Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(78)

“Stars . . .” I rasp. “Dawn.”

“That’s right—a Gates of Dawn base. Do you know who I am?”

“Flannigan’s . . . man . . .”

“No. I’m not Flannigan’s man.”

I growl in despair. “Need him.”

I feel his thumb trace the scar on my palm. “I’m a friend . . . and a friend sticketh closer than a brother, even to a black-hearted angel.”

I lick my lips. “You.”

“Me.”

“Hurts . . .”

“I know. You can sleep now.” Something sharp jabs into my arm.



I jerk awake, groaning with a half sob. I’m in a bed in a beautiful room, but I feel as if I’m lying on embers. I’ve been in pain before, but never like this. Everything aches. My eyelids feel thick and heavy. My head throbs. Focus, I tell myself.

Mahogany wainscoting lines the walls. Snowy-white curtains drape over the large windows. I see a high ceiling with decorative molding and bright chandeliers above me. Maybe this is what death is like.

My hand moves over the blankets. The bedding is masculine, but no less gorgeous for that, soft sheets like those at the Sword Palace. As I turn my head on the plump pillow, my neck muscles revolt. I wince and moan.

The man has aquamarine eyes and dark hair shaved close on the sides, but the top is longer, like Gabriel’s fashionable style. He looks to be around twenty-four or twenty-five, a year older than when I last saw him on the battlefield. “Winterstrom.”

“You know my name,” he replies in the deep voice that I sometimes hear in my dreams. I lift my right palm out to him so that he can see his crest burned into it. “Why didn’t you get it removed?” he asks.

I drop my hand, mostly because holding it up hurts so much. “I would’ve had to tell the physician how I got it. They make a point of reporting wounds like this. They would’ve researched the crest, like I did, and then Census agents would’ve been dispatched here to find you.” I look down at myself. I’m clean. Someone bathed me. I hope it wasn’t him.

“So you protected me yet again. Why?”

“I wanted to find you myself and tell you what a stupid move it was to bring your family fusionblade to a war.”

“Really?” He leans forward, forearms on his knees. His shoulder doesn’t seem to be troubling him. His right collarbone is straight under his fashionable dress shirt.

“No,” I reply. “Not really. I never thought I’d see you again.” I touch my head. It’s wrapped in a bandage, which I begin unwinding.

Winterstrom sits down on the mattress next to me. He tries to stay my hand. “What are you doing? You have a concussion.” The bandage is bloody by my temple. I probe the wound. It’s deep.

“I need you to stop fixing me! I need every single bruise and contusion your soldiers gave me. My Fate needs to see my wounds so that they don’t accuse me of being a traitor.”

“You plan to go back? You’re going to have to explain yourself.”

“My friends—the ones I came with—are they here, too?”

“Yes.”

“Are they hurt?”

“The male is. The female was untouched.”

“How bad is he?” I ask.

“Better than you,” he says grimly. “They’re safe.”

I exhale in relief. “Flannigan’s man?”

“He’s here as well. He’s waiting to speak to you.”

“I need to meet with him now. I don’t have a lot of time.” I inch toward the far side of the big bed. Every move is a struggle. The metal apparatus attached to my right arm slides a little as I straighten my elbow with a small stab of pain. I yank its needle out and scoot to the edge of the mattress.

Winterstrom rises to his feet. “You’re in no condition to move. You’re weak. You’ve been sedated for two days.”

“Two days!” I breathe hard with fear. I stand and immediately regret it. A disorienting rush of blood to my head almost knocks me to the floor. I catch myself with both my hands, and Winterstrom helps me back into the bed. I realize that the only thing I have on is an oversize shirt, and by the smell of it—a soft scent of lemongrass—it belongs to him. “How is it that they haven’t found me yet?”

“We’ve been jamming your signals since you entered our airspace—that includes your moniker. No one knows you’re here. Why did you come?” he asks. “Are you seeking asylum, like your friends?”

“I have to make a deal—with Flannigan’s man. Do you have my bag?”

“I gave it to him.”

“Did you see what was in it?”

“State-of-the-art moniker chips, thousands of them. Moncalate. Profile programmer. Worth a fortune.”

“Flannigan died for it. Was it worth her life?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

“What’s his name?”

A deep voice behind Winterstrom answers me. “We’ve been introduced. My name is Daltrey Leon.” He enters the room and closes the door. I remember him as a hologram in the middle of the night at the debriefing with the Clarities. In person, he’s not ghostly. He’s tall, with long dark hair tied back at his crown. His full beard is meticulously well groomed, and his sandy eyes bear an uncanny resemblance to Dune’s.