Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(9)

My focus narrows on the slouching occupant of the throne. His profile shows high, chiseled cheekbones and sharp angles. His blond hair is slicked back, not a hair out of place. Dark, notched, tattooed lines—kill tallies—mar the skin of his face and neck. A small black disc with a flashing blue light protrudes from his temple.

It isn’t Grisholm. No one, having met Agent Crow, could mistake this Census agent for the heir to The Virtue. And then I remember why it could never be Grisholm. The firstborn heir to the Fate of Virtues is dead. He was torn apart just yesterday at the Opening Ceremonies of the Secondborn Trials. It was yesterday, wasn’t it? My mind falters, scouting for cues to evaluate how much time I’ve lost. It’s so cold here. Winter . . . My fingertips have reddened from the chill.

In front of Agent Crow, the woman shakes away the hands of her captors, but only because their intent was to let her go. She straightens her winter cloak and readjusts the flat cap on her head. She lifts her chin in a show of bravado.

“You, Census agent,” the woman shrieks in rage, “are a filthy coward!” She spits in his face before he has a chance to address her.

As if in a fog, I recognize Reykin Winterstrom’s housekeeper. Mags! It’s Mags! My attention darts away from her small frame to the burned-out shell of Reykin’s home. I hadn’t recognized it from the outside—I’d seen it only through a haze of pain and a brutal concussion. The once beautiful facade is now nothing more than an inferno. The elegant bedroom where Reykin nursed my wounds, after saving me from a raging mob of Gates of Dawn soldiers, is no more. A dull ache pierces my chest.

The malicious blond psychopath wears a mask of calm. His body still slouches in a negligent pose on his royal seat. Slowly, he extracts a white handkerchief from the pocket of his black uniform trousers and unfolds it. He wipes the sputum from his cheek before folding and tucking the fabric away. Cold blue eyes assess the woman in front of him.

“Where’s Reykin Winterstrom, Stone?” he asks. A growing grin exposes his steely front teeth. I know that smile well. He’s never more satisfied than when he has his prey cornered.

The brown mountain range of Mag’s moniker gives off the dull glow of a Fate of Stones secondborn. “You’ll never find Reykin!” she declares. She has the rich, lilting accent of a non-aristocratic Star instead of a secondborn Stone. It lacks the blandness of the Stars aristocracy. It’s probably because, even though she’s a Stone, she grew up here in Stars before her Transition Day. It’s her home.

Agent Crow rises from the ostentatious chair to tower over Mags. “I find everyone.”

“The resistance will bury you!” she sneers.

Agent Crow’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Will it? I don’t think so. It’s much more likely that they’ll all be made to turn on each other, one by one. They won’t find you, though. There won’t be much of you left to bury when we’re finished here—maybe a few bones.” He snakes his hand out to encircle Mags’s delicate throat and lifts her from the ground. Her eyes bulge, and her fists pound against his forearms. I’m struck by his speed and strength. He has always been a fit man, but he was never this strong. Not many people are. He isn’t even straining to hold up Mags’s struggling body.

The palms of my hands run down my sides, searching for a weapon. My fusionblade is gone. I have nothing on me with which to fight him. Frustrated, I ball my hands into fists.

It doesn’t matter. I can kill him without a weapon.

I shift to take a step toward Agent Crow. It’s harder than it should be. My feet want to remain rooted to the lawn. I’m a statue coming to life. With supreme effort, I break the stillness and manage to inch forward. The next step is a bit easier. My momentum carries me. I near Agent Crow and break into a run. Lowering my shoulder, I lead with it, aiming for his knees and plowing into the psychopath with all the force I can muster. The impact of my tackle knocks him sideways. His grip on Mags breaks as he careens to the rocky garden path. I land on top of him. He wheezes from the unexpected contact. The blue light affixed to his left temple emits a series of flashes, illuminating the side of his face, turning his flesh aqua in waves—pale, blue, pale, blue, pale, blue.

I reach for a rock and curl my fingers around its rough surface. With all my might, I lift it and bring it down. The stone smashes against Agent Crow’s head. Blood spatters outward from a jagged cut on his chiseled cheekbone. His groan turns into a growl of rage. The blow should’ve rendered him unconscious, but he’s still very much awake.

My knees dig into his abdomen, holding him down. I clutch the rock tighter. The uneven surface of the stone abrades my fingers. I raise the rock over my head again before plunging it down, aiming for the blinking light on his temple, but Agent Crow’s hand lashes out and latches on to my throat with alarming strength. Startled and unable to breathe, with my fingers weakened, I drop the stone. I’m ripped from my perch on the idiot’s chest as he stands, lifting me with one arm.

My face must be turning blue. I meet his gaze. His pupils dilate, letting me know just how much he’s enjoying hurting me. His hair is uncharacteristically tussled. I grow dizzy from lack of air, and my vision distorts. Just when I think I might pass out, the pressure on my throat eases. He opens his fingers, and I fall from his grip.

On the ground, my arms and legs sprawling, I’m unable to do anything other than cough, sputter, and gasp for breath. Smoke from Reykin’s burning home stings my lungs. “Hold her, Cherno,” Agent Crow barks. Bulky arms with the tough-textured skin of a dragon catch me and drag me to my feet. My back slumps against a soldier’s chest. When I can, I struggle, my hands gliding over cool, jagged skin. Smoldering-brimstone breath warms my neck. The thing behind me squeezes tighter. I can’t move more than a few inches, no matter how hard I kick or jerk. I groan in sheer frustration.