Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(7)

“You’re disgusting,” I growl.

“And you’ll make a fine Black-O, Roselle.”

A cold tremor slips down my spine.

We return to the trunk of the Tree. I’m escorted to a heartwood in the center of the facility. Agent Crow gestures for me to enter the heartwood with him. I clutch the pole and step onto a rising star. He is on the step beside mine. We’re lifted together through the tube.

“There is something I want to show you on level five,” he says.

We pass storehouses of neon cylinders containing people—his experiments. On level five, we step off the heartwood and walk together to the area that, in a normal Tree, would be used for the intake of new Transitions. Inside, secondborn Atom-and Star-Fated technicians are busy at work. They don’t appear to be mind-controlled. No silver light shines from them.

Agent Crow commands the attention of the nearest Star-Fated man in an ebony lab coat. The tall, handsome man stops what he is doing on his holographic screen, climbs off his chair, and walks toward us. Dark hair falls over his brow. His eyes are focused on his moniker, but his inattentiveness doesn’t seem to bother Agent Crow.

“I need you to prepare Roselle St. Sismode for Black-O conversion,” Agent Crow says.

My heart pounds in my ears. I turn to bolt, but I’m caught and restrained by Hawthorne and several other Black-O soldiers. I struggle, but they’re ridiculously strong.

The technician doesn’t miss a beat, ignoring my outburst. “I just need a requisition, and I can take her back to an exam room now. I’m sending you the appropriate files.” His fingers swipe the light of his star-shaped moniker.

Agent Crow uses his moniker to send the requisition. They’re still using the Fates Republic communication system. They must have ways of blocking access by nosy Star-Fated firstborns like Reykin, but for my sake, I hope not.

The technician draws a tranquilizer gun from the holster on his thigh. I kick him in the stomach and try again to get loose, but I’m immediately tackled by the nearest Black-O. He growls in my ear until I exhaust myself and stop struggling, and he hauls me back to my feet. I pant in frustration.

Agent Crow leans in, touches my cheek, and smooths my hair away from my eyes. “I’m looking forward to your conversion more than I have with anyone else’s, Roselle. What will it be like when you fall into my arms instead of trying to rip them off?”

I spit in his face. He scowls and pulls a cloth from the pocket of his black leather coat. Methodically, he wipes away my spit. “Hand me the gun.”

The technician places the tranquilizer gun in Agent Crow’s palm. He places it directly over my heart. My eyes defy him, even as the dart penetrates my skin. I jerk at the impact of the needle against my breastbone. My eyes blur. My ears ring. Everything mutes. A dreamy, faraway feeling sets in.

“Let her go,” Agent Crow orders. It sounds distant.

I’m released. My knees weaken, and I almost collapse, but the technician reaches out and catches me, clutching me to him. He smells like lemongrass.

“Opa,” he groans. “It must be too much. You’re such a little thing.”

His deep voice sounds so familiar.

“Don’t be deceived,” Agent Crow warns. “She’s a killer.”

“Oh, I know who she is,” the technician replies. “Everybody knows Roselle St. Sismode.”

“Her mother expects her conversion to begin as soon as possible,” Agent Crow growls, “so quit the rhetoric. Prep her for conversion, and tank her. Alert me the moment she’s ready. I’m leaving the Black-Os to guard her. Don’t let her out of your sight, or you’ll regret it.”

Agent Crow leaves, and the technician says nothing. My head lolls on his shoulder. He lifts me in his arms and, followed closely by Hawthorne and several other Black-Os, takes me to an examination room.

The technician lays me on an examination table beneath a bright-white spotlight. Beside it is a tall tank filled with briny fluid, like the ones I observed earlier. I drift in and out of awareness, trying not to succumb to the tranquilizer. The technician removes my cuffs. I feel him tug off my clothes and wrestle me into a wet suit. He inserts IVs into my arm. Using a powered sprayer, he coats my exposed skin with something.

Then he takes my hand and lifts it.

His thumb rubs over my palm.

He pauses and lifts my hand higher, inspecting it closely.

He rubs his thumb over the small star again.

“That’s—” He leans over the table, his head blotting out most of the white light above. A halo remains, ringing his face with its aquamarine eyes, which bore into mine. “How did you get this star?”

I recognize the chiseled lines of his face, the way his dark eyebrows slash together. My pulse jumps as he lays a hand on my shoulder and shakes me.

“The star is unique to my family crest,” he says. He holds it before my eyes. “Seven points—a seven-three prism, with three long points that form a W. And my brother’s initials in relief—mirrored? What is this?”

My lips curl into a dopey smile. “Ransom . . . Winterstrom.” I squeeze his hand. “Reykin is . . . looking . . . for you . . .”





Chapter 2

While Everything Burns

I feel a pop sensation inside my head—the world turns on.

I blink slowly. My head aches. I’m outside. It’s cold. Night. Flickering light. My mind, sluggish and heavy, stumbles over sensory cues, attempting to make sense of my surroundings. A shiver slips through me. I inhale the acrid scent of embers and taste it on my tongue. Wood hisses and crackles. Thick black smoke hovers above gray stone walls like an enormous spider. It blots out the stars in the night sky.