Secondborn

“I’ve agonized about telling you everything, but your not knowing made every lie I told them more credible. And you’ve been having nightmares since I met you. What would it do to you to know that my lies were keeping you alive? I would’ve kept on lying to you—lying to them—anything so they’d leave you alone. But Flint was murdered . . . and now I know the truth.”

“What truth?”

“Gabriel is losing his mind. He’s paranoid, especially since he found out about the Rose Garden Society—and before you ask, no, I didn’t tell them. Othala found out and reported it to Gabriel. The danger to you is absolute now. Gabriel has sided with your mother. He wants you dead, Roselle.”

The betrayal I feel is at war with my love for both Hawthorne and my brother. I understand everything Hawthorne’s telling me. I might even be able to accept it, later, when the crushing turmoil and wretchedness abate. By earning Gabriel’s trust, Hawthorne has kept me safe. I know Gabriel trusts him—it was in his eyes back in the Grand Foyer. And now Clifton has pushed Gabriel to the brink. “What are you to my brother, now that you’re not his secondborn spy?”

Hawthorne winces at the term. “I took Flint’s place as your brother’s first lieutenant on the Heritage Council.”

“You’re Gabriel’s right hand?” I pale. That’s not a position awarded lightly. Killing me would prove Hawthorne’s loyalty, but he’s warning me instead.

“He’s made me his right hand. But you, Roselle, will always be my heart.” I can’t deny the aching tenderness in his voice.

“Hawthorne, don’t hurt Gabriel,” I plead, grasping his forearm. “He’s sick. Mother has made him ill.”

“He has made himself ill, Roselle!” Hawthorne’s jaw clenches. “The chemicals he ingests have rotted his mind. He’s paranoid and delusional. One minute he believes you want him dead, and the next he’s ranting that you’re the only person who understands him and loves him. He’s hardly ever rational, and your mother can no longer hide it. It comes down to your life or his. I have no choice. It’s always been you. He has to die.”

“Let me talk to him, Hawthorne,” I implore. “He’ll listen to me! I can make him—he’s just afraid!” I try to push past Hawthorne, but he holds my arms.

“You can’t talk to him, Roselle. He’ll murder you if you get near him again. Your brother is beyond irrational. He’s taking Rush.”

My eyes search his face in the light of the glowing moon.

“It’s a drug that turns your world inside out, makes you believe you’re a god. It makes him insane. You have to go into hiding until after the Secondborn Trials.”

“Why? What happens then?” I demand.

“Trust me. You have to go now!”

The desperation in Hawthorne’s tone breaks through to my survival instincts. A part of me still trusts him, even though he’s been lying to me since I met him. “I’ll go,” I whisper. Hawthorne wrenches me to him. My hand braces on his chest, the slab of virile muscle hard and unrelenting. His hand fists roughly in my hair. My blood roars in my ears and my knees weaken with fear and desire.

“You mean everything to me, Roselle,” he whispers. He breathes heavily, fighting for restraint. His nose skims the surface of my neck. His mouth finds mine. He kisses me hard, demanding. “I’ve always loved you—I swear it,” he says. “I never stopped. I’ll never let them hurt you.”

“I miss you so much, Hawth—” His kisses silence me.

His hands run over the thin fabric covering the sides of my breasts, my hips. I crave his skin against mine, the rigid bulk of his muscles. “We’ll be together soon,” he promises, “but you have to go now, before someone finds us.”

His grip eases. I feel weak, but movement up ahead triggers my alertness. Iono guards are branching out, coming our way. Hawthorne sees them, too. He grabs me from behind and hauls me off the bridge and down the slope of the hill. We hide in the tunnel of darkness under the stone bridge, on a small lip at the water’s edge. I hear them on the path above.

“Do you have a weapon?” His voice is hushed.

I shake my head. I’m shivering from fear and the damp night air. Hawthorne detaches the black cape from his Exo uniform and drapes it over my shoulders. With the aerosol can, he sprays his own moniker. It goes dark.

A harrowing shriek pierces the air.

“Where did the guards go?” My voice quivers.

He inches forward and peeks around the edge of the stone. “They went into the kennel.”

I frown. “Which kennel? East or west?”

“West.”

The pack of maginots I fed earlier answers the cry with a collection of howls. “We have to go! Now! They’re programming the maginots for a hunt.” I slip off my heels and unzip my dress on the side. I toss my shoes and my clutch into the water. Hawthorne’s hand engulfs mine. Turning, we creep farther under the bridge, hugging the stone wall until we emerge on the other side of the tunnel. The pond here empties into a small river that winds into the woods. Another unnatural-sounding howl—something between the cry of a wolf and a thunderclap—echoes from the far side of the tunnel. We run.