Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(33)

Clifton gazes at me with surprising heat. “Oh, I intend to leave nothing to chance when it comes to that.”

Dune moves nearer to me, his annoyance plain. “Do you always make your wishes aloud, Salloway?” he asks.

Clifton’s laugh is humorless. “I do when it’s warranted. So, you’re the God of Dawn?”

“The dawn to end all nights.”

“Does she know what you’re selling?” Clifton asks with a nod in my direction.

“What am I selling?”

Clifton leans in. His pointed finger touches Dune’s chest. “You’re peddling the end of the world.”

“I could say the same of you. Does Roselle know about the Rose Garden Society’s end game?” Dune asks.

“What’s to know?” Clifton asks. “We’re but a group bent on making the world a more beautiful place, one garden at a time.”

“The more you sell, the more you’re bought,” Dune replies.

Clifton’s expression turns stormy. “You cannot protect her like I can.”

“Roselle has a destiny,” Dune says. “If you’re smart, you’ll be a part of it. If not, you’ll be a casualty of it.”

Valdi moves between Dune and Clifton, separating the two. “I suggest privacy for a discussion such as this,” he says. He scans the room and waves his meaty hand in the air. A secondborn Stone hurries forward. “Show these gentlemen to my private retreat.” The servant nods and gestures to Clifton and Dune to follow him.

Reluctantly, Clifton nods. He faces me. “I’ll find you when we’re finished.”

“It sounds as if you plan to discuss my future,” I say. “Don’t you think I should be present for that?”

Clifton finds my hand and squeezes it. “You should enjoy the party.”

Around me flutters a garish display of excess. I know there are secondborns who at this very moment shiver in battlefield bunkers, while here, firstborns are packed in every corner of the dance floor, dry-ice fog blowing on them to keep them cool. “I don’t like parties.”

He cracks a smile. Strong fingers cup my chin. “No, you’re far too serious. I’ll teach you how to have fun. I promise.”

Turning from me, Clifton and Dune follow the secondborn Stone. I stare broodingly after them until they disappear in the crowd and out onto one of the rooftop terraces at the back of the Palace. I consider following them to see if I can eavesdrop on their conversation, but I’m distracted by the amplified voice of the God of the Sea.

“Roban, the God of Retribution!”

I turn to see my father at the top of the staircase.





Chapter 8

No Way To Slow

A soft billow of black mist floats around my father, Kennet Abjorn, God of Retribution.

He gazes down at the packed crowd as if he were born to rule them. Elegant black eel skin covers him, and thick wolf fur adorns the mantle of the black cape covering his wide shoulders. His hair is dark and slicked back, different than how he normally wears it, but nothing disguises that he’s the Fated Sword—my father. Ebony ram’s horns protrude from either side of his head. Three women dressed as vengeful night spirits accompany him, curving themselves around him. His Virtue-Fated moniker shines against the cheek of the woman his hand rests against.

There’s no possibility of his spotting me in the crowd. Heavy agony stabs my chest. The last time I saw him was at my former home, the Sword Palace, the night they tried to kill me. Was he a part of the decision to murder me?

His presence tests my heart’s mettle. My father turns and makes his way along the gallery, mingling with throngs of costumed revelers. I take a step in the direction of the stairs, but Valdi’s hand on my upper arm makes me pause.

“You need to go to Clifton. Now.”

“Why?”

Valdi motions to his security. Armed Sword guards materialize from the crowd. “Because your father wasn’t invited tonight.”

Confusion crosses my face. “You mean he’s crashing your party?”

“I mean I don’t know why he’s here.”

“Maybe he wants to see me.”

“Perhaps,” Valdi replies skeptically. He nods, and the armed guards close in on us.

“I’ll go ask him why he’s here,” I insist.

Valdi’s grip tightens on my arm. “Clifton wants—”

“I’m going to speak to my father!” I shake him off me. Valdi’s Sword security tries to block my path to the stairs, but I change direction and make my way to one of the long Sword banners attached to the metal framework of the glass ceiling. Climbing the fabric like a rope, I reach the gallery level. The crowd beneath me cheers, as if I’m a performing monkey, here to entertain them. Swinging my legs, I gain enough momentum to hurtle over the gallery’s glass railing. Applause erupts around me. I ignore it.

My mind races. If my father wasn’t invited by the host, then who invited him? Chills slip down my spine. What will I say to him? Our last encounter was filled with bitterness. Still, I need to talk to him.

Weaving my way through the people in the gallery, I pass large rooms with more gaming tables, others offering strange cuisine, and still others that are completely nefarious. I scan each room for my father. Nothing.