Dune moves nearer to me, his annoyance plain. “Do you always make your wishes aloud, Salloway?” he asks.
Clifton’s laugh is humorless. “I do when it’s warranted. So, you’re the God of Dawn?”
“The dawn to end all nights.”
“Does she know what you’re selling?” Clifton asks with a nod in my direction.
“What am I selling?”
Clifton leans in. His pointed finger touches Dune’s chest. “You’re peddling the end of the world.”
“I could say the same of you. Does Roselle know about the Rose Garden Society’s end game?” Dune asks.
“What’s to know?” Clifton asks. “We’re but a group bent on making the world a more beautiful place, one garden at a time.”
“The more you sell, the more you’re bought,” Dune replies.
Clifton’s expression turns stormy. “You cannot protect her like I can.”
“Roselle has a destiny,” Dune says. “If you’re smart, you’ll be a part of it. If not, you’ll be a casualty of it.”
Valdi moves between Dune and Clifton, separating the two. “I suggest privacy for a discussion such as this,” he says. He scans the room and waves his meaty hand in the air. A secondborn Stone hurries forward. “Show these gentlemen to my private retreat.” The servant nods and gestures to Clifton and Dune to follow him.
Reluctantly, Clifton nods. He faces me. “I’ll find you when we’re finished.”
“It sounds as if you plan to discuss my future,” I say. “Don’t you think I should be present for that?”
Clifton finds my hand and squeezes it. “You should enjoy the party.”
Around me flutters a garish display of excess. I know there are secondborns who at this very moment shiver in battlefield bunkers, while here, firstborns are packed in every corner of the dance floor, dry-ice fog blowing on them to keep them cool. “I don’t like parties.”
He cracks a smile. Strong fingers cup my chin. “No, you’re far too serious. I’ll teach you how to have fun. I promise.”
Turning from me, Clifton and Dune follow the secondborn Stone. I stare broodingly after them until they disappear in the crowd and out onto one of the rooftop terraces at the back of the Palace. I consider following them to see if I can eavesdrop on their conversation, but I’m distracted by the amplified voice of the God of the Sea.
“Roban, the God of Retribution!”
I turn to see my father at the top of the staircase.
Chapter 8
No Way To Slow
A soft billow of black mist floats around my father, Kennet Abjorn, God of Retribution.
He gazes down at the packed crowd as if he were born to rule them. Elegant black eel skin covers him, and thick wolf fur adorns the mantle of the black cape covering his wide shoulders. His hair is dark and slicked back, different than how he normally wears it, but nothing disguises that he’s the Fated Sword—my father. Ebony ram’s horns protrude from either side of his head. Three women dressed as vengeful night spirits accompany him, curving themselves around him. His Virtue-Fated moniker shines against the cheek of the woman his hand rests against.
There’s no possibility of his spotting me in the crowd. Heavy agony stabs my chest. The last time I saw him was at my former home, the Sword Palace, the night they tried to kill me. Was he a part of the decision to murder me?
His presence tests my heart’s mettle. My father turns and makes his way along the gallery, mingling with throngs of costumed revelers. I take a step in the direction of the stairs, but Valdi’s hand on my upper arm makes me pause.
“You need to go to Clifton. Now.”
“Why?”
Valdi motions to his security. Armed Sword guards materialize from the crowd. “Because your father wasn’t invited tonight.”
Confusion crosses my face. “You mean he’s crashing your party?”
“I mean I don’t know why he’s here.”
“Maybe he wants to see me.”
“Perhaps,” Valdi replies skeptically. He nods, and the armed guards close in on us.
“I’ll go ask him why he’s here,” I insist.
Valdi’s grip tightens on my arm. “Clifton wants—”
“I’m going to speak to my father!” I shake him off me. Valdi’s Sword security tries to block my path to the stairs, but I change direction and make my way to one of the long Sword banners attached to the metal framework of the glass ceiling. Climbing the fabric like a rope, I reach the gallery level. The crowd beneath me cheers, as if I’m a performing monkey, here to entertain them. Swinging my legs, I gain enough momentum to hurtle over the gallery’s glass railing. Applause erupts around me. I ignore it.
My mind races. If my father wasn’t invited by the host, then who invited him? Chills slip down my spine. What will I say to him? Our last encounter was filled with bitterness. Still, I need to talk to him.
Weaving my way through the people in the gallery, I pass large rooms with more gaming tables, others offering strange cuisine, and still others that are completely nefarious. I scan each room for my father. Nothing.
I turn the corner into a new hallway, which is domed like a tunnel. The walls and ceiling project wintry scenes. Holographic snow falls around me. The rooms along this corridor are much smaller than the others—virtual rooms. I pause at one, activating a program that transforms it into a salacious dungeon. I back away and pass another with an open door. A few steps past it, I’m captured around the waist and dragged back into the room. The door slams. My cheek is pressed to the wall by a hand that covers my mouth.
I throw my elbow back and simultaneously attempt to use my heel to crush my assailant’s shin. The man behind me avoids both strikes. He whispers, “Is that any way to say hello?”
My eyes widen. A small squeak slips from me. He loosens his hand on my mouth, and I turn in his arms.
“Hawthorne!” I whisper. Storm-cloud eyes meet mine. His sandy hair is hidden beneath an ancient golden helmet. The faceplate has eye slits angled in a fierce scowl. The gold nose guard comes to a sharp point. Cheek protection follows the contours of his chiseled face. A golden half-moon shape adorns the crest of his helmet, slicing through the center of it, deathhawk style. Only his full lips are exposed.
He’s dressed as Tyburn, the God of the West Wind. A crimson cape hangs from his powerful shoulders. His chest is encased in a hard brown leather hauberk. A warrior’s leather skirt stops at his midthighs, showing his powerful legs in tall leather sandals. His bare arms are cuffed with golden circlets that highlight the sheer enormity of his biceps. A round golden shield is strapped to his back, covering the crimson cape. He sheds the shield, setting it beside us.
My knees weaken. He doesn’t wait for me to catch my breath. Strong lips cover mine in a searing kiss. His large, calloused hands glide over my shoulders to my neck. The contact sends shock waves of sensation straight through my belly. My lips part. I exhale. Hawthorne’s tongue infiltrates my mouth. I lean into him. My fingers splay over his hard chest. My heart pounds. Blood floods my cheeks, turning them rosy and hot.
“I found you,” he murmurs.
His fingers slip to my nape. Sharp thorns from the vines in my hair dig into the backs of his hands. He hisses, but he doesn’t pull away. I break our kiss, taking one of his hands in mine. His blood drips in tears from the scrapes. My thumb runs over the top of it, wiping at his wounds.
“The thorns cut you,” I murmur.
“Worth it,” he growls. Hawthorne leans down and kisses me again.
“I was afraid you were dead,” I whisper. Tears brighten my eyes. I’m having a hard time containing my emotions.