Traitor Born

All around me, chairs slide away from the table. The Firstborns fight tooth and nail to get to the water. Arms flail. Elbows fly. Palms cover faces and shove them in opposing directions. Grisholm is first in the pool, cannonballing with the biggest splash I’ve ever seen. The others follow with ungraceful twists and harrowing belly flops. I’m as surprised as Agent Crow at the lack of decorum among this so-called elite. They act like children. Frivolous children.

Reykin snatches me from my seat with little effort. I clutch him around the shoulders, afraid he’ll drop me. His strong fingers grip my thigh. Sweeping me up, he rests me against his abdomen as he runs to the water’s edge. The last thing I see before Reykin tosses me like a coin into a wishing well is Agent Crow’s homicidal expression over Reykin’s scarred shoulder. The Census agent’s favorite prey is snatched away once more.

I plunge into the cool water and sink down. The whoosh of Reykin entering the water just next to me pulls me toward him. As the bubbles clear, his dark hair waves hello to me. Concern lines his fuzzy expression. I press my index finger to my lips, and then I run it across my neck like I’m slitting my own throat. When I point upward to the pool deck, Reykin nods. Everyone else is at the surface, treading water. Agent Crow appears at the edge of the pool above, casting a shark-shaped shadow over us.

I kick to the surface. Reykin emerges just after me. Grisholm splashes me in the face. “You were the last one in! You have to be Reykin’s slave for a day!”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” I reply, unwrapping my skirt and tossing the sodden fabric to the side of the pool so that it splashes Agent Crow’s boots. “I can train him at your sparring circle. If we go in the morning, I can cut him in half with my fusionblade and have the rest of my day to myself.”

Reykin chuckles. “Show me the blood I’ll bleed,” the roguish firstborn replies. He glances at Grisholm beside me. “You up for this, Grisholm?” His tone is a challenge. “Between the two of us, we can defeat this tiny Sword and then make her evaluate the stock with us. She can probably help us separate the secondborn winner from all the losers.”

Grisholm arches an eyebrow at me, as if he’s just seeing me for the first time. “Maybe you’re right. Tomorrow we’ll see what she knows.”

The sinister voice of my nightmares interrupts. “Firstborn Commander, might I take my leave now so that I may begin my investigation?” Agent Crow gives Reykin a lip-curling scowl. My belly quivers at the sight of his steely teeth.

Grisholm makes a shooing gesture with his hand, dismissing Agent Crow. “Yes, yes. Go and report back.” The death-tally notches by Agent Crow’s eyes are the feathers of a black bird, twitching before flight. Whatever he’s planning, it’s coming soon.

Chapter 7

The Gods Table

When I return to my apartment, I’m met outside the door by the cold, assessing look of a secondborn Diamond-Fated attendant. I was supposed to meet Crystal here over two hours ago to get ready for the Gods and Goddesses Ball. Dune arranged for her help because I have no one else, Phoenix being utterly incapable of helping me dress for a costume party. Crystal’s disapproving frown makes me remember that I’m still in my silver bikini, with only a long towel wrapped around my waist. I look like a layabout.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I apologize. The sole of her dangerously sharp high-heeled shoe taps against the marble floor in decisive clicks. She’s a slight woman in her early sixties. Her silvery hair is pulled back in a severe knot, but it doesn’t hide her beauty. “I was on lockdown at the—”

“I’m secondborn. No explanations necessary for wasting my time.” Apparently, Crystal is a master at the passive-aggressive arts. My cheeks heat with a blush.

“Can I help you with your things?” I ask. Over her thin arm is a black garment bag. Under it is a long box. Clutched in her other milky-white hand is the black handle of a large black case. The case hovers above the ground. Judging by her small frame and the enormity of the bulky coffin-like box, I doubt she could carry it. The stress lines around her mouth pucker in disapproval.

“I’m capable of performing my duties,” comes her clipped response. “Please hurry, we have less time now.”

I’ve selected a non-goddess character to impersonate this evening. After Dune informed me of the invitation to the ball and assigned Crystal to help, I explained to her via hologram that I wanted to go as Roselyn. She’s not technically a goddess. She was Tyburn’s lover. I first saw Roselyn’s image on the side of the Tyburn Fountain, the monument to the God of the West Wind. Roselyn points to the door that ultimately leads inside the Sword Palace grounds. Hawthorne kissed me in that fountain. I can still feel it. All the costume entails is a crown of roses and a skimpy gown. Done.

I close the door behind Crystal. Phoenix’s clanging footsteps ring in the hall. He greets us with the bright-red glow of his eyes. Crystal’s already severe disdain turns to scorn at the sight of Phoenix.

“What is that creature?” she asks, recoiling.

“My mechadome. It’s harmless.” I’m pretty sure that it’s Phoenix, and not Reykin, greeting me now, because I left Reykin in the bathhouse with Grisholm and the others. I’ll have to watch the mechadome to see if it gets clingy. The minute that happens, I’ll know Reykin is at the controls.

“Where would you like to work?” I ask.

Crystal gives Phoenix a wide berth as she passes. She stops in the drawing room, her black coffin case still hovering by her side. “This will do.” She lets go of the black handle and touches her blue-diamond moniker. The crate opens and unfolds, becoming a vanity with a mirror and studio lights. Crystal hangs the garment bag on a hook on its side and sets the long box beside it. She lifts an ornate, gold-leaf-encrusted chair from near the bureau and places it in front of the vanity. “Please, sit.”

After I do, she opens a drawer that contains ropes of thorny vines and small red roses in various stages, from buds to full bloom. She pulls on gloves with polymer protectors on the fingertips and palms and immediately goes to work on my hair, creating a halo effect with a crown. She braids thorny vines into the full length of the long hair in the back, weaving the rosebuds and blooms into the thorns and around the crown. It’s a decidedly un-Roselyn-like look. Tyburn’s lover was soft, with flowing hair. This is very warrior-like. This reminds me of—

I stand up just as Crystal is about to place another rosebud. Opening the garment bag on the hook, I spread it wide. Instead of a flowy medieval peasant gown, I find an ancient warrior-goddess ensemble consisting of a fawn-colored leather halter that will barely cover my breasts. It laces in the back but leaves the shoulders and midriff bare. Low-rise leather pants of the same hue and a primitive cut hang behind it, and a tight vest of brown suede with a brown fur mantle hangs behind that.

“What is this?”

“Your attire for this evening.” Crystal eyes it with approval.

“This isn’t what we discussed.”

“No. It’s not.”

“Why did you change it?”

“Your name is Roselle. You should be the Goddess of War, your namesake.”

“I don’t want to be the Goddess of War. I want to be—”

“Tyburn’s lover.” Crystal’s austere posture takes on an even more rigid mien. “Why would you be subservient to a god when you could be the goddess who presides over him?”