Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(96)

Hawthorne cringes. “He came back and murdered himself?” He moves protectively to shield Roselle from me.

“Yes, but you don’t have to worry. I don’t plan to do that. I need Roselle. I need both of you.”

“So you’re real . . . and we’re not.” His dark look borders on madness.

“You exist. I saw it in Ransom’s memories, but I didn’t fully understand this place. Not until now. It is real. Spectrum has created an alternate universe. It’s not a program. And Crow, whatever he is, owns it.”

Hawthorne swallows hard. “We haven’t seen Crow in days. We were told he was raging when he found us missing. He left soon after and hasn’t been back. He destroyed the control room and the beacons Roselle insisted we try to send to you. I have to be honest and say I thought Roselle”—he indicates my copy—“my Roselle, her, was insane about that, but what isn’t insane here? So I trusted her, even though I thought she was—not wrong, but . . .”

“Hawthorne thought the original world didn’t exist,” Roselle finishes for Hawthorne, “that the one we’re in now was the real one.”

“You believed the red sky and all the creepy things in it were part of our world?” I ask Hawthorne.

“Now it sounds stupid, but yeah. It’s no more stupid than an alternate universe I never knew I’d entered.”

“Fair enough,” I reply. “I assure you, our original world exists, and it’s being decimated by Crow.”

“It can’t be as bad as it is here,” Hawthorne replies. “Every breath here is a new form of violence. Every day, an execution. Death and resurrection and more death.” He sounds mad, and that’s how I know he’s sane. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t trust him.

“May I come closer?” I ask Hawthorne.

“Where’s the other me?” Hawthorne asks. “Why didn’t I come here with you?” His questions still me. My stomach sinks.

I should make up a lie, but I can’t. He’ll find out later, maybe from Crow, and then it will be worse, if that’s possible. I square my shoulders. “You couldn’t come, Hawthorne. You died. You only exist here.”

He swallows hard, processing it. “I died? How?”

“You . . . you got caught up in my plan to kill Crow, and when you did, I murdered you.”

Hawthorne’s jaw tenses. A look of betrayal shines in his eyes for a second, then recedes. He nods. “You’re a soldier. You did what you had to do.”

I snarl and tears cloud my eyes. “Don’t forgive me. I can take your anger right now—your hate—but I can’t . . . Just don’t.” Holding back tears is nearly impossible, but I do it.

“I know you’re her.” He nods toward the other Roselle. “But you’re different—harder.”

“Ruthless,” I reply.

“Yeah. I can feel that. I can’t say I don’t like it, Roselle. I do, but I know her.” Again he gestures to the other Roselle. “To me, she’s the real one. Maybe she’s your soul. I don’t know. I could get to know you, but I love her.”

Betrayal that I have no right to feel cuts me deep, as does his idea that I’m soulless without her. I’m not. I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I understand, Hawthorne. I’d never take her from you. I want to bring you both back to our world, but I need to figure out a way to do it. In the meantime, I need your help.”

“Tell us how we can help you,” Roselle offers, looking me in the eyes. It’s so strange—looking at myself—I forget what I was about to say for a few seconds.

“Remember when we uploaded the virus into the maginot,” I ask, “at the Sword Palace the night we were honored for bravery?”

Roselle’s brow furrows. “Yes, Mother tried to have us killed that night. I remember uploading the virus—I just don’t remember where I got it.”

“You got it from Reykin Winterstrom. It was a program designed to infiltrate the Sword industrial systems. We’re going to do that again, except this time you’re my virus. You’re my warlord here. I want you to seize control of this world by any means necessary.”

Hawthorne frowns and crosses his arms over his broad chest. His shirt’s torn and grimy, the armpits stained with dried sweat. His hair’s limp and unkempt. Dark circles hollow out his eyes, and his cheeks are beginning to sink in a little. He gazes at Roselle, who resembles his state of decline.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Hawthorne says, “but don’t you think we’d have done that already if it were possible?”

“I do, but it wasn’t possible until now. If Crow’s a god in this world, then I’m a goddess. I’ll give you the tools you’ll need. I’m going to make you gods here.”

Hawthorne’s lip twitches. “You’re gonna make us gods? If you’re a goddess, then we could really use some food, new clothes, and a shower.”

“The maginots are hungry, too,” Roselle adds.

“I already fed the maginots.” I raise my hands and concentrate on the things I require on a molecular level. Everything I need lies at my fingertips—I just need to assemble it. I get to work, first providing food. I construct an elegant cart, like the one I’d seen at Hawthorne’s estate, and fill it with the kinds of delicacies I became accustomed to at the Halo Palace. The cart hovers to a stop in front of Hawthorne and Roselle. Their eyes have grown to a size that rivals the tea-service saucers. Pastries and fruit cover the three-tiered tray. They look at each other with wary frowns. Then they glance at me with suspicion.