Chapter 6
Crow Sights Carrion
A horde of security personnel forms a wall, cutting me off from Balmora. I’ve no choice but to go with the soldiers back to the Halo Palace. We run across the sand toward shelter on the clifftop. The stone stairs are just ahead, but we don’t use them. A concealed elevator in the face of the rock opens behind the colorful tents. The head Exo and ten of his detail all cram into the elegant lift, with me at the center. The rest of the unit falls back and waits. The doors close, and we rocket up to the main level of the Halo Palace.
We emerge from the marble belly of the giant sea god statue. Its head and beard resemble an ancient mariner’s, and its torso merges into the tail of a merman. A downward-thrusting trident is in his grip, frozen as if just before slaying us all.
I’m escorted to Grisholm’s private residence. Cutting through his seaside garden sanctuary next to the formal rose garden, we enter the arching doorways into a labyrinth of indoor bathing pools and bubbling spas. The walls and floors are tiled in mosaics of gold and lapis. Vaulted ceilings and archways are supported by columns carved with mythical sea creatures. The soldiers’ footsteps echo through the bathing chambers. Diamond patterns of light reflect off the water in waves.
We come upon a hall with a glass-domed ceiling. It features the largest, deepest pool at its center. To one side, smaller hot pools bubble and flow together, forming a river with waterfalls. A golden walkway made to resemble shells separates the steaming water from the enormous, cooler pool. Exotic plants and flowers infuse the room with intoxicating scents.
On the other side of the domed hall, posh furniture arranged in clusters circumscribes a lounging area. The floor is glass. Water flows beneath it. A bar of pure glass gleams near the far wall, a massive aquarium, in which vibrantly glowing jellyfish undulate in the calm water. Lighted glass shelves occupy each side. High-end bottles of alcohol line the pristine shelves. Lighted from behind, the bottles smolder with a unique fire.
Seated around a circular table by the bar are Grisholm and six of his entourage. The Firstborn Commander is appropriately attired in a dark-purple swimsuit with a loose shirt, unbuttoned to expose his tanned chest. His companions, all male except for one female, are similarly dressed. Cards are strewn about the table. Sweating bar glasses, with colorful liquors and ice cubes infused with gold-leaf shavings, chill on frosted stone coasters. Blue, green, red, and yellow plumes of cigar smoke hover in the air.
Among the firstborns at the table, the bare-chested one in the black bathing suit catches my eye. He’s fitter and more handsome than the others. His dark hair is wet and slicked back, and his eyes rival the sublime aquamarine of the pool. The moment Reykin spots me, his shoulders lower, and he eases back against his chair with a look of relief. The expression vanishes almost immediately behind a green puff of smoke he exhales.
When he sees me with the guards, Grisholm’s eyebrows lower, slashing together. “They managed to find you alive, Roselle. I was giving odds on it, after the events of a few nights ago. They weren’t very good odds.” He sets his cards facedown on the onyx table and gets to his feet. To the leader of the Exo guards, he says, “You’re dismissed.”
The Exo team leader walks forward, pointing his fusion rifle down and away from the heir to the Fate. “We have orders to stay with the secondborn Sword and keep her safe.”
“Safe from what?” I ask. “What’s happening?”
Grisholm scowls in derision, scoffing at my ignorance. “Didn’t you hear? Rasmussen Keating was found dead.” Grisholm snorts rudely. “You don’t know who the Keatings are, do you, Roselle?”
“They’re the Second Family of Virtues,” I reply. “Firstborn Rasmussen Keating is third in line to the title of The Virtue, just behind you and Balmora. I just . . . How did he die?”
“He was murdered,” Grisholm replies. “Why do you think there are guards everywhere?”
His disdain eats at me a little, and my pulse leaps. “How? By whom?”
“If we knew that, none of us would be on lockdown—we’d be out at the Secondborn Trials training camps, evaluating the stock.”
His crudeness makes me want to cut his lips off with my sword. I don’t touch the hilt of it, lest I’m tempted to follow through with the urge. I mutter, “How tedious for you.”
Grisholm stares at the guards. “You’ll leave this hall—secure the baths from outside. We don’t need you hovering.”
The jaw of the Exos’ leader tightens. “I’m under orders to remain with Secondborn Roselle Sword.”
“Whose orders?”
“Commander Kodaline’s.”
“Ah, what a surprise,” Grisholm says. “She’ll be fine. She can probably slaughter all of us.” His eyes drift to Reykin. “Not him, though.” Grisholm points at the Star across the table. “He can cut her into a pile of flesh in less than sixty seconds.”
I want to refute that claim, but I remain silent. I haven’t sparred with Reykin. We have no way of knowing who is better.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Reykin retorts with a pirate smile, holding up his hands in a show of humorous surrender. “I might fix her a drink, though.”
“Wait outside!” Grisholm orders the Exos between gritted teeth. When they don’t move immediately, he roars, “Now!” I turn to go with them, but Grisholm growls, “You stay.” The lead Exo and his armed men retreat from the sweltering hall.
The scrawny, ferret-faced firstborn next to Reykin punches him in the arm. Reykin doesn’t seem to notice, but the other firstborn immediately regrets it, rubbing his knuckles with his other hand. “How come your parents let you train in weapons with a mentor? Didn’t they like you?” the weaseling man asks.
Reykin’s smile never falters, but his eyes turn cold. “You forget, Simont. My parents had more than one backup for me. I think they loved my thirdborn brother best.” The bitterness in his tone is thick. Radix was really fifthborn, and Reykin loved him.
“They got theirs, ol’ man,” Grisholm says in a soft, conciliatory tone. “Census brought justice and gave you back your dignity.”
The aqua light in Reykin’s eyes dims. There’s darkness, and then there are the things that inhabit darkness. Reykin’s one of those things. I know how he really feels about his murdered brother and parents. It led him to the battlefield in Stars—to slaughter as many Swords as he could until they took his life. But he didn’t die, because I wouldn’t let him. His anger toward his family is a mask he wears to keep his position and protect his other younger brothers. He’s a star floating in the abyss, and a part of me wants to save him from it.
Reykin gracefully rises from his seat in a slow uncoiling of muscle and sinew. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Reykin Winterstrom.” The other firstborns’ laughter sets my teeth on edge. They think he’s mocking me. No other firstborn here would think to stand for a secondborn. His outstretched hand is an invitation. I straighten my shoulders. Moving forward, I take his hand. He lifts mine to his lips, kissing the back of it. A small shiver slips through me.
“Roselle Sword,” I murmur with a small curtsy. His fingers linger on mine a bit too long. I pull my hand back.
The firstborn man next to Grisholm clears his throat. Pushing his chair out, he slaps the tops of his thighs with his hands. “Why don’t you come sit here, Roselle?”
The crowd erupts in laughter again, but it’s quickly silenced by Reykin’s frown. “You should be thanking her for her service, Charon.”
“Oh, I’d like to thank her for her service,” the Moon-Fated man replies, leering at me. He can’t be older than twenty. If he were a secondborn Sword, I’d simply punch him in the teeth, but these aren’t secondborns. Retaliation is ill-advised.
Reykin holds out his chair. The harmony of his skin over defined muscles is distracting. “You can have my seat.” I frown. I want to say no. He should probably be ignoring me, but maybe this is better. I don’t know that I can hide the intimacy between us, so establishing an acquaintance could conceal our true relationship. “Thank you,” I reply and take a step in his direction.
“No one sits here without a suit,” Grisholm drawls with a smug smile. “Even this highborn secondborn.” He mocks me with an oxymoron.
Reykin takes it in stride. “There’s a wardrobe closet just over there, Roselle. You can change while I order you a drink.”
“Get me one, too,” the redheaded woman next to Grisholm says.
“What do you want, Cindra?” Reykin asks.
“Something lethal,” she replies with a wide grin. Her ice cubes clink together as she raises what’s left of the last drink to her full lips. She watches me over the rim of her glass. Condensation drips onto her skin, sliding down the valley between the sides of her ruby-colored bikini top. She wipes it away with her finger. Her moniker resembles a carbon atom. Lights representing protons and electrons orbit over her hand.
Reykin nods. He touches his holographic shooting star. A command screen projects from it. He locates a bar menu and orders drinks. Flying mechadomes rise into the air by the bar, selecting bottles of alcohol and setting them on the glass in front of the automated bartender.
I drift away in the direction of the wardrobe closet. Entering it, I lock the door behind me. Facing the holographic mirror, I touch the menu on the side. My reflection wears the first bathing suit on the list—a tiny black bikini. I swipe it away. The next one is white and even more revealing. I scoff. After swiping twenty more to the side, it’s clear that the only suits in this program are meant for style rather than function—possibly for Grisholm’s special late-night “friends.” I settle for a shimmering metallic-silver bikini top with matching bottoms and a graphite wrap skirt.
The ensemble arrives in a silver box. Inside, the outfit is wrapped in delicate, lavender-scented tissue paper and tied with a graphite-colored satin ribbon. I lift the package from the box that ferried it through the air-driven conveyor in the wall, toss my clothes in, and send them back into the chute to be laundered.
Once suited up, I adjust my fusionblade’s sheath so that it wraps around my right thigh. Slipping the hilt of the sword into the black straps, I leave the wardrobe. Four of Grisholm’s friends grin as I approach. Grisholm, seated at the onyx table, scowls at me from head to toe. Reykin’s face darkens with a frown of disapproval. Cindra raises an appraising eyebrow. My fingers twitch near my fusionblade.
A hovering drone delivers a tumbler to the table in front of Reykin. A slice of lemon floats in the center of clear liquid and gold-leaf ice cubes. As I join him, he stands and holds out his chair. I settle in opposite Grisholm. Reykin pulls another chair away from a nearby table and squeezes it in between me and the ferret-faced man, making Simont scoot over. Reykin seats himself close to my side.
On the other side is a firstborn with a blond cowlick in front. His belly pushes down a rather loud, maize-colored swimsuit as he leans toward me. He extends his hand in a way that leaves me wondering if I should kiss its sun moniker or slap it away. I choose to do neither. His cheeks turn ruddy at the slight. “Ahem.” He clears his throat, dropping his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m—”
“Shove off, Milken,” the firstborn next to him says as he strokes his dark beard. The light from his aqua cresting-wave moniker makes it look as if one could surf his hairy chin. “She’ll never be interested in you.”
If Milken’s bluster is any indication, then he’s genuinely offended. “I’m a firstborn heir to the most powerful growing operations in the Fate of Suns! Why wouldn’t a secondborn be interested in me?”
The bearded man leans back in his chair, propping an elbow on the backrest. The wave of his Seas moniker crashes over and over. “I heard a rumor that she’s not going to be secondborn for long.” His appraising eyes make me feel more naked than the locker room in my air-barracks ever did, but I try to hide it. “She’s going to be The Sword one day, and your plantations won’t mean a thing when she’s in control of all of our armies.”
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 failed 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.