Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(76)

“No.” I turn around to face him. My breath catches a little. Clifton’s the personification of sophistication. His skin, flawless. His dark suit, impeccable. His smile, glinting.

His grin fades when he sees my scowl, but then he scans the rest of me, and it returns in full force. “Reykin said you’d hate a party.”

“Reykin was right. What were you thinking? We need to plan an invasion—a counterattack against a formless, ever-evolving enemy. Don’t you get that? Crow grows more powerful by the second—and you want to have a dinner party?”

“You think this is my first war? It isn’t. Your reaction is exactly why you need a party. It’s your first evening here. There will be many months ahead when we’ll be forced to talk strategy and find solutions to complex problems, but it doesn’t have to be tonight. Tonight’s special. You’re alive. That’s something to celebrate.”

“You do realize Spectrum could infiltrate my mind at any time and turn me into an assassin again. I could annihilate your entire guest list.”

“Not my entire guest list. I’d stop you, after I let you clear out some of the less desirables.”

I glower at him.

“I’m joking, Roselle.” He grins and places his hand on my waist. “Ease up a little.”

“It’s your head, Clifton.”

“C’mon”—he squeezes my waist—“I want you to unwind.”

“Why? I’m your hired gun, like before, aren’t I? That’s why you brought me here.”

“I brought you here because I happen to like you. Why’s that so hard for you to understand?”

I sigh. It’s because I still feel secondborn, but it’s more than that. I feel truly nihilistic. None of this can last. “I’ve been on the other side of this war—Spectrum’s side—where people don’t come back. A part of me is still there. I’m a ghost in your world.”

“I want you to come back. Will you at least try?”

His earnestness persuades me. “I’ll try.”

Orchestral music filters to us from the band on a higher tier of the courtyard. Beautiful people find partners and begin to dance.

With his hand still on my waist, Clifton gives me another gentle squeeze. “May I please have the honor of a dance? Don’t say no,” he orders when I frown. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment for a long time now . . . Please?”

“One dance,” I reply, attempting to suppress my reluctance.

He takes my hand. “You should never put a limit on fun, Roselle.”

I gather the train of my gown and descend the stairs with him. “Where’s Cherno?” I ask as we pass guests openly gawking at us.

“He declined my invitation to dinner, called me an irritating man-child, and said something about how I should postpone mating rituals until after we kill Crow. He ordered me to have an unbelievably large quantity of food sent to his quarters, and then he told me to go away.”

I should’ve done that.

We linger by the edge of the dance floor until the song ends with a few soft notes. Together, we step onto the black-slate floor, my heels clicking on its glossy surface. The first strains of a dramatic melody begin. I know how to perform all the steps to this song. I was taught quite a few dances, having been prepared for the unlikely event that I’d one day be firstborn. Now I am, but the distinction isn’t meaningful anymore. I am The Sword to a dead fatedom.

These thoughts lead me to remember Gabriel, as I last saw him—lifeless in the tower room of Balmora’s Sea Fortress. I haven’t really mourned for my brother yet, and the pain of his death aches like an open wound. Tears feel overindulgent, though. Everyone has lost someone. No one has been untouched by the conspiracy to transition consciousness into a collective power. It’s a different world now.

Couples move aside to give us room at the center of the floor. Clifton’s hand remains in mine, and he places his other one on my waist. I rest mine on his shoulder. The tempo of the music surges, and Clifton sweeps me in a dizzying arc. The train of my gown flutters out, like a canary’s wing. We conquer the dance floor as if we’re weapons on a killing field, with calculation and precision. Other dancers fall back, watching. When we’re the only couple on the floor, Clifton handles me like a well-seasoned warrior. I see it in his eyes, in his mind. I’m an extension of him, the fusionblade of a swordsman. The air between us electrifies. I smile, not from pleasure, but because I’m no one’s weapon but my own.

As the music winds down, I deviate from the routine and force him to kneel on one knee before me or risk losing his balance. Clifton, hiding his frown, takes my hand in his and compensates by lifting it to his lips and kissing it, all of which comes off as horribly romantic. He’s clever, I’ll give him that.

As he stands, he bends near my ear and whispers, “If you wanted me on my knees, you had but to ask.”

“I’m not your toy, Clifton,” I reply under my breath, smiling as if he’s the wittiest creature alive.

“Not yet, but the evening’s young.” The innuendo isn’t lost on me. A tinkling of bells summons us to dinner. “Come join me.” He offers his arm, and I take it. “I have friends you should meet.”

Clifton escorts me to the largest table in the center of the garden sanctuary. Fireflies flitter near the stream, their glow receding with the ignition of every candle and torch. Clifton introduces me to the gathered guests, two of which are Valdi and his wife, Edwah. I remember Edwah as the very lovely Snow Queen from the night of the Gods and Goddesses Ball. She retains her icy demeanor, appraising me as one would a rival. A stunning jealousy emanates from her. I’m sure at one time she could’ve turned me into an icicle.