True Born

by L. E. Sterling

  But Storm is different again, I think, eyeing the wrack wreathing his head once more.

  He smiles, genuinely amused. “No one is like me, Lucy. I guess that’s why I’m so bossy,” he teases. “Then again, no one is like you and your sister, either.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Storm rubs a hand over the stubble on his cheeks. “I’m not entirely sure yet. But I sure as hell am going to find out.”

  Chapter Ten

  The streets are cold and empty as Jared drives me home. It’s an unexpectedly dry day, the sky a clear and unusual pale blue. The rabble, the preacher men: all are sleeping or lost in the early morning hours of Dominion. So cold it could snap your bones.

  But it’s the cold in the car that has me shivering, the cold that stretches between Jared and me.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Jared says.

  I glance over. His jaw pulses as he drives through the deserted streets. I don’t answer his unspoken question. It’s too painful still, too raw. There are too many questions swirling around my supposedly True Born brain.

  How can we be True Born? Is that really why the men at the Splicer Clinic were after Margot’s eggs? What does it mean if we are?

  True Borns aren’t permitted in the Upper Circle. Is that why our parents have had us tested over and over again—a vain attempt to get some other result? But it should have been easy enough to know. The True Born chromosome set is unique, identifiable from birth. They would have known from the time we were babies.

  No, True Born is too easy an answer. There must be something more to the puzzle of our blood, some missing vital piece that has been carefully swept into darkness.

  I need to find out what those pieces are. And who wields them—preferably before our parents bring home their mysterious Russian stranger.

  But I recognize I first have to get through today with the mercurial True Born beside me. Mulling over the empty streets I ask him, “Is it over? The unrest, I mean.”

  Jared shakes his head. I fight an urge to pull back the blond lock of his hair that flops over his right eye. He’s changed into a pair of loose jeans, a dark blue sweater over top a white button-up shirt, its butterfly collar resting crooked against the warm skin of his neck. He’s dressed up, I realize. I wonder if he’s done so because of where we’re headed.

  “It’s just early,” he finally says. As though that explains everything.

  “But there’s been nothing,” I argue. “No more bombings, no hostages.” That’s what Lasters do when they’re desperate. There are always hostages—until there aren’t, that is.

  “Don’t be so quick to jump to conclusions,” Jared criticizes. His eyes jump left to right. With a queasy rush I realize he’s nervous. “Notice how quiet it is? No preachers, no nothing.” he says again. “Nothing means trouble.”

  I grip the door in alarm. “Should we turn back?”

  Jared shakes his head and swears under his breath. “No. We keep going.” He levels a look at me beneath his full eyebrows. “But we make it quick.”

  Fritz rides the gate. When Jared rolls down the windows Fritz comes down from the gate pegs to peek in at us. Fresh rust stains splatter the concrete around the black iron bars of the gate. I close my eyes.

  Fritz’s flattop nods in the window. He eyes me, all but ignoring Jared. “Shane said you’d be picking up some things. We were expecting you.”

  “What happened here?” Jared asks softly.

  Fritz turns hard eyes on Jared. I think he’s going to be rude, but then, like the drill sergeant I’m sure he once was, he barks, “Had sum late-night visitors. Had to make sure they knew they weren’t welcome.”

  “Bodies?”

  Fritz nods. “Took their own. ’Zem preachers haff got a lot to answer for in ze Kingdom of Heaven,” he says in his clipped, efficient Austrian accent. He waves a hand. The gates open and we sail into the opulent, manicured grounds of my father’s mansion.

  ...

  Jared follows me up the staircase to the second floor. I turn back to him halfway up the long, curving flight. He immediately puts his hand up. “Forget it, Princess. I have my orders, and they don’t include letting you slip out a window while I’ve got my back turned.”

  I shrug. It had never even occurred to me to escape Jared’s custody. Storm’s True Borns have my sister and the answers I seek. Still, if there was a way to keep him from our sanctuary, Margot’s and mine, I would. He’s too big, too pushy, to be allowed into our rooms without protest. I lead him to Margot’s room first.

  As always, it’s pin neat, like a showroom. The frilly canopy over her bed falls down over the sides and drapes like a veil, a mirror to my own. It makes the room look mysterious, haunted even. I head toward the closet where Margot stows her luggage. Halfway there I become tangled in the view from the window.

  For a moment I’m looking through this window from the outside. This is the window I see again and again in my dreams, Margot standing right where I am, and down below, my own body sandwiched between Storm and Jared.

  Jared nudges me with a finger. “You having some sort of tantrum, Princess?”

  I nod, blinking away the rabble hordes who press their bodies like a mass of writhing insects against the gate. The dreams mean something more to me now that I know about us, about Margot and me—that we are not condemned, like the Lasters, to die of the Plague—if Storm is right, that is.

  And if we are True Born? We’ll be shunned, of course, excommunicated from our family and friends. I can imagine the look on Robbie Deakin’s face now, his boyish good looks dripping with disgust.

  “Do you think that doctor of yours would tell us if we were True Born?” I ask.

  “Sure, why do you ask?”

  “Because.” I turn.

  Jared is an eyelash away from me. My breath catches as I look down at our feet. So close we could be dancing. He tips my chin up with gentle fingers. “Hey, you okay?” Then, “You’re not, are you?” Sighing, he pulls me over to the window seat, squashing himself in beside me among the embroidered cushions and decorative dolls. “What’s wrong?”

  He takes one of my hands in his huge paw and with the other strokes my hair, as he had the night before. I hate it. Kind and caring Jared undoes me, unravels me until I no longer know whether I’m coming or going. Then jerkface Jared comes along and rips it all away. I am tired of wondering which version of him I’m dealing with. I try to pry us apart, but my hand sticks there on his chest. “Don’t make me cry,” I tell him with a hiccup.

  “Why?” The words are so gentle. “Lucy,” his breath whispers against the sensitive skin of my cheek. I go into shock when his lips scrape against mine. They’re softer than I could have imagined from such a hard man. His lips come down again. I feel my mouth open under his, hear a low, deep growl from Jared as the kiss deepens. I’m dizzy with him filling my mouth. The feel of him beneath my hands: strong, alive, pulsing with life. I think I moan as he crushes me to him, losing himself. My hands tangle in his hair, and I’m pulling him closer, closer, needing more of his warmth, his fire. And then he wrenches me away from him. He stares at me with vivid green wild-eyes. So it’s not just when he’s upset, I realize as my stomach lurches once more. We’re both panting as though we’ve run a long distance. I put a hand to my lips, swollen now. So sensitive they feel like glass.

  I’ve never been kissed before. Not my own lips, although I’ve been buoyed along by Margot’s often enough. But this kiss, forever seared in my memory, bears no resemblance to the sensations I’ve experienced through Margot. Jared shakes a little as he gets his breathing under control.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  He doesn’t look sorry.

  “Don’t,” I say through my fingers.

  “Lucy.” I bite down on my lower lip when he pulls my fingers away. Jared stares at it with a mixture of hunger and fascination.

  “What?”

  “I—” But I never find out what Jared is about to say. Within a heartbea
t he’s sprung off the window seat and has dropped into a battle crouch, growling at the intruder at the door. The intruder who’s aiming a gun at Jared’s head.

  “Shane!” My cheeks glow red as I hold out my arms in front of Jared. Jared growls louder behind me. My feet leave the ground as he picks me up and shoves me behind him like I’m a package. Shane only grows antsier. “Cut it out,” I yell, trying to climb over Jared’s arms. “Shane, put down the gun.”

  Shane backs up and glares at Jared. “Get away from her,” he barks.

  “Shane!” I shunt around and plaster my back to Jared, who growls again, this time in annoyance. “Stop it. You know Father hired them to protect us.”

  “I can get rid of that problem right now,” Shane says bravely.

  I roll my eyes at both of them. “Go downstairs, Shane. Now!” I raise my voice when he doesn’t get moving. “You can have your pissing contest another time.”

  I drag Jared into my room through the bathroom that joins Margot’s bedroom to mine. “Cut it out,” I seethe.

  Jared turns his glare on me and spits with anger. “You call that security?”

  “I call that the man who works for my father. Remember him?” I stomp my foot and disappear into my closet, searching for my own bag. When I pop out again, Jared is exactly where I left him. He seems stunned, like he’s been caught in a busy hallway with no clothes on. “What?” I call out impatiently.

  “This is your room,” he tells me.

  “Your powers of logic astound me,” I drawl.

  Jared ignores my barb. “Your smell is all over it. Your sister’s, too, but less.”

  “And?” I tap my foot impatiently.

  Jared’s eyes glow. “It’s like bathing in your scent.”

  I drop the suitcase on the bed. “I’m not sure you should be saying things like that,” I say, feeling shaky. But because I’m curious, I ask, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  He tugs me ever so closer to him. Like the last few minutes never happened. “It makes me feel…calm, I guess.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what that means, nor how to keep up with his lightning fast mood changes. What I’d like is to lock myself in a room and think over that kiss for a few days, all by myself.

  He doesn’t release me. “You smell different than she does.”

  “Margot?”

  “Yeah. I would have expected it to be more the same, since you’re identical.”

  “And conjoined.” I roll up my pants and remove my sock to show Jared my birthmark. “Here,” I point out the tidy square of darkness that marks me as my sister’s other half. Lock and key.

  “Hmm,” he says with real curiosity. Heat sizzles from his body. He’s close-close again, so near I can feel his chest move with breath. Jared clears his throat and steps back an inch, maybe two. He throws a nervous glance at the window. “Got to get going. Don’t trust these streets.”

  He might have stepped back a mile. It feels like the same distance. And what does it matter to me anyway? As soon as the mystery of our blood is cleared up, Margot and I will resume our life in the Upper Circle as though nothing has happened. With all of these Laster rebellions blazing, Father will need us more than ever.

  Still, something burns in my chest as I toss back, “Yes, well. Father does expect you to keep me alive in his absence.”

  Jared tosses one of my antique dolls across the room. “That’s right, Princess. We’ve got to make tracks before the Lasters try to carry away the spoiled rich girl for ransom,” he says coldly.

  I suck in a stinging breath, trying to clear my head. Turning my back, I concentrate on my packing, moving the carefully folded squares of cloth from my dresser to the bag with a kind of military precision my mother would approve of. Before I’ve even secured the straps Jared has grabbed the bag from my hands and started downstairs. And then I am alone for one tiny moment in my bedroom.

  I run my fingers over my lips again. They don’t feel like they’re just mine anymore. I wonder if Margot has ever felt this way and doubt somehow that I could ask her. And the man who kissed me? I recall all the things I harbor against him: his pushy attitude, his bossy ways, and superior smirk.

  He’s just another merc, I tell myself sternly. Our father paid for that kiss.

  Chapter Eleven

  The remote learning pod comes on with the rising tune of the school’s anthem. The screen flashes the Grayguard Academy crest, which might as well be the brand of the Upper Circle, before the smiling face of the school’s dean blinks on with a welcome message. The screen flashes to Ms. Hojin’s delicate features and the pre-recorded “homeroom” pod plays.

  They don’t like resorting to the learning pods. They say we learn better in classrooms, in groups where we can socialize. “This is where you become the responsible adults and leaders of society you were born to be,” they are fond of telling us during school assemblies.

  Beside me, wrapped cozy in a blue blanket, Margot peeps at the screen and barks a dark laugh. She looks better today. Hazy sunlight showering in through the tall windows lights her up, filling her cheeks with color. We’re on her bed, snug with one another, although the divide between us is still there, pressing on me like a knife.

  “I wonder what Robbie Deakins will say,” she whispers as Ms. Hojin’s unsmiling face fades from the screen.

  She’s talking about the scars on her belly, of course, already scabbed over. In a few days there’ll be nothing but two slim scars to mark what happened to her.

  What would Robbie Deakins say? Nothing. If he even suspected what happened to Margot, he’d probably shove her down a flight of stairs and spit on her when she reached the bottom.

  It’s a thought that adds to the rising tide of anxiety in me. If this gets out before we know the why, before we can defend ourselves…

  “Robbie Deakins is never going to know,” I reply confidently. My arm snakes around my sister’s shoulders, thinner than the last time I held her. “We’re never going to tell anybody. And we’ll get to the bottom of it so that if anyone ever does…”

  “You don’t think they’ll know just from looking at me?”

  I laugh. It’s a false laugh, but I don’t think Margot is in the headspace to tell. “There’s no flashing red lights like with the security scans, Margot. So you’ll be a bit antsy at first. It’s not like you would even give one of the Grayguard boys the time of year anyway.” This is a fact. Except for her strange fascination for Robbie Deakins, my sister has always preferred older boys. Until now, that is. Now she’s as fragile as glass, ready to break at the slightest bump.

  Her voice fades away. “But the Protocols…”

  I hug her tighter. “Well, we’re done with that, anyhow. We never have to go back or get tested at the Clinic again.”

  Watching Margot’s eyes fill with desperate hope, I want to kick myself. It has never occurred to me, not once, that Margot would believe she’d have to go back. Pretend like nothing happened. Go through it all again.

  “You know Father will burn the place down because of what they did to you, Margot.”

  She shakes her head. “No, he won’t.”

  “Of course he will.”

  “No, he won’t,” she insists. “Listen to me, Lu. Even if I were to tell Father—and I won’t—” She eyes me meaningfully.

  “Mar, you’ve got to tell them. What if they’re selling your eggs on the black market? What if there’s something bigger going on, something that could affect the whole family?”

  Margot grabs the NewsFeed from my hands. “Listen to me for a moment. Do you really think Dominion can afford to have the Clinic shut down? With the number of people in the Upper needing a Splice, and more every day? You’ve heard them, haven’t you? You heard what Patricia Anderson told Mother the other week. More than three quarters of the Circle is expected to fall sick in the next five years. That’s…annihilation. There will be riots.”

  I tap a rhyme on my chin as I ponder my sister’s words. Margot
is right, of course. Those numbers are just the sort of thing I block out to keep my sanity intact. But Patricia Anderson, who works with the Ministry of Health & Well-being, turns white as a winding sheet whenever she trots out the figures she works with every day. Sure, she scares the daylight out of everyone at Mother’s socials. Sure, she’s the kind of lush our mother calls “embarrassing.” But no one ever accuses Patricia Anderson of making up the math.

  “Doesn’t matter. We’re still not going back.”

  Margot scoffs. “Why, because we’re turning eighteen? Look how many times they’ve made us walk through Protocols already.”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to tell her, but I can’t let her go through her days and nights being so afraid—terrified of living as much as dying. “We don’t need to go back, because I think they already know. I…I heard something,” I end lamely as my sister’s eyes widen and her fingernails dig into my hand.

  “Tell me,” she spits out, too desperate for news to be truly angry with me.

  I whisper the words, still unsure how to splice us together with this new reality, making us into someone new. “Maybe we are True Born.”

  Margot’s eyes narrow at me. “What have you heard?”

  I nod. “Storm thinks we might be. I reckon that’s why Father has put us through so many rounds. To be certain.” This is the charitable reading of the situation. And we both know that our father is not charitable in the least.

  “We couldn’t be. They would have known since birth.”

  “What if we were wrong about that? Maybe we’re a different kind, like Storm is, and they just don’t have the tests to measure it. You have to admit they’ve been acting weird. We could be the reason why.”

  “That’s more than a True Born problem. They could have just thrown us out. Are you sure Storm can be trusted?” Margot asks cynically. I nod again. “You’re sure. But then why haven’t we... Oh.”

  “What. What?”