Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(60)

“How long has Orwell been gone?” Grisholm asks.

“A week or more,” Agent Crow replies.

“Well, find him.”

“There’s a high probability that he’s already dead. No one is getting any feedback from his moniker. I’d like your permission to question Roselle regarding the matter.”

“Why do you want to question her?” Reykin asks. His voice is calm, but there’s tension in his body language. “She’s not the next in line for the title. Her mother and her brother are.”

Agent Crow frowns. He doesn’t like his authority questioned. “I would like to ascertain what, if anything, she knows about the disappearance.”

Reykin crosses his arms over his chest. “How can she possibly know anything when she’s been here on lockdown for the past two weeks?”

“People go missing all the time,” I interject. “Why, just a couple of weeks ago, I saw that a secondborn went missing from this very palace. What was his name? Cramer . . . Clarkston . . . Cranston—that’s it, Cranston Atom. He was a mortician, I believe. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about his disappearance, would you, Agent Crow?”

Agent Crow looks like he’d like to drown me in the pool. “Who did you say?”

“Cranston Atom,” I repeat. “It’d be interesting to find out who was the last person to see him alive. I bet someone like him kept records of his appointments. The question that keeps swirling around in my mind is: ‘Why would anyone want to hurt a mortician?’ What could he possibly know that would threaten anyone?”

“Maybe he’s a deserter.” Agent Crow’s voice is deadly calm.

“A man like that—in love with his job—I don’t think so,” I insist. “I think he knew something that someone wanted to keep secret.”

“You have quite an imagination,” Agent Crow hisses. “Secondborns desert all the time. He’ll probably show up in the Gates of Dawn body count. A defector.”

“I wonder, if he does, will he have a moniker?”

A bead of sweat slides down Agent Crow’s cheek. His fingers twitch to where his fusionblade should be, but it’s not there. He had to relinquish it before he entered Grisholm’s private domain—a new security measure that was recently mandated.

“You might have made a good Census agent, Roselle,” Agent Crow says with a chilling look.

“Probably not. There’s just one person I’d enjoy killing, Agent Crow, but he isn’t thirdborn.”

Reykin steps between me and Agent Crow. “I believe you have the wrong St. Sismode,” he says. “If you’re attempting to uncover information on the disappearance of Orwell Virtue, you should start with Othala and Gabriel St. Sismode.”

“This is the second time you’ve come between me and this secondborn,” Agent Crow seethes.

“Listen, ol’ man,” Grisholm says. “I like your style—it’s creepy, and that works for a man like you.” He slaps Agent Crow on the back. “But Winterstrom’s right. You got the wrong St. Sismode. I can vouch for her. She’s been here on lockdown for weeks. We’re so bored that any one of us might kill Orwell if he shows his face here, just for fun, but he hasn’t, and we didn’t. So go to the Sword Palace, ask those same questions about Orwell, and then report back to me.” Grisholm cuffs him on the shoulder.

He turns and winks at me, completely missing the glowering look from Agent Crow. “Very well, Firstborn Commander,” Crow caves. “I will return with a full report soon.”

Grisholm is already walking away. He puts up his hand in a dismissive gesture. Reykin doesn’t move until Agent Crow disappears down the garden path, then he turns, glowers at me, and sits down on the pool deck, putting his legs into the water. “What was that all about? Who is Cranston Atom?”

“The mortician we encountered on our trip to the morgue. He has been missing for two weeks.”

“You didn’t bother to tell me?” he grumbles and then looks in Grisholm’s direction. The firstborn has returned to the table and is now receiving a massage.

“You haven’t exactly been talking to me, so no, I didn’t bother to tell you.”

“I’ve been busy!”

“Okay. Do you have time to talk about it now?”

“What do you know?”

“You saw Crow’s face when I said the part about the mortician’s moniker.”

“He reached for a weapon that wasn’t there.”

“He’s ready to kill to keep a secret.”

“What secret?”

“I don’t know, but Census and my mother are working together. He came to see if the Halo Palace’s guard is down. He wants to take me from here.”

“You think he’s aligned with your mother?”

“I have no proof, but yes. I’ve thought it since my father’s funeral.”

“Why haven’t you said anything?” His grip on the rim of the pool turns his knuckles a shade lighter. His handsome face is more forbidding than usual.

“Like you said, you’ve been busy.”

“I’m never too busy to discuss something as important as this,” he growls.

Quincy, the young secondborn attendant from Balmora’s Sea Fortress, enters the private sanctuary, clad in a summer dress. Her feet are covered in sand. She’s met at the door by a member of Grisholm’s staff, who turns and points to me in the pool.