Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(27)

“So he’s a combat commander for Vector Company. What does a combat commander want with you?”

“I don’t know,” I lie. Dune must have gotten word to his older brother to find me—maybe Dune’s not leaving my placement to chance like everyone else has. “Why do you ask?”

Hawthorne leans against the other side of the doorframe. “I was under orders from my commanding officer to extract you from Census, but it was to be a covert mission. I had to work it out on my own—assemble my own team. They sent me because you’re familiar with me. I assured them that you’d trust me if I found you.”

“How did you know I’d trust you?” I ask.

“I just knew.” I turn away to retreat into the private room and evade any more of his questions, but Hawthorne holds my arm. “I caught the tail end of a briefing between Commander Aslanbek—he’s my CO—and Commander Walther.”

“What did they say?”

“They were arguing about you—about who ultimately keeps you.”

“I don’t know anything about it. I thought you were acting alone.” I don’t know why I’m crushed by disappointment, but I am. I thought Hawthorne came to help me because he’s my friend—my only friend. I should’ve known better. I’ve never had a real friend apart from Dune. I don’t even know how to be a friend, let alone make one.

Hawthorne squints at me, as if he notices my disappointment but not the reason for it. I straighten. “I’ll see you at first light,” he says. He lets go of my arm.

I can only nod. Entering the bedroom, I slump against the door to close it. I don’t even bother to wash my face before falling headfirst onto a pillow.



My neck is sore when I rouse from a nightmarish sleep. It’s still dark as I lie in bed, looking around at unfamiliar shadows as dark as the folds of Agent Crow’s leather coat. My heart slows, and I wish that I had thought to pour myself some water before bed.

In my dream, I’d been searching the wreckage of the airships for bodies. Coughing on rock dust, I couldn’t find anyone alive, only pieces of people—hands with red roses still clutched in their fists. Some of the mangled corpses had stumbled from beneath the rubble, their limbs crushed so that they lurched and jounced, dragging broken legs and feet. Some of the dead soldiers had twisted jaws hanging sideways and heads held at strange angles. They crowded around me, pawing my uniform, until I realized I had a silver-sphered Fusion Snuff Pulse in my hand. Pressing the button, it stole their power, rendering them dead once more.

Rising from the bed, I stumble to the bathroom. Undressing and kicking away the ugly blue clothing, I turn on the shower and step in. The heat of it soothes the kink in my neck. When I’m done, I wrap myself in a robe that I find in the cabinet. I leave the bathroom and venture into the drawing room. At the bar, I find a glass and pour myself some cold water from the tap. Sipping from it, I see Edgerton, alone and staring at me. He’s made a bed of the enormous sofa.

“Hello,” I whisper, not wanting to wake anyone else.

“Sun ain’t up yet. You shouldn’t be neither,” Edgerton whispers. He’s shirtless, his gun propped next to his hand. He’s skinnier than Hawthorne and Gilad, but he has the wiry muscles of someone who knows how to fight.

“I had a bad dream.” It’s such an awkward thing to say. I immediately regret it.

He doesn’t know what to make of me standing in front of him with wet hair, in a robe that’s four sizes too big, its hem dragging on the ground, sleeves hiding my hands. “Oh,” he replies. “I despise bad dreams.”

“I do, too.”

“You gotta close the door on ’em.”

“How do I do that?” I set the glass down. He has my full attention.

“You gotta tell your friends about ’em—talk it out—no matter how many times it takes, and then poof”—his closed hand opens and his fingers spread apart—“the monsters go away.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“I’m your friend.”

“You are?”

He nods.

“Why?”

“Because when you look at me, you’re seein’ me, not some good-for-nothin’ cold-water hick from the mountains of Swords. You can tell me about your demons—I’ve experience with ’em.”

Sitting beside him on a fluffy chair, I tell him about the dismembered corpses, the hands that don’t match their arms, the heads on sideways. I leave out the part about the Fusion Snuff Pulse. I’m forbidden to tell him, and he’d be in danger from the authorities by knowing it. He listens, not making a sound until I finish.

“Erebody dies, Roselle. It were their time. This is war. Nobody gets to pick when they go or how. It just happens when it happens. Ain’t no sense worrying about it.”

“They were murdered, Edgerton.”

“Most of ’em Swords done some murderin’ of they own—it’s been going on longer than the few days you’ve been in it. We’re soldiers. We kill things. We get killed by things. That’s the job. You want a different job, you picked the wrong birth order and the wrong Fate to be born into.”

“What if I don’t want to kill things—what if I want to save things?”