True Born (13 page)

“What is this?”

“The Hanging Garden of Babylon, one of the ancient wonders of the world.” Margot looks at the page with fascination as, with a lifted eyebrow, I urge Storm to continue. “Marduk created it for the King of Babylon. No one knows what it looks like because it disappeared one day. Just as Marduk did. And all his True Born children. Until now.”

I feel my sister’s eyes on me, heavy and dark.
The trees,
she mouths.

I turn my attention back to the stone tablet. It’s so unbelievable, but Margot is right: there it is. In Dominion trees are scarce enough, scrawny and thin since there’s so little real sunlight. There are no trees like the one that has suddenly sprouted in the middle of Elizabeth and Perth Avenue. Even among all the fancy houses of the Upper Circle, with their greenhouses and gardens, I have never seen its like. Yet there it grows: the same tree that grew from the bomb thrown onto the streets below Storm’s tower. Only, this tree is etched onto a dull stone tablet in the middle of a glossy page, recorded over two and a half thousand years ago. Caught like an amber fern.

The trees in Marduk’s throne room. The tree, growing quickly and mysteriously in Dominion’s street.

I bow my head. The silver-edged clock on the wall ticks frantically. Storm has them everywhere, these clocks, all nearly identical. School clocks, big and round, with dark letters and plain faces. I wonder why he watches time.

“If it’s true,” I ask, “what do you think happened?”

Storm fingers the etchings on the cylinder. “I wish I knew.”

“I thought you said this guy was your ancestor. Don’t you know about him?” In the Upper Circle, pedigree is practically printed money.

“
I don
’t really know what happened. For all I know, the True Borns went extinct. Or into hiding.” He smiles at us gently.

Margot pinches her leg. I rub my flesh where she has hurt herself. A call for me to take a leap beyond the world of clocks and genes. And what will I find there? Something more frightening than men who turn into lions and horned gods?

And more frightening still: what will be revealed in our own blood, my sister’s and mine?

“Do they know? The rabb—” I catch myself. “The people fighting with the preacher men. Do they know what you are?”

Storm’s body language is instantly alert, tense as trip wire. “What do you mean?”

“
Evolve or die
. Did they get that from you? From the True Borns?”

It had never occurred to me to put it together like that. But now that I have it seems so simple, so true.

Another smile, this time with a deep dimple. “No, not from me. But it’s a thought that has intrigued me now and again. No one knows my origins, our origins, but my people and me. And now you. I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.” Storm gets up and walks over to the bar, pouring himself a generous dollop of a rich, caramel alcohol.

“So the True Borns came from your ancestor, but you’re still different from the True Borns,” I say, wishing I didn’t sound so accusing.

Nolan Storm’s face darkens as he takes a sip of his drink. “I’m telling you that the True Borns are a race resurrected from the ancient line my ancestor began. That line created the bulk of humanity. And I’m telling you that particular genetic expressions from that ancient line are being reasserted. And I have been marked to lead them,” he says pointedly. He takes another sip, his glass punctuating his words as he swirls the dark amber liquid. “What I’m saying, ladies, is that all your teachers are wrong. True Borns aren’t an expression of genetic regression. True Borns are the reassertion of strong genes that existed a millennium ago. Genetic
pro
gression.”

His huge frame blocks the light in the room as he gets up and stalks over to the window, taking heavy steps. He looks fatigued, his shoulders drooping. And I suddenly wish I hadn’t been so stubborn.

“Storm,” I venture, halfway to an apology, “thank you for trusting us with this information. We will be very careful with it. And we—we appreciate all you’ve done for us,” I tell him.

Storm turns his head and stares at us. “Do you really think it’s safe to leave, Lucy? Do you really think I could just let you walk out of here when your safety, the safety of your sister, is my prime concern right now?”

My shoulders sag. He’s right. How could I drag Margot out onto the streets right now, into our house, empty of all but a couple mercs, when the rabble are in dissent? How could I take us away from the protection of Nolan Storm and his True Borns? Even more importantly,
why
?

I know the answer. It’s the small, selfish voice I wish I could drown out. The one that tells me that I need to run away from the relentless disapproval in Jared’s eyes. All that anger over one little word. And what of it? My own anger starts to bubble inside of me. Margot squeezes my hand. And just like that, the decision is made.

“Okay.” I blow out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “We’ll stay a little while longer,” I say, already knowing I’ll regret this. “Just until we hear from our parents.”

I don’
t catch so much as a glimpse of Jared until the next day when Margot has finally managed to heckle Storm into letting us go for a walk. I
’
m about crawling out of my skin by the time we
’
re ready, coats on, boots on, scarves pulled tight. And then I turn around and he
’
s there, leaning against the wall, regarding me with a shuttered expression.

My heart knocks against my chest as he slowly uncurls himself from the wall, arms folded, and swaggers over to us. “If you
’
re ready, let
’
s go,” he says quietly to Margot. Me he ignores altogether.

Outside, it seems like every wall in Dominion is covered in the same red graffiti. Two eyes, crossed in the middle. Here and there the new slogan of the preacher men is written in sharp, careful letters.
Evolve or die
. Margot pulls me over to a wall where instead of red the eyes are worlds colored in blues and browns and white.

My sister takes a few paces back, tilting her head at the wall art. “What do you reckon it means?” I shake my head. Margot walks up to the wall and traces one of the worlds. “It
’
s beautiful, though, isn
’
t it?” I shrug, feeling painfully shy around the True Born shadow behind us. “Let
’
s keep going, Mar,” I call to my sister.

We round the corner to Main Street, where most of the most functional shops in Dominion still exist.
Did
exist. There are only a couple of shops on the street that still have windows. Most are now just the charred skeletons of stores: blackened timbers and scorched bricks. Someone has already scavenged through the wreckage, too, it seems. The sidewalks are littered with wrappers discarded from packages, broken glass, the odd glove or sweater tossed carelessly and abandoned. My eyes fill with tears. Beside me, Margot takes my hand, both of us overwhelmed with horror.

“Who could do this?” she whispers, quiet-quiet.

Jared comes up behind us. “We can
’
t stay here.” He presses on something in his ear and murmurs a description of the chaos.

“This happened last night, didn
’
t it?” I say, picking up a brick that had come loose from the building. “The preacher men and their followers did this. Didn
’
t they?” Jared eyes me uneasily, but he says nothing. “How can you defend them? How could you possibly defend people who would tear down the world?”

Something sparks in Jared
’
s eyes as he takes a giant step forward. “Let
’
s get something clear. They
’
ve torn down
your
world. How many Lasters do you reckon can afford to shop on Main?”

“Does that excuse their violence? Does that make it okay for you, somehow?”

Jared
’
s jaw twitches as he stares at the swath of destruction running down the street as far as the eye can see. “No,” he says. When he turns to me, I can see it in his face: the bleak acceptance of a violent world. And something else: maybe, just maybe, he can see my point of view. His next words prove it. “No, it doesn
’
t. Nothing could excuse this.”

Jared turns and takes a few steps toward the blown out glass of what used to be a tailor
’
s shop. “Jared.” My voice grates out, harsh and angry. But whatever I was going to say is forgotten as I spy a figure standing across the street.

It
’
s the boy who chased me down the alley. The preacher
’
s boy. I can just make out the defiant lines of his face. His shirt is torn and grubby, and it hangs off of his gaunt frame so that he looks like a dressed-up skeleton.

Jared has spotted him, too. He starts walking toward the boy, but when the boy makes our bodyguard he breaks into a run and disappears around the corner. I catch up with Jared, who stops dead center in the street. “Did you recognize him?” I ask as adrenaline spikes through my veins. “The boy from the alley.”

“Yes.”

“I reckon he
’
s one of the preacher
’
s boys. We saw him with Father Wes.”

Jared pivots abruptly, taking my arm and dragging me back to where Margot waits.

Surprised, I struggle in his grip. “Wait, aren
’
t we going to go after him?”

“No.”

“But, Jared—”

“No.” He sweeps his eyes across the rooftops, the streets, looking for something. Or someone. “Margot, get over here by your sister,” Jared barks. He doesn’t let go of my arm as he leads us away from the gray and acrid street.

...

“Your move.” With a wide grin, Margot teases the young man sitting between us.

Of course, it
’
s easy for her to smile. My sister has just spent the better part of an hour trouncing Storm
’
s man Torch and me at the elaborate board game spread out before us.

Across the room, Jared
’
s golden curls are bathed in the soft light of a lamp where he lounges on the sofa. For the past hour or more he hasn
’
t taken his eyes off me, as though I
’
m about to disappear in a puff of smoke. And though I
’
ve managed to ignore him, I haven
’
t been as successful at keeping my concentration—which could explain why my sister is doing all the winning.

Torch shakes his head. “I can
’
t believe you. That
’
s the third time in a row. Nobody
’
s that lucky.”

“Who says it
’
s luck?” Margot throws her hair behind her shoulder and shrugs. “Some people are just better at Gamon than others.”

“Argh.” The young man laughs, but I notice he can
’
t stop smiling. Another victim of Margot
’
s blinding charms.

The door opens, and Mohawk sails in, her tail twitching. “Oh, Malcolm, sweet pea,” she coos in a high falsetto.

“I told you never to call me that.” Our companion blushes.

Mohawk flips a mini disc at Torch, who catches it and rolls it between his fingers. “Storm wants you to run specs on this surveillance footage.”

“Okay, when does he want it by?”

“Yesterday.”

Torch sighs and pulls himself from the table. “Looks like you
’
ll have to finish trouncing me later, Margot.” He grins shyly at my sister before walking out of the room behind Mohawk.

We have been abandoned to our sulky bodyguard.

Margot glances over at me. She folds up the game and yawns. “I
’
m beat,” she says to the room more than to me. “I think I
’
ll head off to bed now.”

I don’
t like the gleam in my sister
’
s eye. “It
’
s early,” I tell her.

“So?”

“Mar—” I grab her wrist before she can leave. “You okay?”

She places her other hand on mine, a hand so identical to my own I can
’
t tell whose is whose. “I
’
ll be fine. You take on too much, you know,” she tells me with an odd smile. A second later she
’
s gone.

And then I am alone
with the predator.

I pack up the rest of the game slowly, deliberately putting every piece back into its rightful place before stowing it on the shelf. I don’t know what to do next, but Jared solves that easily.

“You let them win,” he throws out. “Why?”

“No, I didn
’
t,” I reply quickly. I busy myself with cleaning off the table, removing Margot
’
s water glass and taking it over to the bar sink on the opposite side of the room.

I hear a creak of leather and am compelled to look over. Jared leans forward, his hands draped across his knees as he stares intently at me.

“Why, Lucy?”

“Why what? Don
’
t be ridiculous. And what does it matter, anyhow?” I run the glass under water and set it aside to dry. I wipe my hands. I
’
m still trying to figure out how to make a graceful exit when Jared
’
s tall, lithe form appears between the narrow galley of the bar, blocking my exit. My heart starts to thunder so loud I wonder if he can hear it.

He places a hand on either side of the bar, locking me in. “And why won
’
t you admit it?” he asks.

I
’
m so startled by his new, gentler tone that I hazard a glance. My breath catches in my throat. Jared
’
s eyes have changed to that sumptuous green, huge and mesmerizing, the pupils dilating like a cat
’
s. I can
’
t seem to look away as he inches forward, until he
’
s standing all but a hair
’
s breadth away from me. So close I can smell more cinnamon on his breath, the scent of him.

I want to move away, but instead I stand my ground. “You have a lot of nerve.”