Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(85)

“Thank you.”

“We’ll have to wait to fix your face until after the press sees you. It is, after all, part of the alibi. Then I’ll have my private physician personally see to you.”

“You’re very good to me.”

“I’m exactly what you need, Roselle.” He lifts my hand and kisses the back of it before holding it upon the armrest between us. “I was worried about you. I’m glad you’re in one piece.”

“I’m grateful that you came to find me. Are you taking me back to the Stone Forest Base?”

“No. Your air-barracks has gone active. They’re stationed in Twilight now.”

“So, you’re taking me to Twilight?” I didn’t think I could feel worse, but my fear of combat raises the bile in my throat.

“There’s no reason to return you to Tritium 101. In the last few days, I’ve permanently phased out your duties there. You’ll have a place closer to me now. You’ll move in tonight.”

“You already have a place for me?”

“I’ve had it for a while.” I wonder if he’s had it since he decided to kill Hawthorne’s brother, and then I wonder if he’s been making sure that no messages come to me from Hawthorne. “We’ll return to my office, and then I’ll take you home.”

True to his word, Clifton masterminds my alibi. He contacts only the Diamond reporters that he has in his pocket. When we arrive on the rooftop landing pad of Salloway Munitions Conglomerate’s headquarters, the press already have their drone cameras strategically positioned. They capture me disembarking with Clifton’s assistance, huddled in Mags’s shabby cloak.

The amassing correspondents ambush me with hundreds of questions all at once. Clifton shields my face, walking me to the private entrance of his empire in the sky. “Roselle has had a trying day,” he calls to them. “All of your questions will be answered in due course.”

The entire top floor of the headquarters is Clifton’s personal domain. I haven’t been to his secluded suite before. When I consult on weapons, it’s usually in a manufacturing facility, in a laboratory, or in the field. I wander around, studying the prototype weapons behind thick security glass. Clifton contacts his personal Atom-Fated physician, demanding to know his estimated arrival time. When he’s done, he asks me, “Can I get you a drink, Roselle?”

“Water, please.”

He turns on the visual screen. Commentators are already narrating the thirty seconds of “Roselle” footage they received only a few minutes ago. My fusionmag ad campaign and the campaign I did for the newest version of our dual-bladed sword are spliced into the footage, along with old news items. The strike against the Fate of Swords on my failed Transition Day is among them.

I don’t want to relive that, so I walk to the window overlooking the balcony. It faces the sword-shaped Heritage Building. The windows of Clifton’s office are mirrored on the outside, so no one can see me. I take in the view. What I find is telling. Every day, Clifton looks down on the hilt of the Heritage Building from these windows. The Heritage Council is the sole occupant of the spherical penthouse just a few floors beneath me.

I’m about to turn from the window when one of the sword-shaped doors of the Heritage Building opens below. A tall man with sandy-blond hair in an Exo uniform emerges. He takes a few steps onto the penthouse’s grassy balcony, scanning the buildings around him until he finds ours. His face tilts upward. Hawthorne.

My hand presses against the glass. Then Gabriel joins Hawthorne at the railing. The shock of seeing them together brings a rush of blood to my head. My hand slides down the window as I crumble onto the floor.





Chapter 21


White Rose


I awake in a sterile bed. Medical monitoring machines blink and beep. The walls of a hospital room take shape. Across from me, a life-size visual screen plays newsreel taken outside the Salloway Munitions Conglomerate’s headquarters, drone footage of me being transported on a hoverstretcher. I have no memory of it. I gaze around for a way to turn down the volume, and my eyes fall on a black-coated man sitting in the chair near my bed, his blond hair slicked back. He’s riveted by what he’s watching.

“Agent Crow,” I growl. I find a switch on the bedside railing and press it. My bed slowly tilts up.

“Roselle.” He says my name as if it’s his favorite word. “Did I wake you?” He turns down the volume so that it’s barely discernible over the pounding of my heart. “They’re calling you a heroine”—he indicates the visual wall with a flick of his wrist—“for repelling the Gates of Dawn soldiers when your airship drifted off course and crashed in rebel territory. It’s amazing that you made it out with your life.”

“It’s not that amazing,” I reply. “I got my head beaten in.”

“Yes, a severe concussion. Someone wasn’t fooling around.” He flashes me a steel-toothed grin.

“It was more of a mob than a someone.”

“How ever did you escape?” he asks, leaning closer.

“That’s kind of fuzzy. I can’t remember—head injuries are tricky.”

“Did you leave Edgerton and Hammon behind to fend for themselves?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I reply.