Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(47)

“Firstborn Clifton Salloway,” I begin, “may I introduce Firstborn Reykin Winterstrom.”

“Winterstrom,” Clifton says, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“We haven’t,” Reykin says.

Clifton gazes at his left hand. “You’re a Star. How do you know my Roselle?”

“Your Roselle?”

“I’m her commanding officer.”

“She’s an advisor to the Halo Council, of which I’m a member,” Reykin replies with an entitled firstborn air he has perfected.

Suddenly The Virtue storms in, lifts a vase of irises from a mirrored side table, and throws it against the glass wall. It shatters into pieces. A ripple of flinches moves through the assembled assistants, but I’m used to the tides of war. Breaking glass merely gets my attention.

“Every unapproved secondborn out!” The Virtue bellows.

Secondborns claw each other in their haste to leave. Glisten is among the wiliest, leading the way. I don’t move. After the mass exodus, only an intimate number of secondborns and a slightly larger number of firstborns remain. Some I’ve met before, like Valdi Shelling. Others I don’t even recognize—except maybe the one in the corner, staring at me.

“How could you let this happen in Virtues? In my city!” The Virtue rages at Dune. Dune remains silent, unruffled. “And you!” The Virtue points at Clifton. “You should have seen this coming!”

Clifton begins making his apologies and shifting the subject to the plan for upgrading security features around the city. “With the massive wartime technology my team is developing . . .”

My eyes return to the firstborn in the corner. He’s still watching me. This older man seems so familiar. I don’t know why. My head tilts. He smiles at my who-are-you gesture, and then recognition dawns—I should say, Gates of Dawns.

Adrenaline crashes into my bloodstream. He’s Sword Commander Walther Petes. Dune’s fraternal twin brother. Here, in the Halo Palace. It must be him. My eyes go to his moniker, expecting to see a silver secondborn sword, but it’s gold. He’s a firstborn Sword.

He has the same build as Dune, with the same chiseled bone structure and the same full-lipped smile. His hair is a warm chestnut color. He wears it short—military length. His nose is different from Dune’s. This man’s nose has been broken a few times and never repaired. He’s clean-shaven. I try to see the color of his eyes, but he’s too far away.

“And you!” The Virtue rages on, his finger jabbing at me. “How are you still alive after you fell from the top of the Sword social club?”

“I’m hard to kill,” I reply.

His eyes flare. He glances from my face to Dune’s, and then back. “You’re ‘hard to kill.’ That’s your answer?”

“Yes.”

A rumble of surprised laughter shakes his shoulders. “She’s hard to kill,” he roars, laughing furiously and looking over everyone in the room. Others join him tentatively. His rage-filled gaze returns to me. “So am I. If I find that you were a part of this, I will rip your throat out.”

I nod once, not looking away.

Clifton intervenes. “I brought the security footage from the social club. We can review it now.”

“Show it,” The Virtue barks. Clifton nods to the secondborn Star behind us. The security shutters lower over the transparent wall, blotting out the sun. Soft lighting illuminates the room. The security doors close, imprisoning us inside.

The Virtue remains standing, but others find seats. Grisholm gets Reykin’s attention and indicates a chair for him. I choose not to sit with them, drifting to the back of the room near the wall of flowing water and its tranquil pattering sound. Clifton takes a position on one side of me. Maybe he’s already seen the footage, and he was present for the event, but he doesn’t watch when the holographic images of the main ballroom, the gallery level, and the Gods Table take shape. The noise of the party is clamorous. I tense, waiting for the mayhem.

A warm hand brushes mine with a gentle stroke against my smallest finger. I glance up at Clifton’s face, a mask of remorse. Impulsively, I latch on to his hand for the briefest of moments, squeeze it, and then let it go.

The holographic recording flares with light. Death Gods invaded the club through a rooftop terrace entrance in pairs. More than likely, they used gravitizers, which means they had extensive military training. The assassins trickle in and blend with the revelers, taking up positions near doors, exits, security drones, and the club’s private security.

Hawthorne and the Death Gods entered the building in the same way. That bothers me, although it makes strategic sense. It’s how I would enter if I wanted to get in and weren’t invited.

“Why aren’t the drones picking them up?” The Virtue bellows.

“Pause,” Clifton orders. The footage stills. “They didn’t have monikers.”

“The drones should have alerted us to that.”

“We believe they used a device that reflects the moniker closest to them. At such proximity, the drones cannot discern there are multiple people. It fools them into believing the person has simply moved.” From the pocket of his trousers, he holds up a black cuff bracelet with a flat, square chip embedded in it. “We recovered these from the bodies of the attackers. We’ve never encountered this type of technology before. My engineers are pulling them apart as we speak. We should know more soon.”