“What interests did they think you should pursue elsewhere?”
“Oh, I have many passions. Hunting thirdborns is one. Torture is another, but you suspected that. I can see it in your eyes—so blue, your eyes, so vast. You see everything, don’t you? You recognized me immediately as your overlord, and it frightened you, so you reacted.”
“I see you,” I murmur. But it’s more that I feel him. He has a presence that screams cruelty. It reaches out with icy fingers and chills me to my marrow.
“My parents want me to get it all out of my system, particularly before I wed and become leader of the family. But I have a little secret.” Agent Crow leans nearer to me, whispering. “I don’t think I’ll ever lose my taste for pain.”
He gets to his feet and slowly takes off his coat, draping it over the back of the chair. He undoes the golden halo cufflinks from the eyelets of his shirt, one by one, pocketing them in his black trousers before rolling up his sleeves. His fingers go to the buckle of his belt, unfastening it with agonizing deliberateness, pulling it dramatically from his belt loops. It’s the same belt I used to strangle him.
I stand, planting my feet shoulder-width apart. My arms settle into a defensive position. The fear is harder to control. “I’m not going to let you torture me, Agent Crow. We both know you don’t have cause. My identity is no longer in question. This isn’t an interrogation.”
“You attacked me, Roselle. Your aggression is suspicious. Soldiers witnessed your reaction to being tranquilized, which is standard procedure in the event that identity cannot be verified. It gives me grounds to pursue this line of questioning.”
“You could simply verify my identity through a hair sample,” I reply and shift away from his attempt to get closer.
“I prefer a blood sample.”
I wait for his move. He winds one end of the belt around his fist, throws his arm back, and snaps it forward. The first thrash connects with my forearm, raised in a block. My coarse blue sleeve absorbs some of the sting, but it’ll leave a mark. I hardly feel it, though. I allow the lash to wind around my arm, and then I grab the strap with my other hand before he can draw it back, yanking him toward me.
Bringing my bare foot up, I kick him as hard as I can in the stomach, releasing the belt. He reels back, his face a mask of surprise and pain. I don’t wait for him to recover. As he bends at the waist, I drive my foot up, kicking him in the chin. He stumbles back. I roundhouse kick him in the head. He staggers sideways.
The door of my cell opens. Glancing to my side, I see a woman dressed in civilian clothing, accompanied by a Census agent in a black leather coat similar to Agent Crow’s. A handful of secondborn soldiers, some of whom I recognize from the wreckage of the enemy attack, are with them. The one who stands out most is Hawthorne, almost a head taller than everyone else and scowling.
Wiping his bloody mouth on his shirt, Agent Crow shouts at the intruders near the door. “I’m interrogating a detainee!” He snaps the belt in his hand with a loud crack.
“Looks like you didn’t bring enough agents for that,” Hawthorne replies, gesturing at the growing red welt on Agent Crow’s cheek.
“Sorry to interrupt, old man,” the agent by the door interjects, “but it seems the identity of the detainee is no longer in question. Her hair sample, taken when she was brought in, has been verified. She’s Roselle St. Sismode, secondborn to The Sword.” He holds up a holographic chip. It shines in the dim light. “I have her new moniker here.”
Agent Crow seethes. His blond hair is a mess, falling over his brow. “I didn’t submit her hair sample, Agent Losif. How was it verified?”
Agent Losif shifts back and forth on his feet. “This is Agnes Moon.” He gestures to the attractive woman standing beside him. “She’s a secondborn advocate stationed in Swords. She has petitioned for the release of the Secondborn St. Sismode.”
Agent Crow narrows his eyes at the curvaceous redhead. “Her authority isn’t recognized here.” The agent’s cool demeanor returns. I stay rooted in the same defensive position. He’s unpredictable because he believes his power to be absolute.
Agnes straightens, holding up a wristband with a shiny blue face. She waves it in Agent Crow’s direction. “I really don’t want to interrupt either, but I have orders to redirect Secondborn St. Sismode to a debriefing and a press conference in front of the Fates.”
“On whose authority?” Agent Crow barks.
“The Clarity Bowie. He has given direct orders that Secondborn St. Sismode is to deliver a broadcast regarding the attack against her Fate. I’m sending you the authorization now.” She touches the face of her wristband. A blue light shines up from Agent Crow’s. He sets his belt down on the metal chair. Touching the surface of his communicator, he scrolls through whatever message Agnes sent him.
“This detainee has given me cause to believe that she has consorted with Fate traitors. I’m conducting an interrogation to ascertain her level of involvement with the attack against the Fate of Swords.”
“Do you really want to upset the Clarity of Virtues?” Agnes asks, her eyebrow darting into her red bangs.
“I will take my chances,” Agent Crow glowers.
“We’re under orders to remove the detainee from your custody,” Hawthorne says, raising his rifle and aiming it at Agent Crow. “Step away from the girl.” Gilad raises his rifle as well, and two other soldiers from their unit follow their lead.
The agent directs a cold stare at Hawthorne. “You’re the soldier who brought her in. Shouldn’t you be out rescuing your brethren from the city that fell on them? Or better yet, finding the ones responsible? I have plans to interrogate this one for what she knows of the attack. It could be useful information to your secondborn commanders. I will share the information. It could mean merits for you.”
I hold my breath. If they take Agent Crow’s bribe, I’m on my own.
Hawthorne doesn’t lower his weapon. He looks at me. “Roselle St. Sismode, I order you to come with us.”
Warily, I start toward Hawthorne at the door. I don’t take more than a step before Agent Crow barks, “Stop!” I halt. “She can’t leave here without her moniker. Only we can give her that.” He moves to the agent at the door and opens his palm. Agent Losif drops the shiny holographic identifier into it. Closing his fingers around it, Agent Crow lifts his other hand for the moncalate used to implant a moniker beneath flesh.
Goose bumps rise on my arms. Agent Crow opens a slot on the surgical tool and loads my moniker into it. The click of it being chambered makes me flinch. Agent Crow’s eyes meet mine. A mixture of emotions hides there—rage, lust, aggression. I suppress another shiver.
He lifts my hand, rubbing his thumb over the skin between my thumb and finger. “You have a birthmark,” he says. He places the tool beside my birthmark and depresses a button. A puff of white air emits from the nozzle aimed at my skin. It instantly numbs the area. A thin laser cuts a line on the back of my hand. I bite my lip as it burns, but the pain isn’t unmanageable. Small curls of smoke rise to my nose. Agent Crow inhales deeply, watching me.
The laser extinguishes and a little clamp appears from the cylindrical body of the tool. It latches into the flaps of skin, pulling them apart while a tiny claw on a steel arm reaches inside to extract my fried moniker. The claw drops the broken, bloody chip onto the floor. It retreats back inside the metallic body and retrieves the new identifier, shooting it into place.
My eyelids close a fraction at the intense stinging of the new chip settling onto my sinew. Agent Crow watches, savoring my pain. The claw and the clamps retract into the body of the tool. Red laser light seals my skin closed, leaving a pink incision scar that throbs.
Agent Crow lifts my hand to his lips, kissing my incision. I try to pull my hand from his, but he holds it fast, smiling. “I will dream of you, Roselle,” he promises. The flow of my blood feels thready.
My new sword-shaped hologram shines for the first time. It’s no longer golden. It’s silver, denotin
g the Transition to a processed secondborn. Agent Crow flashes me a grin. I wrench my hand from his and move to the doorway. Hawthorne, Gilad, and the other two soldiers surround me. Agent Crow’s attention shifts to Hawthorne. “I never forget a face,” he says, “nor an insult.”
“Neither do I,” Hawthorne replies, his rifle still pointed at Agent Crow. Agent Losif and the woman with the moon moniker are the first to leave. The soldiers from Hawthorne’s unit direct me out. Hawthorne doesn’t lower his weapon until he’s clear of the cell. When he turns and looks at me, his expression is grim. “Move,” he orders.
Chapter 7
Moment of Clarity
Agnes and Agent Losif assume the lead, directing us to a barren hallway in what feels like the bottom of the world. My bare feet are numb against the cool floor, but I hardly notice. I lose my sense of direction as we turn corners and cross through checkpoints where all our monikers are scanned and we’re questioned. When we move again, Hawthorne’s hand touches the small of my back and directs me toward an elevator.
All of us enter the lift except for Agent Losif. He holds the door and addresses Agnes. “You can make it unaccompanied to the surface from here. I’d suggest that you don’t come back for a while if you can help it. Agent Crow is not one to forgive this type of transgression.”
“I hope I never see any of you again,” she responds tersely.
The doors close and Agnes slumps against the wall of the lift. Her green eyes pierce Hawthorne’s. “You need any more favors, you can forget it. Had I known we were going to confront Kipson Crow, there would’ve been no way you could’ve convinced me to help.”
“I owe you, Agnes.”
“You don’t have enough merits to pay me back for this, Hawthorne. And we can’t meet anymore. We can’t be seen together.”
“I know. Thank you.”
She looks at me with derision. “Roselle St. Sismode. I never would’ve thought you’d be a fan, Hawthorne.”
“She taught me the St. Sismode maneuver. I owed her.” He’s talking about a series of choreographed sword attacks designed to give maximum thrust and power in fusionblade combat. I was required to do virtual-access demonstrations of the maneuver.
“I knew it had to have something to do with your sword,” Agnes says sourly.
I’m trembling. Hawthorne removes a copper-colored metallic swatch from a pocket on his thigh, unfolding it into a blanket that he wraps around my shoulders. I clutch it to me. The fabric crinkles and makes noise as I shake, but it warms me, for which I’m grateful. We reach the surface and the elevator doors open into a metal bunker. The guards check our monikers once more before they open a wide steel door. The moon casts pale light high above us. The airships shine on the docks in the branches of the stone Trees, swaying in the wind.
I walk beside Hawthorne on a path that leads away from the Census bunker. “How long was I in there?”
“Three days and a dozen hours,” he replies. “It took me longer than I expected to get you out, but at least we kept him occupied fighting the petitions and the onslaught of inquiries on your behalf. Agnes threw every legal obstacle she could think of at him.”
“Why would either of you do that?” I ask, stunned by his intervention.
“You’re one of us now. We take care of our own. Isn’t that right, Gilad?”
Gilad looks me over with a sneer. “That’s right. We can mess you up, but no one else gets to. It’s a secondborn Sword code: mess with one of us, and we’ll mess with you.”
“Unfortunately, secondborn Moon-Fates don’t subscribe to the same code,” Agnes says, her hand worrying the band of her wrist communicator. The silver shine of her moniker radiates a small rendition of the moon above our heads. “I’m on my own, so don’t think I won’t call in favors with you if I need them—especially you, Roselle, although I doubt you’ll be in a position even to help yourself when that freak back there comes for you again. The only thing saving you from him is the Diamond-Fated press. They’re rabid for this interview with you.”
“You mean there really is a press conference?” I ask. I don’t know how I’m going to pull myself together to get through dinner, let alone an interrogation and a news conference.
“You think I’d have gone in there if there wasn’t?” Agnes’s green eyes narrow. “Of course there’s a press conference. It was arranged by approaching the right people. We spun it so that they felt the propaganda was necessary. People saw the attack. They want you to reassure them.”
“Why would you help me?” I wonder aloud.
“Your friend asked me to do him a favor,” she murmurs. “Just say thank you.”
“Thank you,” I reply.
We cross a paved courtyard, passing the first of many stone and metal Trees the size and height of skyscrapers. Secondborn Sword soldiers in full combat gear patrol the lighted walkway. A fast-moving military-style hovercar approaches us. As it pulls near, I recognize Emmitt Stone as its sole occupant.
He opens the door and clucks his tongue, his eyes roving over me. “Processing doesn’t agree with you, Roselle,” he says by way of a greeting. “What are you wearing—and your hair—and your fingernails!” He grasps my hand. His disapproval would be comical if I had any sense of humor at the moment. He takes the metallic blanket from my shoulders and hands it to the dark-eyed girl in Hawthorne’s unit. The tag on her uniform reads “Hammon.”
“You couldn’t have given her shoes?” Emmitt scolds Gilad, who growls at him in turn. Emmitt retreats a step, his hand going to the base of his throat in a self-soothing way. “We need to get you camera-ready.” He turns to me and urges me toward the hovercar.
“Mother gave orders on my behalf?” I ask. My heart beats quicker with the thought that she cares enough to rescue me.
“No one wants you to disgrace your family any more than you already have. You’ll be prepped and primped.”
I pause and look at Emmitt’s face. “I disgraced my family?” It’s a crushing blow, more powerful than if he’d struck me.
He puts his hands on his hips and taps his foot. “You broke your moniker. Seville ordered you to remain en route, but you and your mentor exited the Vicolt. You know the drone cameras follow you. Every fatedom witnessed our shame because of you!” It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue with him. Our fatedom was attacked—I was threatened—my moniker would’ve been ruined whether I stayed in the Vicolt or not. Did Mother think she could hide the attack?
“We’re going with you.” Hawthorne shoves Emmitt aside and directs me into the hovercar. He gets in beside me. Gilad slides in as well. Agnes, Hammon, and the other soldier climb into the row of seats behind us.
Emmitt sits in front. As the hovercar moves forward, he looks over his shoulder at us. “This is really unnecessary. I can take it from here. She doesn’t need your help.”
Hawthorne shakes his head. “She’s our responsibility. We’re under orders to secure her until she’s delivered to her unit.” I stare at Hawthorne. His exquisite gray eyes meet my stare.
“She’s my responsibility now,” Emmitt says. “You can come back when she’s done. I have so much to do to get her ready.”
“We won’t interfere,” Hawthorne retorts. “We’ll just observe.”
Emmitt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Secondborn Swords are so tedious. You don’t understand the pressure I’m under to make her perform to The Sword’s exacting standards.”
“Do you want me to rip out his tongue?” Gilad asks Hawthorne.
“Maybe,” Hawthorne replies. Emmitt pouts and turns around, slumping in his seat.
We hover near a large body of water. A sign by it reads: Aspen Lake. Silver moonlight shines off the rippling water. The Trees begin to deviate from stone-pillar trunks to beautiful glass ones the closer we get to the other side of the lake. The glass trunks shimmer in the night, regal and stately rather than utilitarian. Our vehicle pulls up in front of one of the tallest. As I look up through the transparent roof from this angle,
the building with its intricate branches seems to have no end. Emmitt emerges from the hovercar and waits for me to exit.
“This way,” he indicates with a gesture. He crosses to the door. I follow him, my escorts behind me. Guards confront us. We’re each made to scan our monikers. A red light flashes when Agnes puts her hand under the beam. The Sword guards draw their fusionblades and move closer, barring her way. “You’re not a Sword or on the approved visitor list. You don’t have authorization to enter. You have to move back.”
Agnes’s eyes lift in frustration to Hawthorne’s. An intimate look passes between them. “This is where I leave you,” Agnes murmurs.
Hawthorne draws her aside. I watch them from the corner of my eye. Though they don’t touch, their eyes caress. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but their body language reminds me of a last dance. The exchange doesn’t last for more than a minute. No kiss good-bye. Agnes simply turns, climbs back into the hovercar, and departs.
Emmitt leads us into the reception area of the glass Tree. Hawthorne catches up and walks beside me. His mouth curves down and his eyes are alert with fresh hurt. He holds his rifle close, clutching it to his chest. I want to say something that will ease his sadness, but I don’t have the words.
Gilad gives a low whistle. “I never thought I’d see the inside of an officer’s oak.”
Hammon flashes him a soft, dimpled smile. “That’s because your family tree is a shrub.”
Gilad details what he’d like to do to her shrub. I feel my cheeks redden. Hammon takes his comments in stride, laughing flirtatiously.
The building absorbs the noise of our boots and voices. The tapered atrium rises above our heads for hundreds of floors. Concrete pillars hold up a labyrinth of glass walkways, concrete ramps, and spiral staircases.
I straighten my neck and gaze at the walls. Enormous portraits of firstborn admirals surround the ground floor. I recognize most of them. I’ve even met a few. They’re leaders from the best families in Swords.
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