Golden Son

“I don’t know. You seem calm. At ease. Despite what’s happened.”

“And you seem particularly kind,” I say.

“Kind? A quaint fiction. But we both know I’m far from kind.”

We walk in silence till we reach the door to my stateroom. I glance back and see Ragnar trailing in the halls behind. If it weren’t for the bandages on his body, I wouldn’t have seen him at all. I motion him away.

At the door, I search Victra’s haughty eyes. “You could have sent a lowColor to tell me I was to be in the stateroom.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to see you.”

“Is that the only reason?” I ask.

She smiles mischievously. “I think I’ll keep my secrets.” After a moment, she looks up at me. “But I do worry for you.”

“For me?” I roll my eyes. “What are you playing at, Victra?”

“Nothing,” she says, offended. “You’re such a hypocrite, Darrow.”

“Me?”

“Remember when Tactus discarded your violin because he was suspicious that you wanted something? Now you treat me the same way. Same as when I came to you in the gardens on Luna. Is it too much to believe I’m your friend and care about you?” She wrinkles her nose. “You’re making me emotional, and I hate it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re just … I try to find the right words for the tall woman. There aren’t any. So I shrug and say, “It’s hard knowing you’re Antonia’s sister. That’s the full of it.”

“But I’m not her.”

“I realize th—”

“Do you?” She reaches out and touches my face. Her lips part searchingly. I remember the feel of them on mine before I launched myself through the spitTube. I let her kiss me then. Even if she is a cold woman, there is something in her heart for me. Different from Eo. Different from Mustang. I move gently away from her hand and shake my head.

“You are a strange man,” she says with a soft sigh, all the vulnerability that was in her now gone. Her claws return. She leans back against the wall opposite me, bending a knee and putting a boot on the wall, laughing at me with her eyes. Here’s the Victra I know.

“You love women, but you do not enjoy us.” Smile lines crease as her lips part slightly. My eyes ca

I cough out a laugh. “You’re mocking me.”

“As ever.”

Victra is a schemer. It’s her way. But for a moment, she was vulnerable. And seeing that … seeing that made all the difference. I kill the sexual tension the best way I know how.

“Good night, sister,” I say, and kiss her on the brow.

“Sister? Sister?” She laughs dismissively as I leave. It takes her a moment, but she calls to me.

“Is it because you think me wicked?”

I turn back to her. “Wicked?”

“Is that why you’ve never wanted me?” She pauses, choosing her words with care. “Because you look down on me?”

“Why would you think that?” I ask gently.

She shrugs and looks around the hall, strangely hesitant. “I don’t …” She twists her hands, trying to wring out the right words. She gestures to herself. “This is how I survive, do you understand? It’s how my mother taught me. It’s what works.”

“What do you say we try something new?” I offer, walking back to her. I extend a hand. “Darrow. Contrary to popular rumor, I don’t eat glass. I love music, dancing, and I’m very fond of fresh fruit, particularly strawberries.”

She snorts a laugh. “So stupid. We’re reintroducing ourselves?”

“No armor. Just two people. I’m waiting,” I say playfully.

Rolling her eyes, she steps forward, looking either way down the hall. She brings up her hand, fighting back a childish smile. “Victra. I like the way stone smells before rain falls.” She makes a face, cheeks flushing red. “And … don’t laugh. I actually hate the color gold. Green goes better with my complexion.”

I ca

I stand and pace my new quarters, wandering its expanse. Six rooms. A small gymnasium. A large bath. A study. All belonging to the man who burned a moon. The father of the Furies. How could I sleep in a room like this? I take the pegasus pendant from my pocket, almost forgetting it’s a radium bomb.

Wandering the halls of the ship, ghostlike, I look behind me, wondering if Ragnar follows. I told him to sleep, but I know little of his moods, how he thinks, what he does at night. There is much to learn.

I pass through dimmed halls, past Orange technicians and Blue systems operators, who quiet and bend as I pass through metal halls down to the bowels of the ship, where Golds never tread. The ceilings are lower, meant for the Red workers and Brown janitors. This ship is a city, an island. All the Colors are here. I remember the roster. Thousands of jobs. Millions of moving parts. I examine a maintenance panel. What if the Orange who worked it were to overload the panel? What would happen? I don’t know. I wager few Golds really do. I make a note of it.

I continue on, hunger drawing me to the mess hall. Food could easily be delivered to my rooms, but my valets have not yet been organized. Anyway, I hate being waited on. In the mess hall, I find someone as sleepless as myself sitting at a long metal table.

Mustang.

24

BACON AND EGGS

I slide across from her.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask.

She wraps her knuckles against her head. “Lot rattling around.” She nods to the clamor of pans back in the kitchens. “The cook’s beside himself,” she says. “Thinks I need a feast. Told him I just wanted bacon and eggs. Pretty sure he’s disregarded everything I said. He babbled something about pheasant. Has this Earthborn accent. Hard to understand.”

Moments later, a Brown cook stumbles out from the kitchen, carrying a tray of not only bacon and eggs, but pumpkin waffles, cured ham, cheeses, sausages, fruits, and a dozen other dishes. But no pheasant. His eyes turn the size of the waffles when he sees me. Apologizing for something, he sets the tray down and disappears, only to reappear a minute later with even more food.

“How much do you think we eat?” I ask him.

He just stares at me. “Thank you,” Mustang says. He mumbles something inaudible and backs away, bowing.

“I think the Ash Lord was a bit different from us,” I say. Mustang pushes the fruit toward me. “Thought you didn’t like bacon,” I say.

She shrugs. “I had it every morning on Luna.” She delicately butters her waffles. “Reminded me of you.” She avoids my eyes. “Why can’t you sleep?”

“Not much good at it.”

“You never were. Except when you have a hole in your stomach. You slept like a baby then.”

I laugh. “I think comas don’t count.”

We talk about anything but the things we should. I

“Finally! Someone else agrees. Half the time, I sleep on the floor.”

“You too?” She shakes her head. “Sometimes I hear noises and sleep in the closet, thinking if someone’s coming for me they won’t look there.”

“I’ve done that. Really does help.”

“Except when the closet is big enough to fit a family of Obsidians. Then it’s just as bad.” She frowns suddenly. “I wonder if Obsidians cuddle.”

“They don’t.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Have you researched it?”

I finish a handful of strawberries, shrugging as Mustang frowns at my ma