Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(20)

“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.