Traitor Born (Page 27)

A horde of Death Gods on this level does battle with a few of Valdi’s security personnel. Bodies litter the ground all around me. From the pocket of my leather costume, I extract the rose-colored goggles Crystal gave me and set them on the bridge of my nose. Lifting my right arm, I twist the rose-shaped emblem on the bracer. Red powder sprays out in a sprawling crimson cloud that billows like a shifting sandstorm. The dust swirls, blinding the Death Gods and everyone else in its path. Blood-red tears—the hallmark of the Goddess of War—weep from my victims’ eyes.

I stride through my hunched-over enemies, blowing holes in their heads. When I reach the far end of the ballroom, a Death God, standing by the wall of glass, holds up a grenade. Crying tears of blood, he pushes the detonator down with his thumb. Rapid flashes of light pulse from it, warning of impending destruction.

First yellow. I engage my hoverdiscs and skate toward him.

Then orange. From somewhere above me in the gallery, Hawthorne calls my name.

Then red. I plow into the Death God and hug him to me, knocking us both through the window and out into the night sky. Jagged shards of glass scatter around us like a thousand stars, cutting us both. He lets go of the grenade, which falls from his fingers. Silently, I brace myself, counting the seconds to detonation. And then—boom.

Fire blows out in every direction. The wind from the explosion push us upward. The Death God clings to me, screaming. As he hugs me, I clutch the fabric covering his chest, holding him like a shield from the impact of the grenade. His body blocks the shrapnel and keeps the flames from engulfing me. Metal riddles his back, but I remain mostly unscathed. His grip loosens, and I let go of him. He falls from me into the black cloud, disappearing from my sight.

I begin to fall as well. I try to gain control of the hoverdiscs on the soles of my feet, only to realize that one has been ripped from my boot. The other one can’t keep me aloft on its own. I lose altitude, slowly at first, but as I fall into the choking black cloud of smoke, I gain speed. I can’t see anything except for the lights below me, growing closer by the second. I dial up the power of the hoverdisc, which slows me down some, but it won’t matter when I hit the ground at this velocity. I’m going too fast.

Bracing myself, I shut my eyes.

I’d forgotten about the lake, and the shock of hitting the water is overwhelming. My entire body feels as if it will break apart. Water fills my lungs.

I can’t breathe! I’m unable to tell which way is up in the darkness.

On the verge of blacking out, I feel someone tug a fistful of my hair. An arm encircles my waist. I’m listless. Water gushes into my nostrils. It hardly registers when I break the plane of the surface. “Roselle,” Hawthorne growls in my ear, “breathe!”

Brutally strong arms around my waist. Something presses beneath my sternum, thrusting upward several times. Water leaves my lungs, flowing from my nose and mouth. I cough and gasp. Hawthorne’s arms shift. One crosses my chest, and Hawthorne drags us through the water with sidestrokes and scissors kicks.

We reach the shore. Hawthorne wades with me to a low wall. He yanks my limp body from the lake. Sitting on the stone edge, me on his lap, he tries to catch his breath.

Roses hang in my face. He snatches them from my hair and tosses them away. My goggles are gone—washed away at the bottom of the lake. Touching my cheek, Hawthorne pats it lightly. “Don’t die,” he whispers hoarsely.

I open my eyes. Water drips from Hawthorne’s chin onto my chest. He lost his helmet at some point. The thorns in my hair dig painfully into my back. My hand struggles to reach his. I touch his skin, and my silver holographic sword entwines with his gold one before my fingers slip limply from him. He lifts me in his arms and carries me over the wall and into the night.

Chapter 9

Something Left Behind

The inside of Hawthorne’s chrome airship has that new-craft smell.

Quietly shivering, I feel my lips tremble. Water drips from my hair, sliding down my shoulders and arms. Droplets of red blood from scratches and cuts from broken glass and thorns stain the creamy leather of the copilot’s seat. Hawthorne leans into the cockpit, fawning over me. He grasps the straps of the seat, securing them over my shoulders. The thorns in my hair dig into my skin. I wince.

Hawthorne scowls. “Who put these vines in your hair? It’s completely asinine!” He tugs my bristly braids from behind my back, laying my hair over the seat back. I don’t answer him because the violence of my chattering teeth won’t allow it. “I left you in the hands of a bunch of sadists.”

He opens a compartment next to me. Inside is a small aerosol device containing CR-40, a topical polymer. He shakes the can and coats the skin of my left hand with the chemical. The silver sword of my moniker dims, and then goes dark.

I reach up and touch his cheek, finding it almost hot compared to my icy fingers. He’s cut up, too. Bruises are forming on his jaw and chin, and under one eye. His bottom lip is swelling. Seared skin on his forearm is red and angry. His hand envelops mine for a moment, and the fierceness of his stare warms me. Then, he straightens and closes my door.

Hawthorne comes around the airship, touches a fingerprint panel, and the pilot’s door lifts. He seats himself, and the door glides down, locking in place. The engines fire with serious growls that only erupt from a premium airship with power-upgrade modifications. He must have spent a fortune on it.

As if reading my mind, Hawthorne mutters, “I didn’t buy this. It was a gift from my parents—or maybe not a ‘gift’—maybe a bribe.”

He doesn’t bother to spray his own hand with the CR-40 but tosses it behind his seat. The golden glow of his holographic sword shines between us. Reaching over, Hawthorne touches a light on a holographic cockpit board. Heat radiates from a vent in front of me. I lean forward, extending my juddering fingertips to it. We lift off into the night sky. The windscreen in front of us modifies, illuminating the terrain, making it discernable as if everything is bathed in the first blush of morning light. He flies the airship away from the chaos of the social club. The heat warms me, and I stop shivering so hard.

“A bribe?”

Hawthorne’s expression turns brooding. “What do you do when the son you sent away at ten suddenly returns and holds your future in his hands?” he asks.

“You’re loved, Hawthorne.”

He gives me a side-eyed look. “They don’t love me.”

“No . . . I do.”

He turns to me. “I love you, too, Roselle, so maybe you can understand how I felt when I saw you throw yourself off a building, clutching a man who held an incendiary device. You could’ve vaporized before my eyes.”

“They killed my father.” I can hardly say it without choking. Kennet didn’t love me. I know that. But now he never will. I lost my chance. My heart feels puncture, as if it’s being forced through the narrow space between my ribs. I didn’t know how much I was holding out hope that he’d one day love me, until this moment. “Someone had to stop those soldiers from killing everyone. I could, so I did.”

“If you love me, like I love you, you won’t do anything like that again.”

I look away. “I can’t promise you that. I’m secondborn—”

“You think I care that you’re secondborn?” he snarls, and then clenches his teeth. “The only person I care about is you.”