Chapter 4
Phantom Star
It takes me a while to find my way back to my apartment from the glass lift. I get confused and lose my way. All the small conveniences of my moniker, such as navigation maps, become huge irritations the moment I no longer have access to them. I finally end up asking an Iono guard for help. He summons a mechanized domestic to lead me to my corridor. The tall, lanky android with its holographic humanoid face and features is foreign to me. We never used them at the Sword Palace. My mother never trusted them, calling them a “security liability.” She barely tolerated the maginots. I see her point. If the enemy were to infiltrate automated soldiers, an entire army could be turned in a single moment. If the automated soldiers themselves gained a greater awareness of “self,” the result could be the same.
My apartment’s corridor is cordoned off and crammed with Iono guards who have probably been here since just after I reported the attack. One of the guards behind the barrier lets me through when he recognizes my face. Hovering stingers are positioned on either side of the door of my apartment. As I near them, they don’t react to me.
My moniker is scanned, gaining me entry. Inside the apartment, a swarm of Exo guards investigates the crime scene. Among them is Firstborn Jenns. She’s on the balcony outside, staring out into the garden below. A couple of Census agents are also there, recording their findings using databases accessed through their monikers. They were probably called because the corpses didn’t have monikers. I stay as far away from them as possible without appearing to.
A team of Exos and drone cameras documents the scene. They’ve already removed the bodies. Now they’re pawing through everything in the apartment, but it doesn’t bother me. I don’t have any personal items here because I was taken from the Fate of Swords during the middle of the night and not allowed to pack. Everything I have has been provided by The Virtue.
I lean against a wall near the entrance to the drawing room and watch the activity. An hour later, the investigation winds down. Exos and Census agents trickle out until only Firstborn Jenns and a few of her people remain. She comes in from the balcony and secures the door. “The assailants’ DNA profiles aren’t in any of our databases. It’s as if they don’t exist. Census was called, and they’ll be handling that aspect of the investigation. Expect questions from them.”
Dread over speaking to a Census agent makes my stomach clench. “Who do you expect is involved?”
“All signs point to Gates of Dawn.” I know she’s wrong, but I refrain from saying as much because I have no evidence to the contrary. “We’ll post stingers in the corridor and by your balcony for now. Extra Iono patrols will remain in the garden, but don’t expect that to last. Grisholm doesn’t like a large security presence. He cherishes his privacy.”
“I’ll be fine,” I reply. “Thank you for your help, Firstborn Jenns.”
“Call me Vaughna. If you need me, contact me on my moniker.”
“I can’t. Mine has been restricted.”
She points at Phoenix. “Then send that little guy to find me.”
I don’t bother to tell her that it would take Phoenix a long time just to walk down the corridor. I simply nod. Firstborn Jenns and the rest of the investigators collect their equipment in hovering transporters and exit the apartment. A small army of mechadomes cleans up the blood from the fallen assassins. Phoenix’s iron exterior is scrubbed and buffed by a particularly advanced domestic robot. When they’re finally finished, my apartment is even cleaner than it was the day I arrived. The last mechadome out closes my apartment door.
Alone, I deflate a little. It’s past dawn. The sun is bright. Phoenix toddles over from the drawing room toward me. I squat down and run my hand over its head. “You look better, Phee,” I whisper, my voice a little shaky. Its rudimentary mouth curves up.
I find my fusionblade where I left it upstairs in the bedroom. My own investigation of the lower floor doesn’t uncover any monitoring devices left behind. On the balcony outside my apartment, the two hovering stingers guard the entrance. I use privacy mode to turn all the windows and glass doors opaque.
Hunger drives me to the kitchen. I order a meal via the commissary unit located on the wall. When it arrives on a golden salver, I find that I’m afraid to taste it, worried that it’s poisoned. Tears well up in my eyes. Phoenix lumbers in, the top of its head barely reaching the surface of the table. Lifting its vacuum arm, it delicately sucks in a few bits of pasta from the side of my plate. Humming and churning noises ensue. Words written in red laser appear in the lenses of its eyes, detailing a list of ingredients. I study it for a second, not understanding. Then I realize that Phoenix has analyzed my meal on a molecular level. Nothing about the list appears lethal. Its eyes return to glowing red.
“You’re sure this is okay to eat?” I ask in a soft tone.
Its lenses move up and down in a nod-like gesture. I lift my fork, taking a small bite, and then a much larger one when I don’t notice anything unusual about the flavor. Shoveling the food into my mouth, I finish the entire portion in a few more bites, hardly tasting it at all. We repeat the process for several more dishes and beverages, until I have a small food baby in my belly and eater’s remorse.
“Are you Phee?” I ask, setting my fork aside. The burly mechadome’s eyes move side to side. “Are you—” Using its right hand, the one that’s like a claw, it lifts my hand and points to the small star on my palm. Reykin. I stiffen. “I’m going to bed,” I murmur. “You should do the same.”
Leaving the kitchen, I trudge to the stairs and start to climb them. Behind me, Phoenix’s feet clang against the floor. I pause, turning around to find the small bot running into the bottom step, trying to follow me upstairs. It points to the sofa, clearly wanting me to sleep there. “No,” I reply. “I’m sleeping in my bed.”
More clanging sets my teeth on edge, but I ignore it. I take a quick shower and change into sleepwear that I can fight in if need be. The first-aid kit in my bathroom has liquid stitches and bandages. I use the salve to sterilize and glue my frayed skin together, and a bandage to cover the wound on my neck. Returning to my bedroom, I climb onto the enormous mattress. I grip the silver hilt of my Halo Palace–issued fusionblade and, with supreme effort, try to keep my eyes open.
A murderous nightmare leaves me breathless. I’m jerked awake by something brushing up against my arm. In my right hand, my fusionblade ignites, and I strike, but it’s met by an equally strong dual-blade, the X16 model I helped design. The energy of our blades growls where they meet, spitting and sizzling in protest. “It’s me,” Reykin hisses between clenched teeth. The golden glow of the blade makes him look like a statue of an ancient deity—maybe even Tyburn himself. “You’re having a bad dream.”
My eyes narrow, and I look around from my half-reclined position on my bed. My bedroom is the same as before, except the fat chair that’s usually by the window has been moved to the corner. It has a small blanket draped over the arm and a large indention in the cushion.
I withdraw my fusionblade and power it off. Reykin does the same. The soft light beside my bed illuminates when I touch its base. “What are you doing here?” I demand. Everything is hazy and my voice sounds groggy, even though I have adrenaline coursing through me. My nightmare was particularly horrific—my mother’s soldiers were destroying the city of Purity to get to me.
Reykin retreats to the chair, lifting it and moving it back where it was. His hair is sticking up on one side, and his dark, expensive trousers are wrinkled. The broad expanse of his back is completely bare. He turns, and I see a large handprint on the side of his cheek.
My eyes widen. “You slept here!”
“You have bad dreams,” Reykin grunts.
“So?” I ask defensively. It’s none of his business.
“So you sounded like you were being hurt.”
“I wasn’t.” I rub the sleep from my eyes and sit up straighter, shifting my legs over the side of the bed and setting my feet on the floor.
“How was I to know?” His lip curls in a snarl. “You refused to sleep on the sofa. I couldn’t see you. Phoenix can’t get up the stairs.” He stretches his long arms over his head to work out a kink in his shoulder. His body is even more toned than those of most of the Sword soldiers in my unit. He’s perfect, except for a long, faint scar from his shoulder to his abdomen.
“Are you insane? You can’t be found in my room.”
“I know.” He exhales deeply in frustration. “I’m going to have to stay until tonight when things become quieter. I’ll sneak out then.”
“I can defend myself.”
“Unless you sleep through the attack. You didn’t even hear me enter your room.”
“I’m in more danger with you here! If someone were to find you in my quarters, it’s not you they’ll punish, it’s me. You’re firstborn.” My tone implies all the malice I’m beginning to feel for all firstborns.
“Do what I tell you next time, and I won’t have to come looking for you!” Reykin snatches up his discarded shirt. I lift my chin, realizing I’ve been staring at his bare chest.
“Your shoulder healed well,” I mutter.
He has his arms through his sleeves, the material gathered at his elbows, ready to pull it over his head. Instead, he lowers his arms and glances at his thin scar. His irritation cools. “The med drone you called on the battlefield mended my bones and cauterized my skin. It sterilized the wound and inoculated me against infection. It hurt like being branded by a fusionblade when I woke up in the back of the cargo ship that transported me back to a Star base.”
“You didn’t have the scar removed.” He could easily have done it. He’s a wealthy, aristocratic Star—a landowner and a prominent member of the community that provides power and energy to the Fates. A Winterstrom.
He shrugs into his shirt. “No. I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
He folds the small blanket, placing it on the arm of the chair. “It’s a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?” He doesn’t answer. I sigh. “How did you get past the stingers outside? Did you use lead to cover your moniker?” If he has more, I want some. I haven’t yet fashioned a block for my moniker, and I need to be able to travel freely around without being tracked by The Virtue or anyone else.
“These aren’t like Sword stingers. These are Virtues stingers—equipped with an arsenal of elite caliber weapons. Your leader saves all the best technology for himself. You can’t just rely on a lead shield over your moniker. They have infrared.”
“So, how’d you do it?”
“I created an orb that allows me to cloak my temperature—used with the lead shield over my moniker, stingers can’t ping me or sense me.” He pulls a small device from his pocket and hands it to me. It’s a silver sphere the size of a walnut.
“What do you call it?” The orb is icy to the touch. The cool sensation travels across my skin on contact. In seconds, I’m practically hypothermic.
“Nothing yet, I just made it.”
“You just made it?” I ask, agog. “How did you know it would work?”
“I didn’t.” He snatches it back from me, powering it off and returning it to his pocket. “But you were crying.”
“I was crying?” I feel sweaty. I need his device back so I can get rid of my blush.
“I thought someone was hurting you,” he replies gruffly. He looks away.
“I think you should call it a ‘phantom orb,’” I mutter, trying to change the subject. “Can you make me one?”
“No.” He scowls, turning and leaving.
I follow him.
Reykin switches on the lights with a holographic board in the hall. In the drawing room, the iridescent glow of a whisper orb draws my attention the moment I cross the threshold. The orb sits silently on the low table, its bubble spanning the entire apartment. Reykin set up a perimeter to hide me in.
“Why won’t you give me a phantom orb?” I ask as I catch up to him in the foyer.
“Because you’ll use it. You’re supposed to be Grisholm’s mentor. You’re not to go snooping around the Halo Palace. You’re not to do anything out of the norm. End of story.” He finds Phoenix inside the niche in the foyer wall, connected to a recharge station. He squats down and disengages the unit.
I talk to his back. “Maybe I don’t want it for here. Maybe I can use it to go back to Swords . . . see if I can get a secret meeting with my brother.”
Reykin lifts the heavy mechadome. Turning, he brushes past me. “Your brother will kill you. Didn’t you learn that last night? Or even last week? You’re not leaving Virtues. That’s final.”
“You don’t know that Gabriel had anything to do with what happened last night.”
“Don’t lie to yourself.”
“If he did, it’s because he’s afraid of—”
“Gabriel should be afraid. I’ll kill him if he comes near you again.” He sets the fat bot on the table in the formal dining area.
“My brother—”
“Doesn’t love you. He wants you dead.” He lifts a silver case from a chair and places it on the table next to Phoenix.
“You don’t understand!”
Reykin rounds on me, his expression furious. “What am I missing?” he demands.
I place my hand over my heart and whisper past the aching lump in my throat. “I told you before. I love him. I feel for my brother what you felt for your little brother before they killed him. Gabriel didn’t take Radix’s life. He didn’t do that to you. Census did that. The Fates Republic did that. You’re condemning Gabriel for wanting to live—the same as I want to live.”
Reykin’s hand closes around the nape of my neck, gathering me to him. My cheek rests against his chest, and I stare at his bicep where it strains against his sleeve. I choke back tears, refusing to cry in front of him ever again. I’m surprised by his embrace, but at the same time I’m not. Because we’ve saved each other’s lives in the most harrowing of situations, I have a very visceral connection to him. A trust beyond what’s rational. “That’s not why I want Gabriel dead,” Reykin says softly. “I want him dead, Roselle, because he’d rather kill you to save himself and his dying way of life than change and grow stronger to protect you. We’re never going to see eye to eye on this.”
I pull away from him. “No, we won’t.”
Reykin sighs. “Do you want to help me make some upgrades to Phoenix?”
“Aren’t you afraid Grisholm will wonder where you are?”
“I left word for the Firstborn Commander that I was going into the city to visit some establishments and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.” He faces the table and removes fasteners from Phoenix’s hull.
“What kind of establishments keep you out all night?” I murmur, mostly to myself. I pick up a tool and ease a fastener from Phoenix’s side.
“For a soldier, you’re very naïve,” he replies, but there’s a look of relief on his face.
“I’m not naïve,” I reply with a sniff. “I work with arms dealers and the underbelly of Swords society. Are you talking about some kind of betting establishment?”
“No,” he replies. “I’m talking about a pleasure house.”
“Oh.” My spine straightens. “Do you visit them often?” I want to bash him over the head with the fastener extractor in my hand.
“No, it’s just a cover.” I don’t know whether I believe him. My frown says as much. He becomes angry again. “Those places offer the rape of secondborns who have no choice. If you know anything about me, know that! What do you think I’m doing here?”
“Okay. I’m sorry,” I reply. “What exactly are you doing here?”
“I’m trying to change the world.” He’s as intense as Dune. I could drown in the depths of his eyes.
“Is that all?” I ask with a small conciliatory smile. “I thought you were here to make sure I do everything you tell me to do.” I’m overwhelmed by the firstborn Star and his plan of the future. I even find it mildly amusing because it’s so insane. His ambitions are in direct opposition to how I was raised—where conformity to the rules of the Fates Republic is paramount. He expects me to just switch my thinking and my loyalties to fit into whatever vision he sees this rebellion taking.
“Making sure you do everything I tell you to do is just a bonus,” he replies. He’s not joking. He’s enjoying the power he has over me. One whisper from him in the right person’s ear, and I’m dead. He could turn me in anonymously to be executed for treason.
A rusted bolt slips from my fingers and clatters on the table. I reach for it, my fingers shaky. “What would you do . . . if I stopped helping you? Would you turn me in?”
He picks up the bolt, circling it between his fingers. “I would never turn you in, Roselle.” He gazes into my eyes. “You know too much. I’d kill you myself. You’re too big a liability for me to leave your death in the hands of the Fates Republic.”
“I’m hard to kill.”
“Then I hope it never comes to that.”
He hands me the bolt. “Do you want to learn how to install weaponry in a Class 5Z Mechanized Sanitation Unit?” He holds up some parts from a disassembled hydrogen cannon.
“Yeah.”
We spend the next few hours upgrading Grisholm’s prank mechadome with several degrees of firepower. Midway through the upgrades, I order us some coffee from the automated food and beverage dispensary unit located on the wall in my kitchen. At the formal dining table turned workshop, we stand over Phee, sipping the steaming brew after Reykin uses Phoenix’s programs to test it for poison. The firstborn Star explains that he installed technology in my mechadome that will allow him to see through Phoenix’s eyes like real cameras and receive a regular video feed instead of just infrared images.
I frown. “I’m not so sure I completely love that upgrade,” I mutter, leaning my hip against the table edge.
“Why?” Reykin truly looks puzzled.
“Umm . . . I’ll have no privacy. You’ll see everything.”
He shakes his head. “Would you rather be dissected on your sofa?” His eyes are blue smoldering flames. “I thought they were going to slit your throat last night. I didn’t know if Phoenix had the arsenal to stop them.” He points to the balcony. “If you hadn’t woken up . . .” I stop listening, his voice just a noise. My throat tightens with the horrifying memory of fingernails dragging against my scalp. Panic seizes me with cold claws. My heart contracts painfully and then rages in accelerated flares. My skin instantly becomes clammy—I’m dizzy . . .
“Are you okay?” Reykin scowls and reaches out to touch my elbow. I yank it from him and back up a step, bumping into a chair and knocking over my coffee. It spills onto the floor. I hurry to the stairs, climbing them with my arm on the wall for support. In my bedroom, I retreat to the bathroom and close the door.
“Shower,” I croak. The water in the glass enclosure turns on, but I don’t get in. I want the sound to cover the panting that leaves me feeling as if I might pass out. At the sink, I whisper, “Cold water,” and splash some on my face. My vision blurs. I clutch the enameled edge of the sink, lowering myself to the floor. Steam fills the room.
Reykin taps on the door. “Roselle?” His voice is low. I can’t catch my breath enough to tell him to go away. The door opens. I start to rise, but my world tilts, and I slide back down the wall. My hands go to my forehead. I’m trembling. Am I dying?
Reykin kneels in front of me. “I’m sorry I said that.” His voice is soft and low. He strokes my hair. “You’re okay. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you again. I promise.”
I still can’t breathe.
From his pocket, Reykin pulls out a silver case like the cigar case Clifton uses. Inside, it’s different, though, with a secret compartment behind the narrow green cigars. From it, Reykin takes out a chet. He tears off a corner of it. “Stick out your tongue,” he orders. “I’m only giving you a little. You can’t take a full one again. You’re too small. It’ll wipe you out.” He places the small piece of chet on my tongue, where it melts.
Reykin sits down and puts his arm around me. I lean my cheek against his chest. After a few minutes, I can take a full breath again.
“Better?” He squeezes my shoulder.
I lift my cheek. “I need a shower.” Reykin helps me up. I’m weak, as if I just sprinted for miles. I shake off his hands, not meeting his eyes. “I’m okay now. You can . . .” I nod my head toward the bathroom door.
“Oh. Okay. You’re sure?” He hovers closer to me.
“Yes,” I growl.
“You don’t want me to stay and help you into the shower?” I glare at him. “What?” he scoffs. “I’ve seen you naked before, Roselle. Who do you think bathed you after I found you beaten half to death?”
“Out!” I point to the door. He stuffs his hands in his pockets.
After he leaves the bathroom, I take a long shower, trying to wash away the scent of fear. I’m relieved to find my bedroom empty when I exit the bathroom. I select a dove-gray lounging outfit and dress quickly in the closet. I towel-dry my hair and braid it in one thick plait. The sound of voices leads me to the den, where Diamond-Fated anchors on a visual screen report on preparations for the Secondborn Trials.
It’s dark in here with all the windows turned opaque. Reykin sits on the couch against the wall, his long arms resting on his thighs, his hands clasped, scanning the images in front of him as if he’s searching for someone. I lean against the frame of the doorway. The sharp planes of his face have a blue tint from the light of the visual screen.
The scene cuts from the secondborn candidates registering for The Trials. Reykin eases his back against the charcoal suede of the tufted couch. His hands absently rub the tops of his thighs.
I enter the den. “What are you watching?” I ask, sitting beside him on the couch.
“Pre-trials.”
“Why? You can’t possibly like them.”
“I don’t.” He gestures to the moving images in front of us. “Ransom has skills. He’s brilliant and he’s not half-bad with a fusionblade.”
“You expect to see your brother register as a competitor?”
His worried gaze shifts back to the screen. “Like I said, Ransom’s brilliant. He knows the odds of winning this travesty are slim, and he knows that, even if he were to survive it, he wouldn’t come out with his soul intact.”
“You’re assuming he got to keep his soul after his Transition.”
Reykin winces. “You kept yours.”
“Did I? I don’t know if that’s true.” I’m different now. I’m not sure I’d make all the same choices I once did.
“You know you did. You saved me on the battlefield when you could’ve killed me.” He picks up my hand, rubbing his thumb tenderly over my scar.
“Fat lot of good it did me,” I tease him. “You’re worried he’s like you. You’d risk everything not to be their slave.”
“I’m hoping he’s not like me—or maybe I’m hoping he’s exactly like me. I don’t know,” Reykin growls. He lets go of my hand and rubs his face where the shadow of a beard is forming. “I just want to see him again.”
“I hope you do.” I rest my back against the soft cushions and pull my feet up next to me, leaning near him. He smells like lemongrass and a soft hint of cologne, the scent I remember from his bed in Stars. The piece of chet relaxes me—not to the point of sleep but enough that my head feels heavy.
“How long has it been going on?” He pretends interest in statistics about would-be competitors on the screen.
“What?” I feign ignorance.
“Your panic attacks.”
I shrug. “I’m fine now.”
“How long?”
I sigh. “On and off for a while. Never as bad as what you just witnessed. I’ve always kept it from blowing up. The chet I took yesterday—the one that almost got me killed—was my first. I didn’t know I shouldn’t take that much.”
“How have you avoided a full-blown panic until today? Done anything dangerous to trigger adrenaline and combat the panic?”
I stare at his profile. “How did you know?”
He turns to me with eyes that could pull me out to sea. “Adrenaline doesn’t always work. You think I was carrying those chets around for you?”
“Oh.” Something about his admission makes me feel better. We’re more alike than either of us wants to acknowledge. I know where I stand with him. He doesn’t lie to me. He tells me exactly what he’ll do if I don’t go along with the Gates of Dawn’s plans. No guessing. We’re friendly for now, but that ends if I ever decide that his cause isn’t for me. Reykin, Daltrey, and Dune make more and more sense the longer I’m around them. What if I were in a position of power? Could I make the kind of changes that would save secondborns? If so, isn’t that worth the fight? Or is that the chet talking?
The price of power is my brother’s life, at the very least. Many more people would have to die for Dune and Reykin to attain the influential positions they would need to topple the Fates Republic. The most likely outcome of the plot to destroy the Fates Republic is that we’ll all be tortured and killed for treason. I don’t care about any of it now, though, and I know that’s the chet talking.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
“Very,” he admits.
“Me, too. Did you know that I can order anything I want here and they’ll send it to me? Anything. I don’t even need merits. I can have as many crellas as I want.”
“Do you like crellas?”
“I love them,” I admit, and then whisper, “I don’t even know most of the food items on the food dispensary’s menu.”
He smiles. It might be the first time I’ve ever seen him smile. I feel like I ate an entire chet. “What don’t you know?” His dark eyebrow raises in a cunning arch.
“What’s ‘foie gras’?”
He stifles a chuckle. “It’s duck liver or goose liver.”
I wrinkle my nose. “It sounds gross. Do you like it?”
“No. It has a peculiar aftertaste.”
“If I’m stuck with you until tonight,” I say, “I’m going to make you my official translator.” I rise and walk toward the kitchen. Over my shoulder, I ask, “Coming?”
He catches up, his hand brushing past mine, though he doesn’t seem to notice. “First, let’s put Phoenix back together. He can be our official taste tester.”
The theoretical joy of a food fest just lost some of its appeal, but I try to shrug off the sense of dread at the thought of being intentionally poisoned.
Phoenix is still lying inoperable on the table. Reykin opens the case he carries in his pocket. He extracts a star-shaped programmer and inserts it into one of Phoenix’s ports. The star whirls until it resembles a sun. When it winds down, I ask, “What was that?”
“That was a stockpile of malevolence,” he says with a smug smirk. He motions for me to help him, and together, Reykin and I reassemble the mechadome.
After lifting it from the table and rebooting it, Reykin gives it a series of voice commands through his moniker. He tells it to terminate the vases on the bureau, and Phoenix waddles over to them, lifts its vacuum arm, and emits short bursts of air that topple over each small urn one at a time. Shards of glass scatter on the floor.
“Um . . . I liked those,” I mutter.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” Reykin replies, just like a privileged firstborn who has no idea of the value of things like that.
“They’re not exactly mine.”
Reykin orders the bot to suck up the pieces. The mechadome performs each order without a hitch, but its hover mode is still broken. “I can’t test its new weapons in here. We’ll have to do it later.”
“Good. I’m running out of vases.”
“Phoenix,” Reykin says, “go to the kitchen.” The mechadome trundles away. “After you,” Reykin says, gesturing me forward.
I go to the command center in the kitchen, where we peruse the food dispensary’s menu. Reykin explains several dishes to me, some of which I order, like the puff pastries in the shape of swans and the pan-seared whitefish in truffle butter sauce. Others, like the snails sautéed in their shells and the fried beef tongue, I want to mark so that I never accidentally order them. Reykin carefully feeds a small bit of each delivered dish to Phoenix as they arrive.
With two fully laden platters that would make an epicure jealous, we move to the den and set them on the low graphite table in front of the sofa. The lights are dim, and the visual screen is muted. Sitting cross-legged on the soft carpet, I pass Reykin a plate, silverware, and a napkin. He sits on the floor across from me.
He piles food on our plates. I almost die of happiness at the bite of cheese-encrusted potatoes that he insists I taste from his fork. He leans forward and feeds it to me. “That might be my favorite thing ever,” I murmur.
“I told you,” he replies, a smug grin on his lips.
“We would’ve killed for even a small pouch of this at the Stone Forest Base.”
“You didn’t have food like this?”
I give an unladylike snort. “Uh, no. We had nothing like this.”
“Did you ever go hungry?”
“Sometimes. In combat, when rations ran low and the supply carriers were shot down.” We both know that it was his side who shot them down. Rebels. Gates of Dawn. The enemy. I can see he’s thinking the same thing. “You know who’d like this the most?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Edgerton. That man can eat. It doesn’t matter what. He’s just hungry all the time.” I set my fork down. “Are Edgerton and Hammon okay?”
Reykin nods. “They’re—”
I hold up my palm. “Don’t tell me where they are. They’re safer if I don’t know.”
“They’re like family to you, aren’t they?”
I think of the two Sword soldiers who showed me the ropes when I first arrived at the Stone Forest Base. “No. They’re better than family.”
“They’re doing well. Hammon is healthy—experiencing a normal pregnancy.”
Tears cloud my eyes, but I force them back. Swallowing hard, I nod.
Reykin wearily scrubs his face with his palms. “Edgerton is a problem, though.”
My eyes narrow. “Why?”
He drops his hands and looks at me. “He’s too ‘mountain,’ for lack of a better term. He doesn’t blend in well. When he opens his mouth, you know where he’s from.”
“Can you teach him to hide it better?”
“Mags is doing what she can. If anyone can help him, it’s her.” I nod, thinking of Reykin’s enigmatic secondborn assistant. I must look worried because he says, “There’s nothing more you can do for them now. Our network will take care of your friends.”
I flop back, stretching out on the carpet. “I know.”
Reykin crawls around to my side of the table, lying down beside me. He turns toward me, resting on his side. I do the same, meeting his gaze. The weariness of being awake for so long shows on his face. I wait for him to say something. He doesn’t, he just stares back, his eyelids drooping.
I whisper, “You never told me how you know Grisholm.”
Reykin’s eyes open again, and he yawns. “My father sent me to the best schools in Purity. Grisholm and I were in some of the same circles. He is younger than me. He used to follow me around because I was the best fusionblade fighter, thanks to Daltrey’s instruction on my time off. Grisholm has a fascination with weapons—and a serious obsession with betting, especially on the Secondborn Trials. Grisholm always tries to get me to help him figure out who’ll be the winner. He even offered me a seat on his council in exchange for my insight.”
“His Halo Council?” I ask.
“Mmmhmm,” he answers with a deep murmur. His eyes droop again.
“Are you going to take his offer?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Does Grisholm ever win when he bets on The Trials?”
“Yes.” Reykin closes his eyes. His breathing becomes heavier.
“Will it be hard for you to betray him?” I ask, but Reykin is already asleep.