Traitor Born

I turn to see who fired. A ghoulish man, dressed in all black with raven wings, aims his fusionmag at me. His face is covered by a black leather mask, but his lips are exposed in a sinister smile. He utters a single word: “Roselle.”

He pulls the trigger. Hawthorne lurches in front of me, holding up his golden shield. The metal dents in and sizzles. Hawthorne flinches and shouts in pain.

I shift to Hawthorne’s side, draw my arm back, and throw an iron rose. It embeds in the forehead of the dark-clad God of Death, slicing through his skull and exposing the inside of his cranium. I throw two more, hitting his cheeks. He falls backward from the force, bouncing onto the floor. Holographic snowflakes shower down but never reach his body.

“Incoming!” Hawthorne shouts. He maneuvers around me with his shield in front of him. Another round of fusion pulses careen against it. He pushes me back into the room, closing the door.

We crouch down. Hawthorne points. I nod and take the position he indicated, hugging the wall across from him. We wait. Fusionmag blasts shatter holes in the door. A gunman pushes it open, and Hawthorne stabs his dagger into one of his knees. The black-clad figure falls forward. I swing my crown down at him, slicing his arm. The iron blades cut through his muscles and the tendons, slicing his flesh to the bone. He screams in agony, drops the fusionmag, and writhes on the ground.

A second gunman at the threshold fires at Hawthorne, who protects himself with his shield. I dive for the fusionmag the first assassin dropped. Rolling with it, I aim at the man in the doorway and pull the trigger. The pulse caves his face in.

“They’re all dressed like Vinsin, the God of Death,” I mutter to Hawthorne. “Who sent you?” I demand of the writhing man beside me.

Hawthorne crawls forward and claims the fusionmag from the dead gunman in the doorway. He gets to his feet and peeks around the corner. Chilling screams come from the main ballroom.

The Death God at my feet is bleeding out fast. The hue of his skin is ghostly white. Lifting my boot, I kick him hard in the side. “Who sent you?”

The assassin smiles at me, his teeth smeared with blood. “You’re gonna die,” he croons in a singsong voice. He bites down on a white tablet in his mouth. The cyanide goes to work immediately. His eyes roll back in his head, and froth trickles from the sides of his mouth. The rest of his body twitches.

I look at his left hand. No moniker shines from it to indicate his Fate. But there aren’t any marks there. It’s like he never had one.

“We gotta move,” Hawthorne urges, taking my arm and hauling me to my feet.

“My father!” I whisper-shout. “I was following him.”

“Which way did he go?” Hawthorne mouths.

I point in the opposite direction from the main ballroom. He nods, and we both peek out into the corridor. Golden fusionmag blasts light up the gallery entrance. Beyond the railing is the ballroom and the Gods Table one level below. Hawthorne strips his crimson cape from his shoulders and wraps it around his singed forearm before lifting the shield once more.

He silently signals me to move away from the sound of the massacre. He steps out into the corridor with his shield arm held up and his fusionmag pointed in the direction of the main ballroom. I fall into place behind him. Threading my left arm through the circle of my crown, I let the iron hang on my wrist like a very large bracelet. I place my left hand on Hawthorne’s shoulder. In my right hand, my fusionmag points away from him, protecting Hawthorne’s back. Together we inch away from the ballroom, one tentative footstep at a time.

We pass several more rooms. Each time, I swing my weapon toward them, only to find them empty. The snowy scene on the wall of the corridor has a streak of blood spattered across it. I tap Hawthorne on the shoulder with the barrel of my fusionmag. He slows his pace. I pivot my gun in the direction of the room on my right.

A Death God runs into the winter corridor from the gallery. Hawthorne fires and picks the target off with one shot. The assassin crumbles onto the floor. Distracted, I miss the target at my side until almost the last second. The Death God seizes my arm, wrenching the hand that holds the fusionmag. My other hand slips from Hawthorne’s shoulder. The iron crown slides into my palm. The Death God almost pries the fusionmag from me, but I swing the crown, slicing his jugular vein. He falls onto me, clutching my forearm, attempting to hold himself up while his blood gushes out.

I slide the crown back on my wrist, clutch the dying man to me, and use him as a shield. The Death God behind him shoots his accomplice several times in the back, struggling to hit me. I position my fusionmag under the now-dead man’s armpit and fire pulses into his partner. The hit man falls back, his head in pieces. I shrug off my human shield, letting him fall to the ground.

I peer into the room. It’s a bloody mess of body parts. A strange sound chokes from me. Beyond the dead assassin on the floor is the body of my father and two of the women he arrived with. They’re in pieces. Kennet’s tongue has been cut out and placed in his hand. The ram’s horns are twisted into his head for real. His eyes have been plucked out.

Two more Death Gods infiltrate the winter corridor. Hawthorne picks them off. He looks past me into the room and swears softly. “Don’t look,” he whispers. My shoulders round. I’m rooted in place. “We can’t help him. He’s gone. Move! Put your hand on my shoulder.”

This isn’t happening.

“Put your hand on my shoulder!” Hawthorne repeats.

I put my hand on his shoulder. Hawthorne takes another step backward, nudging me to do the same. A fusionmag pulse strikes the front to his shield. He swears again and returns fire, hitting one of the handful of Death Gods at the mouth of the winter corridor.

Something inside me clicks.

I maneuver around Hawthorne and his shield, raising my fusionmag. Squeezing the trigger in rapid succession, I strike each enemy in front of me with a shot to the head.

“Roselle!” Hawthorne howls.

I sprint toward the gallery. Behind me, Hawthorne’s feet pound as he tries to keep up. “They’re looking for you, Roselle. They’ll kill everyone until they find you.”

“Well, here I am!” I snarl as I rush into the gallery.

Then I stop, overlooking the ballroom and the Gods Table. Carnage everywhere. A crush of firstborns is trying to move up the glass stairs. The gallery is lined with Death Gods firing into the mob. The black-clad devils are swarming the Gods Table as well. The door to the balcony where I last saw Clifton and Dune has been barricaded against the horde.

I pick off a handful of Death Gods without even trying. Another one rushes at me from the side. I swing my iron crown, slashing his face and blinding him. I cross my arm over my abdomen and shoot him in the chest. Blood spatters the wall.

Touching my moniker, I engage the hoverdiscs on the soles on my boots. Skating forward as if on ice, I gain momentum. With my arm out straight, I shoot every Death God in my path. In my peripheral vision, a black-clad figure, the feathers of his raven wings stretched wide, flies right into me, knocking me over the gallery railing. The hoverdiscs thwart our fall as the winged assassin seizes me around my waist and lifts his gun to my temple. Before he can fire, I throw my head back, breaking his nose. I trigger the bracer on my left arm, and the blade thrusts out. I stab downward, cutting open his thigh. He lets go, but his hoverpack keeps him airborne.

I touch my moniker, and my hoverdiscs turn off. My hair whips past my face as I fall toward the ballroom floor. I reengage the hoverdiscs just inches from the glass tiles. Lifting my fusionmag, I aim at the dark-winged god above me, shooting him out of the air. When he hits the ballroom floor, he doesn’t move.