This was his father.
His father.
A man who had loved and married his mother. A man whose blood he shared.
He’d come from one of the most reputable families on Laterre. And yet he’d joined the Vangarde and killed so many people.
“Why did you do it?” Marcellus didn’t realize he’d asked the question aloud until it was out of his mouth. Now it was too late to take it back. And it was far too late to answer.
But the reason shouldn’t matter. Marcellus knew that. He shouldn’t wonder about these things. He shouldn’t try to get into the head of a madman. He should just turn and walk out of here, give his permission to dispose of the body, and go on with his life, become the next commandeur of the Ministère.
And yet, Marcellus couldn’t bring himself to move. While one part of him tried to push down these dangerous questions, another part of him, the painfully curious part—the involuntary part—slowly reached out and touched the back of his father’s hand. It was cold and rigid in death, its fingertips scarred from years mining zyttrium on Bastille.
Marcellus wondered how often these hands of his father’s had bled. How often they’d shivered in the freezing cells of the prison. How often . . .
His thoughts came to a halt when his finger snagged on the sleeve of his father’s blue prison shirt. A piece of loose gray stitching inside the cuff caught his eye, and he pushed back the torn sleeve.
“What is this?” he said aloud as his gaze fell upon a series of crooked lines and rounded loops of what could only be described as letters.
Letters?
But that couldn’t be. The Forgotten Word wasn’t used anymore. It was lost several centuries ago, shortly after the early settlers had come to Laterre. No one could even read it. Let alone write it.
But you did once, a voice in the back of his head reminded him.
“M is for Marcellus. . . .”
Marcellus hastily shoved the voice away, back to the far, dark corners of his mind where it belonged. He didn’t think of that anymore. Those thoughts were strictly forbidden.
His fingers were trembling again as he pushed back the sleeve a little more. The stitching continued on and on, up the arm of the shirt. Marcellus glanced around the crowded morgue, spotting a scalpel on a nearby table. But then his gaze snapped up to the corner of the room, where he knew the security microcam hung like an invisible eye.
Of course, he thought.
He was never really alone. The Vallonay Med Center—like most Ministère buildings—was under constant surveillance. There were very few places on this planet where Marcellus could escape the eyes watching him, analyzing his every move.
Careful to keep his back to the microcam the whole time, Marcellus snatched up the scalpel and began cutting away at the fabric of the shirt. His father’s body was rigid, though, and Marcellus had to tug hard at the garment to pull it free.
He turned the shirt inside out and laid it across his father’s chest, using his body to block the microcam’s view.
That’s when he knew for sure what he was looking at.
The Forgotten Word stretched out across the lining of the shirt, sewn right into the fabric with thread. The letters traveled up the sleeve, across the shoulder, and down the back. The sight of them made Marcellus nauseous. It had been so many years since he’d set eyes on those cryptic symbols. And yet every loop and line seemed so familiar. Familiar and revolting.
Did his father write this? But that was absurd. A prisoner who could write the Forgotten Word? It was as preposterous an idea as a droid who could dance.
And yet, Marcellus couldn’t shake the unsettling suspicion that somehow his father had left that message. For him.
Crash!
The sound yanked Marcellus from his thoughts as something hit the floor beside his feet. He jumped back, stumbling into the gurney behind him. Shaky and spooked, he picked up the fallen object, realizing it was a device he’d never seen before.
Marcellus felt movement at his back and spun around to see two bodies shoved side by side onto the same gurney: a girl with blemished, flaking skin, and a young boy in a tattered black coat.
Except the boy wasn’t dead.
He was very much alive.
And he was watching him.
- CHAPTER 6 -
CHATINE
CHATINE HAD ONLY ONE THOUGHT in her mind as she gazed into the hazel eyes of Marcellus Bonnefaçon: Get the leveler.
If her father found out Chatine had let his precious larg-stealing device fall into the hands of a Second Estater—an officer of the Ministère no less—he would have her strung up and yanked to pieces. Thousands of tiny painful pieces.
She knew she had to act fast. The security microcams had already captured her face and most likely scanned her Skin. Now she just needed to get out of there. She sprang up from the gurney and lunged for the device clutched in Officer Bonnefaçon’s hand, certain he was no match for her speed and dexterity. After all, Chatine had grown up in the Frets—in the slums of society—while this coddled pretty boy had grown up sleeping in titan-colored sheets and having his satin slippers delivered to him by servants every morning.
But Chatine felt her hand grab empty air as the officer pulled the leveler up and out of her reach. Chatine recomposed herself and made another attempt. She had to jump because the officer was tall, and holding the leveler high above his head appeared to be a game to him.
Of course it was a game to him. This was Marcellus Bonnefaçon! The grandson of the general. This whole miserable planet was their playground, and Chatine and the rest of the Third Estate were just game pieces to them. Objects put forth for their amusement.
Chatine let out a low growl and jumped for the device again. “Give that back, you rotten pomp!”
“Whoa, whoa. Calm down,” Marcellus said, looking surprised by her efforts, but still not lowering the device. Then, after a moment, he asked, “Wait, what did you call me?”
Chatine ignored him and kept jumping. She knew it was foolish to insult an officer of the Ministère and a member of the Second Estate. It would only add time to her sentence if she was caught. But she didn’t care. She needed to get that leveler.
“A pomp?” Marcellus asked. Except he didn’t sound angry. He sounded amused. Chatine swore she could hear a hint of laughter in his voice.
And that’s when she punched him.
Hard, in the gut.
He buckled forward, but only for a second. She’d clearly surprised him more than winded him, and he still kept a firm grip on the leveler, which was now thankfully within Chatine’s reach. She leapt forward and attempted to pry his fingers from the handle. But as hard as she tried, she couldn’t loosen his grip.
Defeated, she stepped back to catch her breath.
“You really want this thing, don’t you?” Marcellus asked, holding his stomach and looking at the leveler. “What is it, anyway?”
“None of your Sol-damn business.” The words puffed out of her, hard and angry.
The corners of the officer’s mouth tweaked up, like he might be about to smile, and Chatine’s hands balled into fists once more. She couldn’t stop herself. Her rage got the better of her. She lunged at him again, but this time he saw it coming and was ready for her. He jumped back, away from her punch. Then, with a firm but careful hand, he grasped the top of her head—right over her hood—and pushed her an arm’s length away from him. For a few seconds, she flailed beneath his hand, punching and kicking at the air.