Chapter 16
Carry these Bones
When I enter the foyer, my apartment is quiet and dark. Phoenix doesn’t waddle in to greet me. I drop my boots by the door and wait, but it doesn’t come. Maybe its hover mode malfunctioned? I take one tentative step, and then another. “Phee?” I slip off my jacket and leave it on the small table. I have sand all over myself. I need to shower and sleep.
Walking out of the foyer, I slow my steps. The lights don’t come on automatically in the drawing room. The shutters are closed. “Lights,” I order. Nothing happens. I fumble for the lamp I know is on the small bureau near me. I touch it, and the soft glow barely pushes back the shadows. I move to the other lamp near it, but the shadow of a figure on the sofa in the drawing room captures my attention.
Reykin.
Seated on the middle cushion, the Star is hunched over, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head bowed, his hands gripping the back of his skull. I take a few steps toward him. “Reykin?”
He lifts his chin and drops his hands. His expression is a mixture of rage and relief. Dressed to kill, literally, he wears black everything—his moniker covered by his lead-lined glove—the outfit of someone ready to do murder. A shadow of a bruise mars his jaw. The muscles of his arms twitch. In a sword fight, we’re equals. In hand-to-hand combat, I might not fare as well. Icy chills run down my spine. “Where have you been?” he asks in a low snarl.
“I . . .” I haven’t thought this part through. He can’t know about Gabriel and Balmora. He’ll kill my brother.
“Is that a hard question?” His lip holds a sneer.
“Yes.” I hate hearing the quiver in my voice.
“Well, let’s start with where you weren’t. Maybe that’s easier. You weren’t in the Neon Bible with Grisholm.”
“No,” I reply breathlessly, “I wasn’t.”
He leans forward and reaches for a fat tumbler of amber liquor. Lifting the rim of the glass to his lips, he drinks all of it in one swallow. He sets it down and seizes a nearly empty diamond-shaped bottle, splashing more alcohol into his tumbler. “If that child you sent to me with your message hadn’t delivered it when he did, I would’ve killed Grisholm.”
“Why?” My stomach twists with dread. I put out my hand and steady myself against the seat back of a chair.
“My first impulse was that he arranged your kidnapping. I thought he let your mother’s killers take you. Do you know what that feels like?” Reykin’s jaw flexes. He looks as if he’s ready to throttle me.
“It should feel like nothing. You said you don’t have a heart—that you don’t care about me.” The rawness of my emotions chokes me. I blink away tears. Why does this man affect me so? “You should be more concerned about Grisholm being assassinated by my mother than about what I’m doing. I can handle myself.”
Reykin throws the glass against the wall. It shatters. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?” He rises from his seat, seething. “You’re the most important person. You. Not that ridiculous excuse for a man who thinks he should be the ruler of the world!”
“Tell me you didn’t hurt Grisholm!” My knees grow weak.
“No. I left him at the Neon Bible. I told him that I found you but you were ill and I had to take you home. In essence, I lied for you. Nobody knows you were gone. I fixed it, like I always do!”
Anxiety like I’ve never known passes through me. I’m not a fan of Grisholm, but it’s not that. If Reykin were to kill Grisholm, he’d be hunted down like no other man in the history of the world. He may not care about me, but apparently, I care about him . . . enough to feel the crushing force of panic building.
I wring my hands to try to get them to stop trembling. My breathing becomes heavier. Cold sweat develops on my skin. Reykin continues to rant at me, but I can hardly hear him over the pounding of blood in my ears.
I turn away and, in a daze, hurry from the sitting room to the den where I put some chets away for an occasion such as this. It’s dark when I enter. I stumble to the box on the table. Its clear wrapper crinkles when I try to unwrap one. The walls spin. I knock over the box. Why is this happening?
I didn’t feel an ounce of panic when I was fighting my way through a club full of assassins, but that was different. I was in control. It’s the things I can’t control, like Reykin, that turn me into a panting, shaking mess of heighted emotion.
“I need . . .” I can’t breathe.
Reykin stands in the doorway. The light in the room responds to his presence. Lamps turn on. He must have messed with it to irritate me. The room responds to him but not me. Without Reykin—if I’m alone—I’ll be in the dark.
My hands become fists as I attempt to catch my breath. Reykin approaches me with his hand out warily, as if I might startle and run. “I . . . need . . .” I try to force myself to breathe slower, but I can’t.
He takes the chets from my fumbling fingers. Tearing off a piece of one, he holds it out to me, but when I reach for it, he pulls it back. “Why should I give you this?” he asks. “You left me to panic for hours with no relief.”
A flare of anger spikes. Dizziness turns to tunnel vision. Full-blown, merciless fear catapults my heart into a frenzy. I’m dying. My nails bite into my palms.
Reykin swears softly. His fingers press the small piece of a chet to my lips. I take it into my mouth, and it melts on my tongue. My heart feels like someone is punching it.
He touches my sleeve, smoothing his hand over my arm. I cringe at the ache it brings. I must be one enormous bruise from head to toe. I’ve compartmentalized my physical pain, and now an awareness of it roars to the forefront of my mind. The chet steadily dulls it, but I’m beyond sore in the places where I was shot.
Reykin pummels me with a dark and brooding stare. I don’t want to see his pity. He must think I’m weak and stupid. Why it matters to me what he thinks, I don’t know. He’s not my friend. He’s barely my ally. His arm goes around my middle, tugging me to him. My back rests against his formidable chest. My head is heavy. He sweeps my damp hair away from my neck, baring my nape.
“Shh,” he whispers softly, soothing rather than scolding. The scent of whatever he was drinking mixes with his normal scent. It’s sweet, and I turn toward his lips. His cheek skims the sensitive part of my throat. His hand brushes back my hair again. He pulls me to the sofa and tugs me down next to him, holding me to his chest. He covers me with the charcoal-colored cashmere blanket. My cheek rests against his neck. When normal breathing returns, I don’t move. Exhausted, I lie limply against Reykin’s side.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, grasping the bridge of his nose with his fingers, as if his head hurts and he can’t find relief.
The palm of his other hand rests on my side, one of the only places I’m not bruised beneath my white shirt. The crest of his knuckles is scabbing over. “Who have you been fighting?” I ask. My voice is hoarse.
He lifts his hand, studying it. “Where do you think I went when I couldn’t find you?”
I wince. “I wasn’t with Hawthorne.”
“I know.”
“Did you hurt him?”
“He’s alive,” Reykin replies grudgingly.
“What did you do?”
“We had a conversation—mostly with our fists. We stopped trying to beat each other senseless when it became obvious that neither one of us knew where you were.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“That’s between us.”
“Did he say anything about joining our fight?” My voice is weak.
“No. We didn’t talk about that. My only concern was finding you.” When I don’t say anything, he sighs. “Whose side are you on, Roselle?”
“My side.”
“Were you with Salloway—the Rose Gardeners?” he asks. He sounds jealous.
“No.”
“Then where were you?”
“Nowhere.”
“You have to tell me. I’m going to lose my patience if you don’t.”
“Then lose it,” I reply. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“I think I’m the only person you’re afraid of.”
“Why would I be afraid of you?”
“Because you care about me,” he says scornfully.
“That would make me stupid, Reykin.”
“You care about what I think of you, and what I might do, and what might happen to me.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Am I? I don’t see you panicking around anyone else.”
“That’s because you’re not paying attention.”
“I couldn’t be more attentive.”
“How was I able to get away from you at the trial grounds, then, if you were so attentive?”
I sit up. His hand reaches out to stay me, but I’m beyond ready to end this conversation. “Do you know where I was,” he asks, “when you slipped away at the training grounds?”
I pause. “I take it you didn’t go to Salloway’s.”
“I went to see a different vendor.” He lifts his hand and gazes at his moniker. In a few seconds, Phoenix glides into the den with a very playful puppy trailing behind it. The tiny beast has a black nose, floppy ears, and white fur with black- and chestnut-colored spots. It leaps and bounds after the mechadome. Phoenix stops in front of us. Reykin stoops and scoops up the furry, wiggling puppy, whose tiny tail wags as he licks Reykin’s face and softly whines.
“Here.” Reykin places the adorable creature into my arms. The puppy immediately tries to shower my face with kisses. “He’s yours,” Reykin says gruffly. “I bought him for you before you did your disappearing act. I know secondborns aren’t allowed pets, but I’ll claim he’s mine.”
I’m unable to speak for a few moments. Every ounce of anger flows out of me. “You got me a puppy?” I lower the long-eared face-licker away from my chin.
“You said you wanted one.”
“When did I say that?” I ask breathlessly. I hold the incredibly soft fur baby to my chest and snuggle my cheek to the top of his head. The puppy begins chewing on my hair.
“You told me when the technician was fixing your ribs. Do you like him? He’s a beagle.”
“He’s mine?” I whisper with a tight voice. My throat suddenly hurts.
“Yes.” Reykin’s voice is soft. “I was hoping he’d help with your anxiety.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. I lift my face and accept more kisses from the excited hound.
“What are you going to name him?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, my eyes blurring with tears. “He’s perfect.”
A smile develops on Reykin’s lips, but only for an instant. Then it’s gone, and his stern, forbidding stare is back. It makes me want to see him smile again. “What about Cudgel,” Reykin asks, “since he’s beating me with his tail?”
“Rogue,” I murmur and rest against Reykin once more.
“Rogue.” Reykin reaches over and pets the little hellion. “Welcome to the family, little brother.”
The puppy puts its front paws on my heart, trying to climb up me. I wince as a sharp pain stabs through me.
“What’s wrong?” Reykin asks.
“Nothing,” I grunt, trying to shift Rogue in my arms so that he won’t stomp on my bruised chest again. My face twists in pain. Reykin takes Rogue from me and sets the rambunctious creature on the carpet. The tiny hound attacks Phoenix playfully.
Reykin reaches his hand out, trying to grasp the hem of my shirt. I block his arm with my forearm. He scowls and reaches out again, saying, “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then let me see,” he replies, “or I’ll pin you down and look. Your choice.”
“Pfft, like you could,” I retort. He moves as if I’ve just thrown down a challenge. Leaning away, I thrust up my arms to block him, which aggravates my wounds. “Okay! I’ll show you, but only if you agree not to overreact.” His glare could melt ice. “Okay,” I relent, “so maybe you don’t have the stoic gene. Just try to remain calm.” He nods and stares at the hem of my shirt. “Is that an ‘okay’?” I ask.
“Roselle!”
I sigh heavily. Grasping the hem of my dirty white shirt, I lift it over my head, peeling it off. Above my bra, a dark contusion, shaped like an enormous ink drop, spiders across my skin to my collarbone. Another one covers my bicep.
“What did that?” Reykin reaches to touch me. Gently, he traces the raised welt.
“Fusionmag.” I watch as his long finger traces the wound.
“Fusionmag? How are you alive?” I’m not sure that he believes me.
“I have a really good tailor.”
His angry scowl returns. “What does that even mean?” he demands.
His fingers soothe my abraded flesh, causing goose bumps to break out. I shiver. “It means Clifton Salloway made me clothes with fabric that repels fusionmag and other energy pulses.” I sweep my hair over my shoulder and show him my back. “How bad is this one?”
Reykin sucks air between his teeth. “Who did this to you?”
“It’s not what they did to me. It’s what I did to them.”
“You went to speak to your brother!” he snarls. Reykin is so intuitive, it’s almost scary. I should keep in mind how similar we are. I slip my shirt back on and pull my hair from beneath the collar, letting it spill over my shoulders once more. I shift and face him.
“I went to speak to Gabriel, but it was a setup. Assassins were waiting for me. I think Othala sent them.” It’s not a lie. They were waiting for me, and it was a setup. The fact that I was still successful in my goal of kidnapping Gabriel and bringing him to the Sea Fortress doesn’t have to be mentioned. “The assassins are dead, though.”
“And your brother?” he asks.
“I wasn’t able to talk to him like I wanted.” Again, not exactly a lie, just not the truth.
“Of all the stupid, irresponsible—”
“Don’t tell me that if you found Ransom, you wouldn’t try to speak to him.”
Reykin covers his face with his hands and scrubs it in exasperation. “Uhh,” he groans, “you know that’s not the same thing! My brother isn’t trying to kill me.”
“Why are you so angry? I’m here—I didn’t die.”
Reykin removes his hands. “There are so many reasons why I’m livid right now, I can’t even name them all. And you’re not fine. You’re beaten up. Maybe I’m tired of seeing you hurt.”
“You leave bruises on me all the time,” I point out. It’s true, but it’s unfair, and I know it.
“That’s different! That’s training! I’m making sure you never lose your edge—that anyone who comes at you, you can destroy.”
“I know,” I murmur. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just exhausted.” The puppy attacks my toes, trying to pull off my damp sock. I reach down and lift him in my arms. “Thank you for Rogue.” I lean back against Reykin’s chest, petting my beagle’s floppy ears.
After a few minutes, Reykin’s anger ebbs. His chest softens beneath my cheek. The next thing I know, I’m being lowered into my bed. I must have fallen asleep. The blanket settles over me, and Reykin begins to back away.
“Reykin, are you leaving?”
“No. Go to sleep.”
Bombardment by puppy kisses might be the sweetest way to wake up. I’ve only spent a few days with Rogue, but I’m hopelessly in love with him. I help him off my bed and hurry to change so that I can take him out to the garden. Outside, my Halo stingers wander with Rogue and me around the topiary bushes and shade trees. The secondborn Suns stop supervising the pruning drones to kneel and greet my curious puppy. Having been a pariah most of my life, I appreciate the sudden chattiness and ease with which the secondborn gardeners speak to me. I feel different, like maybe there’s more to life than horror, violence, and lethal power struggles. I think what I’m feeling is hope. It scares me.
I wander near the cliff. The wind whips my hair. Rogue, in my arms, nips at it. The tide’s going out, which means I can visit the Sea Fortress and maybe see my brother. I’m anxious for news of how he’s doing. Balmora hasn’t sent me any messages since our last meeting. I keep telling myself that she’s under a lot of stress, taking care of Gabriel. He was in an awful state the last time I saw him. I wish I could help her.
I set Rogue down, and we wander back toward the rows of roses and shrubbery. “Do you want to get some breakfast?” I ask him. He wags his tail, puts his two front paws on my shin, and begins whining. “Oh, you want me to pick you up again, do you?” I reach down and scoop him up.
As I straighten, Reykin rounds the hedgerow near me. I grin. “Good morning! To what do we owe the honor of your presence?” I ask, trying to sound surprised. I’m not. Ever since Reykin gave me Rogue, he’s been with me just about every waking minute. I’m not sure if it’s by his own volition, or if he’s been ordered to stay with me, but he sticketh closer than a brother to me now. Closer than mine ever did anyway.
The corners of his lips twitch, as if he wants to smile back but won’t allow himself to. “How’s our boy?” he asks, approaching. Rogue spots Reykin, and his tail starts wagging wildly. He barks happily and wiggles to get free of my arms.
“He’s a handful,” I reply, “and by the look of how happy he is to see you, I’d say he has horrible taste in friends.” I set Rogue down, and he bounds toward Reykin.
“She’s so mean, isn’t she, boy? Heartless.” The firstborn Star lifts Rogue and allows the little monster to lick his clean-shaven face.
We eventually sit and lay back on the grass, letting Rogue crawl all over us. I giggle when he steps on my cheek. Turning so his paw doesn’t trample my eye, I find Reykin staring at me. He’s riveted. He leans forward, his lips near mine. My breath catches. Reykin takes my hand, and his thumb rubs over my crown-shaped birthmark.
I glance at it, and suddenly cold fear trickles through me. I sit up. The puppy bounces off my lap onto Reykin. I scrub the back of my hand with my fingers, trying to rub away my moniker’s golden light. Maybe it’s the sunlight, I tell myself. I hold my hand at different angles, but its color doesn’t change. I choke, scrubbing harder, raking my hand along the grass. I lift it again. A gold sword. I search Reykin’s face. He stares back at me, his expression unreadable.
“What have you done?” I snarl accusingly at Reykin. The betrayal I feel is horrific. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny anything, he just stares back at me. “What have you done?” I scream. Reykin doesn’t even flinch. “You killed him! You killed my brother!”
He sets Rogue aside and hauls me toward him. I’m sobbing and resist him, but he’s incredibly strong. “You killed him!” I sob against his chest. “You killed him!” I repeat it over and over in harsh hacking breaths. Hot tears wet my cheeks. Reykin holds my head firmly against his chest with one hand. His heart thumps wild and loud in my ear.
A shadow falls across us. Through tear-blinded eyes, I realize someone is standing next to me. A girl, breathing hard. Her face is red, and she’s crying. “Quincy!” I exhale her name.
“You have to come now! She’s asking for you!” Distress puckers Quincy’s brow as she reaches for my hand, tugging me in desperation. “Please! She’s going to jump! You have to come!” Her long blond braid whips the air wildly. Nightmarish fear is etched into every line of her face.
“Who are you?” Reykin demands from the girl. He won’t let go of me.
Quincy sinks to her knees. “He was only supposed to take a little. The Atom told her to give him only a few grams a day, but he found the medicine. He took it all!” She chokes on a sob. “He got so sick, and he turned blue, and we couldn’t get him to breathe. He wouldn’t breathe!” Agony and sorrow shine in her red-rimmed eyes. “She needs you! You have to come!”
I put my hand against Reykin’s chest and push with all my might. Blindly, I stumble to my feet. Quincy takes my hand, and we run in the direction of the Sea Fortress. Soft yipping barks follow behind me. I turn back to get Rogue, but Reykin has already collected him and is only a few paces behind. I sprint ahead.
The sandbar is still covered by water, but the tide is going out. I wade into the waist-deep surf. I’m soaked by the time I reach the stone walls of the Sea Fortress. The sentry guards posted outside appear not to know what’s transpiring within. I allow them to scan my moniker, and then I’m past them, racing across the high-walled courtyard.
The guards won’t let Reykin through, and he shouts for me to wait, but I keep going. Once inside, I accost the first person I can find—an elderly Sun-Fated secondborn carrying a multi-tiered tray full of intricate cakes and pastries. I latch on to her arm, nearly spilling the tray. “How do I get to the top of the tower?” I demand.
Her eyes widen, and the lines around them stretch. She starts to answer me, but Quincy’s small hand on my arm pulls me forward. She navigates hallways—a labyrinth of stone walls—with me in tow. A winding staircase with carved wooden railings spirals up the middle of the tower, its hundreds of flagstone steps covered by aqua-colored carpet. I move toward the staircase, but Quincy yells, “No, wait!”
Near the staircase are several small hover vehicles, some of them rusted around the edges. Most look as if they are whimsical novelties made for children, resembling miniature ancient sea vessels, but a couple are larger—big enough to carry adults. Quincy goes to a two-seater parked by the wall, near a balustrade carved in the shape of a cresting wave. She climbs onto it and activates the controls. The vehicle’s dragon-shaped masthead comes to life, its eyes glowing yellow, and the vehicle lifts off the floor.
I climb onto the glittering golden seat beside her, and she launches the vehicle forward, driving it up the steep stairs. We follow the staircase in a dizzying, ever-climbing corkscrew. Passing stained-glass windows and floors with scores of doors at breakneck speeds, Quincy urges the vehicle on ever faster, slowing only when we arrive at the top floor’s landing. I look down over the railing at the ground floor far below. A commotion is forming. People are gathering there. Reykin is one of them. He probably bullied his way in here, using his connection to Grisholm or The Virtue as a threat.
I rush to the open door at the end of the hallway. Sunlight shines in through the stone terrace overlooking the sea. White curtains flap. The breeze is warm. I’m sweating from the run and wet with salt water, but I shiver anyway, as if chilled to my marrow. Gulls squawk and cry outside. Balmora stands barefoot on the wide, lichen-dappled wall facing the cloudless blue sky. Her beautiful hair is long and loose, flowing past her shoulders and over her white nightgown.
In the bed at the other end of the room, my brother’s body lays against the white damask pillows. My scalp tingles as my hairs rise in horror. Someone has taken off Gabriel’s leaded glove. Apart from his moniker’s golden light, it’s obvious that he’s dead. His ashen skin sags lifelessly over his hollow cheeks.
I ache—a stabbing pain in my chest. Bile rises in my throat and my knees weaken. Hope is a vicious thing. I allowed myself to feel it, and now it’s bent on destroying me. My ears ring as blood pounds through them. Beside me, Quincy pants hard, her chest heaving. Wringing her hands, she implores me with her eyes to do something.
I trudge heavily toward the stone terrace, weighed down by fear, my steps echoing on the flagstone floor. “Balmora,” I say gently.
Wind lifts her hair. “Nothing ever changes here,” Balmora says flatly, without looking at me, from her position on the wall overlooking the sea. “Clouds roll in and roll out. Waves crash in and slide out . . . on and on, day after day, year after year, and I’m always here. Alone. That never changes either. I hate this place.”
“Please come down,” I beg.
“He said it has to be this way.”
“It has to be what way?” I ask apprehensively. “Gabriel was sick—out of his mind—he—” Balmora leans forward a little. I consider rushing her and pulling her off the ledge, but the risk that she’ll fall is too great. I inch closer.
Balmora turns and gazes down at me. Wind lifts her hem and stirs her hair. Her waving gown reminds me of the flags that top each tower of the fortress. “He said he couldn’t stop your mother, but you can.” It’s like she’s in a trance. Emotionless. Withdrawn.
“Stop her from what?”
“From taking over the world with her monsters.”
“What monsters?” I ask. Balmora’s foot moves, and her heel now teeters off the edge of the wall. I reach out to her, gesturing for her to take my hand and climb down. “Don’t, Balmora,” I beg. “We can change the world together—you and me.”
“He said, ‘Tell Roselle to follow the crow to the trees in the sea.’”
“Kipson Crow? Did he mean Agent Crow?”
The sound of another hovercart crashing into our abandoned one rattles the air behind us. Reykin calls my name, and I hear a few of Balmora’s attendants with him. I want to scream at them to leave, but I don’t dare take my eyes from Balmora.
“I don’t know what he meant,” she drones. “He made me promise to tell you, and then, he said, I could join him.” Her dazed eyes shift to the young girl next to me. “Good-bye, Quincy,” Balmora whispers. And steps off the ledge.