Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(20)

“We’re going with you.” Hawthorne shoves Emmitt aside and directs me into the hovercar. He gets in beside me. Gilad slides in as well. Agnes, Hammon, and the other soldier climb into the row of seats behind us.

Emmitt sits in front. As the hovercar moves forward, he looks over his shoulder at us. “This is really unnecessary. I can take it from here. She doesn’t need your help.”

Hawthorne shakes his head. “She’s our responsibility. We’re under orders to secure her until she’s delivered to her unit.” I stare at Hawthorne. His exquisite gray eyes meet my stare.

“She’s my responsibility now,” Emmitt says. “You can come back when she’s done. I have so much to do to get her ready.”

“We won’t interfere,” Hawthorne retorts. “We’ll just observe.”

Emmitt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Secondborn Swords are so tedious. You don’t understand the pressure I’m under to make her perform to The Sword’s exacting standards.”

“Do you want me to rip out his tongue?” Gilad asks Hawthorne.

“Maybe,” Hawthorne replies. Emmitt pouts and turns around, slumping in his seat.

We hover near a large body of water. A sign by it reads: Aspen Lake. Silver moonlight shines off the rippling water. The Trees begin to deviate from stone-pillar trunks to beautiful glass ones the closer we get to the other side of the lake. The glass trunks shimmer in the night, regal and stately rather than utilitarian. Our vehicle pulls up in front of one of the tallest. As I look up through the transparent roof from this angle, the building with its intricate branches seems to have no end. Emmitt emerges from the hovercar and waits for me to exit.

“This way,” he indicates with a gesture. He crosses to the door. I follow him, my escorts behind me. Guards confront us. We’re each made to scan our monikers. A red light flashes when Agnes puts her hand under the beam. The Sword guards draw their fusionblades and move closer, barring her way. “You’re not a Sword or on the approved visitor list. You don’t have authorization to enter. You have to move back.”

Agnes’s eyes lift in frustration to Hawthorne’s. An intimate look passes between them. “This is where I leave you,” Agnes murmurs.

Hawthorne draws her aside. I watch them from the corner of my eye. Though they don’t touch, their eyes caress. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but their body language reminds me of a last dance. The exchange doesn’t last for more than a minute. No kiss good-bye. Agnes simply turns, climbs back into the hovercar, and departs.

Emmitt leads us into the reception area of the glass Tree. Hawthorne catches up and walks beside me. His mouth curves down and his eyes are alert with fresh hurt. He holds his rifle close, clutching it to his chest. I want to say something that will ease his sadness, but I don’t have the words.

Gilad gives a low whistle. “I never thought I’d see the inside of an officer’s oak.”

Hammon flashes him a soft, dimpled smile. “That’s because your family tree is a shrub.”

Gilad details what he’d like to do to her shrub. I feel my cheeks redden. Hammon takes his comments in stride, laughing flirtatiously.

The building absorbs the noise of our boots and voices. The tapered atrium rises above our heads for hundreds of floors. Concrete pillars hold up a labyrinth of glass walkways, concrete ramps, and spiral staircases.

I straighten my neck and gaze at the walls. Enormous portraits of firstborn admirals surround the ground floor. I recognize most of them. I’ve even met a few. They’re leaders from the best families in Swords.

In the center of the gallery is Mother’s likeness. Beside her is a portrait of Gabriel, her heir apparent, and on the other side is one of Father. A golden plaque beneath his frame reads “Kennet Abjorn – The Fated Sword.” He hates the figurehead name for the spouse of The Sword.

Father kept his last name rather than taking Mother’s because his is slightly more prestigious than hers. She didn’t take his name because she’s The Sword—there have always been St. Sismodes—and she would not let the name end with her. Her father stipulated in my parents’ marriage contract that her children would inherit her name. It was a contentious point, one of many they still hurl at each other when they’re forced to interact.

Father is in line to inherit the title of Clarity of Virtues, which he enjoys telling people. He leaves out the fact that there are four heirs in front of him who would all have to die before he could assume the title. However, he loves to rub it in Mother’s face that he’d be the Clarity of Virtues before her. Her family is fifth in line. That had been the idea behind their match. Together, they’re even more powerful.

I study his portrait. His hands are crossed on his lap and his Virtue-Fated hologram shines a golden halo for all to see. His dark good looks and sultry, roguish smile used to make many of the secondborn Stone-Fated servants at the Sword Palace swoon. I haven’t seen him in a few years. I wonder how he’s doing—if he’s heard of my trouble at Transition—if he cares.

A sharp rattle of laughter from a small seating area nearby serrates the air. Firstborn officers of the highest military rank—Exos who more than likely live in this building—watch me with amused curiosity. All around us they drink golden alcohol, chatting in low voices. Their dress uniforms, adorned with immaculate black capes, starkly contrast with my detainee garb and the secondborn soldiers’ black combat gear, silver Tree emblems etched on breastplates, and lethal rifles. Each Exo has a fusionblade with an intricate family crest embossed on the hilt. My own fusionblade is probably somewhere in the bowels of Census. Broken as it is, I still long to have it back.