Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(94)

The need to trudge lessens and finally disappears, but I’m light-headed as I arrive in the Fate of Swords park. It is terrifyingly different than how I remember it. Westerbane Heath is empty of visitors. The well-worn paths wind in on themselves, the shrubbery shifting into new patterns as I watch. I gaze up at an ever-changing sky. It moves in unlikely and upsetting ways. Upon closer inspection, I see that it’s composed of thousands upon thousands of bodies, floating and tangling in obscene ways, like a pit of vipers newly hatched. A dull hum sets my teeth on edge.

Ahead of me, the Tyburn Fountain looms with gloomy shadows. My throat tightens with dread as I approach. The statues on its peak move in slow-motion combat, savaging each other. The effigy of Tyburn, God of the West Wind, is particularly gruesome, slashing at the metallic shape of Hyperion with vicious snarls, cutting into bronze flesh. Water pours from the gaping wounds in Hyperion’s chest and abdomen. I travel around the structure, cautious lest the gazes of the sculptures turn to me. Mist dampens my skin.

Tyburn’s lover, Roselyn—a bloom in her hand and a crown of bronze roses on her head—points the way to the secret door in the side of the fountain. I creep nearer and ease into the frigid water. I shiver, my attention fixed to Roselyn’s face. When I’m abreast of her, her pert smile broadens to a grin.

I gasp.

“Shh.” She brings her finger to her lips, admonishing me. The hairs on my nape stand on end, but I twist the bloom of the rose in her other hand, to the west, opening the door.

I hoist myself inside. One concrete slab remains open while the other, within the chamber, lies shut. The walls and floors of the obelisk-shaped interior are covered with small swords. I find the one that is exactly west and press it. The sword moves inward and locks in place. I quickly press the other swords that complete the code. The door across from me rumbles open, and the one near Roselyn closes. I scurry inside the newly exposed tunnel. The passageway spirals downward. As I move forward, the door behind me closes.

I wonder at the level of detail in this alternate universe, until I realize that Crow would know this place, having picked my brain and Hawthorne’s, too. But still, Spectrum has scraped and assembled a world of such mind-boggling accuracy that I’m filled with a scary respect that soon threatens to change into a feeling of complete hopelessness.

How will I defeat something so advanced?

Traversing the tunnel, I emerge through another stone door into Tyburn’s Temple. The alabaster figure of the masculine deity glows in the dimness. Round walls show distress, and cracks splinter around the stained-glass windows. Dry leaves stir over the intricate inlaid floors. Soft drumming makes me hesitate. I peek around the statue’s elbow to find that the temple has been converted into a large maginot kennel. The gigantic cyborg wolfhounds wag their tails, creating the drumming sound. They’re all the older versions, the same cyborgs I grew up with.

When they see me, they come to me, seeking affection. Silently, I pet the many heads, stroking muzzles and gazing into their expressive eyes. Their bodies are thin, as if they aren’t being fed very often. Worry creases my forehead.

I consider, on a molecular level, what I used to feed the maginots. Everything I need to build their food is in this room and the surrounding landscape. With my mind I draw the atoms and subatomic particles near.

In front of us, a trough assembles, like the one we used to feed them when I was young. Inside it, cuts of meat materialize. The maginots whine and limp toward it, wagging their tails. Voraciously, they chow down the food I assembled, and I stand in wonder.

I pass the feasting maginots and go to the spiral staircase. I tiptoe up and enter the observatory. This floor overlooks the quiet forest. The floor plan resembles the one below, with gorgeous tiling, elegantly carved statues, colorful windows, and a balcony that wraps around the domed room.

I pause in the center of the chamber. Hawthorne lies next to the other Roselle on a small, thin mat. His body spoons hers, and my heart squeezes in pain at the sight of them. I’m not sure why. He thinks he’s with me. Only she isn’t me. Not anymore.

I have no business feeling this way. I murdered Hawthorne. Up until this moment, deep down, I still believed he was dead. I knew that this version of him could exist in theory, but the man I knew and loved died. I killed him, and yet here he is in a different form. It’s confusing and heart-wrenching. My stomach roils with anxiety.

I clear my throat. Hawthorne and the other Roselle startle awake. They sit up with the fluidity of soldiers, ready to fight. Then they spot me. They don’t have the robotic look of everyone else I’ve encountered here, which assures me they’re no longer part of the collective.

“Roselle?” Hawthorne breathes, gazing from me to the other Roselle and back.

“Hi,” I reply with a tight smile. I take a step closer.

“Stop!” Hawthorne orders. His hand moves to the fusionblade sheathed on his hip. “Who are you?” he asks, gripping the weapon. But he doesn’t ignite it.

I glance at the other Roselle. She’s studying me. She’s not surprised to see me. She’s just . . . sad. My eyes shift back to Hawthorne. I want to ask him who he thinks I am, but as far as he knows, I could be anyone in this world. I could be Crow, disguised as me. Spectrum would know anything we know. And what it doesn’t know, Roselle won’t know either.

“I received your message, Hawthorne,” I begin. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t get here sooner. It’s been . . . difficult.”