Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(102)

I turn the corner and run through the Tree’s warehouse, past empty containment tanks. Near the exit, I come to a skidding halt. Ahead, hundreds of Crow clones, armed with fusionblades of various kinds, stand shoulder to shoulder. Several rows deep, the army of psychopaths blocks the way out.

One of the Crows steps forward a few paces. He wields a fusionblade, twisting it in patterns of sizzling golden energy that match a demonstration I once did for a training video. Stroke for stroke, his form is perfect. His smile’s ominous.

“What have you have been doing inside Spectrum, Roselle?” the copycat Crow asks.

“I thought I’d take a vacation,” I reply, hoping to buy myself some time. “It’s a very interesting landscape you’ve constructed—creepy, but interesting.”

“We’re just getting started. We’re on the verge of filling Spectrum with creatures from other worlds.”

“How fun for you—like your own personal zoo, with more slaves to torture, I presume?”

“It’s a utopia, Roselle. We thought you’d be intelligent enough to realize that. We offer paradise. Once you’ve been inside Spectrum, everything here seems so dull. The Fates lack vibrancy, wouldn’t you agree? We find it all rather boring.”

“Then leave.”

“Oh, we intend to. We just hate loose ends. Some day you might discover a way to harm us. We would find that . . . rude.”

“At the risk of sounding impolite, Crow, I promise to do more than just harm you.”

“I offered to make you part of our world.”

I scoff. “As your personal punching bag.”

The Crows behind him take a step forward, wielding their fusionblades in intricate maneuvers. “Everyone needs a hobby, Roselle. Torturing you is ours. We’re going to dissect you, to see how you tick. We need your self-healing. It’s the only reason we haven’t decimated you.”

“You can’t have it,” I seethe.

“We take anything we desire.”

“I learned a little something new while I was on holiday in Spectrum.”

“Oh?” the Crow in front asks with a cock of his head. “What’s that?”

I fold space, like I did inside Spectrum, leaping invisibly across the distance between us, and arrive a sword’s breadth in front of him in only a blink. Swinging my fusionblade, I slice off Crow’s head. While his body crumples, I answer, “This.”

The battle begins. All Crows rush me at once.

I fold space, jump through it, swing, carve, cut, kill. Five Crows die with only a few thrusts of my sword.

Fold again, disappear inside, reappear behind them and slice, plunge, hack, slaughter. Ten more topple.

Stagger, fold space, rush through it, materialize outside the tight sphere of confusion they’ve balled up into, and slash, hew, lacerate, splice, maiming and murdering Crows as I go.

Panting hard, covered in flecks of blood, I snarl and cut through the last one. But I glance behind me, and a thousand more Crows file out from around empty glass capsules. Dread filters with icy fingers through my veins.

There are too many.

Above my head, a small legion of stingers buzzes like a hive of angry bees. The drones extend the barrels of their fusion cannons. As they circle the warehouse, they open fire on the gathering Crows. The clones scatter. Pulsating rounds scream through the air, pounding everything with searing energy. Pieces of bodies vaporize before my eyes. I crouch, unsure where to run. They’re everywhere. The burning smell of flesh scalds my flaring nostrils. Screaming from the disfigured clones fills the warehouse. I cover my head with my hands.

The ear-piercing squawk of a thousand dying Crows dissipates, leaving just the hum of the stingers above me. My hands slip from my head.

Bootheeled steps echo through the warehouse. I straighten and stand as Flannigan Star walks toward me from my left. To my right, another Flannigan Star appears from the shadows and heads in my direction. Dressed in all-black combat gear, they have similar hairstyles—a bob cut at a sharp angel—that accentuate their pointy chins. Neither possesses the star tattoos that accentuated the peaks of the original Flannigan’s eyebrows, but other than that, they look like her. They stop in front of me.

My heart pounds wildly in my chest. “Flannigan . . .” I pause and then add the plural, “sss . . . ?”

They tilt their heads with the cocky smiles I know from the original Flannigan. “Yes,” they say in unison.

“Do you control those drones?” I ask, pointing to the machines hovering overhead. They reach out and pull me toward the closed hangar door, which we crouch beside, the two Flannigans flanking me.

“We control the drones,” whispers the one on the left. “We want to help you.”

“Why?” I mouth.

“The Crows murdered our sister.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Flannigan Two,” they reply in unison. “She poisoned a bunch of them, and the new Crows retaliated.”

“I thought she liked Crow.”

“Crows are monsters,” the Flannigan on the right hisses.

“And you are . . . ?” I ask, trailing off.

The one on the left points to herself, saying, “I’m Flannigan Five.” She nods to the one on my left. “That’s Flannigan Nine.”

“We’re the only two left,” Flannigan Nine explains.