fate of Virtues. Their interest is absolute.”

  “You don’t know her at all,” Gabriel says with a sad smile on his face.

  “And you do, Gabriel?” Clifton asks.

  My brother toys with his food. “I know that if you look in her clutch you’ll find half of a steak stashed inside it—treats for her sweet babies.”

  Mother steps to the podium. “It is my great pleasure to welcome you all here tonight. It’s a night that is very special to me. We are here to honor the brave men and women who serve our Fate and all the Fates as their secondborn birthright.”

  Everything about this evening suddenly makes sense to me. Mother arranged for this—my medal ceremony—to motivate Gabriel into taking action against me. This is her way of pressing for my death warrant. Clifton knows it. He’s issuing a threat of his own, letting Gabriel know that I’m not without allies. And Gabriel feels betrayed by me.

  “For bravery behind enemy lines,” Othala says, “I’m pleased to bestow the Medal of Valor to secondborn Roselle Sword.”

  I rise from my seat to a smattering of applause, picking up my clutch. As I near Gabriel, I lift my sharp knife. He doesn’t move or show any emotion, merely stares at Clifton. He never flinches when I stab the knife into his steak, skewering it. I open my clutch and thrust the steak into it, a treat for the maginots later, though it makes my point now. Closing the clutch, I set the knife on the table and walk to the podium.

  Mother lifts the medal, intending to pin it on Emmitt’s dress. I hold out my hand instead. She places it in my palm. “Would you like to say a few words, Roselle?”

  I nod and look out at the sea of firstborns before me. “I accept this on behalf of secondborn Swords everywhere, whose valor protects all of you every day.” Instead of returning to my seat, I walk to the door at the back of the ballroom and slip outside to the stone veranda. Iono guards stand watch at all the entrances to this fortress, but they ignore me because I’m breaking out, not breaking in. I take the stone stairs down to the grounds at the back of the house. The lights overlooking the manicured lawns show off the glorious topiary maze and bronze statues of soldiers from other eras. I used to love to get lost among them.

  My high-heeled shoes crunch on the gravel. I walk to the stone bridge over the koi pond and toss the medal into the water. The sound of the splash fades. I keep walking. The stone-tiled rooftops of the kennels come into view. The wolfhounds know me by my scent, and my sweet babies run to me and surround me, their iridescent yellow eyes following my every movement. They sniff the air and whine in anticipation of treats. I wait for the boldest among them to come to me. Opening my clutch, I take out Gabriel’s steak and tear off pieces of it, tossing them to the pack.

  My favorite maginot approaches me. “I missed you, Rabbit,” I whisper. The giant wolfhound nudges me with his vicious-looking muzzle. “How’s my good boy?” Standing on all four of his legs, Rabbit and I are at eye level. I scratch the thick fur of his neck. He licks my face. My fingers slide under his metal collar, and I feel for the lever there. The pin eases from the bolt, and Rabbit automatically sits and becomes still.

  I nudge the bolt open. A port slips out of Rabbit’s neck. From my shoe, I tug out the device that Reykin gave me. Inserted in Rabbit’s port, the star-shaped metal spins like a glowing sun. Rabbit’s muscles twitch as the cyborg accepts the device’s program. The golden star slows and stops.

  “Never outlive your usefulness, sweet baby,” I whisper, “and never trust the pack.” I hug him. In the morning, when Rabbit is called back inside the kennel, he’ll be connected to the Sword Palace’s main systems. His handlers will upload his security logs. They won’t realize that when they do, Reykin’s program will be among the data. The rootkit drivers in the malware will conceal it. “We’re gonna burn it all down, Rabbit. You . . . and me.”

  Chapter 24

  The Hand and the Heart

  On the way back toward the ballroom to rejoin Clifton, I pause at the apex of the stone bridge. The koi pond beneath me reflects the stars of billions of other worlds. Bending the arms of the thin, star-shaped device in my hand, I break them off one by one and drop them into the water. Concentric circles ripple outward in the dark pool. Soft music floats to me from the orchestra inside. When all the pieces disappear, I exhale deeply, resting my forehead against the bridge’s cool stone railing.

  Footsteps make me straighten. A man stops at the edge of the bridge. I turn toward him. It’s Hawthorne. His face is hidden in shadow, but I’d know him anywhere. He approaches me slowly, deliberately. I take a step back. I don’t have a weapon. I step toward the other side of the bridge, and he moves to block my way.

  “You can’t be out here.” My voice quivers, sounding weak. He takes a couple of more steps toward me. “The maginots will shred you.”

  “You’re not afraid of those vicious cyborgs,” he murmurs, “but you’re afraid of me?”

  “They’ve never hurt me.”

  He glances down, looking wounded. “You have to leave. Now. Just go—don’t return to the ballroom.” He takes my left hand in his. From the pocket of his uniform, he pulls out a small aerosol device and sprays the skin over my moniker. The holographic sword fades from view. “Don’t go back to the Base,” he growls. “Stay in the city. Clifton can’t protect you at the Base like he can in Forge.”

  “What did you just do to my moniker?”

  “I covered it with CR-40. It’s a polymer. It’ll block your signal for a few hours—enough time for you to get away from here.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Gabriel is out of his mind right now. He’s given a kill order for you. Assassins are being dispatched.”

  “I’m not against him. He knows that! This isn’t him. He’s not like this, Hawthorne!”

  “He’s like this now, Roselle. When I fail to kill you tonight, there will be others. Be vigilant—stay with your Salloway bodyguards at all times.”

  “How long have you been working for my brother?” After seeing Hawthorne with Gabriel the day I came back from the Fate of Stars, I didn’t want to believe what I know in my heart to be true.

  “Since the day we met. I was sent by him to look for you—to see if you survived the attack.”

  “So Gabriel saved me from Agent Crow, or was that you?”

  Hawthorne scowls. “It’s always been me, Roselle. Just me. Your family has always been fine with the idea of you dying. It’s your living that concerns them.” He looks over his shoulder, then turns back to me. Seeing that I’m not going to leave without some kind of explanation, he relents. “My brother
was Gabriel’s right hand on the Heritage Council. Did you know Flint?”

  I shake my head. “After I turned eleven, I was kept away from Gabriel. Over the years, I’d sometimes see members of his council at the Palace, but I was never permitted to speak to them. I was beneath their notice.”

  Hawthorne nods, his expression grim. He’s on the other side of the fence now—one of them—but he knows what it’s like to be secondborn. “Flint contacted me on Gabriel’s behalf the day of the attack. You remember when I found you?”

  I nod. “You thought I was in shock.”

  “They’d given us your last known position. It was Flint I was talking to in my headset when I located you. He hadn’t spoken to me since I’d Transitioned, and all of a sudden, he wanted me to find you to see if you survived.”

  “Were they afraid I was dead?”

  “They were only worried that you’d been taken by the Gates of Dawn,” he replies. “They were afraid you’d slip out of their control. Once they found out you were alive, I was ordered to make sure you arrived at the Base for your Transition.”

  I don’t think I want to know any more. My throat aches, but I have to ask. “So you thought you’d be finished with all of us as soon as you released me into Transition?”

  “Yes, but it didn’t go down that way, did it? Gabriel had you placed in my air-barracks. Since the morning I found you in the locker room, I was required to give Flint and Gabriel status updates. I never told them what you and I really talked about—I gave them false reports. When I told you I’ve loved you since I was ten, that was real. Everything we’ve shared together is real.”

  I don’t know what to believe. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’ve agonized about telling you everything, but your not knowing made every lie I told them more credible. And you’ve been having nightmares since I met you. What would it do to you to know that my lies were keeping you alive? I would’ve kept on lying to you—lying to them—anything so they’d leave you alone. But Flint was murdered . . . and now I know the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “Gabriel is losing his mind. He’s paranoid, especially since he found out about the Rose Garden Society—and before you ask, no, I didn’t tell them. Othala found out and reported it to Gabriel. The danger to you is absolute now. Gabriel has sided with your mother. He wants you dead, Roselle.”

  The betrayal I feel is at war with my love for both Hawthorne and my brother. I understand everything Hawthorne’s telling me. I might even be able to accept it, later, when the crushing turmoil and wretchedness abate. By earning Gabriel’s trust, Hawthorne has kept me safe. I know Gabriel trusts him—it was in his eyes back in the Grand Foyer. And now Clifton has pushed Gabriel to the brink. “What are you to my brother, now that you’re not his secondborn spy?”

  Hawthorne winces at the term. “I took Flint’s place as your brother’s first lieutenant on the Heritage Council.”

  “You’re Gabriel’s right hand?” I pale. That’s not a position awarded lightly. Killing me would prove Hawthorne’s loyalty, but he’s warning me instead.

  “He’s made me his right hand. But you, Roselle, will always be my heart.” I can’t deny the aching tenderness in his voice.

  “Hawthorne, don’t hurt Gabriel,” I plead, grasping his forearm. “He’s sick. Mother has made him ill.”

  “He has made himself ill, Roselle!” Hawthorne’s jaw clenches. “The chemicals he ingests have rotted his mind. He’s paranoid and delusional. One minute he believes you want him dead, and the next he’s ranting that you’re the only person who understands him and loves him. He’s hardly ever rational, and your mother can no longer hide it. It comes down to your life or his. I have no choice. It’s always been you. He has to die.”

  “Let me talk to him, Hawthorne,” I implore. “He’ll listen to me! I can make him—he’s just afraid!” I try to push past Hawthorne, but he holds my arms.

  “You can’t talk to him, Roselle. He’ll murder you if you get near him again. Your brother is beyond irrational. He’s taking Rush.”

  My eyes search his face in the light of the glowing moon.

  “It’s a drug that turns your world inside out, makes you believe you’re a god. It makes him insane. You have to go into hiding until after the Secondborn Trials.”

  “Why? What happens then?” I demand.

  “Trust me. You have to go now!”

  The desperation in Hawthorne’s tone breaks through to my survival instincts. A part of me still trusts him, even though he’s been lying to me since I met him. “I’ll go,” I whisper. Hawthorne wrenches me to him. My hand braces on his chest, the slab of virile muscle hard and unrelenting. His hand fists roughly in my hair. My blood roars in my ears and my knees weaken with fear and desire.

  “You mean everything to me, Roselle,” he whispers. He breathes heavily, fighting for restraint. His nose skims the surface of my neck. His mouth finds mine. He kisses me hard, demanding. “I’ve always loved you—I swear it,” he says. “I never stopped. I’ll never let them hurt you.”

  “I miss you so much, Hawth—” His kisses silence me.

  His hands run over the thin fabric covering the sides of my breasts, my hips. I crave his skin against mine, the rigid bulk of his muscles. “We’ll be together soon,” he promises, “but you have to go now, before someone finds us.”

  His grip eases. I feel weak, but movement up ahead triggers my alertness. Iono guards are branching out, coming our way. Hawthorne sees them, too. He grabs me from behind and hauls me off the bridge and down the slope of the hill. We hide in the tunnel of darkness under the stone bridge, on a small lip at the water’s edge. I hear them on the path above.

  “Do you have a weapon?” His voice is hushed.

  I shake my head. I’m shivering from fear and the damp night air. Hawthorne detaches the black cape from his Exo uniform and drapes it over my shoulders. With the aerosol can, he sprays his own moniker. It goes dark.

  A harrowing shriek pierces the air.

  “Where did the guards go?” My voice quivers.

  He inches forward and peeks around the edge of the stone. “They went into the kennel.”

  I frown. “Which kennel? East or west?”

  “West.”

  The pack of maginots I fed earlier answers the cry with a collection of howls. “We have to go! Now! They’re programming the maginots for a hunt.” I slip off my heels and unzip my dress on the side. I toss my shoes and my clutch into the water. Hawthorne’s hand engulfs mine. Turning, we creep farther under the bridge, hugging the stone wall until we emerge on the other side of the tunnel. The pond here empties into a small river that winds into the woods. Another unnatural-sounding howl—something between the cry of a wolf and a thunderclap—echoes from the far side of the tunnel. We run.

  In about a half mile, we come to a round stone structure within a wooded area near the perimeter wall of the Palace grounds. The river continues, but Hawthorne and I head for a tall, black iron gate with sloping steps in front. Gray stone pillars wrap around the structure, holding up the domed roof. It’s only two stories high with four rooms inside. It’s a meditation building, formerly used to make tributes to a god that has either faded away or died, as did the people who once used it. As a child, I’d come here to get away from the cameras. It was my secret place.

  The doors of the building are always unlocked. Panting as I reach them, I push one heavy bronze slab open. It whines on its rusted hinges. The only light comes from tiny slivers that pierce the round dormer windows in the ceiling and the narrow stained glass windows on the main floor. The scent of incense is thick and old. We bar the doors and engage their thick metal bolts. I lean against the cold bronze, trying to catch my breath. Hawthorne takes his fusionblade from his scabbard and ignites it so we can see. Statues of warrior-gods line the walls. The marble floor is dingy with dirt and leaves, but it’s in perfect condition otherwise.

  Something heavy crashes against the doors, bowi
ng them in and pushing me forward. Another blood-curdling yowl splits the air. “This way,” I whisper. The stained glass beside us shatters. Colorful shards rain onto the floor. The monstrous muzzle of a maginot tries to push through the narrow window. Its jaws snap at me, dripping saliva, but it’s unable to fit through. It isn’t Rabbit; it must be a newer model because I don’t recognize the silver markings by its eyes.

  The gigantic maginot paces outside, throwing itself against the door again. The crash echoes in the domed building. Hawthorne fixates on the window. His jaw tightens. “Is there another way out of here?”

  I lead him across the marble floor and behind a bronze statue of a beautiful male god who wears a crown of laurels and very little else. I reach for a notch in the wall. A piece of gray stone slides open to reveal a shallow staircase. Hawthorne’s fusionblade lights the way as we take the passage down, the wall closing behind us.

  “Where does this lead?” Hawthorne asks.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” I reply. “I’ve never been strong enough to pry open the door at the other end, but I know this hallway is long enough so that it must be beyond the Palace wall.” We walk together down the corridor. I take the lead. “You need to stay on the west side of the tunnel up ahead. There’s a security wall that you don’t want to trip into.”

  We come to an animal graveyard. Piles of decimated rodent bones and molding fur litter the ground. I pick up a small pebble and toss it ahead on the left side of the tunnel. It explodes. Hawthorne picks up another and throws it to the right. It bounces on the ground. “C’mon.” When we’re on the other side, he asks, “Any more surprises ahead?”

  “I don’t think so, but like I said, I’ve never gotten through to the outside.”

  “How far does this go?” he asks.

  “A mile or so.”

  “And you did this alone?”

  “I do most things alone, Hawthorne.”

  “You don’t need anyone, do you?”

  “That’s not true. I desperately need someone I can trust.”

  “I love you,” he says softly, “and I’ll earn back your trust again, even if it kills me.”