Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(17)

“You shot me in the heart, point-blank. Some instincts cannot be suppressed, like survival.”

“What a dangerous thing to say—even treasonous,” he replies with chilling amusement.

“Why are you here at a Swords Base, Agent Crow? You didn’t just choose to be here, did you? That doesn’t seem to fit you. Your position in Census suits you very well, but not here. It seems beneath you somehow.” I watch his face for subtle cues, as Dune taught me to do when interrogating an adversary. Agent Crow doesn’t give me much, a flicker of something in the squint of his eye. “You’re not here by choice. You enjoy your role as hunter, but you . . . you had to come here . . . because . . .” He looks down at his moniker. “Because your moniker was not always golden. It used to be silver. You were secondborn.” My heart is beating like a frightened rabbit’s.

“I had an older sister once. She died.” He sounds remorseless.

“What happened to her?”

“She had an accident. Unlike me, Sabah couldn’t swim, you see. No one ever taught her—the firstborn—poor lamb. My parents were so cautious with her, worrying that every little thing would hurt her. They found her one morning floating facedown in the duck pond.”

He killed her—it’s in his eyes. I didn’t think I could actually fear him more, but I do. “How unfortunate. So your parents—”

“Thought it would be better if I pursued my interests outside of Virtues for the time being.” They can’t condemn the murderer in their midst because he has been elevated to their only heir. The bloodline has to continue with him or it dies, too. His parents’ property and holdings would be reapportioned. A small stipend would be set aside for them. Maybe they’d reside somewhere in the Fate of Stones or the Fate of Suns, but they’d never get to stay in the Fate of Virtues without an heir or the permission and ability to have another.

“What interests did they think you should pursue elsewhere?”

“Oh, I have many passions. Hunting thirdborns is one. Torture is another, but you suspected that. I can see it in your eyes—so blue, your eyes, so vast. You see everything, don’t you? You recognized me immediately as your overlord, and it frightened you, so you reacted.”

“I see you,” I murmur. But it’s more that I feel him. He has a presence that screams cruelty. It reaches out with icy fingers and chills me to my marrow.

“My parents want me to get it all out of my system, particularly before I wed and become leader of the family. But I have a little secret.” Agent Crow leans nearer to me, whispering. “I don’t think I’ll ever lose my taste for pain.”

He gets to his feet and slowly takes off his coat, draping it over the back of the chair. He undoes the golden halo cufflinks from the eyelets of his shirt, one by one, pocketing them in his black trousers before rolling up his sleeves. His fingers go to the buckle of his belt, unfastening it with agonizing deliberateness, pulling it dramatically from his belt loops. It’s the same belt I used to strangle him.

I stand, planting my feet shoulder-width apart. My arms settle into a defensive position. The fear is harder to control. “I’m not going to let you torture me, Agent Crow. We both know you don’t have cause. My identity is no longer in question. This isn’t an interrogation.”

“You attacked me, Roselle. Your aggression is suspicious. Soldiers witnessed your reaction to being tranquilized, which is standard procedure in the event that identity cannot be verified. It gives me grounds to pursue this line of questioning.”

“You could simply verify my identity through a hair sample,” I reply and shift away from his attempt to get closer.

“I prefer a blood sample.”

I wait for his move. He winds one end of the belt around his fist, throws his arm back, and snaps it forward. The first thrash connects with my forearm, raised in a block. My coarse blue sleeve absorbs some of the sting, but it’ll leave a mark. I hardly feel it, though. I allow the lash to wind around my arm, and then I grab the strap with my other hand before he can draw it back, yanking him toward me.

Bringing my bare foot up, I kick him as hard as I can in the stomach, releasing the belt. He reels back, his face a mask of surprise and pain. I don’t wait for him to recover. As he bends at the waist, I drive my foot up, kicking him in the chin. He stumbles back. I roundhouse kick him in the head. He staggers sideways.

The door of my cell opens. Glancing to my side, I see a woman dressed in civilian clothing, accompanied by a Census agent in a black leather coat similar to Agent Crow’s. A handful of secondborn soldiers, some of whom I recognize from the wreckage of the enemy attack, are with them. The one who stands out most is Hawthorne, almost a head taller than everyone else and scowling.

Wiping his bloody mouth on his shirt, Agent Crow shouts at the intruders near the door. “I’m interrogating a detainee!” He snaps the belt in his hand with a loud crack.

“Looks like you didn’t bring enough agents for that,” Hawthorne replies, gesturing at the growing red welt on Agent Crow’s cheek.

“Sorry to interrupt, old man,” the agent by the door interjects, “but it seems the identity of the detainee is no longer in question. Her hair sample, taken when she was brought in, has been verified. She’s Roselle St. Sismode, secondborn to The Sword.” He holds up a holographic chip. It shines in the dim light. “I have her new moniker here.”