Rogue - Julie Kagawa MIRA Ink

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on his family, on the Order that raised him, taught him everything he knows and gave him a purpose, to side with the enemy. Explain how he could stab his own partner in the back, to save one dragon bitch who…”

      Tristan stopped. Stared at me. I watched the realization creep over him, watched the color drain from his face as the pieces came together.

      “Oh, my God,” he whispered and took one staggering step away from the bars. His jaw hung slack, and he slowly shook his head, his voice full of horrified disbelief. “You’re in love with it.”

      I looked away and stared at the far wall. Tristan blew out a long breath.

      “Garret.” His voice was a rasp, choked with disgust and loathing. And maybe something else. Pity. “I don’t… How could—”

      “Don’t say anything, Tristan.” I didn’t look at my ex-­partner; I didn’t have to see him to know exactly what he felt. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”

      “They’re going to kill you, Garret,” he went on, his voice low and strained. “After what you said today in the courtroom? Martin might’ve argued clemency if you’d admitted you were wrong, that you had a brief moment of insanity, that the dragons had tricked you, anything! You could have lied. You’re one of our best—they might’ve let you live, even after everything. But now?” He made a hopeless sound. “You’ll be executed for treason against the Order. You know that, right?”

      I nodded. I’d known the outcome of the trial before I ever set foot in that courtroom. I knew I could have denounced my actions, pleaded for mercy, told them what they wanted to hear. I had been deceived, lied to, manipulated. Because that’s what dragons did, and even the soldiers of St. George were not immune. It would paint me the fool, and my Perfect Soldier record would be tarnished for all time, but being duped by the enemy was not the same as knowingly betraying the Order. Tristan was right; I could have lied, and they would’ve believed me.

      I hadn’t. Because I couldn’t do this anymore.

      Tristan waited a moment longer, then strode away without another word. I listened to his receding footsteps and knew this was the last time I would ever talk to him. I looked up.

      “Tristan.”

      For a second, I didn’t think he would stop. But he paused in the doorway of the cell block and looked back at me.

      “For what it’s worth,” I said, holding his gaze, “I’m sorry.” He blinked, and I forced a faint smile. “Thanks…for having my back all this time.”

      One corner of his mouth twitched. “I always knew you’d get yourself killed by a dragon,” he muttered. “I just didn’t think it would be like this.” He gave a tiny snort and rolled his eyes. “You realize my next partner is going to feel completely inadequate taking the Perfect Soldier’s place, and will probably have a nervous breakdown that I’m going to have to deal with. So, thanks for that.”

      “At least you’ll have something to remember me by.”

      “Yeah.” The small grin faded. We watched each other for a tense, awkward moment, before Tristan St. Anthony stepped away.

      “Take care, partner,” he said. No other words were needed. No goodbye, or see you later. We both knew there wouldn’t be a later.

      “You, too.”

      He turned and walked out the door.

      * * *

      “The court has reached a decision.”

      I stood in the courtroom again as Fischer rose to his feet, addressing us all. I spared a quick glance at Martin and found that he was gazing at a spot over my head, his eyes blank.

      “Garret Xavier Sebastian,” Fischer began, his voice brisk, “by unanimous decision, you have been found guilty of high treason against the Order of St. George. For your crimes, you will be executed by firing squad tomorrow at dawn. May God have mercy on your soul.”

       Dante

      Fifteenth floor and counting.

      The elevator box was cold. Stark. A pithy tune played somewhere overhead, tinny and faint. Mirrored walls surrounded us, blurred images staring back, showing a man in a gray suit and tie, and a teen standing at his shoulder, hands folded before him. I observed my reflection with the practiced cool detachment my trainer insisted upon. My new black suit was perfectly tailored, not a thread out of place, my crimson hair cut short and styled appropriately. A red silk tie was tucked neatly into my suit jacket, my shoes were polished to a dark sheen and the large gold Rolex was a cool, heavy band around my wrist. I didn’t look like that human boy from Crescent Beach, in shorts and a tank top, his longish hair messy and windblown. I didn’t look like a teen without a care in the world. No, I had completed assimilation. I’d proven myself, to Talon and the organization. I’d passed all my tests and confirmed that I could be trusted, that I cared about the survival of our race above all else.

      I wished my sister had done the same. Because of her, our future was in question. Because of her, I didn’t know what Talon wanted from me now.

      On the thirtieth floor, the elevator stopped, and the doors slid back with barely a hiss. I stepped into a magnificent lobby tiled in red and gold, my shoes clicking against the floor and echoing into the vast space above us. I gazed around, taking it in, smiling to myself. It was everything I’d imagined, everything I’d hoped Talon would be. Which was good, because I had plans for it all.

       One day, I’ll be running this place.

      My trainer, who’d told me to call him Mr. Smith at the beginning of my education, led me into the room, then turned to me with a smile. Unlike some dragons whose smiles seemed forced, his was warm and inviting and looked completely genuine, if you didn’t notice the cool impassiveness in his eyes.

      “Ready?”

      “Of course,” I said, trying not to appear nervous. Unfortunately, Mr. Smith could sense fear and tension like a shark sensed blood, for his eyes hardened even as his smile grew broader.

      “Relax, Dante,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. It was meant to be comforting, but there was no warmth in the gesture. I’d learned enough to realize that all his overtures were empty; he’d taught me that himself. You didn’t have to believe what you were saying; you just had to make others believe that you cared. “You’ll be fine, trust me.”

      “You don’t have to worry about me, sir,” I told him, determined to show nothing but cool confidence. A stark contrast to the twisting bundle of nerves in my stomach. “I know why I’m here. And I know what I have to do.”

      He squeezed my shoulder and, even though I knew better, I relaxed. We turned, and I followed him down a narrow hallway lined with office doors, around a corner and finally to a single large door at the end of the hall. A simple gold sign hung against the painted wood: A. R. Roth.

      My stomach cartwheeled again. Mr. Roth was one of

      Talon’s senior vice presidents. One of the dragons who, while not so far up the chain that he was in contact with the Elder Wyrm itself, was pretty darn close. And he wanted to talk to me. Probably about Ember and what they planned to do about her.

      Ember. I felt a brief stab of anger and fear for my wayward twin; anger that she would be so stubborn, so rebellious and ungrateful, that she would turn her back on her own kind—the organization that had raised us—to run off with a known traitor, consequences be damned. Fear of what those consequences could be. Under normal circumstances, a Viper, one of Talon’s fearsome assassins, would be dispatched to deal with a dragon who went rogue. It was harsh but necessary. Rogue dragons were unstable and dangerous, and they put the survival of our race in jeopardy. Without Talon’s structure, a rogue could accidentally, or even purposefully, reveal our existence to the humans, and that would spell disaster for us

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