True Born (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Margot stares moodily out at the sky through her bedroom window. It’s full light at half past eight in the morning, but not so you can tell. The air is heavy and thick, like curdling cream, as the sky turns the greenish black of a bruise. For the past two days the NewsFeed has been blaring warnings of a massive Flux storm headed our way. Looks like it will hit today of all days, the day of our party.

Extra mercs have been arriving for the past two days and have been busy setting up a secure perimeter. Through Shane we hear our father even broke down and solicited Storm’s advice on new security measures. Now I can almost hear the boots thudding overhead as the bought soldiers pace back and forth on their rounds. Our front gate has become as difficult to cross as the border between here and Europe. Two hold shotguns at the ready while a third checks the credentials of the man driving the delivery van and runs his thumb print through the human signature machine.

Shane also told us, much as he no doubt wishes he hadn’t, that there have been rumors. Rumor is, the Lasters are planning something against Dominion’s government although details have been vague on exactly what. Protest? Attack? There hasn’t been a full-scale attack on the government since the first wave of the Plague when our parents were children. The government retaliated by instituting martial law, which hasn’t been lifted since.

But by far, the Flux storm is the biggest concern. They’re predictable only in their unpredictability, these harsh-weather storms. They must have started before the Plague, but if they did, nobody cares. Now they are just another sign of our broken world, along with the omnipresent gray-white sky and the empty buildings, silent streets.

The last Flux storm ripped up the entire eastern tip of the city, demolished it with a mighty swipe of a funnel before dipping over the lake and drinking up the water, only to turn around and dump it on the still-smoking city. Lasters caught in the massive electrical fires drowned in seconds. The smell of charred and bloated flesh hung over the city for months afterward.

I rest my chin on Margot’s shoulder and squeeze her round the waist. “I reckon it will be nasty.”

“The storm? Yes, I bet,” Margot replies, distracted.

She’s been this way since the final fitting: lost in some dark train of thought I can’t follow. “Are you all right?” I sigh against her neck and immediately feel the tickly shiver on my own.

Margot turns on me. “Stop asking me that, okay?”

“
Mar, I just
—”

“I know you’re just looking out for me, Lu. But I’m fine, okay? I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Mar, wait,” I call after her as she disappears into the bathroom. When she re-emerges, her hair is a shiny mass that floats over her shoulders. Her face is scrubbed clean and pink. And she’s donned a fancy pink-and-white-striped frock for breakfast.

“Think of this as the Last Supper,” she says, striking a glamour pose.

I giggle helplessly.
“You look too good,” I tell her. “Resnikov won’t leave you alone.”

Something dark creeps along my sister’s face. “Yes, well. I always wanted to see Russia.”

“Don’t even.” I snort.

“Do they have a two-wife policy in Russia? We could marry him together.” She grins.

I burst out laughing. I laugh until my sides ache. “Please, stop.” But Margot has already sobered. Her eyes trail out the window again, and she moves toward it as if magnetically drawn.

“Do you think they’ll find her? The witch?”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “Does it matter now? We have so much else to worry about.”

“
I don
’t know.” Margot bites her lip as she turns back to me. “You know, it’s nothing like I expected today to be.”

The wrenching fear we’d been living with as we went through round after round of Protocols is gone. But along with that fear, our sense of certainty has also leaked away. If we’re not Lasters, or even Splicers, what will we be? What will our parents announce tonight in front of their special guests?

“We need to think of the end game,” I tell my sister. “They want us to go with Resnikov, so what will they tell us and the Circle?”

“That’s so calculating.” Margot frowns.

“So are they.”

Margot nods, but I can feel her unhappiness stretching between us. Her beautiful eyes, mirrors of my soul, stare into me. “If I were them, I’d tell the world we’re Lasters and send us away on one last trip. That way he gets both of us.”

And no one will say a word when we never return
. The knife in my stomach twists a little more.

Margot’s eyes fill with tears. “Do you really think Storm has a plan?”

“If he doesn’t,” I whisper back, taking her pinkie in mine and shaking, “I do. My plan is we escape. Okay? We run.”

My sister takes my measure for a long moment before slowly, reluctantly nodding. It’s the sentence next to death, running away from our family. But maybe it’s next to the only choice remaining to us.

...

Our mother’s designer set afloat pale pink lanterns in small pools all through the ballroom. Beside the pools, the patterned wood of the floor gleams like sun on waves. Six-foot tropical plants group together in made islands, with discreet wooden benches tucked beneath them to give our guests’ rest and privacy.

As we wander into this lush paradise, stretching before us with a thousand twinkling lights, Margot and I gaze at the throng of admiring guests. But I, for one, cannot be glad, I think as I squeeze my sister’s hand. In the face of everything—Resnikov, Richardson, Father Wes, even the Lasters—this so-called perfect party is a fool’
s paradise.

Beneath the veneer is the plaster and tape that holds everything together. Pale-faced Lasters—come out of the woodwork for a paycheck but who, if the rumors are near truth won’t be well-paid—circulate trays of tulip-stemmed champagne flutes. Some of the tropical islands have been taken over by mercs who mumble into their mouthpieces as they scan the crowds. A metal detector set into the doorframe whines once, twice, while a team of mercs frisk the unsuspecting man who’s tripped it. Unless he’s a senator, he’ll undoubtedly be hauled into the guardroom for a proper pat down before being allowed to rejoin the festivities.

We wait for our cue at the doorway. Margot’s face is untroubled, though that is just her careful mask. She looks so beautiful in her dress, so sophisticated and so much older than I could have imagined. I wonder if my own face holds the same expression: have I, too, become an ice queen? When all eyes fall on us and a hush descends, our hands unclasp and we fall into perfect, synchronized curtsies to the roar of applause. Resnikov appears before us in his black tailored tux and bows low, first to Margot and then to me. My stomach clenches with regret. What would it have been like, I daydream, to be greeted by someone we cared about? An image of a blond rebel prince with startling green eyes flashing over blue pops into my mind. No good can come of that, I tell myself sternly.

Anger sizzles through me as Resnikov offers us each an arm, as though we really are his two harem wives. He promenades us down the center of the ballroom, as has become the custom for girls, just as I catch sight of a gleaming set of antlers rising from the throng of delighted faces.

Storm
.

Has Margot seen him?
And where’s Jared?
an annoying inner voice whines. I try not to stare, but Storm is a good head taller than most of our guests even before the rack of antlers. Our eyes meet and he nods, a tight, pensive smile stamped on his handsome features. Just then the endless wind rattles the house, flickers the lantern light. The gale has been battering at everything all day, toppling the car hotels, which now block the streets, according to the NewsFeed. Our guests don’t seem overly concerned.

We arrive at the back of the room and curtsy again, this time to Resnikov, who bows to each of us again in turn before sweeping Margot into a formal dance. I suppose he could be called handsome in his black tux and crisp white shirt, I critique as I stand back and watch my sister glide around the room. If only we could trust his motives. Resnikov smiles down into Margot’s eyes. Yet I can’t help think how cold he is, how calculating. Compared to Jared’s fiery personality, though, everyone seems cold. When Jared smiles, his eyes crease into a patchwork of laugh lines that make him seem comfortable in his own skin. Where are Resnikov’s laugh lines? No, for Resnikov we are a business deal. But just what does he think he’s purchasing?

And then there’s the question of Richardson.

Our father touches my shoulder with one soft leathery fingertip, pulling me from my reverie. He’s wearing his gloves, which, paired with his pristine tuxedo, make him look like a terrifying version of royalty. “May I have this dance?” he asks and pulls me onto the dance floor. I have always felt as if he could read our minds, if not our faces. It makes me want to hide from him now—especially now, as the storm lashes outside, and I know he’s up to something terrible.

“You and your sister look very beautiful tonight,” he says quietly.

We both glance over at Margot, who could be a queen as she whirls around the ballroom with Resnikov. “Thank you, Father.”

“Tell me, Lucinda, do you think your sister likes Resnikov?”

“I couldn’t say, Father.”

“Come now.” He scoffs. “I thought there was nothing you and your sister did not share.”

I shrug delicately. “What is there to think about, Father? Mr. Resnikov is your guest. We have done everything we can to make him feel welcome. We hope we have not displeased you.”

Not happy with my answer, the leather of his gloves creaks slightly as his fingers tighten against my waist, my hand. “No. With notable exceptions, you have been the ideal hostesses,” he admits before a thoughtful expression crosses his severe, handsome features. “I suppose it does not matter, anyway.”

“I’m sorry, Father, what does not matter?”

“It’s time you heard. Your sister has decided to accompany Mr. Resnikov back to Russia.”

I gape in shock at our father’s words, sure he must be joking. “Th-that’s not—”
I stammer.

“I assure you it is possible. I spoke with Margot earlier today.”

I flash back to earlier that day: Margot, looking dully at the window, mute and even more withdrawn. “What did you do?”
I choke out.

“Why do you suspect I have done something?” Red patches creep over his cheeks. “Who are you to question me? Your sister is a grown woman. She makes her own choices. As do you,” he says meaningfully.

“What do you mean?”

“Your sister has chosen to visit Russia for a good length of time. The question is, will you accompany your sister or will you remain here?”

“That’s not a fair choice, now, is it?”

“Why not? Russia is beautiful. Why wouldn’t you want to be treated like a queen at Resnikov’s estate? He is a very rich man.”

“And what will you have us do for him there, Father?”

We stop dancing as he glares down at me. “Nothing. But the doctors tell me…you and Margot will have to continue with the Protocols. You are freaks of nature, both of you, and no one is certain of your fate.”

Breath hisses out of me as I force my hands out of his. “What is this Reveal for, then, Father? What will you be announcing to our guests?”

He doesn’t even pause. “Naturally, we will tell them you are both Splicers.”

In a blinding flash, I finally understand: Lukas Fox has always seen this as a con, nothing but a game of announcing your victory over life and death. Rich and powerful families can’t afford to be seen as Lasters or True Borns. It makes me wonder: how many other families have lied about their children’s results?

And then I’m struck with the very real thought that maybe they never had any intention of telling us what we really are. We are just “good girls” to do their bidding. We don’t ask questions. And they don’t have to give us answers. Even if we were Lasters, fated to die no matter how many trips to the Splicer Clinic—and our father’s cynical words prove beyond a doubt that we’re not—they’d let us die without ever telling us the truth. Or, they would dangle lies over our heads to force us into compliance.

Disgusted, I turn away, but he grabs my arm and twists. “Just where do you think you’re going?” His voice is cold steel, eyes glittering murder.

I look him straight in the eye with a saccharine smile as I pluck at his bruising fingers. “It’s my turn to dance with our escort, Father,”
I chirp.

Our mother catches up to me before I can flee the ballroom. She’s a wraith in a sequined black tube dress, her hair piled artlessly on top of her head. Around her neck is a heavy onyx and diamond-crusted necklace, a piece I’ve never seen before. It looks as though it’s holding her head on a platter. A fitting tribute in the Fox family, I think as a hysterical bubble of laughter threatens to burst.

“Where do you think you’re going?” She has several guards behind her. I suppose they are there to make sure I stay in the room.

“Nowhere,” I say, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Did your father tell you?”

“That he’s sold Margot? Yes, he told me.” I expect her to slap me, as she did Margot the other day. When nothing happens, I open my eyes and stare back at our mother. She’s not angry as I expect but…resigned.

“It’s not what you think. It’s not the money, although there will be some.”

“What is it, then?”

“
A debt.
”

“You’re in trouble?”

Her head tips back. She grabs at her throat. Her long, beautiful neck arches as she laughs. “You don’t have a clue, do you? How do you expect that your father has become such a powerful man? This has been in the works for years.”

“Father and Resnikov?”

“It was a long-standing promise. From before you were born. It’s
why
you were born.”

“
I don
’t understand.” I shake my head in confusion. “You’re not making sense.”

Our mother puts a hand to my cheek. I can almost still feel the sting from the slap she gave Margot. Two for the price of one.
Lock and key
. She looks at me with almost maternal pride, turning the hard blue of her eyes into something soft and faraway.