Traitor Born (Page 48)

“I’ll be in touch with you after I make contact.” I end the transmission and push the communicator back into my upper sleeve.

Returning to the table, I find the men ready to leave. Grisholm, in particular, is anxious to get to the betting houses. He goes over his potential wagers with me while I don my jacket and Reykin pays the bill.

In the elevator, Reykin’s hand presses the small of my back. Possessive. I wonder about it until we reach the ground floor. Grisholm insists that we go to the Neon Bible, the high-end bookmaking establishment a few doors away. The indoor-outdoor betting house thumps with action. As we approach the entrance, Reykin turns to Grisholm, saying, “I have to check on something. Keep an eye on the secondborn for me.”

Annoyed, Grisholm sputters, “Can’t it wait? I want to get my brackets set before I’m locked out of the odds for the evening!”

“I’ll be just a minute. There’s a weapon at Salloway’s that I’ve had my eye on for months. Just watch her for me.”

Grisholm gives me a scowl, as if I’m some sort of child thrust upon him. “Fine, but be quick,” he growls. “I’m not placing bets for you.”

Reykin walks away with a secretive look on his face. Getting away just became immensely easier. Grisholm and I continue into the Neon Bible. The crush of people inside is harrowing. Firstborns grind against one another on tiered dance floors. Some dance above the crowd using hoverdiscs. We’re shown to a higher, more private deck several levels up. The music here is muted, but I can still watch the action below from the railing. All the men on this floor are in evening attire. Very few women are about. My attention is drawn to the dangerous men in the room, most with fusionblades and fusionmags from Salloway’s arsenals.

Grisholm begins greeting the men. I recognize Valdi Shelling’s associate, Pedar. I know him as Firstborn Albatross, the Sword-Fated man who groped me during an arms deal with Clifton almost a year ago. He appears to be the proprietor of the Neon Bible.

Pedar notices me almost immediately. Although he’s a smaller man than Valdi, he still cuts a brutally large figure. His dark hair is slicked back and well oiled. In his late thirties, he looks like he could bend steel with his bare hands. So it’s ironic when he has the same reaction I did upon seeing him—the strong man cringes a little. I nod to him in acknowledgment of the awkwardness.

Pedar turns to the nearest member of his staff and says, “Get our guests anything they want, on the house.”

Grisholm practically cackles. He rubs his hands together in anticipation and orders a “Death Defier.” When the drink arrives, it’s black, with swirls of milky-white liquid resembling a skull and crossbones. Grisholm stirs it with a long spoon and drinks it in one gulp. He wheezes a little, handing the glass and spoon back to the waiter, and walks toward the nearby holographic displays running commentary on the competitors in The Trials.

His security entourage follows. Pedar’s gray eyes catch mine again. He approaches and says quietly, “I never had the opportunity to apologize to you. I was gravely out of line.”

I lift my chin a notch, meeting his gaze. “All will be forgiven if you do me a small favor.”

He smiles slowly. “You have but to ask.”

“I need to slip away for a moment to run an errand. No one with me can know I’ve gone until I’m away. A firstborn Star will join us shortly. I need him to receive a private message.” Pedar eyes the two hovering Halo stingers behind me with a dubious look. “Don’t worry about them,” I tell him. “They’re not a problem.”

Pedar’s eyebrows rise, but he says nothing. He lifts his hand, and another burly man comes forward and listens as Pedar whispers something in his ear. The man nods, turn to yet another man farther away, and says, “Get Christof.”

A ten-year-old secondborn boy is brought forward. He’s a Sword, made from Pedar’s mold. Dark hair hangs in his face, and he has broad shoulders already. The young secondborn comes forward and stops in front of Pedar. Pedar leans down and whispers something in the boy’s ear. He nods, sizing me up. “Ready?” he asks.

“We’ll distract the Exos for you,” Pedar says. “You will be taken out the back way.” He makes no move toward me, maybe having learned his lesson from our previous encounter. Then he nods his head, and suddenly a fight breaks out on the dance floor below. People brawling and throwing punches. The noise and chaos is deafening. Everyone rushes to the railings to watch. Grisholm is enthralled.

“Thank you, Pedar,” I murmur. “All is forgiven.”

Christof Sword moves toward the back of the club, with me on his heels. We escape through a secret door in the wall and down some back stairs. My Halo stringers still follow me closely. When we get to the bottom of the stairs, Christof dismisses the guards on duty there. They turn and go, as if he’s the boss. He opens the door that leads outside.

I turn to the hovering black hardware behind us and rattle off the stinger code that Clifton gave me. “R0517 and R6492, return to the Halo Palace.” They hesitate. My heart beats hard in my chest. The boy beside me watches the heavily armed stingers with suspicion. Then, as if they finally recognize the command, they fly past us, out into the night sky, and disappear into the darkness.

With the machines gone, it feels as if a weight has been lifted from me. From the hollowed-out heel of my boot, I extract a black fingerless glove and a small piece of lead. I cover my moniker with them. The silver sword goes dark. I take out the looking-glass moniker and turn it on before slipping the bracelet onto my wrist. It reflects Christof’s moniker beside me. He watches everything I do.

“What’s your message, and who do I give it to?” he asks.

“Find Reykin Winterstrom,” I reply, and then describe him. “He’ll come to the Neon Bible. Tell him to cover for me. Tell him I will meet him back at the Halo Palace tonight.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“The boss says you need cover to blend in,” Christof mutters.

“I do,” I reply. I use the hood of my jacket, pulling it over my hair and as low on my forehead as I can.

“This way,” Christof says, taking my hand. It’s strange, being led around by a ten-year-old boy who acts like a thirty-year-old man. Not that I expected him to act like a child. He’s not firstborn.

“Are you Pedar’s son?” I ask as we maneuver through the frolicking crowd, which grows louder and bawdier by the minute. I try to keep my chin down.

“Might be,” he replies with a stoic expression, “but he ain’t sayin’, and I ain’t askin’. The one they says was my father is dead—killed by the Gates of Dawn . . . but I heard he was just someone who couldn’t pay what he owed.” I wonder about how Pedar operates. If someone fell into debt with the firstborn Sword, that person might have to do whatever was demanded of him to get out of it—maybe even marry and pretend his wife’s children are his. Christof bears such a resemblance to Pedar that I could see that.

We approach a street vendor selling holographic masks. They shine and blink on a hovering wire rack in the front of the pavilion. The vender takes one look at Christof, recognition dawns, and he quickly looks the other way, as if he’s afraid of the boy. I stare at the masks on display. Some mimic wildlife—elephants with long gray trunks made of light, swine with triangular ears and round snouts, wolves with long muzzles and sharp teeth. Others suggest eerie monsters with viper fangs, or mouthless beasts. Christof choses a black panther mask with black triangular ears, long whiskers, and yellow eyes. He hands it to me. “That’s you for sure,” he says. “A cat.”