Traitor Born (Page 69)

The technician draws a tranquilizer gun from the holster on his thigh. I kick him in the stomach and try again to get loose, but I’m immediately tackled by the nearest Black-O. He growls in my ear until I exhaust myself and stop struggling, and he hauls me back to my feet. I pant in frustration. Agent Crow leans in, touches my cheek, and smooths my hair away from my eyes. “I’m looking forward to your conversion more than I have with anyone else’s, Roselle. What will it be like when you fall into my arms instead of trying to rip them off?”

I spit in his face. He scowls and pulls a cloth from the pocket of his black leather coat. Methodically, he wipes away my spit. “Hand me the gun.”

The technician places the tranquilizer gun in Agent Crow’s palm. He places it directly over my heart. My eyes defy him, even as the dart penetrates my skin. I jerk at the impact when the needle hits my breastbone. My eyes blur. My ears ring. Everything mutes. A dreamy, faraway feeling sets in.

“Let her go,” Agent Crow orders. It sounds distant.

I’m released. My knees weaken and I almost collapse, but the technician reaches out and catches me, clutching me to him. He smells like lemongrass.

“Opa,” he groans. “It must be too much. You’re such a little thing.”

His deep voice sound so familiar.

“Don’t be deceived,” Agent Crow warns. “She’s a killer.”

“Oh, I know who she is,” the technician says. “Everybody knows Roselle St. Sismode.”

“Her mother expects her conversion to begin as soon as possible,” Agent Crow growls, “so quit the rhetoric. Prep her for conversion and tank her. Alert me the moment she’s ready. I’m leaving the Black-Os to guard her. Don’t let her out of your sight or you’ll regret it.”

Agent Crow leaves, and the technician says nothing. My head lolls on his shoulder. He lifts me in his arms and takes me to an examination room, followed closely by Hawthorne and several other Black-Os.

The technician lays me on an examination table beneath a bright-white spotlight. Beside it is a tall tank filled with briny fluid, like the ones I observed earlier. I drift in and out of awareness, trying not to succumb to the tranquilizer. The technician removes my cuffs. I feel him tug off my clothes and wrestle me into a wet suit. He inserts IVs into my arm. Using a powered sprayer, he coats my exposed skin with something.

Then he takes my hand and lifts it.

His thumb rubs over my palm.

He pauses and lifts my hand higher, inspecting it closely.

He rubs his thumb over the small star again.

“That’s—” He leans over the table, his head blotting out most of the white light above. A halo remains, ringing his aquamarine eyes, which bore into mine. “How did you get this star?”

I recognize the chiseled lines of his face, the way his dark eyebrows slash together. My pulse jumps as he lays a hand on my shoulder and shakes me. “The star is unique to my family crest.” He holds my hand in front of my face. “Seven points—a seven-three prism, with three long points that form a W. And my brother’s initials in relief—mirrored? What is this?”

My lips curl into a dopey smile. “Ransom . . . Winterstrom.” I squeeze his hand. “Reykin is . . . looking . . . for you . . .”

Rebel Born is forthcoming from 47North in 2019.