Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(81)

“What happened to your brother?”

“A Census agent killed Radix. He was only ten years old.”

“Was he thirdborn?”

Reykin gives a humorless laugh. “He was fifthborn, but they don’t know that. They thought he was thirdborn. They killed my mother as well, and dragged her body through the streets of our town.”

“I’m sorry.” I glance at his left hand. He has a new golden shooting star moniker. “You’re firstborn.”

“Yes. I still have three younger brothers. The two youngest are in hiding. I’ll make sure they both get one of the new monikers you brought.”

“Where is your secondborn brother?”

“I haven’t been able to locate him in the two years since he Transitioned.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ransom Winterstrom. My father had an offbeat sense of humor. I’d introduce you to him, but he died last year, defending my mother.”

It’s no mystery now why Reykin was on the battlefield that gray day last year when I found him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know Ransom, but I’ll make inquiries for you.”

“Maybe he’s better off not knowing anything that happened here. I wasn’t always the best brother to him. Maybe he wouldn’t want to see me.”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’ll want to see you. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

He turns to face me. Something about him tugs at me. Maybe it’s the sameness I see in him. He was trained like I was—his mentor trained mine. I recognize the intensity and control with which he holds himself. He looks at me as if he sees me, not just the girl that grew up in front of cameras. “You’re going back to protect your brother,” Reykin says softly. “It’s what I’d do, if I were you. Know this, Roselle, so that there are never any lies between us. I’ll kill Gabriel if or when I’m ordered to. I won’t hesitate to cut his throat, and there will be nothing that you can say or do to stop me.”





Chapter 19


A Serious Hat


The girl who comes to bring me clothes gives me a once-over and sets a pile of fabric on the bed. “I’m Mags,” she says with a conspiratorial wink. “I work for Firstborn Winterstrom. He said you need something to wear.” I sift through the stack of extremely feminine clothing and groan in irritation. “What? You don’t like them?” Mags asks, eyeing me like I’m a spoiled firstborn.

“It’s all very lovely, but . . .” I study her outfit, a serviceable ensemble of black trousers and a simple white blouse. It will blend in with everyone around me. She’s about my size, just a little taller. I can work with this. “Could I trade you?” I ask. “I promise you won’t get in any trouble for it.”

“Oh, I never worry about getting into trouble here. Firstborn Winterstrom is like family. He lets me see my own family whenever I want to, and they come here to stay sometimes.”

It irritates me that Reykin is beloved by his staff. He’s a ruthless killer who I let live and who is now a credible threat to my family. The irony is almost more than I can take. “He sounds like the best firstborn ever,” I reply, trying to keep my total lack of sincerity from eking out. “I’m happy for you.”

She begins to unbutton her blouse. “I know what you did for him.” My own hands pause on the buttons of Reykin’s oversize shirt. “He was in a bad way when he left to join the war. At first we thought he was no better when he came back. He used to scream for you in the night—he’d call you ‘Little Sword’ or ‘black-hearted angel.’ We were all scared that he was losing his mind after all he’d been through with his parents and Radix.”

“He told you about me—about how we met?”

“He did, but that was one of the reasons we thought he was losing his mind. He said Roselle St. Sismode saved his life.”

“I don’t know if I saved him. I just didn’t kill him, which is not the same thing.”

The Stone-Fated girl takes off her blouse and hands it to me. She puts the new one on. “You saved him. You called a medical drone and it patched up what was torn apart in him—and I’m not just talking about his sword wounds.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you mended his faith in humanity. He’d lost it the day they killed Radix.” She locates my boots and helps me put them on. I walk slowly with her through the enormous house, more modern than the palace I grew up in. Its beauty is tempered by its size. She takes me to the back door of a kitchen the size of our locker room in the air-barracks. In the closet, she finds a cloak and hands it to me. Once outside, we follow a stone path to a small cottage behind the main house.

“Knock, knock,” she says, pushing open the front door.

“We’re in here,” Hammon calls from the next room. I follow Mags and find Hammon sitting on a sofa with Edgerton’s head in her lap. He looks kind of like me—like he got beaten by a mob of soldiers.

“Roselle!” Hammon gasps. I must look really bad.

“It probably looks worse than it is,” I insist.

Edgerton sits up. “No, it don’t.”