Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(30)

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them,” Agent Crow promises. The crowd of seated agents behind me breaks out in low murmurings. The Black-Os don’t stir at all.

“What are you going to do?” Othala asks.

“This,” he says. From behind Agent Crow’s throne, Hawthorne comes to life. Prowling forward, he moves to stand in front of my mother. With a quick flick of his wrist, he extracts his fusionblade and ignites it. My heart leaps into my throat. I take a lurching step toward the dais, but I’m brought up short by a powerful, scaly hand clutching my wrist. I make eye contact with Cherno. His golden irises show the gleam of intelligence. His head gives a slight shake. If I weren’t staring at him, I wouldn’t have noticed.

My mother’s shriek of terror chills me to my marrow. Hawthorne swings his glowing fusionblade with perfect form, striking Othala’s delicate neck with the blade. It separates her head from her body. Her head and part of her throat, cauterized by the heat of the fusion energy, tumbles through the air bloodlessly, traversing Agent Crow’s throne. Her limp blue eyes stare at me in death, and Agent Crow’s face breaks into ecstasy. My mother’s cranium hits the dais and rolls. Her crown clatters loudly off the ornate floor and bounces, traveling off the dais to land at my feet, sounding the death knell of the Fates Republic.





Chapter 6

Exes for Eyes

I’m frozen with shock, listening to Agent Crow’s peals of laughter.

“That was righteousness!” he gloats. “That was justice!”

I stare at the golden crown at my feet while Black-O soldiers, animating around me, clear away my mother’s sagging, lifeless body and severed head. Her head passes by me first. It’s handed off from soldier to soldier, who, as they come to life, pass it before freezing into motionless figures. It’s barbaric in its efficiency. The pieces of my mother quickly disappear to the entrance of the hall, as does the shriveled corpse of the poisoned soldier.

“What will you do with my mother’s body?” My voice doesn’t seem like mine. It sounds like it’s coming from someone else—from a distance.

Agent Crow bends to pick up the Fated Sword crown from the floor and comes closer to me. He toys with it, turning it to examine its ornate detail. “I’m not sure. I could reanimate her—put her head back on, bring her back to life. Would you like that? She won’t be the same, though. I haven’t perfected the procedure yet. She’d be no more than a performing monkey.”

My stomach lurches in revolt. I barely keep myself from vomiting. “Leave her be.”

“She would’ve had your head on a pike for killing your brother, Roselle.” It’s probably true. She would have tortured me if she had been allowed, but she won’t now.

“I didn’t kill my brother. Gabriel killed himself.”

“He was weak. You’re not weak, are you?”

I feel weak—insubstantial, flimsy, brittle, inadequate, helpless. “I’m not weak,” I repeat numbly.

Agent Crow bends to whisper in my ear. “But I will break you.” A tremor of fear slips through me.

From behind us, a thin, troubled voice interrupts. “You must allow me to make amends, Your Grace!”

I recognize the deep resonance I heard just several moments before, from the corpse-girl—the voice of the other person in the poison plot to kill Agent Crow. He straightens, gazing into the rows of seated Census agents. The hunter-killers appear to know that their days are numbered. Sweat pours from some. Others are as white as winter. Agent Crow turns his back on them and returns to his throne. He sits and places the Fated Sword crown on the center of the throne next to his.

Footsteps echo from a young man trudging up the aisle to reach the dais. With the icy water from the ceiling refracting the sunlight onto his face, his grin resembles that of a shark swimming toward us. He’s tall and regal looking in his elegant black Census uniform and shiny black boots. Pausing before Agent Crow, the young man bows. A Burton fusionblade gleams in its black leather sheath on his hip, secured there with a ruby clasp.

Agent Crow’s top lip forms an ugly twist. The newcomer glances at me before he addresses the psychopathic tyrant. I narrow my eyes at Firstborn Malcolm Burton—a warning to shut his mouth. It’s Grisholm’s ex-mentor, the man The Virtue made me fight for the job at the Halo Palace. Malcolm returns a snarl before addressing the despot on the dais. “I’m Firstborn Malcolm Burton. My father supplies munitions to your army, and he—”

“Plotted against me with Othala St. Sismode,” Crow interrupts. “I know who you are. You’re the voice in the exchange my soldier interpreted for us. Othala invited you here today to witness my death.”

“You’re quite right,” Malcolm admits. “It was done, as The Sword said, through coercion from the Census High Council.”

“Othala’s no longer The Sword. She’s nothing.” Agent Crow’s calm tone is a mask. He’s seething.

Malcolm winces. He raises his hands in a placating motion. “Of course, she’s . . . Of course she’s not The Sword. You have all the power now, Your Grace. What I propose is that you spare our lives, and in exchange I’ll—we, my family will—continue to supply your army with the highest quality munitions.”

“Am I to understand that if I don’t agree to your terms, my army will lack the proper means to defend itself?”