Chapter 4

My sister is the worst.

No, I mean, really. A lot of people have probably thought that over the past six thousand or so years, but I’m pretty sure I’m right. She started pulling my hair and biting me in utero, and my mom has the ultrasound photos to prove it. That was, quite literally, just the beginning. You’d think by seventeen, I’d have toughened up a bit, but she still hurts my feelings pretty often.

I’m lucky when that’s all she hurts.

I grit my teeth as she strolls in, flanked by her tall black Doberman Pinscher, Death, and the head of her personal guard and boyfriend, Edam ne’Malessa ex’Alamecha. Only two places are set at the breakfast table, but that doesn’t stop my twin from dragging an empty chair over near us and sitting down right across from me. She’s wearing her typical knee-high black boots laced up over tight black pants. Her white button-down shirt is pristine, which makes me feel bad about my sloppy t-shirt and denim shorts.

Not that it’s a competition, because, of course, I always lose.

Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail that falls in a cascade down her back. She wears hers straight most of the time. It compliments her broodiness and severe looks. Our faces may be identical, but I’ve tried to set myself apart a little. I never bother straightening my waves and curls, which helps, and as soon as I learned how, I darkened my skin tone and changed the color of my eyes slightly to keep people from mixing us up. I still change my eye color every few weeks, actually.

Even so, I hate sharing a face with someone so hateful.

“Good morning Mother,” she says.

Death stretches before curling up at her feet. Edam steps back to stand unobtrusively by the doorway. His eyes meet mine for a split second. A little zing runs up my spine, but I refuse to shiver or turn away. The corner of his mouth turns up ever so slightly before he breaks the connection and looks out the window as if evaluating the waves outside for any potential threats. His golden hair is perfectly mussed, and a muscle in his jaw twitches slightly.

I try not to stare at him. I don’t succeed, but I try.

“Good morning Judica,” Mom says.

I force myself to say, “So glad you could join us.”

She half snorts by way of response, which I take as a sign she’s having a very good day.

“There are over a hundred petitions to hear,” Judica says. “They all came a day early for the party.”

My mother’s Empress of the First Family of Eve. It has some great perks, but it carries a load of downsides, too. Ruling on disputes when the Alamecha family arbitrators have failed is one of the worst, but today it means an awful lot of the people here will be loitering around in the throne room.

Normally I wouldn’t care, but if they’re in the throne room either being heard or watching the proceedings, they’re not around the ring watching me throw a fight to Lark.

“Really?” I force a fake groan. “Great present, right Mom? Happy Birthday, now please settle my petty arguments.”

“It’s certainly not the best part of my birthday each year,” Mom says.

“Maybe you can split them up,” I say.

Judica lifts one eyebrow. “You think you can settle their petitions?”

I shrug. “I might not get them all right, but for instance, I do feel bad for the women having half-human kids. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Mom. Maybe we can stop banishing them. Corrupt DNA or not, they’re half-evian. Surely Alamecha can use them somehow, even if it’s just in a spy network, where clearly they’d be an asset on the human side. Since we force them out, frequently their mothers go with them, and we lose full evian women forever. It’s silly.”

Judica snorts. “The law is clear, and there’s a reason for all of it. Half-evian children are gods among the humans, but keep them here, train them with the sons and daughters of Alamecha? They’d be nothing, less than nothing. I wouldn’t condemn any child to that kind of guaranteed failure.”

“We could set up a separate curriculum,” I say, “only children with—”

Mom clears her throat. “You’re right Judica, that particular law is for the good of the children and for the safety of our family. And on top of that, without repercussions, the risk of interbreeding becomes too commonplace. We must keep our bloodlines pure.”

Interbreeding? It’s not like they’re dogs and we’re people. We’re all people. I just don’t have the guts to argue any more. Not with Judica here to swipe at me.

Oh how I despise it when Judica gloats.

“But perhaps as my heir, Judica,” Mom says, “you could start the petitions alone today. Begin with the lower echelons and work forward. By the time you’ve reached the petitions from seventh, eighth, and ninth generation family members, I’ll be present to help. Perhaps I’ll be there even sooner. I have some business to attend to beforehand.” Mom glances sharply my way.

Ugh, she’s going to watch my match. At least she’s maneuvered Judica out of watching it.

My twin pales slightly, but her heart rate remains steady. Her control’s amazing. I need to practice hiding my emotions. I stink at it.

Judica inclines her head slightly. “As you wish, Mother.”

“Chancery and I are going to choose our gowns for my party this afternoon after I complete the petitions. I assume you’re wearing your signature black?”

Judica’s face is blank. “I’ll wear whatever you’d like. It’s your birthday.” Her heart rate doesn’t increase, and she isn’t sweating or I’d smell it. She means it. She doesn’t care what she wears. I’d be upset if my mom matched Judica and not me, but she’s indifferent. Sometimes I think she’s broken inside.

I reach for the last pancake, but Judica snatches it from the platter first. She loads up her plate with fresh fruit, bacon and toast, and then pours syrup over the top of all of it.

I clear my throat, but she doesn’t glance my way.

“Do you need me to do anything else?” Judica asks.

Mom smiles. “After petitions and gown selection, you’ll both train. Other than party preparation, petitions and accepting homage from the human dignitaries, today is a normal day.”

I notice two triangles of French toast on a plate at the edge of the table and reach over to spear them, but before I can, Judica slams her pointy silver fork into the back of my hand and keeps shoving until the tines have rammed through skin, sinew, and bone, and sunk deep into the wood of the table. The pain radiates up my arm as my blood spurts downward and spreads outward across the white linen tablecloth. Judica lets go of the fork and tosses the French toast I wanted on the ground.

To her dog.

Death snaps up both pieces without batting an eye. I grit my teeth so I don’t whimper when I use my left hand to yank the fork out of my right. I flex my hand to make sure the muscles knit together properly and the bones don’t need to be rebroken. Luckily, they seem fine. I watch as skin grows across the puncture holes. Once I’ve healed, I use my napkin to wipe the blood from my palm and the back of my hand. There’s not much I can do about the ruined tablecloth, or holes in the enormous oak breakfast table that are probably permanently soaked with my blood.

The worst part is, now all that’s left on the serving dishes are eggs, which Judica knows I hate. I’ve finally restored my composure enough to glance at my mom. I wait for a moment to see if she’ll do anything. A glance, a harsh word, or even a hand on my arm to tell me she’s sorry Judica’s so awful.

Predictably, Mom acts like nothing happened.

Something dies inside me, not because this is different than any other day, but precisely because it isn’t. No day will ever be different. Judica was born thirty-six seconds after me. To preserve the bloodline and maintain our genetic supremacy, the youngest daughter is always heir. My whole life was ruined by thirty-six seconds.

Mom will turn a blind eye to the actions of her heir forever.

Beneath me, Cookie whines. I want to whimper too, but it isn’t worth it. It just isn’t. I look at Judica’s plate, piled high with everything but eggs and I consider trying to pilfer something from her plate, but that’s not me. I never sink to her level, and I never bait her. I’d probably just get my hand stabbed again for my efforts. Or maybe she’d bop me on the nose with a newspaper.

“You seem quite taken with your silverware, Chancery. Eggs?” Judica holds up the bowl of boiled eggs and feigns passing them to me. Her eyes gleam and I want to slap her face.

Instead, I stand and rub my freshly healed hand against my cut-off shorts. “I’m not hungry. I’ll see you in a bit, Mom.”

Mom stands up, too. “No need. I’ll walk with you.” My mom and I walk out, and I can’t help but glance back over my shoulder. Judica isn’t even looking my direction, and I hate myself for checking. But Edam catches my eye and half grins, half grimaces.

I whip back around and practically jog from the room. What does his expression mean? Is he laughing at me? Or maybe he feels sorry for me. The wheels in my brain whir around so fast, I’m worried Mom will hear them. Or notice the cartoon smoke pouring out of my ears.

“It was a very imprudent thing you did,” Mom says.

Huh? Staring at Edam?

“I’ve been mulling it over, and you may be right. It’s extremely unlikely you’ll defeat Lark. Melodics doesn’t work like that. Until you’re ready to go off book, you’re more of a dancer than a fighter.”

Duh. She’s worried about me looking like a moron in front of, well, everyone we know. And the pain of all the stabbing and slashing while I’m losing, well, that’s going to suck, too. “She didn’t say this explicitly, but I think she needs this, Mom. She wants to do intelligence, but she’s crap at changing her appearance. She needs another leg up, or she’ll end up pulling guard duty for the next decade.”

“Would it be so bad to have her around the palace a while longer?”

Mom wants Lark to stay. Of course she does, and so do I, but not if it makes her miserable. Besides, now that I know her secret, I understand why she needs to go, and why her mother is pushing her toward her reclusive Uncle Max and his never-ending number crunching. Her odds of being caught rise dramatically if she stays at Alamecha central command, but hiding in a dark room, staring at a computer screen is her best option to go unnoticed.

Lark’s biggest problem is that the difference between evian and half-evian will become more and more obvious as she advances in her training.

“Of course I’ll miss her, but I want her to do what makes her happy,” I say. “Everyone should want that for the people they love.”

Mom frowns. “Well, not only will her departure make you miserable, but losing this challenge to her won’t make things easier for you when she does leave.”

I’ve toyed with this idea for weeks, and the only person who knows is Alora, but something about my mom’s criticism of my decision pushes me over the edge. “Which probably won’t matter.”

“Excuse me?” We’ve reached the door to Mom’s room, guards at attention on either side of it. I won’t miss the complete and total lack of privacy here, that’s for sure.

I shove past them and after Mom follows, I close the door behind us. The familiar color scheme soothes me. Gold brocade curtains with pale pink swirls. An ivory and pale pink embroidered bedspread. Shaved and contoured carpet so thick it’s practically springy. Portraits on either side of her colossal four-poster bed. I’m smiling in mine, but Judica isn’t.

This room is so familiar, I could sketch the entire thing without needing to close my eyes and recall any memories. I breathe in and out once, then twice. It smells like my mom. Like safety. Like home. This is my center.

But not anymore. Lark’s moving on, and it’s time for me to do the same.

“Mom. I have something to tell you. Something you may not like.”

Mom’s eyebrows rise. “Something other than news of the challenge you rashly accepted?”

The one Mom expects me to lose? I swallow and forge ahead. “I want to move to New York and live with Alora.”