Traitor Born (Page 53)

“You’re not allowed to die,” Balmora scolds in her bossiest tone. “Do you hear me?”

“I can’t stop her . . .”

“Who, Gabriel?” I ask, coming closer to the bed. “Who can’t you stop?” I’m worried that he means me. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I can’t,” Gabriel whispers. His eyes are now bleeding from their corners. “Only you can. Too many zeros.”

Is he delusional? Am I just part of his hallucination?

“Who is she?” I ask him. “Mother? Are you talking about The Sword, Gabriel?”

“Gabriel’s dead.” His smile is tragic. “Only Solomon Sunday’s left.”

“You’re Gabriel,” I whisper.

“Gabriel’s dead!” he shouts, his voice higher but not actually louder. “Just let us die!” He struggles to sit up, but he’s too weak. Balmora holds him down. His eyes flutter shut, and he pants for breath.

“You should go,” Balmora says to me anxiously. “You’re upsetting him, and I can’t have Exos looking for you here. I’ll have Quincy show you the secret way out. Don’t come back unless I call for you.” Pearls of sweat shine on her upper lip.

Gabriel is still trembling, covered in sweat. I desperately want to stay with him, but I know I’d only put him in more danger. “Balmora, you’ll keep me updated on how he is?” I ask.

“As best I can,” she replies, rising from the bed to hug me. We cling to each other for a few moments, and then she lets me go. “Thank you for bringing him to me. Quincy, help Roselle get back to shore. Use the sea gate, and make sure no one sees her leave.”

Quincy nods. “It’s this way.”

She leads me to the stone balcony, where the wind tosses my hair, pushing it into my face. Stone griffins, frozen in midpounce, stare at me from above. Quincy climbs the protruding mortar of the tower like a monkey and pulls on the stone snout of the griffin, wrenching it to the side. A stone wall beside the tall column opens, showing the outline of a doorway. Quincy climbs down and pushes against the wall, and the opening grows larger. She disappears inside. I follow her. Her small fusion-powered light pushes back the darkness inside, allowing me to see past her into a cramped hallway about three feet wide and maybe seven feet high.

“Push the door closed,” Quincy says.

I lean against it until it locks in place. Quincy turns away and walks farther into the stone hallway, a spiraling ramp down the outer wall of the tower. It’s a dizzying journey. The walls are dry and rough, but the air is damp and has a faint scent of rotten fish that gets stronger during the long descent. At sea level, other passageways branch off. Quincy stops and turns, whispering, “This leads to the main hallway. Security for the fortress is nearby.” She puts her fingers to her lips.

I nod. We tiptoe farther down the spiraling stone ramp. The air grow damper. Sea urchins encrust the walls. At the bottom is a small landing and a deep pool of water.

“The sea gate is down there.” Quincy points to the dark depths.

“You mean, underwater?” The last thing I want to do tonight is get wet.

She nods and walks to a round wheel with handholds. Turning the wheel activates a pulley system, which raises an iron gate, drawing it up from the water. “Are you a good swimmer?” Quincy asks.

“Decent,” I reply, tugging off my boots.

Quincy opens a wooden box and pulls out a device that looks like a small torpedo with handlebars. She set it down on the stone floor. Opening the front of it, she places my boots inside. “Anything else you don’t want to get wet?” she asks. I shrug off my jacket and hand it to her. She folds it and places it neatly in the torpedo. “This mask goes over your eyes and nose so you’ll be able to breathe. There’s a dim headlight that I’ve programmed to extinguish when you get close to shore. When you get to the beach, press this button to open the hatch. Remove your things, then press this button, and the underwater propulsion device will return to the fortress.”

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Watch out for sharks.”

My insides quail at the thought.

The mask sits tight against my face, and the air activates before I ease into the water holding the propulsion device with both hands. Sinking beneath the surface, the mask illuminates the opening to the sea ahead. The right handlebar has the throttle grip. Turning it slowly, I ease away from the stone fortress.

The water is cold, but it’s not unbearable. My legs drift as I circumvent rocks and reefs. Beautiful coral is alive with sea plants that sway in the current. As I near the Halo Palace, the water becomes shallower, and my chest and thighs bump against the sand. I let go of the throttle, and the waves push me gently toward the shore. I stand up and wade forward until I’m only waist deep. I collect my boots and coat from the niche, holding them above the water with one hand, then take off the mask and drop it inside before closing the compartment. Following Quincy’s instructions, I press the button, and the vehicle submerges and jets away.

Chapter 16

Carry these Bones

When I enter the foyer, my apartment is quiet and dark. Phoenix doesn’t waddle in to greet me. I drop my boots by the door and wait, but it doesn’t come. Maybe its hover mode malfunctioned? I take one tentative step, and then another. “Phee?” I slip off my jacket and leave it on the small table. I have sand all over myself. I need to shower and sleep.

Walking out of the foyer, I slow my steps. The lights don’t come on automatically in the drawing room. The shutters are closed. “Lights,” I order. Nothing happens. I fumble for the lamp I know is on the small bureau near me. I touch it, and the soft glow barely pushes back the shadows. I move to the other lamp near it, but the shadow of a figure on the sofa in the drawing room captures my attention.

Reykin.

Seated on the middle cushion, the Star is hunched over, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head bowed, his hands gripping the back of his skull. I take a few steps toward him. “Reykin?”

He lifts his chin and drops his hands. His expression is a mixture of rage and relief. Dressed to kill, literally, he wears black everything—his moniker covered by his lead-lined glove—the outfit of someone ready to do murder. A shadow of a bruise mars his jaw. The muscles of his arms twitch. In a sword fight, we’re equals. In hand-to-hand combat, I might not fare as well. Icy chills run down my spine. “Where have you been?” he asks in a low snarl.

“I . . .” I haven’t thought this part through. He can’t know about Gabriel and Balmora. He’ll kill my brother.

“Is that a hard question?” His lip holds a sneer.

“Yes.” I hate hearing the quiver in my voice.

“Well, let’s start with where you weren’t. Maybe that’s easier. You weren’t in the Neon Bible with Grisholm.”

“No,” I reply breathlessly, “I wasn’t.”

He leans forward and reaches for a fat tumbler of amber liquor. Lifting the rim of the glass to his lips, he drinks all of it in one swallow. He sets it down and seizes a nearly empty diamond-shaped bottle, splashing more alcohol into his tumbler. “If that child you sent to me with your message hadn’t delivered it when he did, I would’ve killed Grisholm.”

“Why?” My stomach twists with dread. I put out my hand and steady myself against the seat back of a chair.