We reach the top of the tallest tower and power off our hoverdiscs, preferring to walk on solid ground. Security is tight here. Firstborn Exos and secondborn Sword soldiers stand in position all around the penthouse level of the tallest tower. Stingers hover in legions. Dune and I are subjected to a battery of security checkpoints, including body scans for high-tech weaponry. I wait for a soldier to balk at my belt of razor-sharp roses or the bracers on my wrists. No one does. Do they consider these weapons merely decorative?
Ahead, large golden gates representing the entrance to the Kingdom of the Gods lie open, awaiting the chosen few. This is the gallery level. Dimly lit, it gives an impressive view of the ballroom below. The gilded railing is shaped like a horseshoe and decorated with ancient deities. At the far end, opposite me, is a wall of glass windows, providing a view of the cloudless night sky.
The gods on this level are nefarious at best. I can’t help thinking, as I observe them frivolously spilling their cocktails and grinding on each other, that they’ve been the ruin of secondborns. Some are swathed in latex and lace, others are bathed in cosmic fog and little else, each paying tribute to different gods and goddesses from recorded history.
Below us, down a sparkling glass staircase, is the ballroom’s main floor. In the center of the room is the Gods Table, an elevated, Gothic-columned platform where the elite of the Sword aristocracy have gathered to play games of chance. Bright lights stream from it. Elaborate gilded tables, shiny with animated holographic figurines resembling secondborn competitors from all the Fates, do battle in different gaming scenarios. On the dance floor surrounding the Gods Table, couples sway to driving music performed by a Diamond-Fated man resembling the God of Thunder. The glass ceiling above him is an awning against the sky.
A gray-bearded firstborn with a wide mouth, dressed as the God of the Sea, stands at the top of the stairs, announcing arriving socialites. His salt-laden eyebrows weigh heavily over the creases of his eyes, which scrutinize me. “The tide has swept in a prize.” The deep rumble of his voice is amplified and echoes around us. He opens his fist, and out swim tiny, holographic porpoises that disappear after sailing by. He leers at my cleavage. I could kill him with the trident in his hand. That thought makes me smile.
“I’m no one’s prize,” I reply, passing him and descending the glass steps.
“Roselle, the Goddess of War!” he bellows behind me. His gravelly voice carries, coinciding with the final chords of the God of Thunder’s song.
His announcement of Dune is lost in the collective gasp from the crowd. Nearly everyone on the floor, and in the gallery, turns to us. I’d give anything to be the Goddess of Peace at this moment. War is easy to perpetuate. Peace, on the other hand, is nearly impossible. It will be hard-won, if it’s achieved at all.
The crowd in front of me parts. Thankfully, the music starts again, so I’m not subjected to the hissing whispers of the revelers. A mixture of hostility, pointed stares, and open admiration pummels my invisible armor. I lift my chin. Dune takes my wrist. We thread through the firstborns on the dance floor. A watery moat and glistening fountains wind around the Gods Table, separating it from the dancers. To reach the table, we cross a small arched bridge and climb a short flight of stone steps. Passing between Gothic stone columns, we emerge on the other side of a glittering, transparent sound barrier. The music from the God of Thunder fades, replaced by high-pitched voices and cheering from firstborns crowded around gaming tables.
Within the chaos and revelry of the blinking lights, I find Clifton. He has taken a position at the far end of this exclusive club. Seated amid a table of gamers, he’s engaged in a rousing match of Pyramid Conspiracy. I know the card game well. The arms dealer himself taught me how to play it. It’s a game at which he particularly excels, and he loves this diversion, but by the way his eyes drift over me, I get the sense that cards are the furthest thing from his mind.
Clifton sets his hand aside, opting out of the match in which he has a substantial bet placed. The officiator takes the stack of chips away without a word. Clifton gets to his feet, lifting his shiny cigar case from the table. He opens it and extracts a thin blue cigar. Putting it to his lips, he lights the end with a flame from the case. Blue smoke rises into the air. He snaps the case closed, rubbing the pad of his thumb on the smooth metal surface. The rigid set of his shoulders relaxes.
His normal blond whiplash of bangs is swept back into a knot at his crown. He’s dressed as Cassius, the ancient Lord of Raze and Ruin, with a golden sickle attached to a wide leather belt over a rustic kilt. Thick leather straps crisscross his otherwise bare chest. At the center, where the leathers meet, a gold circle glints. Etched into the thick metal is the face of a rose. A long rust-colored cape hangs from his broad shoulders. With the face of a film star, he reminds me more of a sun god than a harbinger of annihilation.
I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips. Clifton’s sultry green eyes pass over me, their golden flecks shining. I stop in front of him. He leans over to the table, crushes out the blue cigar, straightens, and reaches out, teasing a small rosebud from my hair. Stroking the delicate flower, he brings it to his nose and inhales its scent. The gesture is surprisingly intimate. “I’ve been worried about you,” he says softly, as if no one else is around.
“I’m okay,” I reply. “I’m bored, actually. I have very little to do now that I’ve been working for Grisholm.”
“That isn’t what I heard. I heard there was an attempt on your life.” His eyes drift accusingly to Dune’s, pure malice seething in them. “No one’s protecting you.”
“She has my protection,” Dune replies with polite menace.
Thinly veiled hostility marks Clifton’s tone. “Those assassins should never have gotten to her.” He rarely loses his cool, and the rage that contorts his normally playful expression surprises me.
I try to reassure him. “I don’t need protection, Clifton. I’m a secondborn Sword. You know this.” I look around to see who else is listening, and my eyes fall on Valdi Kingfisher, seated at the table next to where Clifton had been. I recognize him as the bookmaker we sold arms to earlier in the year. I know his last name probably isn’t Kingfisher. At Salloway Munitions, we replaced last names with bird names to protect clients’ anonymity. Valdi’s powerfully built, with a thick red scar that runs from his temple to his cheek. The brutal-looking man at the table rises and grins.
Clifton swings his hand in the direction of the firstborn Sword. “Roselle, may I introduce Valdi Shelling, your host for this evening.”
I pretend not to know him. “I’m pleased to meet you, Firstborn Shelling. Thank you for your kind invitation.”
His lips twitch with repressed amusement. “It is my honor.” He takes my hand in his and kisses the back of it, an unlikely welcome for a secondborn. It makes me uncomfortable. Others might draw the wrong conclusions. I tug my fingers from his.
“You have a lovely social club.” The word “club” seems wrong. “Glass palace” is probably more fitting.
“Thank you. Most of the guests at the Gods Table are members of the Rose Garden Society. It’s usually not like this. The theme is my wife’s doing.” He gestures toward a young firstborn woman attired in a sparkling silver gown with icicles dripping from it. Her delicate hand rests on the arm of the rugged-looking God of Rain and shines with a golden sword moniker. The stormy deity holds a pair of dice and puts them to her mouth, and she blows on them with a sensual purse of her lips. Wintry snowflakes emerge from between them, a clever trick. The rain god brings the dice to his own lips and kisses them before shaking his fist and tossing them across the table. Tiny storm clouds follow the dice, raining as they tumble and bounce across the table. “The Snow Queen has outdone herself tonight,” Valdi continues. He says it with a sour note, watching his wife fawn over the rain god at her side. “Take my advice, Salloway, don’t wait too long to settle down. All the good ones will be taken.”
Clifton gazes at me with surprising heat. “Oh, I intend to leave nothing to chance when it comes to that.”