Traitor Born (Page 24)

“I’m okay,” I reply. “I’m bored, actually. I have very little to do now that I’ve been working for Grisholm.”

“That isn’t what I heard. I heard there was an attempt on your life.” His eyes drift accusingly to Dune’s, pure malice seething in them. “No one’s protecting you.”

“She has my protection,” Dune replies with polite menace.

Thinly veiled hostility marks Clifton’s tone. “Those assassins should never have gotten to her.” He rarely loses his cool, and the rage that contorts his normally playful expression surprises me.

I try to reassure him. “I don’t need protection, Clifton. I’m a secondborn Sword. You know this.” I look around to see who else is listening, and my eyes fall on Valdi Kingfisher, seated at the table next to where Clifton had been. I recognize him as the bookmaker we sold arms to earlier in the year. I know his last name probably isn’t Kingfisher. At Salloway Munitions, we replaced last names with bird names to protect clients’ anonymity. Valdi’s powerfully built, with a thick red scar that runs from his temple to his cheek. The brutal-looking man at the table rises and grins.

Clifton swings his hand in the direction of the firstborn Sword. “Roselle, may I introduce Valdi Shelling, your host for this evening.”

I pretend not to know him. “I’m pleased to meet you, Firstborn Shelling. Thank you for your kind invitation.”

His lips twitch with repressed amusement. “It is my honor.” He takes my hand in his and kisses the back of it, an unlikely welcome for a secondborn. It makes me uncomfortable. Others might draw the wrong conclusions. I tug my fingers from his.

“You have a lovely social club.” The word “club” seems wrong. “Glass palace” is probably more fitting.

“Thank you. Most of the guests at the Gods Table are members of the Rose Garden Society. It’s usually not like this. The theme is my wife’s doing.” He gestures toward a young firstborn woman attired in a sparkling silver gown with icicles dripping from it. Her delicate hand rests on the arm of the rugged-looking God of Rain and shines with a golden sword moniker. The stormy deity holds a pair of dice and puts them to her mouth, and she blows on them with a sensual purse of her lips. Wintry snowflakes emerge from between them, a clever trick. The rain god brings the dice to his own lips and kisses them before shaking his fist and tossing them across the table. Tiny storm clouds follow the dice, raining as they tumble and bounce across the table. “The Snow Queen has outdone herself tonight,” Valdi continues. He says it with a sour note, watching his wife fawn over the rain god at her side. “Take my advice, Salloway, don’t wait too long to settle down. All the good ones will be taken.”

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.