“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.
In about a half mile, we come to a round stone structure within a wooded area near the perimeter wall of the Palace grounds. The river continues, but Hawthorne and I head for a tall, black iron gate with sloping steps in front. Gray stone pillars wrap around the structure, holding up the domed roof. It’s only two stories high with four rooms inside. It’s a meditation building, formerly used to make tributes to a god that has either faded away or died, as did the people who once used it. As a child, I’d come here to get away from the cameras. It was my secret place.
The doors of the building are always unlocked. Panting as I reach them, I push one heavy bronze slab open. It whines on its rusted hinges. The only light comes from tiny slivers that pierce the round dormer windows in the ceiling and the narrow stained glass windows on the main floor. The scent of incense is thick and old. We bar the doors and engage their thick metal bolts. I lean against the cold bronze, trying to catch my breath. Hawthorne takes his fusionblade from his scabbard and ignites it so we can see. Statues of warrior-gods line the walls. The marble floor is dingy with dirt and leaves, but it’s in perfect condition otherwise.
Something heavy crashes against the doors, bowing them in and pushing me forward. Another blood-curdling yowl splits the air. “This way,” I whisper. The stained glass beside us shatters. Colorful shards rain onto the floor. The monstrous muzzle of a maginot tries to push through the narrow window. Its jaws snap at me, dripping saliva, but it’s unable to fit through. It isn’t Rabbit; it must be a newer model because I don’t recognize the silver markings by its eyes.
The gigantic maginot paces outside, throwing itself against the door again. The crash echoes in the domed building. Hawthorne fixates on the window. His jaw tightens. “Is there another way out of here?”
I lead him across the marble floor and behind a bronze statue of a beautiful male god who wears a crown of laurels and very little else. I reach for a notch in the wall. A piece of gray stone slides open to reveal a shallow staircase. Hawthorne’s fusionblade lights the way as we take the passage down, the wall closing behind us.
“Where does this lead?” Hawthorne asks.
“I’m not exactly sure,” I reply. “I’ve never been strong enough to pry open the door at the other end, but I know this hallway is long enough so that it must be beyond the Palace wall.” We walk together down the corridor. I take the lead. “You need to stay on the west side of the tunnel up ahead. There’s a security wall that you don’t want to trip into.”
We come to an animal graveyard. Piles of decimated rodent bones and molding fur litter the ground. I pick up a small pebble and toss it ahead on the left side of the tunnel. It explodes. Hawthorne picks up another and throws it to the right. It bounces on the ground. “C’mon.” When we’re on the other side, he asks, “Any more surprises ahead?”
“I don’t think so, but like I said, I’ve never gotten through to the outside.”
“How far does this go?” he asks.
“A mile or so.”
“And you did this alone?”
“I do most things alone, Hawthorne.”
“You don’t need anyone, do you?”