True Born

by L. E. Sterling

  And no one will say a word when we never return. The knife in my stomach twists a little more.

  Margot’s eyes fill with tears. “Do you really think Storm has a plan?”

  “If he doesn’t,” I whisper back, taking her pinkie in mine and shaking, “I do. My plan is we escape. Okay? We run.”

  My sister takes my measure for a long moment before slowly, reluctantly nodding. It’s the sentence next to death, running away from our family. But maybe it’s next to the only choice remaining to us.

  ...

  Our mother’s designer set afloat pale pink lanterns in small pools all through the ballroom. Beside the pools, the patterned wood of the floor gleams like sun on waves. Six-foot tropical plants group together in made islands, with discreet wooden benches tucked beneath them to give our guests’ rest and privacy.

  As we wander into this lush paradise, stretching before us with a thousand twinkling lights, Margot and I gaze at the throng of admiring guests. But I, for one, cannot be glad, I think as I squeeze my sister’s hand. In the face of everything—Resnikov, Richardson, Father Wes, even the Lasters—this so-called perfect party is a fool’s paradise.

  Beneath the veneer is the plaster and tape that holds everything together. Pale-faced Lasters—come out of the woodwork for a paycheck but who, if the rumors are near truth won’t be well-paid—circulate trays of tulip-stemmed champagne flutes. Some of the tropical islands have been taken over by mercs who mumble into their mouthpieces as they scan the crowds. A metal detector set into the doorframe whines once, twice, while a team of mercs frisk the unsuspecting man who’s tripped it. Unless he’s a senator, he’ll undoubtedly be hauled into the guardroom for a proper pat down before being allowed to rejoin the festivities.

  We wait for our cue at the doorway. Margot’s face is untroubled, though that is just her careful mask. She looks so beautiful in her dress, so sophisticated and so much older than I could have imagined. I wonder if my own face holds the same expression: have I, too, become an ice queen? When all eyes fall on us and a hush descends, our hands unclasp and we fall into perfect, synchronized curtsies to the roar of applause. Resnikov appears before us in his black tailored tux and bows low, first to Margot and then to me. My stomach clenches with regret. What would it have been like, I daydream, to be greeted by someone we cared about? An image of a blond rebel prince with startling green eyes flashing over blue pops into my mind. No good can come of that, I tell myself sternly.

  Anger sizzles through me as Resnikov offers us each an arm, as though we really are his two harem wives. He promenades us down the center of the ballroom, as has become the custom for girls, just as I catch sight of a gleaming set of antlers rising from the throng of delighted faces.

  Storm.

  Has Margot seen him? And where’s Jared? an annoying inner voice whines. I try not to stare, but Storm is a good head taller than most of our guests even before the rack of antlers. Our eyes meet and he nods, a tight, pensive smile stamped on his handsome features. Just then the endless wind rattles the house, flickers the lantern light. The gale has been battering at everything all day, toppling the car hotels, which now block the streets, according to the NewsFeed. Our guests don’t seem overly concerned.

  We arrive at the back of the room and curtsy again, this time to Resnikov, who bows to each of us again in turn before sweeping Margot into a formal dance. I suppose he could be called handsome in his black tux and crisp white shirt, I critique as I stand back and watch my sister glide around the room. If only we could trust his motives. Resnikov smiles down into Margot’s eyes. Yet I can’t help think how cold he is, how calculating. Compared to Jared’s fiery personality, though, everyone seems cold. When Jared smiles, his eyes crease into a patchwork of laugh lines that make him seem comfortable in his own skin. Where are Resnikov’s laugh lines? No, for Resnikov we are a business deal. But just what does he think he’s purchasing?

  And then there’s the question of Richardson.

  Our father touches my shoulder with one soft leathery fingertip, pulling me from my reverie. He’s wearing his gloves, which, paired with his pristine tuxedo, make him look like a terrifying version of royalty. “May I have this dance?” he asks and pulls me onto the dance floor. I have always felt as if he could read our minds, if not our faces. It makes me want to hide from him now—especially now, as the storm lashes outside, and I know he’s up to something terrible.

  “You and your sister look very beautiful tonight,” he says quietly.

  We both glance over at Margot, who could be a queen as she whirls around the ballroom with Resnikov. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Tell me, Lucinda, do you think your sister likes Resnikov?”

  “I couldn’t say, Father.”

  “Come now.” He scoffs. “I thought there was nothing you and your sister did not share.”

  I shrug delicately. “What is there to think about, Father? Mr. Resnikov is your guest. We have done everything we can to make him feel welcome. We hope we have not displeased you.”

  Not happy with my answer, the leather of his gloves creaks slightly as his fingers tighten against my waist, my hand. “No. With notable exceptions, you have been the ideal hostesses,” he admits before a thoughtful expression crosses his severe, handsome features. “I suppose it does not matter, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, what does not matter?”

  “It’s time you heard. Your sister has decided to accompany Mr. Resnikov back to Russia.”

  I gape in shock at our father’s words, sure he must be joking. “Th-that’s not—” I stammer.

  “I assure you it is possible. I spoke with Margot earlier today.”

  I flash back to earlier that day: Margot, looking dully at the window, mute and even more withdrawn. “What did you do?” I choke out.

  “Why do you suspect I have done something?” Red patches creep over his cheeks. “Who are you to question me? Your sister is a grown woman. She makes her own choices. As do you,” he says meaningfully.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your sister has chosen to visit Russia for a good length of time. The question is, will you accompany your sister or will you remain here?”

  “That’s not a fair choice, now, is it?”

  “Why not? Russia is beautiful. Why wouldn’t you want to be treated like a queen at Resnikov’s estate? He is a very rich man.”

  “And what will you have us do for him there, Father?”

  We stop dancing as he glares down at me. “Nothing. But the doctors tell me…you and Margot will have to continue with the Protocols. You are freaks of nature, both of you, and no one is certain of your fate.”

  Breath hisses out of me as I force my hands out of his. “What is this Reveal for, then, Father? What will you be announcing to our guests?”

  He doesn’t even pause. “Naturally, we will tell them you are both Splicers.”

  In a blinding flash, I finally understand: Lukas Fox has always seen this as a con, nothing but a game of announcing your victory over life and death. Rich and powerful families can’t afford to be seen as Lasters or True Borns. It makes me wonder: how many other families have lied about their children’s results?

  And then I’m struck with the very real thought that maybe they never had any intention of telling us what we really are. We are just “good girls” to do their bidding. We don’t ask questions. And they don’t have to give us answers. Even if we were Lasters, fated to die no matter how many trips to the Splicer Clinic—and our father’s cynical words prove beyond a doubt that we’re not—they’d let us die without ever telling us the truth. Or, they would dangle lies over our heads to force us into compliance.

  Disgusted, I turn away, but he grabs my arm and twists. “Just where do you think you’re going?” His voice is cold steel, eyes glittering murder.

  I look him straight in the eye with a saccharine smile as I pluck at his bruising fingers. “It’s my turn to dance with our escort, Father,” I chirp.
<
br />   Our mother catches up to me before I can flee the ballroom. She’s a wraith in a sequined black tube dress, her hair piled artlessly on top of her head. Around her neck is a heavy onyx and diamond-crusted necklace, a piece I’ve never seen before. It looks as though it’s holding her head on a platter. A fitting tribute in the Fox family, I think as a hysterical bubble of laughter threatens to burst.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” She has several guards behind her. I suppose they are there to make sure I stay in the room.

  “Nowhere,” I say, refusing to meet her eyes.

  “Did your father tell you?”

  “That he’s sold Margot? Yes, he told me.” I expect her to slap me, as she did Margot the other day. When nothing happens, I open my eyes and stare back at our mother. She’s not angry as I expect but…resigned.

  “It’s not what you think. It’s not the money, although there will be some.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “A debt.”

  “You’re in trouble?”

  Her head tips back. She grabs at her throat. Her long, beautiful neck arches as she laughs. “You don’t have a clue, do you? How do you expect that your father has become such a powerful man? This has been in the works for years.”

  “Father and Resnikov?”

  “It was a long-standing promise. From before you were born. It’s why you were born.”

  “I don’t understand.” I shake my head in confusion. “You’re not making sense.”

  Our mother puts a hand to my cheek. I can almost still feel the sting from the slap she gave Margot. Two for the price of one. Lock and key. She looks at me with almost maternal pride, turning the hard blue of her eyes into something soft and faraway.

  “He was right, you know. You both excelled every expectation,” she tells me quietly. “I’m sorry this party wasn’t more in your taste. You both deserve a nice party.”

  “Mother, please.” I grab at her hand. “You’re not making sense.”

  “May I have this dance?” Resnikov’s smooth, low tones startle me. I jump, as does our mother, who drops her hand as though it’s on fire. “Am I interrupting a mother-daughter moment?” He throws a charming smile at us, white teeth flashing, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. An air of menace wafts from him despite the tuxedo and carefully slicked back hair threatening to tumble down over his eyes.

  He extends a hand. Our mother pushes me forward. I get the message. My hand is small in his, which is thick and calloused, as though he’s used to hard labor. I swallow and look up at him. Resnikov gazes down at me dispassionately as he wheels me into the fray.

  “You look lovely tonight,” he opens. I nod my head and murmur my thanks. He smells of cigars, but underneath that I can smell him, dark and strange. I try to listen to the music. The orchestra is playing something light and impersonal. Resnikov tightens his grip on my hand. “You’re also very quiet tonight.”

  “Not much to say, I guess.”

  “Tell me, Lucinda.” His accent always thickens around my name. Lyoo-cinda. “Do you think we can be friends?”

  It’s not a move I expect. I glance up. His frank appraisal unbalances me.

  “I-I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”

  Resnikov whirls me around before answering. “Because we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either way, you have just been informed your sister is coming back to Russia with me. Correct?”

  So much for subterfuge. I swallow hard before asking, “And what would be the easy way?”

  His whole chest vibrates as he chuckles. “I like you,” he tells me. “You are a smart young woman. The easy way would be if you come, as well. Of your own free will, of course.”

  I surprise myself by asking, “And what happens to me if I don’t want to come?”

  Resnikov shrugs, his dark eyes boring into mine. “You come anyway. Only you’re not so comfortable.”

  We dance a moment longer before I decide to take a wild stab in the dark. “Do our parents know that?”

  His smile is genuinely amused as he answers. “You are far brighter than your father gives you credit for, I think.” He whirls me to the side of the room and bows low over my hand. “I’ll let you consider my offer. You can give me your answer in the morning.” He melts into the crowd.

  And how can he think I’ll just sit here and wait for him to kidnap my sister and me? Because they can make sure no one takes me in. Because they know there’s nowhere for me to go but the streets. Because the room is filled with mercs strapped with guns. And who do they answer to? Not me.

  A second later I’m swept into a waltz with Storm. He towers over me even without the antlers, but he’s so gentle and light on his feet I feel like I’m dancing on a cloud.

  “You’re not supposed to dance with us without asking Resnikov.” I frown. But then, because the tears threaten to spill I add, “We’re going to Russia.”

  Storm nods tersely. “Get a few things together in a bag. Essentials for just a day or two. Nothing else. Be at the foot of the staircase in ten minutes.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” I murmur. But Storm either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t want to. The song ends and he slips into the crowd and I quickly lose sight of him.

  I wheel around, hoping to find my sister. But the ballroom is a giant crush. I reckon I couldn’t find my way to the door unless I’d lived here all my life. I rush into the room dedicated as the ladies’ withdrawing room. Margot is not there. Running out onto the balcony I catch our father standing with a few of his cronies. Thick blue smoke curls from their hands, which hold gleaming glasses of dark golden liquor and fat, lit cigars. I retreat, hoping to run upstairs before our mother notices me. And back up with a thump into a hard body.

  I turn, an apology on my lips. Only to be met with the dark, menacing face of Richardson.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “You’re a hard lady to catch.” Richardson’s lips twist with sarcasm as he grabs my arm and pulls.

  “Ow,” I say as loudly as I dare. Sadly, he won’t be taken for a bad guy, I think, noting the tuxedo, the black silk eye patch and more importantly, the fact that no one is around to help me. “I don’t recall seeing your name on the guest list.”

  “I don’t recall giving my name at the door.” He smirks and marches me down the dimly lit demi-corridor that separates the ballroom from the balconies.

  I dig in my heels and give an outraged screech. “Where do you think you’re taking me?”

  “Time’s up,” he snarls. “Consider your decision made. I’m taking you to your room to pack. You’re too much of a flight risk.”

  My brain trips over his words. Flight risk. “What decision?” I ask. But inwardly I’m wondering how he knows—unless he really is Resnikov? But his accent, his face—he’s not even in the same tux as Resnikov, I realize, noting the cheaper cut to Richardson’s suit. But how does he know? And what happened to giving me time to consider?

  I dig my heels in hard enough that he’s forced to stop. “Who are you—his brother?”

  Richardson’s smile finally reaches his remaining eye and crinkles the corner, just as it does on Resnikov. “Good guess,” he says, studying me. “No.”

  “What, then? Cousins?”

  “Think of us as cousins if it makes it easier. Let’s go. I do not want to have to damage you.”

  Damage me? “Why would you bother with me? You have Margot. You only need one of us, right?” It’s only a guess but it seems I’ve hit the mark.

  His mouth curls up into an oddly disarming smile. “Insurance.”

  I may have no choice in the matter, but I sure as hell won’t give him the honor of going quietly. Not in the middle of my own Reveal. Not wanting to miss a chance, I slam my hand against his nose with a sharp, upward jab. He winces, and when he lets me go, I grab at his face, pulling his black eye patch down and revealing pitted sunken scar tissue. He’s distracted only for seconds, long enough for me to bring my knee to his crotch. Shockwaves run
through his body as I pluck up the bell of my skirt and run like hell.

  As I run for the main staircase of the house, I realize what a dilemma I’m in. Storm is nowhere to be seen, but there are guards with guns everywhere. Guards Resnikov had a hand in hiring. Is he even Russian? I wonder hysterically as I force myself into a fast walk. I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see an enraged Richardson appear with a gun, but he’s not there. Not yet.

  Neither is Storm—or my parents—and I’m desperate. I toss a smile at the guards at the staircase. Would they prevent me from going upstairs? Trap me? They don’t so much as raise a finger as I reach for the door handle and rush outside into the night air.

  The exterior of the house is flooded with light. The same designer that helped our mother with the lanterns and pools convinced her to continue the theme on the exterior. Our house looks like a gigantic block of light. I blink at the ostentatious waste of electricity, and reckon that if they didn’t before, every last one of the rabble in town now knows where we live. But that hardly matters, I think to myself as I look past the gate.

  Because they’ve found us. All of them.

  There must be three hundred—maybe four. Guards line the fence, guns pointing at the massive sea of bodies. The street is deadly quiet—the kind of quiet that makes you think someone has died. The Lasters stand still as stone, blinking, calm faces lit by the garish glow of the building.

  “Lucy?” A voice laced with a hint of fear breaks through the panic racing through my blood. “Lucy, for once in your life do what I say and don’t move.”

  I almost sag with relief and a strange, bubbling joy. I’d know that voice anywhere. But why does he sound scared? I turn. Framed against the shiny black and gray cars lining the grass along the driveway is Jared, who holds the arm of a breathtakingly beautiful woman. She’s not dressed for the party, but then again, she wouldn’t have to be. She’s the kind of woman who would be stunning in a sack. Tall, slim as a pencil but still curved, she shakes a mane of white-blond hair that ripples down her back from two decorative side combs. It’s her eyes that catch me: beautiful, almond-shaped eyes, and I’m stabbed through with jealousy. But then I see why Jared holds her arm that way. Those eyes of hers are covered in the bluish-white sheen of cataracts.