Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(25)

Othala St. Sismode sits on the inferior throne, her red-velvet dress barely touching the flat metal blade of the grand chair’s backrest. The design of her dress isn’t “her.” It’s too heavy somehow. I’m surprised my mother let it near her slender frame. Bloodless knuckles protrude as she clutches the claw-shaped armrest with one hand. Her other hand, almost hidden by the bell sleeve of her garment, forms a fist in her lap.

In contrast, Agent Crow is the picture of ease, his back resting against the throne’s golden sword blade, the point of which travels well over his head—a metaphor, perhaps. He raises one eyebrow as he observes our approach. With every step, it feels as if there’s an invisible noose tightening around my neck.

Agent Crow’s attention shifts to his seated audience. Census agents in long, dark coats occupy carved wooden chairs before him. They’re positioned on either side of a center aisle to face the dais. The water on the other side of the glass above our heads gives their faces a bluish tint. Through the carved holes in the tall mahogany seatbacks, they leer back at us, reminding me of eels ready to spring through gaps in coral. But I forget all this the second I notice Hawthorne standing behind Agent Crow’s gleaming throne. I nearly lose my mind.

The relief I expected at finding Hawthorne never materializes. Instead I’m destroyed by his blank stare. I swell with unshed tears until I think I might burst. If I were to let them loose, the flood would drown the world. Instead I fight back the tears and bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from blurting out his name. Tasting blood, I’m compelled to break all pretense of being Spectrum-integrated and run to Hawthorne’s side, but the impulse vies with my reason.

The silver light of Hawthorne’s left eye stops me from dropping my charade. Another thing I notice is Hawthorne’s resemblance to Agent Crow. His hair, slicked back in much the same way as the Census agent’s, accentuates the hollowness of his cheeks. He’s lost some of the youthful fat in them, hardening the lines, aging him. The supple contours of his lips are the same, but they don’t smile or turn up when he sees me—if he sees me. I can’t tell if he knows who I am at all. Statuesque, his powerful body never twitches. He doesn’t make a sound. He’s a beautiful, life-sized tin soldier awaiting someone else’s will to propel him into war. I sift through the melee of AI frequencies thrashing about the room. If Hawthorne’s is one of them, I can’t sense any difference from the rest.

My attention darts back to Agent Crow. The maniac leans over the gilded arm of his chair. His new kill tallies cover more of his skin. It gives the illusion that his face is being consumed by a shadow.

I’m too close to the dais now to have errant thoughts. I choose a focal point on the wall behind my mother and Agent Crow and blur my sight so that I can maintain my guise.

“Ah,” Agent Crow simpers. “Here they are—my favorite swine.”

There’s a swift change in the Spectrum directives. Cherno and I come to an abrupt halt in front of the dais. I’m still out of striking distance. Behind me, the council members’ conversations hiss like the sizzle a fusionblade makes when it touches water.

An ominous trickle of energy stings my nostrils. The odor buzzes with the sharp burn akin to ammonia. The shape of Agent Crow’s mind reaches out to me and rakes against the mental barrier I erected. His energy, too, has a scent—burning, acrid. The coiling uproar of current he creates triggers my olfactory sense. I lose focus, wheeze. Something almost tangible enters my mind. I feel the pinch and burn of it. Invisible, sharp, mental talons scratch and abrade my brain, causing horrific, stabbing pain. I flinch. My face screws up in a grimace. My hands ball into fists. I resist his skulking psychic energy and, with an internal force of my own, push against his telepathic bludgeoning. Maybe the device in my head is defending itself. I don’t know, but my scalp tingles. A shock of energy releases in an invisible pulse.

Crow scowls at my resistance. He grits his teeth and winces, but then he touches the device on his temple and drives a searing wave of energy into my frontal lobe. My defensive barrier melts; my brain inflames. I try not to scream, but a shriek issues from me anyway. My head in my hands, I sink to my knees before him. The surface of my mind throbs in agony. Agent Crow strokes the glowing veneer of the master-level beacon with his forefinger. It pulsates blue light in slow waves.

His face flushes with bitterness. Cords stand out on his neck. “You’re still different from my other followers, Roselle. I feel it whenever I’m around you! What have you done? How have you beaten Spectrum?” Spittle flings from his lips.

His ability to have me on my knees petrifies me. “Followers?” I groan. “You mean slaves? No one would follow you willingly.”

“Explain to me exactly what you’ve done to escape integration!”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I reply, gasping and straining to repel the increasing viselike grip he has on my mind.

“Don’t lie to me!” he retorts through his shiny metal teeth. Another searing razor talon punctures my mind. A drop of blood falls from my nose and spatters on the floor. Just when I think my head might explode, the pressure eases a fraction as Agent Crow withdraws his energy. Still on my knees, I drag my forearm across my nose, blotting away more blood with my dark uniform sleeve.

“You’re a murderer.” My mother’s soulless voice, corroding my already chaotic thoughts, carries to me from her lofty perch. “You slaughtered your own brother.”