“Find me!” I shout, just as the monster leaps from the platform with me in his arms.
We plummet, but then I’m jolted, caught by upraised hands and cushioned like a fragile egg. I’m moved along atop the bodies, clutched and passed from one to the next, surfing over a sea of Zeros. Above me, the hovering platform accelerates above the fray of bodies until they can no longer reach it.
I’m carried by the wave to the Sword balcony and thrown at the feet of the celebrating Census agents. Agent Crow breaks away from the revelry and approaches me.
“Ah, Roselle.” He beams. “Right on time. The party is getting rather dull, and I’m ready to leave now.”
“You’re a monster, Crow.”
He tsks me. “Is that any way to treat your host?” He lifts his hand and places a small black disc to his temple. It adheres to his head, and a glowing blue dot lights up in its center. The horde of monsters surrounding me take a step back in unison. A familiar face emerges from the back of the balcony.
It’s Hawthorne, but it isn’t. His eyes glow with silver light.
My breath catches. “Hawthorne!” I sob.
Agent Crow chuckles. “It’s no use talking to him when he’s in Black-O mode. He’ll never understand you. They don’t speak our language, or so the technicians tell me. Collectively, they stopped using it a long time ago. It’s barely above gibberish to them. He’s a new conversion, but he has all their technology embedded in his brain now. And, of course, I can use that technology to make him do whatever I want.”
Hawthorne stalks toward me. His eyes don’t show an inkling of recognition. I thrust out my hands to stop him, but he winds back and punches me in the stomach.
“Hawthorne,” I gasp in utter despair.
And now I know I was right. Agent Crow won’t kill me, even if I beg him to.
He reaches out and lifts my chin so that I meet his eyes. “Welcome to the future, Roselle.”
Sneak Peek: Rebel Born
THE POISON OF OUR AGE
My wrists are bound with steel cuffs.
Hawthorne viciously prods me forward. I stumble behind Agent Crow, through the blue banners and out of the Sword balcony. I glance over my shoulder, but it’s not the ache of betrayal that wrenches my heart. It’s fear that whatever has happened to Hawthorne is irreversible. His eyes glow with a distinctive silver light. I might have caught a glimpse of it the last time we were together, but I can’t be sure. I can hardly process what’s happening now.
Shrill screams of terror echo throughout the Silver Halo’s corridors. I am surrounded by no less than a dozen Zeros. None of the others approach us. Instead, the monsters busily butcher everything with a pulse. Unafflicted firstborns and the secondborn competitors attempt to escape from the floating colosseum, but hordes of killers intercept them.
My pulse races. I can’t help anyone!
Another shove compels me forward. We pass by a gondola station. Blood and carnage litter the platforms. Some firstborns jump to their deaths from the floating colosseum rather than be caught by the Zeros. The hairs on my scalp stand on end.
“Why are you killing firstborns?” I growl at Agent Crow.
“Why not?” he replies in a blasé tone, reaching to brush wisps of my hair from my face as we walk. I recoil from his touch. “They won’t do well in our new society, Roselle. We’re doing them a favor.” His mouth curves up at the thought, exposing the steel teeth that stand in stark contrast to his supple lips. The black disc adhered to his temple blinks with eerie blue light. It must be how he manipulates the silver-eyed cyborgs. Their obedience to him seems absolute. He doesn’t have to say a word. He somehow just thinks, and they respond.
I shudder. He’s depraved. The inky tattoos around his eyes and on his throat are deceptive. Although there are hundreds of the so-called kill tallies visibly etched into his skin, they only represent a fraction of the deaths he’s caused. He would have to be covered from head to toe to represent all the people whose slaughter he has brought about tonight.
Agent Crow guides us to a staging area where a nondescript medical supply airship awaits with its ramp down. No cargo is on board. The Census agent enters the front of the ship, and I’m shoved up the open ramp by the demonic-sounding killers behind me. Inside the tail, I find that the airship doesn’t have seats. I’m flung to the metal floor by the monster that was Hawthorne. Sitting up, I push myself to the wall, lean back against it, draw my knees up to my chest, and rest my forearms on them.
I’m not sure how smart these things are when they’re in Black-O mode. The silver-eyed woman who latched the cuffs on me made the mistake of securing my arms in front of me. If I can reach a sword, it will be no problem to cut them off. But there aren’t any swords. No weapons of any kind here in the cargo hold. It’s just me and the Zeros.
The airship door closes, sealing us in. My throat tightens. Dim lights come on, but it’s still dark. The Zeros’ eyes glow like small moons in the night sky. Gore mottles their mouths, their clothes, and their fingers. The steel claws seem to have retracted into their fingertips, but I know they’re there.
The airship rumbles and lurches upward. The Zeros don’t move. They don’t talk. They gaze straight ahead. They seem barely alive. Hawthorne sits across from me and several bodies away. He isn’t smeared in carnage like the others. I don’t think he was in the fight at the Silver Halo, which means Agent Crow wants to use Hawthorne some other way. More than likely against me.
My wrists tremble on my knees—or maybe it’s my knees trembling—or maybe it’s both. I thread my fingers together, but it doesn’t stop. Panic seizes me. It’s hard to breathe. I feel dizzy. Sweat soaks the back of my white sparring outfit. Wisps of damp hair cling to my cheek.
I have to wait for several minutes in the grip of the attack. When my panic finally subsides and my breath isn’t coming out in hacking pants, I try to get up, and all the creatures look at me at once. It makes me want to vomit. I press myself against the wall and rise. Carefully, I walk between the Zeros until I’m across from the ghoulish Hawthorne.
I kneel in front of him. He stares, but it’s as if he isn’t really seeing me. “Hawthorne.” I try a normal tone, but it comes out in a breathless whisper. “Remember when we first met? It was in Swords, when the airships fell from of the sky. Remember?” My voice quivers. Tears spill down my cheeks. “You tried to help me, and I hit you in the nose?”
He doesn’t even blink.
I sit down and cross my legs. “You rescued me when I was Crow’s prisoner in Census. You were so brave. Nobody else lifted a finger. It was you. Just you.” I touch his hand, wanting so badly for him to hold me.
Suddenly his eyes focus. His hand pounces, wraps around my throat, and squeezes. My face flushes. My windpipe feels crushed. I hold up my hands to him, palms out, in surrender. He lets go.
I cough and sputter, gulping breaths. “Okay, so no touching,” I gasp when I finally get my voice back. I wipe my tears from my cheeks with my sleeve. I touch my ravaged neck. “I know you’re in there somewhere, Hawthorne. We’re a half-written poem, you and me. Wherever you are—whatever basement in your mind they’ve got you trapped in—I’ll find you. I won’t leave you down there alone.”
I talk as if we’re alone, reminding Hawthorne of everything we’ve shared together. Every stolen moment when we were secondborns. Every kiss. Every touch. My throat aches, but still I talk.