Traitor Born (Page 49)
Lifting it to my face, I pull the strap over my hair and tug my cowl down once more. Unable to help myself, I touch his cheek. “You take care, Christof.”
“You, too, St. Sismode.” Why he chooses to call me by my old last name, I don’t know, but I have no time to wonder. I set a brisk pace to the news hovervan before Franklin Star leaves without me.
The news van has a big, bold blue holographic iris surrounding a black pupil on its side. Every few seconds, the eyelid blinks and the iris changes color. Beside the eye, a sandy-haired secondborn paces, consulting his shooting star–shaped moniker. Crowds of people jostle past him on their way to different party venues. Sidling up to the secondborn, I murmur, “Franklin?”
A scared scowl crosses his face, and his glasses go askew when he jolts. He rearranges them on his nose. Grasping his heart, he tries to see me beyond the hologram of my mask. “Who sent you?” he whispers. His thin body leans closer to me.
“Balmora,” I reply.
He looks around, deciding whether we’re being watched. Finding no one, Franklin gestures to the side with his head, motioning to the hovervan’s sliding side panel. He ushers me inside and closes the door. In the dark, the smell of stale beer assaults me. My eyes adjust to the dimness. One side of the van is a command center. The other has metal racks bolted to the floor. Inside mesh bins, drone cameras lie charging, their green-spotted lens eyes seeming to stare into my soul. A workstation is next to the drones. It has a couple seats, folded away. I sit down on the dingy steel floor toward the rear of the vehicle.
Franklin gets into the driver’s seat. Over his shoulder he says, “If we get caught, I’d appreciate you saying that you stowed away in here without me knowing.”
“Sure, Franklin,” I agree.
“Keep your head down.” He starts the hovervan. With a low rumble and a sway of the hulking van, we’re off. Wires on hooks jumble around. Equipment I have no name for rubs against other equipment I have no name for. I lie on the cold, dingy floor and stare up. Moonlight glints through the dirty window.
We’re not stopped or checked as we exit the Trial Village. No one seems overly concerned that we’re leaving. Franklin attempts to make small talk, but beyond confirming that I want to go to Club Faraway, I ignore his questions. After a few minutes, he gives up and focuses on the route.
It’s not until this moment that I allow myself to unleash what I’ve stuffed down deep inside since agreeing to do this. Goose bumps prickle over my skin. Fear grabs me by the throat. This could be a setup. Even if it’s not, I’m not optimistic that I’ll make it out of this alive. I’m about to storm into a drug den and attempt to kidnap my firstborn brother, the heir to the deadliest Fate in the world. I could paint this as a selfless act—wax poetic about how noble it is to save Gabriel and reunite him with the love of his life—but that’s not why I’m doing it. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m terrified of Gabriel dying and forcing me to take his place. Othala will never forgive me. Not that I care, I tell myself, even as shame burns my cheeks.
But there’s more to it than that. If Gabriel dies, and I become firstborn, I’ll be something I’ve come to despise. If I’m required to take over, there are no guarantees that I won’t be worse than Gabriel. I’m significantly more vicious, and I know this about myself. If I became firstborn, any faction seeking to destroy me or attempting to wrestle away my power would be met with ruthless retaliation . . . just like my mother’s. Othala and I will never again be on the same side. The problem is, if I can’t maintain power, the odds of me descending into some nightmarish prison of Othala’s or Bowie’s or even Crow’s making is high. If Othala is aligned with Crow, I can include soul-crushing torture.
But the final reason that I welcome this fight tonight is because it may be my one shot at having a family again. I had love, a makeshift family, but I’ve lost it, and there’s a gaping hole in my heart where it used to be. I need to be honest with myself. Hawthorne isn’t coming back. He’s going to go on with his life—his firstborn life. He would’ve contacted me by now if he planned to be a part of the rebellion—or to see me. It’s been weeks. He knows where I am. He also knows the odds are against our fixing anything. We have a better chance of making things worse.
Saving Gabriel could be my only shot at happiness. If Balmora, the secondborn of the Fate of Virtues, and Gabriel, the firstborn of the Fate of Swords, can unite and fight for change, then maybe there’s a better world ahead for all of us. Maybe together, they can bring us peace.
Chapter 15
The Consolation of Oblivion
Franklin stops the hovervan on the street corner one block from Club Faraway. Before I even close the door, he speeds away. Taking off the cat mask, I toss it into a garbage receptacle. The streets aren’t very crowded in downtown Purity. The upscale metropolitan area is more office building than residential.
Slowly, I follow the navigation on my wrist communicator. “I’m approaching the club,” I whisper into the device. “Have you located a weapon?”
“Go look under the bench in front of the mechadome clinic,” Balmora replies through the communicator.
I spot the hovering bench in front of a mechadome storefront. Different types of bots are on display. None of them resemble Phoenix. Attached to the bottom of the seat bench, I find a generic fusionblade, tear it away from the adhesive, and strap the thigh sheath to my right leg.
“Got it,” I mutter into the communicator.
“Good. You’re clear to go.”
“Copy.”
I tighten the belt of the long black jacket that Clifton’s team made for me. My hand smooths down the Copperscale. I hope it’s as good as Clifton claims, or I’m dead. The navigation points to a posh, fin-shaped skyscraper. The outside of the slender building resembles gray shark skin. It’s intriguing without being overt. Club Faraway is nestled on the corner, next to other elegant facades of what appear to be average-looking office buildings.
The drug lair doesn’t overtly advertise. No signs. No patrons milling around outside. Balconies speckle the side of the building, reminiscent of an elegant hotel. The rooftop has a penthouse at the peak of the dorsal fin. At street level, glass doors filled with undulating blue water blur the view inside. Pushing one open, I take a cautious step in. The door closes behind me. Bright light from the ceiling and the floor make it hard to see. Security traps me in the vestibule between the outer and inner doors. I’m in a faux tank, the walls all filled with water, blurring everything on the outside. “This is a weapons-free zone,” an automated feminine voice sounds. “Please check all weapon in the receptacle.”
A silver cylindrical apparatus rises from the floor, and a round chute opens inside it. My heart sinks. I have to give up my weapon if I want to get in. I consider leaving, but if I do, I’ll always ask what-if. Reluctantly, I pull the fusionblade from the sheath on my thigh and deposit it in the receptacle. The weapon disappears, and an orange plastic disc emerges. I place it in my pocket. The bright light fades. The doors slide open.
The pristine lobby is dimly lit. The floor shines with wavering aquamarine light, like sunshine filtering through water. Softly lit chandeliers barely push back the shadows. Clusters of dark velvet chairs with high seat backs float above the floor. I gaze around for elevators, hallways, or other attached rooms. There aren’t any. For a drug club, it isn’t attracting any customers.