Reykin nods. He touches his holographic shooting star. A command screen projects from it. He locates a bar menu and orders drinks. Flying mechadomes rise into the air by the bar, selecting bottles of alcohol and setting them on the glass in front of the automated bartender.
I drift away in the direction of the wardrobe closet. Entering it, I lock the door behind me. Facing the holographic mirror, I touch the menu on the side. My reflection wears the first bathing suit on the list—a tiny black bikini. I swipe it away. The next one is white and even more revealing. I scoff. After swiping twenty more to the side, it’s clear that the only suits in this program are meant for style rather than function—possibly for Grisholm’s special late-night “friends.” I settle for a shimmering metallic-silver bikini top with matching bottoms and a graphite wrap skirt.
The ensemble arrives in a silver box. Inside, the outfit is wrapped in delicate, lavender-scented tissue paper and tied with a graphite-colored satin ribbon. I lift the package from the box that ferried it through the air-driven conveyor in the wall, toss my clothes in, and send them back into the chute to be laundered.
Once suited up, I adjust my fusionblade’s sheath so that it wraps around my right thigh. Slipping the hilt of the sword into the black straps, I leave the wardrobe. Four of Grisholm’s friends grin as I approach. Grisholm, seated at the onyx table, scowls at me from head to toe. Reykin’s face darkens with a frown of disapproval. Cindra raises an appraising eyebrow. My fingers twitch near my fusionblade.
A hovering drone delivers a tumbler to the table in front of Reykin. A slice of lemon floats in the center of clear liquid and gold-leaf ice cubes. As I join him, he stands and holds out his chair. I settle in opposite Grisholm. Reykin pulls another chair away from a nearby table and squeezes it in between me and the ferret-faced man, making Simont scoot over. Reykin seats himself close to my side.
On the other side is a firstborn with a blond cowlick in front. His belly pushes down a rather loud, maize-colored swimsuit as he leans toward me. He extends his hand in a way that leaves me wondering if I should kiss its sun moniker or slap it away. I choose to do neither. His cheeks turn ruddy at the slight. “Ahem.” He clears his throat, dropping his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m—”
“Shove off, Milken,” the firstborn next to him says as he strokes his dark beard. The light from his aqua cresting-wave moniker makes it look as if one could surf his hairy chin. “She’ll never be interested in you.”
If Milken’s bluster is any indication, then he’s genuinely offended. “I’m a firstborn heir to the most powerful growing operations in the Fate of Suns! Why wouldn’t a secondborn be interested in me?”
The bearded man leans back in his chair, propping an elbow on the backrest. The wave of his Seas moniker crashes over and over. “I heard a rumor that she’s not going to be secondborn for long.” His appraising eyes make me feel more naked than the locker room in my air-barracks ever did, but I try to hide it. “She’s going to be The Sword one day, and your plantations won’t mean a thing when she’s in control of all of our armies.”
Milken’s soft cheeks puff out. “She’ll always have the secondborn taint on her, though. That never goes away.”
“True,” Reykin agrees. “A secondborn will always be inferior.” His knee nudges mine beneath the table—an apology. I step on his toes with my bare heel, grinding them as hard as I can. He stifles a small grunt and edges his foot from beneath mine.
I almost need to bite my tongue to keep from cursing Milken out. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your concern for my brother’s well-being, but he’s in good health and liable to outlive all of you.”
“Gabriel is as good as dead,” Grisholm replies with an amused look. “It’s time that everyone at this table knows it, especially you, Roselle. These are my closest advisors, part of my Halo Council, except for Reykin, of course. But he’ll be added soon enough. You’ll be called upon to advise us when you’re not presiding over the Sword Heritage Council. My father has already anointed you. Now it’s just a matter of killing your brother.” He says it as if he has accepted the truth of it. My stomach churns. I was counting on turning him into an ally on this one issue.
“I know you and Gabriel were never friends, Grisholm,” I acknowledge, “but he’s firstborn. He’d stand by your side and defend you—no matter what.”
Grisholm lifts an eyebrow. “You always surprise me, Roselle.”
That’s not difficult, I think. You never see anything coming.
“A plot is brewing,” Grisholm continues. For a moment, fear runs rampant through me. Does he know of my involvement with the Gates of Dawn?
“Please do elaborate,” I reply.
“Initial reports say Rasmussen’s death is assassination,” Grisholm says.
“Do you suspect his brother Orwell?” Reykin asks.
“It’s the logical choice,” Grisholm replies. “Secondborns murder us all the time for power. It’s in their nature.” I want to pull my hair out. It isn’t nature. Most secondborns accept their fates, no matter how unjust. “I’m bringing in an expert to get us answers.”
Grisholm tries to hide his grin, and my stomach tightens in dread. He scrapes the cards together in front of him and forms a stack. Choosing two from the top, he positions one against another. When he pulls his hands back, they remain standing. Carefully, he sets another one against them. “My specialist should be here any moment to meet with us.”
The others at the table casually converse about the Secondborn Trials galas planned every night for the next few weeks until the Opening Ceremonies. I listen as Cindra details the glowing electron-inspired dress she had made for an Atom-themed party she’s attending this evening. Dune has already advised me that I’m to attend the Gods and Goddesses Ball tonight at a Sword social club, to be hosted by an aristocrat named Firstborn Shelling. Speculation is high as to whether the parties will go on as planned, despite Rasmussen’s murder.
I lift my glass to my lips and take a small sip. It’s mostly water with a little bit of alcohol. It won’t get me intoxicated. I nearly curse under my breath after I swallow it. I need a bit of the courage that alcohol could provide. Reykin is trying to keep me sharp, but a part of me longs for oblivion.
The clipped sound of sharp-heeled boots rings in the lofty room, pulling my attention away from Grisholm and his house of cards. I set my glass back down on the table. A solitary man approaches us from the entryway. His blond, slicked-back hair is neatly trimmed. The long black coat that he normally wears is absent, shed for the warm weather of Virtues. His crisp white dress shirt and tight black slacks I remember from when I first met him at the Stone Forest Base in Swords. When he sees me, Agent Crow’s lips stretch across his steely front teeth in a possessive smile. My hand unconsciously goes to the hilt of my fusionblade.
Bile rises in my throat. Inky-black death-tally notches line his temples and neck. His hands are clasped behind his back, and yet I feel as if he has a dagger pressed to my throat. I dare not look at Reykin beside me for fear of giving something away—a thought, a connection, anything that might unmask us both. Agent Crow tears his blue eyes away from me and greets Grisholm. “Firstborn Commander,” he says. His deep voice sends chills down my spine. “I’ve been briefed by your undersecretary regarding the death of Firstborn Keating. May I offer you my condolences?”
“No,” Grisholm says. “No condolences necessary. I thought Rasmussen was a pathetic weakling who would ruin Virtues if given it to rule. I don’t really care if someone wipes out his entire family. What I care about is why he was killed. That’s the reason I sent for you, Agent Crow. I have it on good authority that you are relentless in your pursuit of justice.” Grisholm’s eyes flutter to me, and I can only hope that he cannot hear the rampaging thumps of my heart. A ferocious smile curves his lips. He knows my history with Agent Crow—knows of this man’s obsession with me.