Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(27)
“Do you suspect his brother Orwell?” Reykin asks.
“It’s the logical choice,” Grisholm replies. “Secondborns murder us all the time for power. It’s in their nature.” I want to pull my hair out. It isn’t nature. Most secondborns accept their fates, no matter how unjust. “I’m bringing in an expert to get us answers.”
Grisholm tries to hide his grin, and my stomach tightens in dread. He scrapes the cards together in front of him and forms a stack. Choosing two from the top, he positions one against another. When he pulls his hands back, they remain standing. Carefully, he sets another one against them. “My specialist should be here any moment to meet with us.”
The others at the table casually converse about the Secondborn Trials galas planned every night for the next few weeks until the Opening Ceremonies. I listen as Cindra details the glowing electron-inspired dress she had made for an Atom-themed party she’s attending this evening. Dune has already advised me that I’m to attend the Gods and Goddesses Ball tonight at a Sword social club, to be hosted by an aristocrat named Firstborn Shelling. Speculation is high as to whether the parties will go on as planned, despite Rasmussen’s murder.
I lift my glass to my lips and take a small sip. It’s mostly water with a little bit of alcohol. It won’t get me intoxicated. I nearly curse under my breath after I swallow it. I need a bit of the courage that alcohol could provide. Reykin is trying to keep me sharp, but a part of me longs for oblivion.
The clipped sound of sharp-heeled boots rings in the lofty room, pulling my attention away from Grisholm and his house of cards. I set my glass back down on the table. A solitary man approaches us from the entryway. His blond, slicked-back hair is neatly trimmed. The long black coat that he normally wears is absent, shed for the warm weather of Virtues. His crisp white dress shirt and tight black slacks I remember from when I first met him at the Stone Forest Base in Swords. When he sees me, Agent Crow’s lips stretch across his steely front teeth in a possessive smile. My hand unconsciously goes to the hilt of my fusionblade.
Bile rises in my throat. Inky-black death-tally notches line his temples and neck. His hands are clasped behind his back, and yet I feel as if he has a dagger pressed to my throat. I dare not look at Reykin beside me for fear of giving something away—a thought, a connection, anything that might unmask us both. Agent Crow tears his blue eyes away from me and greets Grisholm. “Firstborn Commander,” he says. His deep voice sends chills down my spine. “I’ve been briefed by your undersecretary regarding the death of Firstborn Keating. May I offer you my condolences?”
“No,” Grisholm says. “No condolences necessary. I thought Rasmussen was a pathetic weakling who would ruin Virtues if given it to rule. I don’t really care if someone wipes out his entire family. What I care about is why he was killed. That’s the reason I sent for you, Agent Crow. I have it on good authority that you are relentless in your pursuit of justice.” Grisholm’s eyes flutter to me, and I can only hope that he cannot hear the rampaging thumps of my heart. A ferocious smile curves his lips. He knows my history with Agent Crow—knows of this man’s obsession with me.
“You suspect it was something other than an inheritance issue?” Agent Crow asks.
“I wouldn’t rule that out.” Grisholm sets another card against the growing house of cards. “But it could be something much more sinister.”
“You believe someone covets the title of ‘Firstborn Commander,’ by chance?” Crow’s eyes shift from Grisholm to me, as if they cannot stay away. His voracious stare takes in my every detail. My mind flashes with images of Agnes Moon, Hawthorne’s ex-girlfriend, who helped gain my release from the underground cell where Agent Crow had planned to kill me. Grisholm had sent Agent Crow a gift basket of soaps on my behalf once I was freed. Agent Crow used them to bludgeon Agnes to death.
My eyes move between Grisholm and the Census agent. Grisholm sets another card up. Its balance is precise, the angle correct. I suddenly feel buried in a cell with no way out.
They continue to talk about the murder of Rasmussen Keating, neither knowing many of the details, but I’m no longer listening.
A thigh nudges mine. I pretend I don’t feel it. I can’t look at Reykin. Agent Crow will know. He’ll see. A part of me believes I’m being irrational. The cold-hearted Crow who drowned his own sister to gain his firstborn status couldn’t possibly know anything about Reykin, but I stare straight ahead just the same.
Without looking up from his house of cards, Grisholm asks, “What do you need to start your investigation?”
“I’ll need security access to all of your systems,” Agent Crow replies.
“That won’t be possible, but I can grant you limited access to systems that lie outside the Halo Palace.”
Agent Crow’s eyes smolder, but Grisholm doesn’t see it because his attention is on setting the next card. “We can start outside the Halo Palace, if you wish,” Crow says. “I’m particularly interested in tracking the movements of Sword monikers.”
“Why Swords?” I ask.
“Swords are the second-best killers in the Fates.” Agent Crow believes the best to be Census agents, like himself, hunters tracking down thirdborns and terrorizing them before killing them. I disagree. Swords fight other soldiers who have weapons. Census kills unarmed people without the power to fight back. “And Swords have the most to gain from the death of Rasmussen.”