Chapter 10
The Nature of Dawn
I hold my stinging ribs, silently cursing Reykin.
Speckled with stones, moss, and prickly things, a path winds through the majestic trees and shrubbery. The stones dig into my bare feet. Reykin trails behind me. My pace is slow because every step hurts. He touches my elbow. I ease my arm away from him, even though I could use the support. We trudge along the path, and every few steps Reykin glances behind us, maybe expecting to see Hawthorne. He won’t. Hawthorne is stealth itself. He won’t try anything, though, not with Reykin training his fusionmag on me.
We make it to the tree line near the lake. Just inside the copse, a black airship rests beneath a small pile of fir boughs. Reykin pulls them off the concealed airship. The sun hasn’t broken the horizon, but the gray shadows are pushing back. Reykin opens the copilot door for me. I hold my breath, carefully climbing onto the seat. He closes my door and rounds the airship.
Once inside the two-seater aircraft, Reykin tucks his fusionmag into the black holster on the side of his chest. He spares little time getting us into the air. We fly low, skimming just above the leafy canopy, avoiding detection. The set of his jaw tells me I’m in dangerous territory with him. I’m confused about why, but I’m unwilling to ask. Nor will I explain myself to him. It’s time he learns that he doesn’t own me.
“Have you ever thought about the nature of dawn?” I ask. Reykin doesn’t answer. “I have. When you’re a soldier, you think about those things, especially because you hardly ever see the sunrise unless you’re in battle.” He doesn’t look at me, but he’s listening. “I’ve heard it said that dawn is the light, asking the night for permission to exist.”
Reykin snorts rudely.
“I agree,” I reply, watching the sun break the plane of the horizon. “I don’t subscribe to that either. I believe dawn is the violent overthrow of night. But night is always still there—just on the periphery—waiting . . . and at the end of the day, it comes to claim us all.”
“I thought you were dead!” Reykin shouts. My fingers curls on the armrest in reaction to his violent outburst. “Witnesses saw you push a man through a window at the top of the building. Sea-Fated divers are dragging the lake beneath the social club searching for your body.”
“People think I’m dead?” I ask.
“No one survives that fall!”
“I had hoverdiscs on. One of them continued to work. How did you find me?”
“I infiltrated the secure access at the Halo Palace and located your moniker tracking . . . and then I waited. At first there was nothing. You were just gone. But then, I got a ping. It faded in and out, but it was there. The readings were bizarre: spotty location, alarming health readouts, hypothermia, distress. I was sure you were alive, but being tortured.”
“My ribs are broken. I soaked in a bath of ice water last night. If you think that I derived any pleasure from it, I invite you to try it. I’ll even break your ribs for you.”
He makes a growling sound that raises the fine hairs on my arms. “I thought you and Trugrave . . .”
“I know what you thought, and it’s none of your business!” I retort.
“It is my business! I can’t hide you like I hid your friend Hammon. Most people know you on sight.”
“Don’t try to shame me, Reykin. You spent the whole night and an entire day in my apartment alone with me. You’re a firstborn. It’s the same thing.”
“That was different!”
“How was it different?” I ask.
“It just was. I wasn’t in your bed with you all night. Dune wasn’t standing by the social club’s lake, demanding it be drained.”
I cringe. “Does he know I’m alive?”
“He doesn’t know for sure yet,” Reykin admits.
“You knew I was alive when my moniker showed the coordinates of Hawthorne’s home,” I press. “Why didn’t you tell him then?”
He ignores my question. “Tell me, why is Hawthorne still alive? Your brother didn’t kill him. Maybe your new firstborn Sword changed his mind and decided your brother and mother were the safer side?”
“Hawthorne would never do that.”
“Desperate people do desperate things,” Reykin replies.
“He’s alive because of you,” I murmur. Reykin’s eyes narrow. “I know it was you who saved him. You erased every trace of our escape from the Sword Palace that night.”
“I did that for you, not for him.”
“That was dangerous. It could’ve alerted them to the fact we’d infiltrated their systems.”
“They’ll never find anything.”
“Do you think my family are the ones behind the attack last night?”
“Yes.”
“Is there evidence in any of their communications? Something we can use?”
Reykin frowns. “I don’t know. I need to dig in and search for it, and that will take a while, but I know a few things. It wasn’t Gates of Dawn who attacked last night, and I’d rule out the Rose Garden Society, seeing as how quite a few of them are dead now. They wouldn’t shoot up their social club. Media outlets have already been calling it the ‘Rose Goddess Massacre.’”
“Why ‘Rose Goddess’? Why not ‘Rose Garden’?”
“They’ve been interviewing survivors all evening. The accounts of you defending Sword-Fated firstborns is becoming legendary. Complete idiots who attended other balls, like the one Grisholm and I were at last evening, are actually upset that they weren’t at your party to see the Goddess of War smote the Gates of Dawn.” I give him a side-eyed look. He stares at me derisively. “You didn’t think The Virtue would call out your mother, did you? The Gates of Dawn are a good scapegoat. It makes the continued conflict more palatable and you more of a heroine. The Virtue is biding his time. This attack binds Salloway closer to him. Their common enemy is proving to be a many-headed dragon.”
I gaze out the window at the landscape flying by. Large tracts of land stretch as far as I can see. It’s so green, the kind of green that you never see in the city. Horses startle and run from our low-flying airship.
I watch for a long time. Reykin communicates with Dune, letting my ex-mentor know that he found me. When the messaging between them ends, the silence grows.
“I want to see my father,” I murmur.
Reykin’s face changes. He loses some of his anger. The struggle in his eyes is real. “Roselle . . . I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. Your father was murdered last night.”
“I know. I saw him. I killed his murderers.” I think the shock of what happened last night is finally wearing off. My hands are trembling, and my throat aches with emotion I refuse to show. “He wanted to be buried in Virtues—beside his parents. He told me that. He said, ‘Don’t let them entomb me in that Sword whorehouse.’ We were at my grandfather’s funeral. He was drunk, of course, but he made me swear not to let his body rot in the Sword Mausoleum.”
“He was the Fated Sword. Your mother is expected to hold his body in state and inter him in that shrine.”
I grit my teeth. “He didn’t want to be there. It’s insanity to give his body to his murderers. Do you know what they did to him?”
“No.”
“They cut out his tongue. They literally made him hold his tongue.”
“You can’t stop what they’ll do with his body. You won’t even be allowed at his funeral.”
He’s right. Transitioned secondborns are rarely allowed to attend the funeral of a parent. In Swords, it’s usually because we die before our parents. But if that doesn’t happen, the surviving secondborn isn’t welcome at the funeral because it makes the rest of the family uncomfortable, and maybe a little afraid for the firstborn. “This is an insane world, Reykin.”
“I know.”
“I still need to see him. I need to say good-bye.”
“Your father was a cruel man.”
“Still.”
Reykin sighs. “I’ll see what I can do to find out where his body is.”
We fly in silence to the gorgeous city of Purity, though I hardly see any of it because I’m lost in thought. “Reykin?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you a question . . . about your family?” I glance at him. He nods. “After Census murdered them, did they allow you to bury them?”
He stiffens. “No,” he replies softly. “My mother and brother were dragged through the streets of our town, and then left in the square to rot. I wasn’t allowed to move them. My father was killed trying to defend them. They set his body on fire.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, holding back tears. I can’t cry. Not now.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s actually normal. After a battle, one or two fights between Sword soldiers usually break out. Someone will accuse someone else of being reckless or thoughtless. They’ll usually brawl. It’s a reaction to fear. Fear turns to anger, and they need to put it somewhere, or they’ll turn it inward. It’s probably healthier to vent it. You were afraid I was dead. When you found out I wasn’t, your fear turned to anger. You know what that means, right?”
“No,” Reykin replies.
“It means you care about me.”
He turns on me, his stare cold, devoid of emotion. “You’ve got it wrong. I care about no one. The only thing I want is revenge. You’re a means to an end, Roselle. I need you to help me topple a government. As soon as we accomplish that, I’ll have no more use for you.”
I’m not sure why his words destroy me like they do. The heat of embarrassment floods my cheeks. “You may not care about me, but you care about your brothers. I can see it on your face when you talk about them.”
“Not in the way you think. My heart is gone, Roselle.”
“I think it’s the opposite. I think you carry around all their hearts now.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growls. “Just do your job so I don’t have to kill you.”
His words are a punch in my stomach. “Now who’s the cruel man?”
“Did I hurt your feelings?” he asks with derision.
I refuse to answer him.
We’re stopped by security at the Halo Palace gates. The airship hovers by the barriers as we wait for clearance. Our arrival causes an uproar. Drone cameras and beat reporters who lurk near the grounds converge on the airship, beating on the glass and yelling questions that are too muffled to make out. The guards draw their weapons on the raucous crowd, pushing them back. Our vehicle is quickly scanned and searched. An Exo guard says, “You’re both required to report immediately to the Upper Halo pad 985. Do you need coordinates for the dock?”
“No,” Reykin replies. The airship flies forward and into the sprawling landscape of the Halo Palace grounds. We gain altitude, lifting toward the golden halo-shaped crown. The sea beside us is magnificent. White flags and pointed spires from Balmora’s Sea Fortress are visible as we climb higher, and the castle is surrounded by the crystal-blue high tide.
Reykin’s tone is gruff as he says, “I was hoping to avoid this until later.” He scrutinizes me. The frown on his face indicates I’m a disaster. “Just tell them what happened last night. You have nothing to hide.”
I don’t look at him, but I lift my arms and fight the urge to weave my hair into a thick plait. “So, you do believe that nothing happened between Hawthorne and me.”
“You can hardly breathe. Whatever happened last night, it wasn’t much fun.”
“How do I explain how you found me?”
“You had Hawthorne contact me on your behalf because you’re supposed to be my slave for the day.”
I snort with derision. “I’d never do that. I’d contact Dune first.”
“Then lie. Or maybe you can say that you asked Hawthorne to contact me because I care about you.”
My heart aches. “Don’t make me regret saving your life, Reykin.”
He lands the airship on a golden platform. Once it’s secure, a wide hangar opens. The platform moves, swinging sideways, bringing us inside the hangar. The doors close, and Dune emerges from an interior doorway ahead of us. His face is lined with fatigue.
Exiting the vehicle on my own, I walk to meet Dune. He watches me, his gaze missing nothing. His eyes shift to Reykin. “Thank you.” Dune’s deep voice resonates in the hangar. Reykin simply nods. “How bad is it?” Dune asks me. His concern is muted. Injury is part of secondborn Sword life. It’s unavoidable.
“No worse than most of our training days,” I reply with the same detachment.
“I’ll have my physician examine you,” Dune says.
“It’s unnecessary,” I reply.
Dune frowns. “You’re required to answer questions from The Virtue about last night.”
I want to lash out at Dune for not allowing me some time to recover before subjecting me to an inquiry. The lack of empathy for me after what I’ve been through is appalling, though I expected it. I nod and force my anger down.
Dune ushers me into the corridor. Reykin trails us. I’m led to the Grand Foyer near the air elevators. Security has doubled. Everyone is scanned, even Dune, which makes me want to laugh. He wouldn’t need a weapon to kill The Virtue.
The portraits of Fabian Bowie and his wife, Adora, stare at us as we ascend the stairs. I need to hold on to the railing, and my progress is slow. Reykin tries to take my elbow, but I snatch it away.
Dune sees the exchange and frowns. I don’t care what he thinks. I want nothing more than to return to my room and be left alone. I feel empty and torn. My mother and brother tried to kill me again last night. They murdered my father. Hawthorne will marry a firstborn named Fauna. She’ll have his children, no matter what he says to the contrary. He’ll give his second child to the Fate of Swords. Nothing will ever change. Tears well up in my eyes, but I force them back, hoping my numbness lasts just a little longer. I might fall apart if it doesn’t.
At the top of the stairs, a sophisticated reception area shines with ethereal light. Dune is immediately surrounded by The Virtue’s staff. I’m relieved. I walk away from them to the wall of windows and gaze out at the view of Purity. I cross my arms over my middle, holding myself. People I don’t know hover around me. They also work for The Virtue. A lovely Diamond-Fated secondborn scurries to my side. Her violet hair is in a tight twist. Dewdrop indigo lights flash on her eyelashes. “Hi, I’m Glisten, an assistant to The Virtue. How are you feeling?” Her eyes move from mine as she peeks at the rest of me. Her smile slips a little, but when her eyes meet mine again, she brightens with even more fake cheer. “Is there anything I can get you?” she asks with enthusiasm.
“No,” I reply.
Reykin hovers near us. “She’ll take a sweater, slippers, some water, and a chet.”
“No, she won’t,” I growl.
“Yes, she will. Have you got all that, Glisten?” Reykin’s smile is devastatingly handsome. It annoys me.
Glisten is absolutely enthralled. “Of course. What size slippers?”
I glower at her.
“Right,” she says, backing away with her finger pointing behind her. “I’ll just go look it up.” Glisten hurries away to do Reykin’s bidding.
“If she only knew the real you, Reykin, and not your playboy persona, she’d run away.”
“Only you know the real me,” he replies.
“What are we waiting for?”
“I heard someone say Grisholm is on his way up.”
“Why are you still here?” I ask.
“I’m required to be here. And anyway, you’re my slave for the day, remember? We firstborns take that power very seriously.”
“‘Slave for a day’ only counts when it’s firstborn to firstborn. I’m secondborn. I’m a slave all the time.”
“Finally,” he whispers. “Get mad, Roselle. Let the rage and injustice of what they’ve made you sink in. Together, we’ll destroy them all.”
“Oh, it’s sinking in. Just like my claws in your face if you don’t leave me alone.” I’m too exhausted to be tactful.
“What’s this about claws?” Grisholm asks behind us. The firstborn golden boy is swathed in light from the window. Reykin turns to greet him.
“Roselle is angry at me,” Reykin says, “because I won’t let her out of being my slave for a day. I might have to postpone it, though, otherwise I’ll feel cheated. She’s restricted to the Palace for the briefing and she has to see a physician.”
Grisholm grunts. “I’m not allowed out right now either. I don’t understand why we can’t just go to the trial grounds and watch the secondborn training camps. Roselle already decimated the attackers.” He looks at me with surprising admiration.
Reykin snorts in agreement, playing along. “Is it true they didn’t have monikers?” he asks.
“I didn’t see any monikers,” I reply. “Some of it is a blur.”
Glisten returns with an armload of items. “I have a few choices for sweaters,” she says, holding them up. Reykin reaches out and takes a long cream-colored one. Shaking it out, he holds it for me. It’s more like a coat that clasps in the front, sensor-controlled with a small apparatus on the sleeve to regulate the temperature.
Surprised by Reykin’s gesture, I pause for a moment. Slowly, I turn and thread my arms through the sleeves. Reykin’s nearness floods my senses. His scent surrounds me. I turn back, and he’s already reaching for the clasps, securing the ones to cover my abdomen and leaving the ones below my waist undone. I touch my hair, smoothing it, self-conscious about what I must look like.
Glisten hands me matching slippers. I drop them and shove my feet into them without bending down. The fit is perfect, and that annoys me, too. These people know entirely too much about me. That’s part of their strength—information is the key to their power. Their data scientists are as lethal with information as I am with a sword.
“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 notices. 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.