I’m escorted to Grisholm’s private residence. Cutting through his seaside garden sanctuary next to the formal rose garden, we enter the arching doorways into a labyrinth of indoor bathing pools and bubbling spas. The walls and floors are tiled in mosaics of gold and lapis. Vaulted ceilings and archways are supported by columns carved with mythical sea creatures. The soldiers’ footsteps echo through the bathing chambers. Diamond patterns of light reflect off the water in waves.
We come upon a hall with a glass-domed ceiling. It features the largest, deepest pool at its center. To one side, smaller hot pools bubble and flow together, forming a river with waterfalls. A golden walkway made to resemble shells separates the steaming water from the enormous, cooler pool. Exotic plants and flowers infuse the room with intoxicating scents.
On the other side of the domed hall, posh furniture arranged in clusters circumscribes a lounging area. The floor is glass. Water flows beneath it. A bar of pure glass gleams near the far wall, a massive aquarium, in which vibrantly glowing jellyfish undulate in the calm water. Lighted glass shelves occupy each side. High-end bottles of alcohol line the pristine shelves. Lighted from behind, the bottles smolder with a unique fire.
Seated around a circular table by the bar are Grisholm and six of his entourage. The Firstborn Commander is appropriately attired in a dark-purple swimsuit with a loose shirt, unbuttoned to expose his tanned chest. His companions, all male except for one female, are similarly dressed. Cards are strewn about the table. Sweating bar glasses, with colorful liquors and ice cubes infused with gold-leaf shavings, chill on frosted stone coasters. Blue, green, red, and yellow plumes of cigar smoke hover in the air.
Among the firstborns at the table, the bare-chested one in the black bathing suit catches my eye. He’s fitter and more handsome than the others. His dark hair is wet and slicked back, and his eyes rival the sublime aquamarine of the pool. The moment Reykin spots me, his shoulders lower, and he eases back against his chair with a look of relief. The expression vanishes almost immediately behind a green puff of smoke he exhales.
When he sees me with the guards, Grisholm’s eyebrows lower, slashing together. “They managed to find you alive, Roselle. I was giving odds on it, after the events of a few nights ago. They weren’t very good odds.” He sets his cards facedown on the onyx table and gets to his feet. To the leader of the Exo guards, he says, “You’re dismissed.”
The Exo team leader walks forward, pointing his fusion rifle down and away from the heir to the Fate. “We have orders to stay with the secondborn Sword and keep her safe.”
“Safe from what?” I ask. “What’s happening?”
Grisholm scowls in derision, scoffing at my ignorance. “Didn’t you hear? Rasmussen Keating was found dead.” Grisholm snorts rudely. “You don’t know who the Keatings are, do you, Roselle?”
“They’re the Second Family of Virtues,” I reply. “Firstborn Rasmussen Keating is third in line to the title of The Virtue, just behind you and Balmora. I just . . . How did he die?”
“He was murdered,” Grisholm replies. “Why do you think there are guards everywhere?”
His disdain eats at me a little, and my pulse leaps. “How? By whom?”
“If we knew that, none of us would be on lockdown—we’d be out at the Secondborn Trials training camps, evaluating the stock.”
His crudeness makes me want to cut his lips off with my sword. I don’t touch the hilt of it, lest I’m tempted to follow through with the urge. I mutter, “How tedious for you.”
Grisholm stares at the guards. “You’ll leave this hall—secure the baths from outside. We don’t need you hovering.”
The jaw of the Exos’ leader tightens. “I’m under orders to remain with Secondborn Roselle Sword.”
“Whose orders?”
“Commander Kodaline’s.”
“Ah, what a surprise,” Grisholm says. “She’ll be fine. She can probably slaughter all of us.” His eyes drift to Reykin. “Not him, though.” Grisholm points at the Star across the table. “He can cut her into a pile of flesh in less than sixty seconds.”
I want to refute that claim, but I remain silent. I haven’t sparred with Reykin. We have no way of knowing who is better.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Reykin retorts with a pirate smile, holding up his hands in a show of humorous surrender. “I might fix her a drink, though.”
“Wait outside!” Grisholm orders the Exos between gritted teeth. When they don’t move immediately, he roars, “Now!” I turn to go with them, but Grisholm growls, “You stay.” The lead Exo and his armed men retreat from the sweltering hall.
The scrawny, ferret-faced firstborn next to Reykin punches him in the arm. Reykin doesn’t seem to notice, but the other firstborn immediately regrets it, rubbing his knuckles with his other hand. “How come your parents let you train in weapons with a mentor? Didn’t they like you?” the weaseling man asks.
Reykin’s smile never falters, but his eyes turn cold. “You forget, Simont. My parents had more than one backup for me. I think they loved my thirdborn brother best.” The bitterness in his tone is thick. Radix was really fifthborn, and Reykin loved him.
“They got theirs, ol’ man,” Grisholm says in a soft, conciliatory tone. “Census brought justice and gave you back your dignity.”
The aqua light in Reykin’s eyes dims. There’s darkness, and then there are the things that inhabit darkness. Reykin’s one of those things. I know how he really feels about his murdered brother and parents. It led him to the battlefield in Stars—to slaughter as many Swords as he could until they took his life. But he didn’t die, because I wouldn’t let him. His anger toward his family is a mask he wears to keep his position and protect his other younger brothers. He’s a star floating in the abyss, and a part of me wants to save him from it.
Reykin gracefully rises from his seat in a slow uncoiling of muscle and sinew. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Reykin Winterstrom.” The other firstborns’ laughter sets my teeth on edge. They think he’s mocking me. No other firstborn here would think to stand for a secondborn. His outstretched hand is an invitation. I straighten my shoulders. Moving forward, I take his hand. He lifts mine to his lips, kissing the back of it. A small shiver slips through me.
“Roselle Sword,” I murmur with a small curtsy. His fingers linger on mine a bit too long. I pull my hand back.
The firstborn man next to Grisholm clears his throat. Pushing his chair out, he slaps the tops of his thighs with his hands. “Why don’t you come sit here, Roselle?”
The crowd erupts in laughter again, but it’s quickly silenced by Reykin’s frown. “You should be thanking her for her service, Charon.”
“Oh, I’d like to thank her for her service,” the Moon-Fated man replies, leering at me. He can’t be older than twenty. If he were a secondborn Sword, I’d simply punch him in the teeth, but these aren’t secondborns. Retaliation is ill-advised.
Reykin holds out his chair. The harmony of his skin over defined muscles is distracting. “You can have my seat.” I frown. I want to say no. He should probably be ignoring me, but maybe this is better. I don’t know that I can hide the intimacy between us, so establishing an acquaintance could conceal our true relationship. “Thank you,” I reply and take a step in his direction.
“No one sits here without a suit,” Grisholm drawls with a smug smile. “Even this highborn secondborn.” He mocks me with an oxymoron.
Reykin takes it in stride. “There’s a wardrobe closet just over there, Roselle. You can change while I order you a drink.”
“Get me one, too,” the redheaded woman next to Grisholm says.
“What do you want, Cindra?” Reykin asks.
“Something lethal,” she replies with a wide grin. Her ice cubes clink together as she raises what’s left of the last drink to her full lips. She watches me over the rim of her glass. Condensation drips onto her skin, sliding down the valley between the sides of her ruby-colored bikini top. She wipes it away with her finger. Her moniker resembles a carbon atom. Lights representing protons and electrons orbit over her hand.