Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(54)
My voice softens, “You jumped after me, even when you thought I might already be dead.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty clear I’m in love with you.”
“And I love you, Hawthorne, but . . .” I think for a moment. “How did you explain being there?”
“I told them I came there to see you because we were secondborn friends.”
“How did The Virtue take that?”
Hawthorne exhales deeply. “He didn’t like it—said I was firstborn now and I ought to know better than to try to maintain friendships with secondborns. Then he gave me another honorary title and a small piece of land in the Fate of Seas for my ‘bravery’ at the social club, and told me I’m not allowed to see you anymore. Then he wished me well with my engagement.” Hawthorne’s jaw ticks with tension.
My throat tightens. Now there’s no hope in appealing to The Virtue to break the marriage contract between Hawthorne and Fauna. “Will I see you again?”
“Seeing you again is the only thing that will occupy my mind,” he says, “until I find a way.”
“I hope it’s soon. I have to go,” I whisper. “Good-bye, Hawthorne.” My own devastation is almost more than I can bear. I kiss his cheek, get to my feet, and retrieve the orbs and night-vision glasses. Shoving the orbs in my pocket, I put on the glasses and move toward the door. I tug on the handle, but Hawthorne’s hand reaches past my shoulder and holds the door closed.
“I’ll never talk,” he whispers. “Your secret is safe, but you knew that already. I have to think about everything else.”
A shiver slides through me. I lean back against him, feeling the strength in his powerful body. I turn around and meet his eyes. He leans down and kisses me with a yearning that threatens to destroy us both. When he lifts his lips from mine, I murmur, “Thank you, Hawthorne,” and then slip out the way I came.
Chapter 12
Lullaby of Insomnia
I’m confined to the Halo Palace.
It’s even worse than prior to the attack. Now I’m followed everywhere by hovering Virtue stingers for my “protection,” just like Grisholm. And like Grisholm, I’m restricted to the Firstborn Commander’s private residence. Security has been reinforced with increased Exo presence and heightened technology provided by Salloway Munitions. Huge mechanized weapons were airlifted and placed on the cliff outside my balcony, just beyond the garden. The guns can track and shoot just about anything out of the sky without much trouble. They can do the same to people.
Reykin hasn’t visited me in a couple of days, even though he can. I told him that Hawthorne agreed to stay silent and to think about helping us. I thought Reykin would be happy to hear that, but he didn’t take the news well. Instead, he stomped around my apartment, giving me the silent treatment while working on Phoenix’s hover mode. I was too tired to argue with the firstborn Star, but Phoenix doesn’t clang anymore. It silently glides everywhere it goes.
Reykin left shortly after dawn the morning I’d returned from speaking to Hawthorne in his room. He’d mumbled an excuse about discussing everything that’s happened with Dune and Daltrey. I haven’t seen him since. Not that he hasn’t seen me. Through Phoenix, he can surveil me anytime he wants, although I think I can tell now when Phoenix is in auto mode and when the mechadome is Reykin-possessed. It’s a subtle changeover. Phoenix doesn’t “watch” me in the literal sense. It sort of just keeps track of me. But Reykin-possessed Phoenix is a stalker. Like now. It’s just parked in front of me, staring, as I lie on the sofa in the den. I’d throw a blanket over its head, but it will just pull it off, so it doesn’t seem worth the effort.
With my cheek against the seat cushion, I stare blankly at a vapid holographic announcer describing how to get the most from my next virtual vacation. Yawning, I couldn’t care less. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. Not much anyway. Only a few hours, and then I’m awake—panicking about whether Hawthorne will change his mind and decide he never wants to see me again, or maybe the Gates of Dawn will conclude that it’s safer to kill Hawthorne, or a hundred other equally terrifying scenarios. It’s exhausting. So I just watch virtual access, hoping for something so boring it forces me to sleep.
I search through what’s on. The face and profile of an Atom-Fated man flashes inside my den, while anchors from a news organization flitter about in excitement. Along with the man’s image are a description and a short bio of his physical traits. “Before we go to our live coverage in Swords,” the commentator says, “we have a Secondborn Deserter Bulletin in effect for the Purity area of Virtues.” I sit up, recognizing the morgue director Reykin and I encountered a few days ago. His sandy, wiry hair and goonish leer are unmistakable. “Cranston Atom, master mortician, has failed to report for duty in over twenty-four hours. If you know the whereabouts of Cranston Atom, you’re asked to contact your local Census agency.”
Before I have time to process the implications of the missing secondborn, his image is gone, replaced by the soaring city skyline of Forge, where citizens are lining the streets, waving blue flags adorned with a golden sword in the center of each. The female newscaster smiles somberly. “We’re just about ready to witness the procession coming down the Avenue of Swords,” she says in a hushed tone, “on their way to the memorial where they will lay to rest a cultural icon, the Fated Sword. It’s a sad day for the Clarity of Swords, the Firstborn Sword, and all their Fate. As you can see, mourners line the streets, hoping to get one last glimpse of the Fated Sword before his interment in Killian Abbey.” The anchor is firstborn. It’s customary for only firstborns to cover such prestigious events. She peers directly into the drone camera’s lens. “The Fated Sword is, of course, the father of Firstborn Gabriel St. Sismode and his arguably more famous younger sister, Secondborn Roselle Sword.”