Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(61)

“Move, Edgerton!” Clifton orders.

The captain’s shoulders round in defeat. He gets out of Clifton’s way but calls after him, “She’s dangerous! I’m keepin’ this ship if she does manage to kill you this time!”

“She managed to kill me last time,” Clifton sneers over his shoulder. That last bit does the trick and silences Edgerton, whose mouth hangs slack jawed as Clifton marches toward me. “Everyone clear out!” Clifton yells with a wide sweep of his arm.

Diners rise and bolt for the exits, leaving half-eaten meals on their tables. I stand my ground, though my knees feel weak. Hammon and Reykin do, too. The crowd parts, and I get my first unobstructed view of Clifton Salloway. His intense green eyes flare with ire when he sees me. His look of hatred takes me aback. I swallow against the tightness of my throat. I don’t know how to make amends for what I tried to do to him, or whether it’s even possible to atone, but as Clifton grows nearer, I realize his glare isn’t for me. It’s for Cherno.

Cherno’s grumbling voice stirs the air. “Cassius the Unrelenting, the Sacker of Cities, the Slayer of Dragons. I should’ve known that wherever Roselle was, you’d not be far behind.”

“Chernobian the Fierce,” Clifton spits with definite sarcasm. “Escaped the tar pit I threw you in, have you? Well, a part of you has.” He scans Cherno from the floor up. “You may be even uglier now than you were before.” His usually smooth and flawless brow creases. He shoulders me behind him protectively, getting between me and Cherno, and his possessive grip lingers on my hip. Hammon lets go of my hand.

Anger and embarrassment color Cherno’s expression. “You recognize me in this monstrosity of a form?”

“It’s your eyes—your eternal fire has a particular smolder I could never forget. And”—he leans toward Cherno and sniffs the air—“a reek that I loathe.”

Smoke curls from the dragon-man’s nostrils. “I hope Roselle decides to cut off your head for a second time.”

“Okay, enough!” I move around Clifton to get between them. I’m a runt compared to them, but they stop.

Clifton gives me a seductive look. He cups my cheek and rubs my skin with the pad of his thumb. “Who are you?” he asks.

His question startles me. “I don’t know anymore.”

“Nor do I,” he admits. “I thought I did. I thought you were just some beautiful, genetic mishap.”

“What do mean?”

“In form, you resemble the Roselle I knew.” He lifts my left hand. “You even bear her mark, but you had no natural powers. We’d hoped you’d be like her. That was the Rose Garden Society’s purpose, when we formed—to see if a goddess could awaken. We watched and we waited, but your latent traits slept, so we believed you weren’t one of us. You did have courage, though—courage enough to take down a government. We saw your potential in helping us reclaim our society. Then you devastated every one of your enemies at Valdi Shelling’s social club, and I thought, ‘Ahh, maybe the Goddess of War’s descendant inherited some of her traits after all.’”

“You’re joking.”

Clifton chuckles. “About what? About you being a goddess?” He gazes toward the transparent wall. “No. I’m not joking. The cities we’re gliding through belong to me, such as they are now.”

I pull away from his grip, and his hand falls from me. Turning, I stare out at the ancient, crumbling kingdom.

“And, I’m beginning to believe that you, Roselle, are a sleeper.”

“What’s a sleeper?” I ask.

“Someone who has all latent genetic traits of a god,” Clifton replies, “but none of the raw power.”

Cherno laughs humorlessly. “I would rethink that assessment of her if I were you. The goddess Roselle has awakened. Your severed head should be proof enough.”

Clifton scowls at Cherno and absently touches his neck. If I cut his head off, it healed well. His skin’s flawless.

“It wasn’t Roselle St. Sismode who killed me—it was her body, but it wasn’t her. I didn’t see the person I knew in those eyes. They were devoid of emotion. Roselle was a shell—a machine—when she tried to take my life.”

“Did I hurt you?” I whisper.

“I’ve had worse.”

“Have you really?” He must be lying. Dying is excruciating. It wasn’t just the physical pain—it was the massive fear as my body struggled to resist the cold.

“I planned for it to happen the way that it did. I knelt before you, knowing what you’d do. I needed Crow to believe I was dead. I knew I was Census’s target. We set a trap. I was bait. I’d hoped Crow would send someone else to kill me, but he didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.” My lower lip quivers, and tears brim and overflow. “I have no memory of it—of the slaughter.”

Clifton wipes a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “Don’t be sorry. I know it wasn’t really you . . . and maybe it’s what I deserved for not saving you when Census attacked us at the Opening Ceremonies of the Secondborn Trials.” His guilt is written all over his face.

My heart feels swollen and bruised. “It was chaos that night. Zeroborns were murdering everyone. You had to leave.”