Книга - Firstlife
Firstlife
Gena Showalter
Tenley "Ten" Lockwood has spent the past thirteen months locked inside the Prynne Asylum. The reason? Her refusal to let her parents choose where she'll live after she dies…There is an eternal truth most of the world has come to accept: Firstlife is merely a dress rehearsal, and real life begins after death.In the Everlife, two realms are in power: Troika and Myriad, longtime enemies and deadly rivals. Both will do anything to recruit Ten, including sending their top Laborers to lure her to their side. Soon, Ten finds herself on the run, caught in a wild tug-of-war between the two realms who will do anything to win the right to her soul. Who can she trust? And what if the realm she's drawn to isn't where the boy she's falling for lives? She just has to stay alive long enough to make a decision…
I’ve been told history is written by survivors. But I know that isn’t always true. My name is Tenley Lockwood, and very soon, I’ll be dead. This is my story—but the end is only the beginning.
Tenley “Ten” Lockwood is an average seventeen-year-old girl...who has spent the past thirteen months locked inside the Prynne Asylum. The reason? Not her obsession with numbers, but her refusal to let her parents choose where she’ll live—after she dies.
There is an eternal truth most of the world has come to accept: Firstlife is merely a dress rehearsal, and real life begins after death.
In the Everlife, two realms are in power: Troika and Myriad, longtime enemies and deadly rivals. Both will do anything to recruit Ten, including sending their top Laborers to lure her to their side. Soon, Ten finds herself on the run, caught in a wild tug-of-war between the two realms that will do anything to win the right to her soul. Who can she trust? And what if the realm she’s drawn to isn’t home to the boy she’s falling for? She just has to stay alive long enough to make a decision...
Firstlife
Gena Showalter
www.miraink.co.uk (http://www.miraink.co.uk)
Dedication (#ulink_2c0aa77c-7866-53a2-b9a2-6105b62073ef)
To God and His dear Son, for inspiration (Luke 10:2, Mark 3:24) and boundless love (John 3:16).
To Pennye Edwards, for being one of the great loves of my life.
To Wendy Higgins, for the beta read and awesome feedback.
To Katie McGarry, for the perfect email at the perfect time.
To Roxanne St. Claire, my sister, my friend, my love, for the encouragement and support.
To Jill Monroe, the bestest best friend a girl could have, for just about everything. You make life better. (PS: I hid your name in the middle to ensure you’d have to search for it because I’m the nerdiest best friend, hahaha.)
To Kresley Cole, P.C. and Kristin Cast and Sarah Maas, for being the most fun people on the planet.
To Mike and Vicki Tolbert, Shane Tolbert, Shonna Hurt and Michelle Quine, for putting up with me. God really blessed you when He gifted you with me. Fine. He blessed me when He gifted me with you.
To Max, Riley and Victoria, for being you. I love you, always and forever.
To Deirde Knight, my agent, for believing in this series as strongly as I do.
To Lauren Smulski, for the read and amazing feedback.
To Natashya Wilson, my editor, for seeing a diamond in the lump of coal I originally sent you. Your guidance has been invaluable, and your love for the book/series a true treasure. You helped me in so many ways I’d need to write a new book just to list them all. You’ve always worked hard for me and always offered the most amazing suggestions, but this time, you surpassed yourself. Thank you!
Contents
Cover (#ua98a6851-c178-5c1d-b530-192f1adec0cc)
Back Cover Text (#ua0231270-58f4-55db-bed1-234419647e19)
Title Page (#ue20f3a5e-73e5-538d-811f-1211e3cb12c0)
Dedication (#ulink_46a3ed83-e18d-5209-b6f3-ba3dcbcfdb33)
Quote (#u6e064972-65cd-5fb1-bda0-83ff06d7a805)
chapter one (#ulink_95153ccb-0f5d-54bd-95e4-4307ec8cd886)
chapter two (#ulink_c2f3e5d3-0e2a-5c98-a42b-606ba9c62d93)
chapter three (#ulink_ea9ec53b-6c88-5e1e-a500-e42eddf7be9c)
chapter four (#ulink_33930625-15c3-5eae-bce4-0037defba81a)
chapter five (#ulink_4abc1e2d-d009-5379-982e-52f0861ca16e)
chapter six (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter seven (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter eight (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter nine (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter ten (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter twenty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)
chapter twenty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)
A CHAT WITH GENA SHOWALTER: Q & A (#litres_trial_promo)
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.
—CHARLES DICKENS, A TALE OF TWO CITIES
TROIKA
From: A_P_5/23.43.2
To: L_N_3/19.1.1
Subject: Tenley Lockwood
Duuude. A heads-up would have been nice. Can you say whack shack?
If you failed to read my dossier, Nanne, I’m happy to bring you up to date on the highlights. I’m a well-trained and vastly decorated Laborer. Victory might as well be my middle name. What I’m not: a babysitter. Watching Tenley Lockwood is a waste of my many talents.
Oh, AND DID I FORGET TO MENTION SHE’S IN A WHACK SHACK??
With all due respect, I’d rather fish out my internal organs with a coat hanger than stay here. I’m officially requesting a transfer.
Light Brings Sight!
Archer Prince
TROIKA
From: L_N_3/19.1.1
To: A_P_5/23.43.2
Subject: Officially Denied
Mr. Prince,
I’m not your duuude. I’m your superior. You will only ever address me by my proper rank: General. Or the always appropriate sir.
You were selected for this mission for two very important reasons. You are young and (obviously) immature. Offense intended. Our older Laborers had trouble relating to Miss Lockwood, but you should fit right in.
On that note, continue “babysitting” Miss Lockwood, or I’ll fish out your organs for you.
Also, I expect daily reports. I’m not overstating when I say convincing her to make covenant with our realm is essential.
Light Brings Sight!
General Levi Nanne
TROIKA
From: A_P_5/23.43.2
To: L_N_3/19.1.1
Subject: You Suck (& I’m WAY Mature)
Dear Sir,
Laborer is below your pay grade, but aren’t you one of those “older” gents who failed with the girl? Just checking. (And prepping you for the time I succeed and rub it in your face.)
Anyway. I’m a good little robot, sir, so of course I’ll do as you asked. Sir. Here’s the thing, though, sir. If I have to watch/listen from the outside a minute more, I’m going to bleach my corneas and stab a pencil through my ears.
I want my Shell, and I want to go INSIDE the whack shack. Sir.
Also, here’s the first report as demanded. I mean so sweetly requested. Sir. During the institution’s version of creative writing class, your precious had to write a poem to express her feelings about life. I’m including a copy for your perusal. I defy you NOT to jump off a bridge after reading it. Sir.
The grave is the end
And I will never accept that
I have been set free from the chains that bind me.
I know
“Death has lost its victory”
Is a lie, because there is no greater truth than this:
“Life is hopeless”
Gotta say, I don’t think Darkside McDowner is a great fit for Troika. I know, I know. We love the unlovable. We champion the weak. I don’t need a lecture. Just tell me what makes her so “essential.”
Your humble servant,
Archer
TROIKA
From: L_N_3/19.1.1
To: A_P_5/23.43.2
Subject: Poem, Among Other Things
I didn’t fail with her, puppy, I cleared the way for you. There’s a difference. Want to succeed? Learn it.
Expect a Shell at 0800. Just don’t expect yours. I’ve selected one from GenPop. And before you reply with your typical flare—General Population? Are you kidding me (dramatic pause for effect), sir?—save your fingers the trouble of typing. I’m not sending what you want. I’m sending what you need. You may thank me later.
Also, in regards to the poem. Miss Lockwood understands there are two sides to every story. Why don’t you? Do yourself a favor and read the poem again. This time, start at the bottom and work your way up.
And, Mr. Prince, the fact that I have to tell you what’s so special about this girl means I need to schedule you for an emergency jackhammer to the brain. Do yourself a favor and pay attention to the pearls I’m about to throw. Light. Conduit. Loss...darkness.
Oh, and here’s a good one: Moron. Again, offense intended.
TROIKA
From: A_P_5/23.43.2
To: L_N_3/19.1.1
Subject: Four Things
1) Sir Dude. I don’t want to point out your obvious lack of intelligence, but Tenley Lockwood can’t be a Conduit. Given your advanced age, you’ve clearly forgotten Conduits are raised by Troikan parents. They are the most loyal among us, from beginning to end.
2) And okay, okay. I read the poem from bottom to top, so I get your “two sides” theory. That doesn’t mean the poem is any good. It doesn’t rhyme.
3) The Shell arrived, and I honestly I think hate you. I’m pure male aggression, and you expect me to pass for a chick? As if anyone will be dumb enough to believe such a farce.
4) Myriad sent Killian. I’ve seen him skulking around in the shadows, watching the girl. Permission to slaughter?
TROIKA
From: L_N_3/19.1.1
To: A_P_5/23.43.2
Subject: Permission Gr... Denied! (Admit it. Your little-girl heart skipped a beat.)
You know our laws as well as I do. And what is at the heart of our second-most-important decree? Personal vendettas must be set aside for the good of the people. You are one of our people.
Do your job. Nothing else matters.
MYRIAD
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: P_B_4/65.1.18
Subject: My New Assignment
Hot and crazy, just the way I like ’em. Consider Tenley Lockwood bagged and tagged.
Might Equals Right!
Killian Flynn
MYRIAD
From: P_B_4/65.1.18
To: K_F_5/23.53.6
Subject: Show Some Respect!
You will speak of the girl with deference, or you won’t speak of her at all.
I’m already close to pulling you from this assignment, Mr. Flynn. In fact, I have no idea why I allowed the Generals to convince me you can do what no one else has managed to do. You’re too young, and your methods for success have always been inappropriate. But not this time! Persuade the girl to make covenant with us, but keep your pants zipped while you do it. And do not fail. We need her.
Might Equals Right!
Madame Pearl Bennett
MYRIAD
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: P_B_4/65.1.18
Subject: Fail? Not in This Lifetime <—See What I Did There?
You’ve never cared about my methods before, only the end result. What’s changed? What’s so important about this girl? If you’ve got inside info, do me a solid and share with the rest of the class.
And just so you know, we don’t need anyone. We’ve never been stronger, and we outnumber the Troikans two to one. Also, this girl is basically an “it.” When she dies, she’ll just be one more cog in our wheel. But don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll sign her—my way. I always do.
In other news, Troika sent Archer. I’m going to cut off his limbs and beat him to Second-death with them.
MYRIAD
From: P_B_4/65.1.18
To: K_F_5/23.53.6
Subject: NO!
Control your temper until you’ve signed the girl. Afterward, I’ll use my highest pair of heels to pin Archer down, and you can flay his skin to wear as a coat, if that’s what you desire. Have I made myself clear? Do not engage. Not yet!
And the girl is so much more than an “it” and a “cog.” Everyone is! But this girl...one day, she’ll be your boss. She’ll be both our bosses. If I were you, I’d be careful how I treated her.
MYRIAD
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: P_B_4/65.1.18
Subject: Sorry, but You’re NOT Me
What you are? Too cute. Imagine me wincing in embarrassment for you as I say: I don’t actually care about your permission. Consider my last message an FYI.
And you know better than most I treat my bosses the same way I treat everyone else. If you don’t like it, Madame, you can absolutely reassign me. I have nothing to lose. I’m guessing you have plenty.
MYRIAD
From: P_B_4/65.1.18
To: K_F_5/23.53.6
Subject: Nothing to Lose?
How about something to gain? Sign the girl, and I’ll give you what you’ve always wanted. Your mother’s name and where to find her.
I’ve been told history is written by survivors,
but I know that isn’t always true.
My name is Tenley Lockwood and very soon, I’ll be dead.
This is my story—but my end is only the beginning.
chapter one (#ulink_9350215c-9cb9-5562-8e45-9ecc70e115a5)
“You are better off Unsigned than a slave to Troikan law.”
—Myriad
I’ve been locked inside the Prynne Asylum—where happiness comes to die—for three hundred and seventy-eight days. (Or nine thousand and seventy-two hours.) I know the exact time frame, not because I watched the sun rise and set in the sky, but because I mark my walls in blood every time the lights in the good-girls-gone-bad wing of the facility turn on.
There are no windows in the building. At least, none that I’ve found. And I’ve never been allowed outside. None of the inmates have. To be honest, I don’t even know what country we’re in, or if we’re buried far underground. Before being flown, driven, shipped or dropped here, we were heavily sedated. Wherever we are, though, it’s bone-deep cold beyond the walls. Every day, hour, second, our air is heated.
I’ve heard friends and enemies alike ask the staff for details, but the response has always been the same. Answers have to be earned.
No, thanks. For me, the price—cooperation—is simply too high.
With a wince, I rise from bed and make my way to the far corner of my cell. Every step is agony. My back hates me, but the muscles are too sore to go on strike. Last night I was caned just because.
I stop in front of my pride and joy. My calendar. A new day means a new mark.
I have no chalk, no pen or marker, so I drive the tip of an index finger over a jagged stone protruding from the floor, slicing through the flesh and drawing a well of blood.
I hate the sting, but if I’m honest, I’ll love the scar it leaves behind. My scars give me something to count.
Counting is my passion, and numerology my favorite addiction. Maybe because every breath we take is another tick on our clock, putting us one step closer to death...and a new beginning. Maybe because my name is Tenley—Ten to my friends.
Ten, a representation of completion.
We have ten fingers and ten toes. Ten is the standard beginning for any countdown.
I was born on the tenth day of the tenth month at 10:10 a.m. And, okay. All right. Maybe I’m obsessed with numbers because they always tell a story and unlike people, they never lie.
Here’s my story in a nutshell:
Seventeen—the number of years I’ve existed. In my case, lived is too strong a word.
One—the number of boys I’ve dated.
Two—the number of friends I’ve made and lost since my incarceration.
Two—the number of lives I’ll live. The number of lives we’ll all live.
Our Firstlife, then our Everlife.
Two—the number of choices I have for my eternal future.
(1) Do as my parents command or (2) suffer.
I’ve chosen to suffer.
I use the blood to create another mark on the stones. Satisfied, I head to the “bathroom.” There are no doors to provide even a modicum of privacy, just a small, open shower stall next to a toilet. For our safety, we’re told. For the amusement of others, I suspect. All cells are monitored 24/7, which means at any given time during any given day, staff members are allowed and even encouraged to watch live camera feed.
Dr. Vans, the head of the asylum, likes to taunt us. I see and know everything.
A good portion of teachers scold us. Time waster!
Orderlies belittle us. Put on a little weight, haven’t we?
Most of the guards leer at us. They hail from all over the world, and though their language varies, their sentiment is always the same. You are begging for it and one day I’ll give it.
Just some of the many perks offered chez Prynne.
Not everyone is horrible, I admit. A small handful even strive to keep the others from going too far. But it’s no secret every staff member is paid to make us hate our stay, to make us want to leave more than anything. Because, the more we want to leave, the more likely we are to do whatever our parents sent us here to do.
My friend Marlowe dared to pawn her mother’s jewelry to buy groceries, and she needed help with her “kleptomania.” My friend Clay, a drug addict, needed to get clean.
The institution failed them both. A few months ago, Marlowe killed herself, and Clay... I don’t know what happened to him. He planned an escape, and I haven’t heard from him since.
I miss them both. Every. Single. Day.
I begged Clay not to risk a breakout. I tried to leave once, and I had help. My boyfriend, James, a guard high on the totem, arranged for cameras to be shut down, certain doors to be unlocked and other guards to sleep on the job. Still I proved unsuccessful.
For his efforts, James was shot in the head. While I watched.
Hot tears well in my eyes and trickle down my cheeks as I slowly strip out of my jumpsuit. Every motion comes with another blast of agony. When finally I’m naked, I step under a tepid spray of water. Modesty has long since been beaten out of me—literally!—but I wash as fast as I can. We’re given a small ration of water a day. If we run out, we run out. Too bad, so sad. Something we’re never given? Razors. I keep my legs and underarms smooth with threads I’ve pulled from old uniforms. I already feel like an animal; there’s no reason to resemble one, too.
Not that a well-groomed appearance matters. While we’re allowed to socialize with the opposite sex during mealtimes, I’d rather dig my heart out of my chest with a rusty spoon than date again. Yes, the rewards are tremendous, but the risks are more so. When everything comes crashing down—and it will—I’ll be shattered into a million pieces. I’ll have to rebuild. Again.
I should have resisted James’s pursuit of me, but I’d been at a low point, desperate for any show of affection. He’d risked his job every time he’d disabled the cameras to sneak inside my room. He snuck in so many times, in fact, his memory still lives here. Every night when I climb into my twin-size bed, I’m reminded of the way he teased me out of my initial shyness. Of the way he cleaned my wounds whenever I was hurt. Of the way he held me in his arms, offering comfort and kisses. He’d wanted to do more. I hadn’t. Not here. Not with a potential audience.
Forget the past. Concentrate on the present. Right.
I shut off the water and towel dry as best I can. I step into a clean, peed-in-the-snow-yellow jumpsuit, but only manage to bring the material to my waist, my arms refusing to work properly, my shoulder muscles giving up.
What am I going to do? I can’t leave my cell like this.
The door suddenly slides open with a quiet snick. My blood flashes ice-cold as two guards march inside my cell, a flailing girl between them.
I gasp, my surprise giving me the strength I need to lift my hands and cover my breasts.
No, I’m not modest, but this is a special kind of humiliating.
The guards release the girl and push her in my direction. The first thing I notice about her? She has unevenly cropped pink hair.
“New roomie,” one of them says to me. When he notices my partial state of undress, he grins. “Well, well. Vhat we have here?”
His Russian accent is as thick as ever, one of the many reasons I refer to him as Comrade Douche. Though my cheeks burn, I strive for a confident tone. “Vhat we have here is an underage girl who, upon her release, will ensure you rot in prison.”
His grin only widens as he takes a step toward me. The pink-haired girl kicks him in the stomach, surprising me.
He focuses on her, raising his hand to deliver a strike. “Suka!”
Bitch in Russian. A word that’s been thrown at me, as well.
She smiles and crooks her fingers at him, the universal sign for bring it.
The other guard grabs Comrade Douche by the arm and drags him into the hallway. Both men frown at me as the door slides shut.
Without missing a beat, the girl waves at me, looking almost...giddy. I blink in confusion. She’s happy rather than scared? Really?
“Hello,” she says, and I detect a slight British accent. “I’m Bow, your new best friend.”
She’s crazy. Got it. “I’m not in the market for a new friend.” I hoped I’d remain solo. I don’t like sleeping in front of another person but I have to steal catnaps to function. My last roommate told me I toss and turn, screaming about the torture I’ve endured or singing a number song my aunt taught me as a child.
Ten tears fall, and I call...nine hundred trees, but only one is for me. Eight—
Oh, no. I’m not getting lost in my head right now.
“Here.” Bow stalks toward me, her stride long and strong. Up close, I can tell her eyes are the color of freshly polished pennies. They’re odd yet captivating, smoldering with an intensity that should be too much to contain. “Let me help you.”
Out of habit, I step out of range when she reaches for me. But...zero! My favorite four-letter curse word. I don’t think I can finish getting dressed without her.
She cups her breasts in a mimic of me and beams. “Boobs are awesome, yeah? Literal fun-bags. I don’t know what you girls are always complaining about.”
“Don’t you mean us girls?”
Her hands fall away from her fun-bags. “Dude. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying the equipment and getting a little some-some of my own goods and services. Seriously. I’m so hot even I want a piece of me.”
Hot? Debatable. Bizarre, narcissistic and pervy? Unquestionably. She’s the trifecta. In other words, I hit the probably-gonna-get-murdered jackpot this go-round. Yay, me.
“I’d rather not talk about your goods and services, thanks.” Slowly I pivot, placing her at my back. This is a rarity for me. A low point, a moment of utter desperation. If she attempts a hit-and-run or a grab-and-stab—anything dirty—I’ll make sure she regrets it.
She inhales sharply, and I assume she’s studying the wealth of bruises I’m sporting.
“Sometime today,” I snap, horrified by the perceived weakness.
She gently works my arms through the sleeves. “I hope you’re prepared for the Everlife. Another beating like this could kill you.”
Doubtful. Dr. Vans has the torture thing nailed. He knows when he’s about to push a body too far. “Trust me. Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to me.”
“Of course it isn’t. If you haven’t made the right plans for the Unending, you’ll wish you ceased to exist.”
The Unending, where Myriad and Troika—the two realms in power in the afterlife...aka the Everlife—are located. Where “real” life is said to begin.
Over the years, the world has been divided into two factions. Those who support Myriad, and those who support Troika. No one ever supports both. How can they? The realms are too fundamentally opposed—about everything!
Myriad boasts about autonomy...bliss...indulgence. To them, Firstlife is merely a stepping stone into the Everlife, everything happens for a fated reason and, when we experience Second-death—death in the Everlife—our spirit returns to Earth, the Land of the Harvest, to Fuse with another—brand-new—spirit.
They are willing to negotiate covenant terms to win over a human.
Troika, on the other hand, is known for structure...constant study...absolute conformity. To them, Firstlife matters just as much as Everlife, fate is a myth and, when we experience Second-death, we enter into the Rest, never to be seen by human or spirit again.
Troikans refuse to negotiate covenant terms, offering the same benefits to everyone everywhere without exception. The same laws, too. To them, what is right is right and what is wrong is wrong, for one and for all. Everyone on equal footing.
If one realm says the sky is cloudless, the other will say a storm is brewing.
They’ve been at war for centuries, the other’s destruction the ultimate goal. That’s why they fight so hard to win souls. That’s also why picking the right side is so important. Someday, someone is going to lose.
Here on Earth, the Myriad and Troika supporters aren’t segregated...exactly. They try to coexist, but it’s in imperfect harmony and there’s always an underlying hum of tension.
Sometimes riots break out, and the government is forced to execute martial law to prevent an all-out brawl.
A rare few people, like me, have no idea which side to back. We see merits to both sets of beliefs. We also see downsides.
We are called the Unsigned.
For us, there are rumors of a third spirit realm, the place we’ll end up after Firstdeath. My parents used to tell me horror stories about it, stories whispered in the dark of night. The Realm of Many Ends, where nightmares come to life.
I’ve often wondered... Is Many Ends a made-up place intended to scare kids straight?
“Do you?” Bow asks as she zips up my jumpsuit. “Have plans for the Unending, I mean?”
“I’m not talking Everlife with you.”
Her features scrunch with disappointment. “Why not?”
“I’ll be here another three hundred and fifty-two days.”
3 + 5 + 2 = 10
“And?”
And she will leave sooner rather than later. I recognize her type. Extremely optimistic until something goes wrong. After her first beating, she’ll cave and do whatever her parents want, guaranteed.
“Forget the next life. What about this one? Tell me why you’re here.” I motion to our illustrious cell with a tilt of my chin.
“My guardian sent me.” She strides to the second twin bed and sits, and there’s nothing graceful or feminine about her. “Told me to be a light.”
Ugh. What I hear? Absolute conformity. “You signed with Troika, then.” Not a question.
Her nod contains a thread of pride. “I did.”
We’re going to clash so hard. “What is light, exactly?” What’s she going to be pushing on me?
“Whatever is needed to help someone find a way out of darkness.”
Darkness. “Meaning Myriad.”
She ignores my dry tone. “Meaning a problem, any problem.”
Well, I’ve got plenty of those—though I tell myself this situation is fertilizer, and something good must grow from it.
“Why are you here?” she asks me.
“I refuse to make covenant with Myriad.” Covenant—the equivalent of signing a contract in blood.
Sometimes, in an attempt to convince me to sign away my rights, I’m pampered. Isn’t this nice? This is what awaits you in Myriad. Most times I’m tortured. This is only the beginning of what you’ll endure in Many Ends. Not knowing what awaits me is the worst.
“Prynne is supposed to be unaffiliated with either realm,” she says with a frown.
“It is.” How else could Dr. Vans convince one kid to sign with Myriad and another to sign with Troika? Which he does. All the time.
She meets my gaze, a little surprised, a lot hopeful. “Do you want to make covenant with Troika?”
“Not even a little.” As her shoulders droop, I add, “I hate to break it to you, but your guardian sucks. He—she?—sentenced you to hell. For nothing! No one here will accept your light.” Trust no one. Question everything.
“Maybe not, but I’ll still make the offer. Yesterday, today and tomorrow, my actions matter.”
In that, I agree with her. I’ll even take it a step further. The most destructive or constructive actions begin with a single thought. And, ultimately, a single action can decide the direction our lives take. And our deaths.
I will choose my path. Me alone. My choice will affect no eternal future but my own.
She opens her mouth to say more, but I shake my head. Subject closed.
She hops up and walks around the room, studying every nook and cranny, finally stopping to gape at my calendar. “Seriously? You’re using a finger pen? No wonder everyone calls you Nutter. You’re the biggest nut in the whack shack.”
She just got here. How does she know what I’m called? “Everyone calls me Nutter because of the size of my lady balls. That, and I tend to smear my opponents across the floor like peanut butter.”
She thinks for a moment, frowns. “If your lady balls are so big, why don’t they call you Hairy Cherries? Or Furry Meatballs?” She taps her chin. “Well, duh. Because neither name describes your explosive temper. Oh! I know. I’ll call you Sperm Bank! It covers the balls and the explosions.”
I snort-laugh. She’s brave, so gold star for that. In a place like this, lack of fear is rare and precious. Of course, if she threatens me in the slightest way, I won’t hesitate to end her. Survival first, nothing else second.
“If anyone calls me Sperm Bank, my temper is going to explode all over you,” I say. “Meanwhile, I’ll be sure to call you Hatchet. The tool used to cut your hair, I’m guessing.”
She fluffs the ragged ends of her style. “I used a kitchen knife, thank you very much. I’m confident the trim properly highlights my beauty.”
Have to admire her positivity.
My internal clock suddenly goes off, the conversation forgotten. “Breakfast!”
She sighs. “Mealtime. Yay.”
“Our cell will open in three...two...one.”
The double doors slide apart.
“We have thirty seconds to exit the room,” I explain. “If the door closes while we’re still inside, we’ll miss the meal.” The food sucks, nothing but slop, but that slop has enough vitamins to keep us somewhat healthy. And really, anything is better than starving.
“So we’re like dogs in a crate, taken out only at scheduled times so we won’t crap on something important or chew on the furniture. Awesome.”
Together, we dart into the hall. Our blockmates do the same. In total, there are twelve of us.
Twelve: the number of months in a year, members on a jury, and the hours on the face of a clock.
For a moment, we take each other’s measure. Anyone going to uncage the rage today?
When no one makes a lewd or violent gesture—hey, this might be a good day—we head for the exit at the end of the hall.
Jane, one of the older inmates, mutters to herself and stops to bang her forehead against the wall. Skin splits at her hairline and blood trickles down her cheek. Everyone else keeps walking, head down and arms wrapped around the torso, as if to protect the vitals—or stop an avalanche of pain and misery from spilling out.
I march determinedly beside Bow, for the first time noticing she exudes a fragrant mix of wildflowers and lemon drops. I like it, but I know it won’t last. Our water smells like chemicals, and the soap we’re given smells like grease.
A high-pitched whistle cuts through the air, making me cringe. “Well, well,” a voice says from behind me. “I just lost a bet I’d assumed was a sure thing.”
“Like Becky,” someone else calls, and snickers erupt.
I don’t have to glance over my shoulder to ID the first speaker. Sloan “don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, hate me because I plan to murder you” Aubuchon. She is Dr. Vans’s favorite inmate, even though she’s tried to kill him, oh, a dozen times.
From the things I’ve heard the good doc say to her, she’s here because either (a) she can’t control her temper or (b) she refuses to marry the old fart who will save her grandparents’ estate. I’ve always leaned toward A. Arranged marriages still happen, but not often.
“Tenley didn’t kill her new roommate at first sight, y’all,” she continues, her Southern twang ridiculously adorable even while she’s sneering. “Meaning, the newbie wasn’t eaten—at least not literally.”
Charming.
A few boos ring out, but so do a couple of cheers.
Bow turns and smiles at the girl. “What’d you lose? A few more IQ points?”
I almost sigh, because I can guess what’s coming next.
A volcanic Sloan races forward to grab Bow by the collar of her jumpsuit, forcing her to stop.
Yeah. That.
I stop, too, unsure how I’ll proceed. I’ve seen this song and dance before—eleven times, to be exact—and my reactions always differ. I’ve pretended to be blind and deaf, but I’ve also thrown a punch while screaming obscenities.
Sloan and I live by different philosophies. While I lash out only when provoked (usually), she attacks newcomers at the first opportunity to prevent challengers later.
Life sucks. We’ve adapted.
“Bless your heart.” Sloan releases Bow to plant her hands on her hips. Tall, blonde and model-pretty, she’s the girl every other longs to be. Until she opens her mouth, and her outer beauty can no longer compensate for her inner bitch. “You’re not smart enough to realize I run this shit show. You’ll keep your eyes down and your tongue quiet...or you’ll lose both.”
Bow flicks me an amused glance. “Hey, what do you call a blonde with only half a brain? Gifted!”
Am I really caught in the middle of this? “Have you forgotten that you are a blonde?” And Troikan! Forgive and move on.
“So,” Bow says, tapping her chin. “You’re suggesting I blow in her ear for a data transfer?”
“That’s it! Say goodbye to your tongue.” Sloan pushes Bow with enough force to make the girl stumble.
Before she can do anything else, I react without thought, slapping her arm away. “Hands off.” Guess I’m going to protest today. Which might do more harm than good. Like the rest of us, Bow has to learn to defend herself. There’s no other way to survive.
Sloan’s narrowed gaze focuses on me. “What are you gonna do, Nutter? Huh?”
“Do you really want to know?” I ask softly. Being the crazy girl in a place full of crazy girls certainly has its advantages. No one is ever able to anticipate my next move. “What I say, I’ll do. No take-backs.”
We’ve thrown down before, Sloan and I, and it wasn’t pretty. Forget scratching and pulling hair, the quintessential “catfight.” We punched and kicked and ripped at each other like animals.
We both bear the scars.
I’m not afraid of physical pain. Not anymore.
I’m hit with surprise when my roommate says, “Dude. Do you have any idea how funny this is? Sloaner the Moaner has a mouthful of number two while she’s talking to Ten.”
Another round of boos and cheers ring out.
Sloan forgets all about me, baring her teeth in a scowl. “Maybe I won’t remove your tongue and eyes...yet. I want you to see what I do to you, and beg for mercy I won’t give you.”
“Enough!” A harsh voice booms from overhead speakers. “You know the rules, girls. There’s no loitering in the hallways. Go to the cafeteria or go to the whipping post. Your choice.”
I look at Sloan, who’s glaring at Bow, who’s smirking at Sloan.
Sloan bares her teeth and says to me, “You do know your boyfriend wasn’t the only one capable of paying the guards to shut off the cameras, right? If I were you, I’d start sleeping with one eye open.” With that, she turns on her heel and flounces off. Or tries to.
I grab her arm, stopping her, and get in her face. I keep my voice low as I say, “You sneak into my room, and I’ll fillet you like a fish. No one will pay attention to your screams. You know that, right?”
You scream, I scream, we all scream. No one cares. The asylum’s unofficial anthem.
Sloan jerks free and stalks away.
I cast Bow a humorless smile. “Welcome to Prynne.”
chapter two (#ulink_2f3a9fb5-5c2c-568c-907d-2773112d0e77)
“Take comfort. Our laws are the same yesterday, today and forever.”
—Troika
Bow laughs, which I don’t understand. My temper is a bear that’s just been poked with a stick. I don’t like threats. And I especially don’t like waiting to deal with threats. Yet, she’s amused.
“Come on,” I mutter, dragging her down the hall despite my physical discomfort.
There are multiple doorways, each painted puke green. The walls are medicine-tray gray, and the floors are some type of soil-your-pants brown. I know this for a fact. Last week, a guard threatened a new guy with castration and all hell broke loose...just like his bowels.
“Thank you for having my six.” Bow bumps shoulders with me, only to mumble an apology when I wince. “Yeah, I could have taken her down, no problem, but you still put yourself on the line.”
“Don’t thank me. Just keep your head on a swivel and your insults to a minimum. I don’t want to mop up your remains.”
Her grin slips a little. “I didn’t enjoy lashing out at her. Sloan has some pretty big baggage. But her general nastiness triggered my inner bitch. I didn’t even know I had an inner bitch! But yeah, okay, I should have handled the situation differently.”
“How do you know about her baggage?”
“Uh, perhaps I misspoke. I mean, who doesn’t have baggage, right?”
True. We all arrive with a couple carry-ons.
We pass through the commons, where our classes usually take place. There’s no escaping high school, even here. There are plush leather couches and three different circles of chairs—which makes sense. (1) Thought, (2) word and (3) deed, the sum total of human capability.
Around the corner and through a wide set of double doors is the cafeteria. A colorless, utilitarian room with a sea of tables and benches that have been bolted down. The male inmates are already seated, eating from trays.
As Bow and I take our place at the end of the buffet line, I narrow my focus to the nitty-gritty. The number of inmates in the room: one hundred females versus ninety-seven males. It’s uneven. I don’t like uneven. The scales should always be balanced.
There are twenty guards—ten males, ten females—one “good guy” for every ten “bad guys.” Despite the fact that outside these walls there’s a Laborer from both Troika and Myriad for every one hundred humans, there are no Laborers here.
“Are you mathing?” Bow asks. “You look like you’re mathing. Well, here’s an equation I think you’ll like. There are roughly two billion people in the world, and twenty million Laborers. With those kind of odds, I never should have been assigned to stay in your room.”
“Are you hinting life is a zero-sum game? You won, and I lost.”
She snorts. “You basically won the lottery, and you know it.”
“Or, your guardian paid extra to pair you with an Unsigned, preferably one with a Myriad background.” Which is actually counterproductive to Dr. Vans’s goal in my case. But when has the man ever resisted a bonus?
“Hey, look at you! Pretty and smart.”
“And hungry,” I grumble.
As we edge our way to the front of the line, multiple conversations take place around us.
“—too bad. I called dibs.”
“—did you hide them? Tell me!”
“—don’t allow Myriad scum near me.”
How many of these kids are pro-Myriad? How many are pro-Troika? How many are Unsigned?
Bow clearly hasn’t gotten the memo. Talking about the Everlife is forbidden. Well, only with each other. Dr. Vans’s way of avoiding a riot inside these walls, I guess.
I deduced Sloan is Unsigned, which wasn’t exactly hard to do considering she’s said “I’d rather be a queen in Many Ends than a drone in the realms” countless times.
Okay, not countless. Twenty-three.
“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Bow tells me. “Let’s get to know each other better.”
“No, thanks.”
She persists. “How were you introduced to the realms?”
“The usual way.” Since public schools aren’t allowed to lean one way or the other, only private schools, children are told stories by biased parents. Also, different facilities offer virtual tours but, depending on who’s running them, the tours are always skewed.
My aunt Lina is my dad’s crazy twin sister who, I’ve been told, suffers from polyfused disorder, meaning the older spirit (supposedly) Fused to hers is strong enough to gain control of her body. When she isn’t acting like a giggly ten-year-old who speaks in the past tense, she works for A Look Beyond, a tour company owned by Myriad.
I’ve seen night-kissed castles overflowing with orchid gardens. Bustling cityscapes with stone and metal skyscrapers intermixed with nightclubs and spas, everything connected by sleek silver bridges and tunnels illuminated by wrought-iron, dragon-shaped lamps. Vibrant white-sand beaches with a moonlit view of ruby, sapphire and emerald coral.
A bit of high-tech flare topped with old-world charm.
There’s something for everyone, Aunt Lina likes to say on her sane days. On her insane days? The light bled into the darkness and the darkness died... I didn’t want to die.
On the other hand, Troika’s version of Myriad is frightening. Darkness pervades. Darkness so thick it oozes over your skin like motor oil. There’s field after field of dead trees, the limbs gnarled, the bark dripping crimson—bleeding. Any birds able to survive the lack of sunlight cry rather than squawk. The city is overcrowded, everyone packed as tight as pickles in a jar, and the beaches resemble life-size litter boxes.
Myriad’s version of Troika is no better. Apocalyptic wastelands scorched by an unforgiving sun.
As a child, I was desperate to avoid Troika...until I heard my Troikan Laborer’s description: dappled sunlight falling over intricate gardens, wildflowers and rainbows. A thriving metropolis both fantastical and futuristic, with palatial country estates and chrome-and-glass buildings in a variety of shapes and sizes.
“You might want to stop mentioning the realms,” I finally say. “It’ll get you punished.”
She pushes out a breath. “Fine. I’ll talk about something else. Something fascinating. Like the food. I’m pretty sure it’s going to look the same coming out as it does going in.”
She isn’t wrong. “If you want a change of menu, the bugs in our room are always an option. Side note. Spiders taste like shrimp and cockroaches taste like greasy chicken.”
“Okay, I now want to gag and hug you at the same time.” She thinks for a moment, releases a dreamy sigh. “Maybe I’ll have dessert snuck in.”
“Good luck with that.” Others have tried. Others have failed. “You’ll be caught and—”
“Punished. Yeah, yeah. I know.”
We’re both given a tray. As we search for a table, a group of boys gives Bow a once-over. Snickers abound.
I stiffen, but Bow winks at them as we claim the empty table to their right.
“I think I heard the guards say her name’s Bow,” one of them says, not even trying to be quiet.
“It fits—unlike her uniform. Fatty Bow Batty,” another mutters, spurring outright laughter from his friends.
Bow ignores them and stirs her slop as if she hasn’t a care. She’s short and big-boned, a little plain, but she’s a person with feelings.
I find myself snapping, “Integrity matters more than size, dreg.” A derogatory name for someone neither realm wants.
He blows me a kiss. “Why don’t you come sit on my lap, Nutter? I’ll show you just how sizable I am.”
Innuendos are always on the menu at Prynne, and I usually overlook them. Today, my fingers tighten around my spoon. We aren’t given forks or knives, ever. Not that it matters. I can do bad, bad things with a spoon.
I glare at him and say, “Do you like having a tongue?”
He sticks his out and wags it at me.
I don’t want to fight him—I’m too sore—but I will. If I lose, I lose, but at least I’ll leave an impression.
Bow pats my hand. “Forget about him, Sperm Bank. He doesn’t yet understand the outside is a shell for all of us. My beauty is on the inside, where it never fades.”
She can’t be this nice. She just can’t be.
The boys return to their conversation, whispering among themselves, pretending what almost happened didn’t almost happen.
“Plus,” Bow adds, “he isn’t even close to my type.”
“Which is?”
She wiggles her brows. “Female.”
Ah. Got it.
We lapse into silence. I remain aware of the people around us, always on alert, as I clean my tray. Gotta stay as strong as possible. Bow merely picks at the meal. One day soon, hunger will get the better of her and she’ll be thankful for the slop.
One of the boys is trying to snag a bite off his friend’s tray as we stand.
“Touch my food and die.” The friend’s snarl is pure menace.
“Here. You can have mine,” Bow says.
The boy scowls at her. “Mind your own business, cow.”
Trust no one. Question everything.
She shrugs, unaffected. “Your loss.”
I’m not sure where to lump her in my mental files. Too good to be true? The real deal? Worth emulating? Or to be disregarded?
As we file out of the cafeteria, I’m sent to the commons for early morning therapy of the mind—have to get my day started right, I mentally sneer—and Bow is sent to the gym for early morning therapy of the body.
Sloan shoves another girl out of the way to claim the chair next to me. “You need to put your roommate on a shorter leash.”
Going to pretend we didn’t threaten each other? Fine.
“I’m not her keeper,” I say. Her actions, her consequences.
“Don’t be stupid,” Sloan snaps. “In this place, your roomie should be your best friend. She’s the one who’s going to watch your back when yours is bruised.” With a smirk, she presses on my shoulder, drawing a hiss from me. “Like now.”
I bat her arm away, which only makes my pain worse. “I don’t need your advice.” Trust no one...
“Obviously you do. Word is, Vans will be gone tonight. Two guards have decided there’s no better time to retaliate against you for choking their friend.”
I stiffen. The choking incident happened four months ago, and the memory still haunts me. The guard in question snuck into my room. He thought I should earn his goodwill. I thought differently.
He left in a body bag.
I didn’t enjoy killing him, even in self-defense, but I also didn’t feel more than a few twinges of remorse. I’ve endured one too many beatings, or maybe I’ve witnessed one too many murders. Kids killing other kids. Guards killing kids. Vans killing James. We’re desensitized fast. Here, it’s survival of the fittest.
Guess Myriad and I agree on something. Might Equals Right.
“Thanks for the warning,” I say, my stomach beginning to churn. I’m not ready for another battle. Not one of this magnitude. I’m not strong enough.
Doesn’t matter. I have to find a way.
She scowls at me. “I didn’t do it for you. The more prepared you are, the better your chances of killing two more of Vans’s men.”
Bloodthirsty girl. As always. “Also the better my chances of spending another thirty days in the pit, giving you a chance to strike at Bow without my interference, eh.” The pit is a frigid hole in the basement where the only source of water is a rusty tap, and a bucket is the only piece of furniture.
“Hey. It’s a small price to pay.”
“Of course you’d think so. You’ve never spent any time down there.”
“Not for lack of trying!”
I can’t argue with that. I’ve often wondered why she’s singular to Vans. Is she sleeping with him?
I’ve heard rumors about girls earning special privileges with their bodies. I’ve also heard about girls being threatened with harsher punishments if they refuse. Even the thought fills me with rage.
From time to time, a guard has propositioned me. I said no, flat out, every time. I’ve never had sex and my first time won’t be a freaking business transaction. In my old life, some of my friends had often hit-it-and-quit-it, and it hadn’t taken me long to notice most grumbled with disappointment while only a rare few sighed dreamily.
The loss of my virginity is a memory I’m going to carry into my Secondlife and dang it, I’m going to be one of the ones who sighs dreamily.
“You boning the boss?” I ask her.
Color blooms in her cheeks. Embarrassment? Shame? Both? She jumps up and snarls at me. “Oh, go to Many Ends, dreg!”
“And leave these luxurious accommodations? Nah.”
She flounces off and chooses a new seat.
I remain on a razor’s edge of calm through therapy...my different classes...lunch...and finally dinner. No one strikes at me, but all the guards are a little too nice. They smile every time I pass. They ask if I need help with anything.
That night, after Bow and I are locked in our cell, our lights out, I rush to cover the camera with a sheet—just in case—and gather my stash of shivs made from spoons and toothbrushes, hidden behind a stone in the wall.
No one tells me to remove the sheet, a sign in and of itself. The guards don’t want anyone to record what’s going to happen, and they can blame me for the lack of feed, maybe even claim I hurt myself in an attempt to incriminate them. Not that they’d get into trouble for hurting me.
“What’s going on?” Bow demands.
I explain the situation. She waves a hand through the air, unconcerned.
“You won’t need those,” she says. “I’ve got this. You can sit back and simply enjoy the show.”
As if.
I move to the side of the door, taking a sentry position. With a sigh, Bow does the same.
One hour ticks into another, but I remain in place. I’ve done this kind of vigil before, during the realm riots that occurred in my front yard.
My dad is a senator in the House of Myriad, responsible for ensuring Myriad-friendly laws are passed and Troika-friendly laws aren’t.
Sometimes when a hot-button issue arose—like Myriad’s desire to supersede the human government—Troikan protesters congregated on our lawn, threw rotten food at our doors and windows and screamed vitriol. I just had to wait for it to end.
The stress is the biggest obstacle. My limbs shake. My stomach twists. Sweat drips down my spine. At least I’m not cowering.
I’ll never cower again.
“You sure they’re coming tonight?” Bow asks, as blasé as ever.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Sloan could have lied to me. Her version of payback, I suppose. Although keeping us frazzled tonight so we’re useless tomorrow isn’t exactly her MO. She likes to use shivs of her own.
Finally the doors slide open. I tense, ready to strike. Four men wearing black masks march into the room.
They know where we’re hiding. The two men in front swing their arms to deliver a brutal punch. One to each of us.
I’m slower than usual, so I fail to duck in time. I take a fist to the center of the chest, my heart skipping a beat...then another...before leaping into a too-fast rhythm. Bow manages to duck just fine, grab her guy by the arm and, using her elbow as a hammer, break his radius. As he howls with pain, she kicks out her leg, nailing my guy in the torso, causing him to double over.
I act quickly, slamming my knee into his nose. He goes down as another guy dives on me, knocking me down. Upon impact, agony consumes me. I can barely breathe, my lungs flattened, stars winking behind my eyelids.
Get up! I have to win this.
I try without success. Meanwhile, I hear a rustle of clothing, the crunch of other bones breaking...another howl of pain. Dragging sounds. A feminine grunt.
A shadow falls over me. I hold out my hands to ward off—
“It’s okay,” Bow says. “It’s just me.”
Relieved, I sag against the cold, hard floor.
“The men are out for the count and now in the hall.”
Good, that’s good. Guess she had this, after all.
Maybe I can trust her a little?
No, no. Must resist the urge. Despite what Sloan said—despite Bow’s actions—no good can come from an alliance. We’re too different, and with Bow’s support of Troika, she’ll turn on me soon enough.
“I guess we’re even,” I manage to say. I had her back with Sloan, and she had mine with the guards. I got the better end of the deal, but that’s not a me problem.
“Wow. You are one tough Nutter to crack. And that’s not a compliment.”
“I used to be nice,” I tell her. My version of an apology, I suppose. “I was even shy.”
I don’t miss the girl I used to be; she’s a stranger in so many ways. She was scared and weak.
With a strength that baffles me, Bow picks me up and carries me to my bed. She gently lays me across the mattress, saying, “What you need is—”
“Do not say light.”
“Fine. A distraction from your troubles. Want to make out a little?” There’s a teasing note in her tone. “This would be a pity session, nothing more. You may be female, but you’re still not my type. You’re way too mouthy. Oh! I know! I can teach you better uses for your—”
“Shut. Up,” I say, trying not to laugh. Laughing will only make the hurt worse.
“Is that a soft no?”
“Hard no. I’m currently in a relationship.”
She arches a brow. “You have a boyfriend?”
“No.” Miss you so much, James. “I’m dating myself.”
Bow snorts. “You want my advice? Break up with her. She’s no good for you.”
“Hey!”
“Well, it’s true. Right now her priorities are seriously screwed up.”
* * *
The next six days are surprisingly good. Well, as good as can be expected in a place as vile as Prynne.
The four guards were culled from the pack. Dr. Vans says they just up and disappeared, but that can’t be true. He never punishes his men. I think the bastards are recovering in the medical ward. I just don’t know why Bow and I haven’t been punished.
I mean, we’ve been fed three squares every day, we haven’t been singled out during any of our classes, and Sloan hasn’t attacked us.
It’s the little things.
My biggest complaint? Most of Bow’s conversations begin with “If you sign with Troika, you’ll...”
Discover the true meaning of joy.
Know peace for the first time.
Have access to the best advisors in the world.
Make friends who will always have your back.
Pick one. Pick all. Gimme. But too bad for her, Myriad makes the same promises.
I place my newest blood mark on the calendar and straighten with ease. My back is on the mend, my range of motion almost normal.
“Tell me something,” Bow says as she ties her boots. I’m surprised she’s lucid. She spent the entire night threatening the wall. Go away. I’m going to kill you. Oh, yeah? Well, I can definitely hurt you. “Have you met with a new ML lately? A boy? Maybe kinda sorta...handsome.” She gags, as if the word tastes foul. “Maybe he pulled you aside in secret.”
ML—Myriad Laborer. “No. Why?”
She hikes a shoulder in a faux-casual shrug. “I know Myriad’s MO. When a teenage girl refuses to do their bidding, they send a boy they think she’ll like. One who’s supposed to rev her engine.”
“My engine is set to idle, remember? Maybe permanently.” After James... No. Just no.
“Hey. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
My parents would never agree to...
Oh, who am I kidding? They so would.
“I guess it’s better than the alternative.” She stands, stretches her arms over her head and arches her back. “If Myriad ever considers you a lost cause, there’s a good chance they’ll send someone to kill you.”
Same with Troika. There have always been whispers about Laborers who poison the Unsigned to prevent a pledge to the other realm. “One, I’m not close to signing, period. And two, if I die here, Dr. Vans won’t get a bonus.”
The pro? The greedy bastard would take a bullet to save me. The con? It’s just a matter of time before he ramps my torture to the next level.
No matter what’s done to me in the future, I will hold out. I must. I’ll be released on my eighteenth birthday. Though my parents signed with Myriad before my conception, there was a special clause for the birth of a child.
When I came along, their contracts had to be renegotiated. Now their benefits are dependent on my decision. An incentive to raise me the “right” way.
If I haven’t signed with Myriad by the time I’m a legal adult, my parents will lose everything they love more than they ever loved me. Money, prestige. Homes. Cars. Boats. Not to mention the things they were promised in the Everlife.
Bow sighs. “Another day, another breakfast. Or a meal pretending to be breakfast.”
A sense of doom overtakes me, a shadow I’m unable to shake. Bad is coming. Bad is always coming. But since six days have passed without incident—bad is coming soon.
Sounding resigned, she says, “Our cell will open in—”
“Three, two, one,” I finish.
The doors slide apart, and we race into the hall.
Sloan spots me and flips me off. I know she’s pleased four guards are missing, but she’s also ticked about something—clearly—and lashing out.
I look her over and find finger-size bruises around her neck. Someone tried to choke her out. Been there, lived through that.
If I show her an ounce of sympathy, she’ll try to throat punch me. I blow her a kiss.
“Come on,” I say to Bow.
We make our way to the cafeteria, where I count the occupants out of habit. My gaze lands on a boy I’ve never before seen and oh, wow. Okay. He. Is. Gorgeous. Not that I care about a pretty face. Pretty can hide a monster. But I’m not overhyping when I say he’s a living ad for every dream-boy fantasy every girl in the universe has ever had.
He has dark hair that hangs over a stern brow. I can’t make out the color of his eyes, but just like with Bow, I can feel the intensity of them—because they’re locked on me. His nose is straight, perfect, and his lips soft and pink. His jaw is strong and dusted with the shadow of a beard.
He leans back and drapes his tattooed, muscular arms over the tops of the chairs flanking him, and smiles, a slow unveiling of perfect, white teeth.
In moments like this I miss Clay more than usual. He was—is!—such a good judge of character. He can take one look at a new inmate or guard and tell me if they have a heart of gold or one that’s as wrinkled as a prune. We called him the heartalyst.
Where are you, Clay?
“Son of a Myriad-troll.” Bow snarls, taking a step forward, about to move out of line. “How dare he show his ugly face!”
I shackle her wrist in a hard grip to hold her in place.
“Don’t worry,” she says, huffing and puffing. “I won’t break the rules and murder him. I’ll just introduce him to my fists—repeatedly!”
When she continues to struggle, I plant myself in front of her, forcing her to concentrate on me. “Calm down. Now. Or you’ll be dragged out of here kicking and screaming.”
She tries to glare at the boy over my shoulder.
“My TL once said hate is like drinking a vial of poison and expecting it to harm the other person,” I tell her, and she finally settles. “You’re not hurting the guy, only yourself.”
“But...but... I’m justified,” she says with a whine.
“So is everyone else, I’m sure.” As I peer at her, curiosity fills me. “How do you know him? What’d he do to you?”
Stiffening, she turns away. “We’ve crossed paths a time or two. He’s pure Myriad evil, trust me.”
“He can’t be that bad. I’m sure—”
In a flash of motion, she’s facing me again, fisting my shirt, clinging to me, her copper eyes imploring me to understand. “He’s worse than bad. Stay away from him. Okay? All right?”
I dare another glance at “pure Myriad evil.” He’s focused on Bow now, looking her up and down like he’s a predator and it’s finally mealtime. He smiles again, even more slowly, a lot more wickedly, and runs his tongue over his teeth, as if he can already taste her...and he only wants more.
I lose the ability to breathe.
“Move,” the inmate behind Bow commands, giving her a push.
I snap to and toss the girl a scowl that rivals Sloan’s, silently promising violence. Only when she’s staring at her feet do I step forward and accept my tray from a creeper with greasy hair and an even greasier mustache. I’m pretty sure Dr. Vans purposely hires the scourge of the earth to scare us straight.
Bow accepts her tray and shepherds me across the cafeteria, as far away from New Guy as possible. I let her get away with it for only one reason: that stupid curiosity. Along the way we pass Sloan, who just can’t resist the opportunity to stick out her leg to trip Bow. But Bow is a freak of nature. She jumps over the obstacle and kicks back, hooking Sloan’s ankle between her feet and ripping the girl out of her chair.
As Sloan goes down, her elbow slams into her tray. Food pours over her head, and as she shrieks, the rest of the cafeteria grows quiet. Finally a chuckle cuts through the shock, and it’s like a starting bell. The rest of the room explodes into squawks of laughter.
Bow doesn’t grin over her triumph; she frowns. Once again wishing she’d handled things differently? “I’m sorry,” she calls over her shoulder.
What a conundrum she is. Smart, with sharply honed protect-yourself-at-any-cost instincts. But she also has a deep-seated need to soothe others.
When we find a table, she stares at me, intent. “Listen. Things are different now. Things you won’t understand. You have to trust me, and you have to keep me nearby from now on. No matter what. Okay? All right? I’ll see to your safety. If you’ll let me.”
“You can’t see to my safety.” No one can. “There are too many threats.”
“Dude. I’ve already proved otherwise, and yet still you doubt me?”
“And,” I continue as if she hasn’t spoken, “I don’t want you to try. I mean it. You’ll only get yourself into trouble.”
“Ten—”
“No. No arguments.” I may be confused about my future, but I’m not confused about my present. I’ll never place my well-being in the hands of someone else. Once, I trusted my parents. They sent me here. I trusted James. Since his death, I’ve been stuck with a terrible sense of loss. I trusted Marlowe, who’d been pro-Troika, but ultimately, she was so desperate to leave the asylum and enter the realm, she hung herself. She also abandoned Clay, who loved her.
Now I don’t know if she’s actually in Troika or Many Ends—if it’s real. Suicide is expressly forbidden by both realms, and it can even render a contract null and void.
I trusted Clay, too. He managed to stay clean and sober until Marlowe’s death. Afterward, he spiraled, doing I-don’t-know-what to buy “happy” drugs from a nurse.
His mind roilin’ and boilin’, he asked me to escape with him. Said he’d paid the guards to do what they’d done for James. I’d already lost my boyfriend and couldn’t bear the thought of losing another friend, so I turned him down and begged him to give me time to figure out a better way.
The next day, he was gone.
That was three months ago. Where is he? Free? Or was he caught? Is he somewhere within these horrible walls?
Sometimes I think I hear screams rising from my concrete floor.
“That boy...he’s Myriadian, you know,” Bow mutters.
She says Myriadian with the same inflection she might use with cancer. Does she hate him just because he signed with the other realm? “Have you ever heard of HART?”
“Humans Against Realm Turmoil? Yep. They like to protest the war between the realms in front of the House of Myriad, the House of Troika, and the White House.”
“Right.” From my History of the Worlds class, I know their ultimate goal is a treaty between the realms and the Land of the Harvest. I also know the first members got together soon after the realms revealed themselves...again.
Apparently, the realms did the whole “Hi, we’re here and we’re real” a few times over the ages, but humans—being human—romanticized the truth. Myriad has been called everything from Valhalla to Mount Olympus, while Troika was once known as Paradise. Then, around the 1500s, both realms began to insert themselves into everyday human existence, drawing us out of the dark ages.
“Why?” Bow asks, her tone cautious.
“Well, I’m wondering why members of the realms haven’t agreed to a peace treaty. Or, you know, just hugged it out. I’m wondering why you hate a boy just because he’s different. Or because he’s hurt you for some mysterious reason. You Troikans claim you’re all about forgiveness, right?”
“Forgiving someone isn’t the same as letting him crap all over me. Dude. Have you ever heard the Myriad pledge of allegiance? We won’t rest until Troika is nothing but ash in the wind of eternity. Also, the HART campaign is ridiculous. Light and darkness cannot coexist. A house divided cannot stand.” She pushes her tray to the middle of the table, as if she’s lost her appetite. “We’d be a two-headed beast, and we’d consume ourselves.”
Speaking of consumption, she’s eaten so little since her arrival I’m beginning to worry about her health.
“Distract me,” she says.
“Eat,” I reply.
“No. Distract me,” she repeats.
“Want me to sing and dance for you?” I ask drily.
“Yes!”
“No way, no how. Not happening.”
“Fine.” She sighs with disappointment. “Just... I don’t know, talk to me. Tell me something about your life before the asylum.”
I don’t want to share details about myself, but I also don’t want her to starve, and it’s now clear she requires motivation. “I’ll give a nugget or two, but only if you eat everything on your tray.”
“Are you kidding? It’s gross and—”
“Trust me, you need the vitamins.”
“Fine.” With a grimace, she returns the tray to its proper place. “Now talk.”
Where to begin? It seems like an eternity since I’ve revealed even a minor detail about my history. “I attended a Myriad-endorsed private school.”
She waits for me to say more. I don’t. She gives her tray another push.
I scowl at her. “What do you want to know?”
“How about your studies?”
“Besides the usual courses?” Easy. “The inner workings of the realm.” Those classes were taught by Messengers, people responsible for spreading the word about the realm they loved.
Mostly, I’d been fascinated by the daily life of spirits. Unlike us, they have no need to sleep. They eat only one meal a day, a single piece of manna. A honeycomb-like wafer. Anyone under the age of eighteen attends school to learn more about their realm and its leaders. Kids are also taught the skills they’ll need for whatever job they’ll one day be assigned.
Everyone over the age of eighteen works an assignment nonstop until completion—even if the assignment takes years. Like undercover cops.
Bow swallows a bite of slop and grimaces. “What about your friends?”
“They were sheltered, like me.” The answer leaves me without hesitation, as if I’m already used to sharing. “We could hang out together, but only with a parent or Laborer in view. We weren’t to get behind the wheel of a car or even into a car with someone other than the person paid to drive us.” At first, I accepted it. I thought, My parents love me, want me protected. Then came resentment. My parents simply need me alive, whatever the cost.
The day of my sixteenth birthday, after I refused to sign with Myriad, I stole the keys to my mom’s car. I’d never driven before, but autopilot made it effortless. I’d soared, and I’d never had so much fun.
But that kind of fun never lasts, does it?
The next day, I ended up at the asylum, scared out of my mind, shocked and confused.
“Does Troika choose humans the same way Myriad does?” I ask.
“Pretty much. Headhunters monitor people on the earth, searching for a certain trait.”
Headhunter, a subdivision of Leader. “What trait?”
“Willingness.”
“Willingness?” What does that even mean?
“Anyway,” she continues. “Laborers are sent to protect the chosen and then, when the human reaches the Age of Accountability, they negotiate covenant terms and guide the human through the rest of Firstlife. With us, though, covenants are voided if the signer is coerced. With Myriad, a coerced signer must go to court to gain freedom.”
Court? “There’s a way out?” The news gives me hope.
“Yes, but too many lose the case, since the court insists both Troikans and Myriadians attend. The signer often cracks during questioning.”
Well, a little hope.
“Now I know the before-Prynne Ten.” Bow waves her spoon at me. “Tell me about the after-Prynne Ten. What are you going to do when you’re free?”
Reveal who I want to be, rather than who I used to be? That one proves more difficult. “You first.”
“As if you couldn’t guess. I’m going to continue spreading light, and I’m going be the best Troikan Laborer—and the sexiest—in the history of ever.”
I’ve struggled to pick a side for over a year. Here she is, unwavering in her belief. I’ll just pretend I’m not writhing with envy. “How do you know you’ll be a Laborer? There are four other jobs in the Everlife with multiple subpositions under each.”
“I’ve known here—” she taps her fist over her heart “—all my life.”
“And the feeling has never wavered?” Not once?
“Why would it? My position in life—and death—is part of who I am.”
The envy I’m totally not feeling prompts me to say, “Or, fate has decided for you.”
She scoffs, saying, “Don’t get me started on fate! Fate is an excuse, a way to remove blame and therefore guilt for poor decision making. Free choice decides the outcome of your life, not fate.”
Girl makes a good point.
“Why aren’t you branded?” Those who make covenant with Troika are supposed to tattoo a three-point star on the top of each hand—not that everyone does. Those who make covenant with Myriad are supposed to tattoo interlocking jagged lines on their wrists. Again, not that everyone does. It’s supposed to be an outward sign of an inward commitment.
“Oh, no.” She shakes her head. “I answered your question. It’s your turn to answer mine. What are you going to do after the asylum?”
I chew on my bottom lip as my mind whirls. I’ve never voiced my desire aloud, have held the secret close to my heart. “My grandparents left me a trust.” One my parents can’t touch. My grandparents were Troikan, which was how my mom was raised. When she met my dad, she decided Myriad was the place for her. “At eighteen, I’ll be set. I’ll be able to afford a house on the beach.” One with zero neighbors who force me to think about issues I can’t solve. “I’m going to...surf.”
I’ve never been allowed, could only watch other people from the safety of my bedroom. Anytime I asked to do something remotely “dangerous,” I was told I had to wait until I reached the Age of Accountability and signed with Myriad.
Now I crave excitement. The wind in my face, water beaded over my skin.
For some reason, as happiness buzzes in my veins, my gaze is drawn to New Guy.
He’s staring at me again.
Each of my pulse points leaps. Not knowing what else to do, I nod in acknowledgment.
“Wait. Are you eye-screwing him?” Bow demands.
What? “No!”
Somehow he hears our conversation over the chatter around us and calls, “Yes.” Then he winks at me.
I glare at him before I glare at Bow. I might have shared tidbits of my life with her, but that doesn’t mean she knows me or has the right to castigate me. “Do you want me as your enemy, Bow?”
Her jaw drops. “No. Of course not.”
I say nothing else, my point made. I stand and walk away from her...toward New Guy.
He smiles at me, but it’s the wicked one, as if he knows a secret I don’t, and it sets my nerves on edge.
As I pass him, I take a page from Bow’s book, hook my foot around the leg of his chair and yank. The chair topples over, taking him with it.
His surprised laughter follows me out of the cafeteria.
chapter three (#ulink_f9f0501d-c147-5fda-9033-7c8c41e7f01c)
“There is no supposed to be, only what is.”
—Myriad
There’s a line in the hallway. As I take my place at the tail, Bow rushes up behind me, apologizing. I ignore her. As usual, some kids are sent to the gym to “lose a few pounds,” and some are sent to the commons to “lose a little crazy.” In either case, the time is considered a preclass “warm-up.”
Also as usual, I’m sent to the commons.
A guard oinks at Bow and pushes her toward the gym. For the first time, she sidesteps him and tries to follow me.
I remember her warning. You have to keep me nearby from now on.
She’s that worried about New Guy?
The guard—I call him Colonel Anus—grabs her. At the moment of contact, she spins, raising the arm he’s holding and also cradling it against her chest while rotating her wrist, putting her palm just under her chin. She uses her other hand to latch on to the meaty part of his palm. Then she steps back, twisting his wrist.
He drops, hitting the floor with a thud, his arm now positioned behind his back.
Girl has even more skills than I realized. I’m impressed.
“I’m staying with my roommate today. Get used to the idea.” She drops Anus’s arm and steps on the back of his head to pass him. His nose slams into the floor, and he wails with pain. The problem? He has a friend I’ve named Ben Dover. Ben launches into action, grabbing Bow by the hair and yanking. She flails as she falls backward.
“Chubby girls don’t get to spend their mornings chatting about their problems.” He spits at her when she lands. “The treadmill is your best friend.”
“Well, my fist is your worst enemy.” She kicks out and nails him between the legs. “And my foot. Yeah, I probably should have mentioned my foot.”
He loses his breath as he drops to his knees.
She sits up and draws back her elbow, clearly planning to knock out his teeth. New Guy runs past her before she can act and she goes still, as if her mind has clocked out for a smoke break. Did he do something to her? By the time she’s all systems go, the guard has swallowed the nuts she drilled into his throat and reentered the game. He easily dodges her next blow and throws one of his own, popping her in the jaw.
A loud crack rings out.
As Bow crashes, other inmates move out of the way. Including me.
I want to help her, and I will—when I can actually do some good. Know when to strike and when to wait. Or hurt.
Two other guards and a nurse—a woman I affectionately refer to as Nurse Ratched—enter the fray.
Nurse Ratched pulls a syringe from the pocket of her lab coat. “A special cocktail for a special girl.” Bow is held down and stuck in the neck. Her entire body begins to twitch, but she remain conscious. Most other kids pass out when they’re drugged.
Guilt fills me. Could I have done something?
She would have done something for me.
“Show over.” Nurse Ratched, another Russian, glares at me as if I’m at fault. “Move along. Now!”
No other choice. Well, no other intelligent choice. I head to the commons alongside the others. I’m trembling as I sit in my assigned circle in the back of the room, where chairs without cushions have been nailed down.
New Guy shoves someone aside to take the spot next to me. That someone—a boy named Hank—protests until New Guy gives him a hard thump to the throat. While Hank gasps for air, New Guy gifts me with that slow predator’s grin.
I breathe him in: peat smoke and heather. Exotic, with a hint of musk, and I swear it’s like I’ve just been transported to the British Isles after a rainstorm.
His eyes...they’re as bright as the sun I haven’t seen in over a year, and they are the most mesmerizing shade of gold with flecks of crystalline blue.
In one, there are five flecks. In the other, three.
Five. The number of our senses. Sight, sound, touch, taste and smell.
Three. A trinity. We have a spirit, soul and body.
In an octave, the fifth and third notes create the basic foundation of all chords. How appropriate. Those eyes have somehow made my blood sing. Or I’m simply malnourished and on edge, and my brain is overcompensating.
Yeah. That.
This close, I can almost count New Guy’s individual lashes. They are long, spiky and jet-black...and I’m staring at him, I realize.
“That wasn’t a very nice thing to do,” I say.
“And knocking over my chair was?” His voice is low and husky with a slight Irish lilt, and it’s almost as smoky as his scent. “Let’s do the introduction thing so my heartbeat will finally calm down. I’m Killian. And you are stunningly beautiful.”
Before he’s finished delivering the (clearly) practiced line, I’m already building walls. “I think you mean I’m attitudinal.”
“Definitely not. But now I’m certain you’re irresistible.”
“I think you mean unsuitable.”
“Or adorable.”
Oh, crap. Are we flirting? “All right. Enough.”
The corners of his lips twitch. “Are you playing hard to get, lass? It’s never happened to me before, so I need clarification.”
“I’m not playing anything. And I’m impossible to get.”
He rubs his hands together with something akin to glee. “Well, then. Challenge accepted.”
I open my mouth to protest, but my gaze lands on his wrists. Myriad brands. They are the loveliest I’ve ever seen, the links slanted rather than rounded, creating languid eyes. And up close like this, the tattoos on his forearms appear to be Technicolor. They are spectacular, but there are too many to count without a more intense study.
I want to do a more intense study.
And...there’s something odd about the images. Something more than simple aesthetics. The arrangement, maybe? There are lines through the skull with tears of blood. More lines through the cracked and crumbling moon, with pieces falling into the stars. Are they telling a story? Like hieroglyphics?
“Into tattoos, lass? Well, I’m happy to offer you a private unveiling later.”
My cheeks flare with heat. I duck my head to hide the reaction.
I’m not usually into tattoos, no. Even though I have one myself. A small rendition of planet Earth on the back of my neck. I was fifteen when I got it—snuck out with my friends in my first real act of rebellion—but I’m not sure why I thought a globe was “a perfect expression of my turbulent emotions, and something I’ll never regret.”
“You’re still staring,” he says.
I grind my teeth. “Where are you from?” Like the staff, inmates hail from all over the world. I’m a native of Los Angeles, where the House of Myriad resides—where my dad wields a massive amount of power. The laws he helps push through affect both humans and spirits.
My mother is an artist in high demand. Her paintings of Myriad always sell at auction.
I sometimes wonder what the two have told their friends about my absence. Boarding school? Rehab? Or the truth?
“Where do you want me to be from?” Killian rasps.
Irritation sparks. “Why are you here?” I always ask the newcomers, even though I rarely receive an answer. Bow, Marlowe and Clay are the exceptions.
He shrugs. “Would you believe I saw something I wanted and decided to come in and get it?”
My blush returns, and I lament the fairness of my skin. Not to mention my inability to hide even the slightest reaction. Most of all, I lament his effect on me. “Let me guess. You wanted the five-star cuisine? The frequent whippings? The voyeuristic staff?”
Nonchalant, he drapes his arm over the back of my chair. “Perhaps it was your friend. What’s she calling herself these days?”
His odd phrasing throws me. “Her name is Bow, if that’s what you mean.”
“Bow.” He laughs, low and intimate. “An archer uses a bow and arrow. How cute.”
Again, I’m thrown. “What’s the deal between you two?”
“She’s a bitch, and she can’t be trusted. Don’t worry, though.” He leans close enough to graze the tip of his nose against my ear. “I’ll protect you.”
I jerk away, severing contact.
“Are you afraid of me? I’m disappointed.” Killian pouts at me. “Where’s the firecracker who once choked a guard with his own belt?”
I don’t have to wonder how he obtained his info. In here, the gossip train never stops running. I’m sure he heard about my punishment, too.
“I’m not afraid of you. I just don’t like to be touched without first granting permission.” I meet his gaze dead-on, a clear challenge. “And if you want an introduction to the firecracker, I can arrange it. She’s a little ticked you called her roommate a bitch.”
He accepts the new challenge with eagerness. “Yes, please. With a cherry on top of me.”
He’s laughing at me, isn’t he? He’s even relaxed enough to twirl a lock of my hair around his finger, the black strands a lovely contrast to the bronze of his skin.
I slap his hand away. “You’re positive? She’s heartless.”
“You’re only whetting my appetite, lass.”
Not just laughing, but mocking. It makes my next action easier. “Don’t forget. You begged for this.” I punch him in the throat, a quick jab that causes him to gasp for breath he isn’t able to catch. Payback for Hank. The action should stop...whatever this is.
I smile at him. “Just so you know, even an animal in a cage can strike back.”
He recovers swiftly and—shocker—returns my smile with one of his own. His amusement appears genuine and, dare I believe it, tinged with a bit of respect.
He opens his mouth to reply, but Sloan glides into the empty seat beside him and pats his chest. She doesn’t appear to enjoy the connection, but she doesn’t end it, either. “Hey there, sugar bear.” She gives him a patented I’m-not-wearing-any-panties wink but it, too, seems faked. “I thought I’d save you the trouble of asking around for my info. I’m Sloan Aubuchon.”
His attention never leaves me. “No, thank you, lass. I’m only interested in Ten.”
His accent is thicker now, pure seduction, but the sweet words are actually a threat. I sense it. Too bad for him, I’m far from cowed. He has no idea the horrors I’ve endured. I’m not a wilting flower. Not anymore.
“Ten kisses from me?” she asks.
“To you,” I tell him, “I’m Tenley.” What’s in a name? Only everything. Nicknames allow an intimacy I don’t want to share with him.
“Or you can call her Nutter,” Sloan says, helpful as ever. “Everyone else does.”
His gaze rakes over me. “For the size of your balls, or the nutty goodness of your taste?”
Through gritted teeth, I say, “Do you require another introduction to the firecracker?”
He’s smiling as Dr. Vans enters the room.
Quiet descends over the circle as the most hated male in the asylum sits in the only cushioned chair. His narrowed gaze finds Sloan, and he pats the empty seat next to him. The one always saved for her.
She raises her chin and remains in place.
I don’t like the way he’s looking at her. I lean into his line of sight, claiming his attention with my glare. He runs his tongue over his teeth before looking away from me.
He’s a tall, lean man in his late thirties. His short brown hair is always meticulously styled, his clothes impeccably tailored underneath his lab coat.
“Are you protecting your enemy?” Killian asks me. “Lass, you’re getting more interesting by the second.”
“You mean I’m getting more bristling,” I mutter.
“More riveting.”
Dang, he’s quick.
“All right, everyone. We have a new member of our family. Please stand and tell the group three facts about yourself, Mr.—” Dr. Vans glances down at his notebook “—Flynn.”
Killian stands without hesitation. “I hear it’s best to picture your audience in their underwear.” He winks down at me. “Nice choice.” As the other kids chuckle, he adds, “I enjoy long walks on the beach, swimming in the ocean and surfing. I used to have a weakness for blondes, but I have a feeling that part of my life is over.”
He surfs? Seriously?
What are the odds?
A brunette on the other side of the circle fans her face. Sloan signs call me.
Vans notices and scowls at her.
“Also,” Killian adds, “I’m a Myriad boy through and through. If you give me an hour, I’ll convince you to sign in the first five minutes, and we can spend the rest of our time celebrating your decision.”
I give him a thumbs-down.
Hank raises his hand and, with challenge in his eyes, says, “I accept. Your cell or mine?”
“Like you could handle me, boy-o.” Killian sits.
“I like your enthusiasm, Mr. Flynn. Perhaps Ms. Lockwood needs to spend quality time with you.” Vans makes a notation in his book. “Yes. I’m already sold on the idea. I’ll make the arrangements.”
I bite my tongue to stop a shout of negation. Of course Vans wants to pair me with a Myriad loyalist.
How would Killian, my parents or even Bow like it if I actively tried to convince them to join the world of the Unsigned?
I drum my fingers against my chin. “I think quality time with Mr. Flynn is exactly what I need...to finally push me in Troika’s direction.”
Killian snorts, as if he knows I’m bluffing.
Vans purses his lips but doesn’t reply directly. “All right, everyone. I’m here to listen to any problems you’ve been having. Talk to me. Help me help you make your stay here more enjoyable.”
More enjoyable for him. For us? More agonizing.
As different kids list their grievances—things I’ve heard a thousand times before—I distract myself with the childhood song that’s never far from my mind.
Ten tears fall, and I call...nine hundred trees, but only one is for me. Eight times eight times eight they fly, whatever you do, don’t stay dry.
“—don’t like that you’re still alive, Vanniekins.” Sloan runs a fingertip down each cheek, mimicking tears. “Let me remedy the problem?”
An-n-nd as usual, he moves on without chastising her.
Seven ladies dancing, ignore their sweet romancing. Six—
“—spiders in my room,” a girl bursts out, as if she can’t hold in the words a second longer. She shudders with revulsion.
Dr. Vans makes a notation.
Oh, honey. You have no idea what you’ve done. Next time she’s due for punishment, she’ll find thousands of hologram spiders in her room. Her mind will think they’re real, and she’ll willingly peel the skin from her body to remove the critters.
“You have to send someone to remove them,” she adds. “I can’t go another night—”
“Shut up,” I snap. Cruel to be kind. “Pretending to be afraid of spiders is—”
“I’m not pretending.”
Fool! She doesn’t get it.
Sooner rather than later, she will. She’ll remember this moment and cry.
Dr. Vans focuses on me, his dark eyes narrowing. “Miss Lockwood, you seem eager to speak. Do you have any complaints about your treatment?”
I pretend my middle finger is a tube of lipstick and apply a first and second coat. I’ll never willingly offer ammunition to be used against me. He knows this.
Still he says, “I’ll give you five seconds to voice your biggest complaint. Continue to remain silent, and I’ll be forced to penalize you.”
Finally. The sword I feel poised at my neck every second of every day will slash, and I’ll experience the next round of torture.
I become the sole focus of every person in the room, but I keep my eyes on Vans.
“One,” he says.
“I think I’m going to barf every time I look at your face.” How’s that?
“Only a legitimate complaint will be heeded, Miss Lockwood.”
“Excellent. I was completely serious.”
“Two. Three.”
“She would like the guards to keep their hands to themselves,” Killian says. To pull attention from me? “I know I would. I’m more than a piece of meat.”
I kind of admire his balls. Figuratively! Only figuratively!
“Miss Lockwood?” Vans prompts.
I raise my chin in a mimic of Sloan. Denying him is one of my favorite indulgences. My hope is that, at the end of his life, when he’s lying in his sickbed, choking on his own vomit—a girl can dream—he’ll look back and bemoan the fact that I’m his biggest failure.
“Four, five,” I say with a smirk.
Sloan shakes her head at me, all bless your stupid heart. Maybe I should’ve played along. All I had to do was complain about something I hate, or lie about something I hate, but the truth is too important to me. I hate lies almost as much as I hate Vans. The worst of the worst lie. I won’t emulate them, even to save myself from a boatload of grief.
A few inmates snicker. This enrages Vans, who leaps to his feet. He motions to Ben Dover and Colonel Anus with a tilt of his chin. “Take her.”
Killian jumps up and steps in front of me, shocking me. He frowns at me over his shoulder, as if he’s in shock, too, then he scowls at the guards. “She stays. I’m not done talking with her.”
He, a stranger, is...guarding me? And he’s doing it even after I refused to guard Bow. Way to rock my world.
I stand and give him a nudge into his chair. “Don’t worry about me,” I whisper. I don’t want him hurt on my behalf. “Worry about yourself.”
He glares but remains silent as Colonel Anus takes my left arm and Ben Dover takes my right. I’m hauled to my room. Bow is there already and she’s still in a drugged sleep, but now she’s on her bed, her wrists and ankles shackled to the posts with cuffs that glow more brightly than a lamp. Aka fetters.
Vans enters the room behind me. My stomach churns, as if it’s trying to make butter from bile, but I swallow back pleas for mercy. This man has none.
I’m held immobile as he paces in front of me. “Ten, Ten, Ten,” he says and sighs heavily. “Ever the troublesome child. Why do you force me to hurt you?”
“Your choice. Your actions. Don’t try casting blame on me.”
“This isn’t the way I like to treat my patients, but I’m willing to do whatever proves necessary to save you from the Realm of Many Ends...or an eternity as a Troikan slave.”
“You are Unsigned.” He must be. “I’ve heard you tell other kids you’ll do anything to save them from eternity as a Myriad drone, one of countless souls overpopulating a dying realm.”
He shrugs. “What’s right for one isn’t right for another.”
No. No! He has an answer for everything and though this one sounds good, I cringe as if he scraped his fingernails over a chalkboard. There has to be absolute right or there isn’t absolute wrong.
This place is wrong.
This man is wrong. He misleads and misdirects without regret, caring more about a monetary payoff than the long-term health of the kids under his “care.”
Troika would tell me to forgive him.
Myriad would probably tell me to attack without mercy.
That. I like that. Strike before he can strike at me.
With a roar, I lunge at him. The guards hold me in place, squeezing my shoulders so roughly the joints nearly pop out of place. Pain lances through me, and for a moment, I see stars. I don’t care. I struggle with all my might, desperate to reach my target.
“Did you get your degree at Discount Psychology?” I throw at him. “You only make half a difference and even then it’s a bad one.”
Direct hit! A muscle flexes in his jaw.
Two other guards enter the room. D-bag and Titball. How sad. No Comrade Douche today.
“Perfect timing,” Vans says, gloating now.
Both males carry a bucket of water and a rag. They stop in front of my blood-covered wall and dip the rags in the water—
Understanding dawns, and I gasp with horror. Not my calendar. Anything but my calendar. Those numbers have been the only constant in my life. My only friend. I can’t lose another friend.
“Apologize for insulting me. On your knees,” Vans says. “I’ll think about forgetting your behavior today.”
I actually consider it. My numbers...they aren’t just my friends but my only diversion from the horrors of the asylum. My only real hope. Through them, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. My next birthday...and my ultimate escape.
But. There’s always a but with me, isn’t there? I won’t be able to live with myself if I give this man—this travesty of a human being—what he wants. Because, if I do, the light at the end of the tunnel will no longer be so bright.
I lock my knees, remaining on my feet.
“Very well.” He nods, almost anticipatory.
The guards begin to wash the lines away, and my horror is renewed and redoubled.
Not ready to say goodbye. “Stop. Please. You have to stop!” I kick out my legs, but I’m jerked out of striking distance. “You have no right to destroy my property!”
They continue washing, and my emotional pain cuts worse than any physical pain I’ve ever endured. Flesh heals. The soul can fester.
“If you don’t want to lose anything else you value, Miss Lockwood, you need to leave Prynne. And soon. All you have to do is sign with Myriad,” Vans says, and the guards pause. “Nothing has ever been easier.”
A crimson drop of water trickles down the wall. A bloody tear. My beautiful calendar is dying, and with a single word I have the power to save what’s left of it. How can I not just say—the—word.
Say yes. Yes, yes, yes.
See? It isn’t difficult.
The word bubbles up... “No,” I end up saying. “No, I won’t sign.”
What is wrong with me?
Vans vibrates with rage, but quickly manages to calm himself. “I know that isn’t what you planned to say, Miss Lockwood. Last chance. Sign with Myriad.”
Moonlight...castles...and one day, a return to the Land of the Harvest, Fused with another soul...living out my fate...
Might Equals Right.
Sunlight...wildflowers...an eternity of Rest after I fulfill my covenant duties...my mistakes my own...
Light Brings Sight.
Right now, I would rather know the truth—who is right and who is wrong? I would rather not ruin my future. As I’ve learned, the wrong decision can lead down a road with more bumps and slumps than I’m equipped to handle—can cost far more than I’m willing to pay.
“I won’t,” I grit out between clenched teeth. I can’t allow a momentary pain to eclipse an eternal decision. Feelings are fleeting, no matter how earth-shattering they seem; they never last, always change. A covenant is forever.
Vans curses at me. D-bag and Titball return to work. I go still and quiet, watching as every precious line disappears.
When there’s nothing left, the group leaves, though Vans pauses in the doorway to say, “I want to be your advocate, Miss Lockwood, and yet you insist on making me your enemy.”
“You insist.” My eyes burn with tears. I blink away, refusing to give this man the satisfaction of knowing he broke me. “I simply oblige you.”
He taps his fingers on the door frame, the only indication his irritation hasn’t faded. “Perhaps one day Myriad will decide they don’t want you, after all. Kind of like your parents decided they didn’t want you, yes?”
A sharp pain nearly slices open my chest. Vans knows just how to wound for maximum damage. “Has torture ever worked for you?” I ask, but I already know the answer. I’ve noticed the fast turnaround. Most kids stay only a month or two.
“More often than not.”
“Might Equals Right, eh?”
My derision causes him to tap faster. “One decision can change your circumstances, Miss Lockwood. Just one.”
I smile a little too sweetly at him. “One bullet can change yours.”
The smile he gives me is just as sweet. “Up to this point, I’ve been easy on you. Keep pushing, and you’ll see my worst.” He reaches into his pocket and throws what looks to be a black button at me. A button that hits the floor because I don’t even try to catch it. “Almost forgot. This is from your mother.”
Why would she give me a button?
He leaves at last, locking me inside the room.
My tears long to break free, and my knees long to buckle, but I maintain my tough-as-nails attitude. The cameras...
With a trembling hand, I pick up the button. A flash-scribe, I realize. A way to send a recorded message. Now I’m even more confused. What does the mother who abandoned me, not visiting for seven months, wish to say to me?
Ignoring a swell of eagerness—have to know, now, now, now!—I stuff the device in my own pocket and stumble to Bow to check the fetters for locks. I find none. Good. I can free her, but oh, it’s going to hurt.
What’s a little more pain, right?
The outside of both cuffs is heated, and—I hiss—by the time I press the release button on each one, seven blisters decorate my fingers and palms.
The glow of the metal dwindles, the needles on the inside of each device detaching from bone and ejecting from her skin.
Clink, clink. The cuffs fall away, but she doesn’t wake. I’m glad. I’m not in the mood to deal with her.
With a curse, I tumble onto my squeaky mattress and stare up at the ceiling. Life sucks.
A muted scream suddenly echoes from the floor, and I jolt.
Isn’t Clay, isn’t Clay, isn’t Clay. He’s safe. He made it out.
Will I?
The flash-scribe is practically burning a hole in my pocket, my eagerness overtaking me. I withdraw the device and press my thumb into the top. As soon as my print registers, my mother’s voice fills the cell.
“Hi, Ten. Bet you never expected to hear from me, huh?”
My heart thumps against my ribs, and my gut clenches.
“I know I haven’t come to see you in forever, but there’s a very good reason for that. A beautiful secret. One that’s taught me how to be a mother again. I’m sorry, sweet girl. I’m sorry for everything, and I love you, I really do. Your dad loves you, too, but he’s scared of losing his job and—well. That’s not your problem. We’ll be coming to visit you soon, and it’s my hope we’ll take you with us when we leave.”
Hope flares, only to die a quick death. This is a trick. Has to be.
A baby cries in the background. My mom says, “Shh, shh,” as if there’s a human being with her rather than a television, and I frown. No one under the age of eighteen—besides me—has ever been allowed inside the house. My mom’s rule.
And I get it. She prefers not to look at what she isn’t allowed to have: another kid. She wants one as fervently as I want a sibling—someone to love me unconditionally, just because I’m me, not because of what I can do. But, long ago, the realms made a deal with the human governments. To prevent overcrowding in Secondlife, where spirits can live for centuries, even millennia, there is a one-child-per-family limit during Firstlife. In return, the realms share their advanced technology, like this flash-scribe.
My mom clears her throat. “I’ve got to go, sweetheart. I know I screwed up with you, but I’m going to give my—child a better life. You have my word.”
Why the hesitation before child?
I toss the device across the room. She doesn’t love me. She can’t. And there’s no way my dad even likes me.
Are you sure about that?
A memory takes center stage in my mind. My dad carries me on his shoulders as I stretch my arms overhead, doing my best to capture a star in the sky.
“Almost got it,” he says with a laugh.
My mom claps and calls, “You can do it, sweet girl.”
All right, maybe they loved me once. The emotion has withered. Like my heart.
A moan escapes Bow. A second later, she comes up swinging, panting for breath. Her gaze is far from disoriented as it finds mine.
“Are you okay?”
Her first thought is of my welfare? Even though I did nothing as the guards knocked her around? My guilt returns. “I’m fine. What about you?”
“Fine, no thanks to Killian.”
I remember the way he raced past her. “What’d he do?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She plays with the edge of her blanket. “Vans is right, you know. At least about this. One decision can change your circumstances.”
“I know, but—” Wait. “How do you know what he said?”
“The body—I mean, my body—might have been drugged, but I was still aware.”
How’d she manage that? I’ve been drugged before, and I was out for the count.
“Sign with Troika, Ten.” Those copper eyes beseech me. “You’ll never regret it.”
“Prove it. Give me a guarantee.”
“My word isn’t good enough?”
No. “Why do you want me, anyway? Why do they?”
She inhales deeply, exhales sharply. “Have you ever heard of a Conduit?”
“Yes. Someone or something used as a means of sending something from one place or person to another.”
“Right. And in Troika, a Conduit is the highest type of General, second only to King. Conduits are rare and precious, powerful both here and there. They absorb sunlight from Earth—which is more than just heat and illumination—and direct the beams to the realm. There are whispers about you,” she says, only to go quiet.
“Whispers suggesting I’m a Conduit?” Someone rare and precious? Powerful? I laugh at the absurdity. “Wrong.”
“How do you know?”
“Better question. How do they?”
“Like you, I don’t have all the answers.” She sighs. “Let’s forget the Conduit thing. There’s a lot about you to admire. When you fight, you go balls to the wall. When you believe in something—like your right to choose—you can’t be shaken. You’re too stubborn. And whether you admit it or not, you’ll never be okay with the Myriad way of life, the strong taking from the weak.”
“You can’t know—”
“I can. Because that is what’s happening here, and you hate it.”
“Not every Myriad supporter is like that.” James never took without asking. “Just like not every Troikan is forgiving.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose in a show of fatigue. “Yeah. There’s that. I try to remind myself that everyone has their damage and no one is perfect. Except me.”
At least she didn’t try to deny the problems. “Both realms need a personality makeover.” And the thought of making a difference in one...kind of intrigues me.
“A makeover of any kind requires the proper tools, honey. And talent.”
“Are you saying I’m currently toolless and talentless?”
“Oh, good. You understood.”
We share a smile.
But her amusement doesn’t last long. “Sign with us, Ten, and you’ll be one of mine. I’ll get you out of here.”
“One of yours?”
“My friend. A member of my team. My family. Those I protect, whatever the cost.”
I laugh even though, deep down, a need to belong to someone plagues me. To be cared for and finally, truly loved...to be first rather than last. “Trust me. I’m not someone you want in your family.” I’m bad news. Everything I touch turns to rust. “And let’s be real. You can’t even protect yourself. Not here, not all the time.”
“This?” she says, motioning to herself, then the room around us. “What you see? It’s not even close to reality. Stop trusting your eyes and start listening to your heart. It sees more than you ever will.”
“Heart...as in emotions?” Troika is usually more concerned about law.
“Heart, as in spirit. The real you.”
That’s just it. Who am I? Ten? Or soul-fused with someone else?
My mom once speculated about my “other half.” With the way Myriad is acting, she said, it must be someone powerful.
How do you know I’m Fused? I remember asking.
Everyone is Fused with someone, sweet girl. It’s a way to give those who originally signed with Troika a second chance...a way to give those who signed with Myriad a chance to win more souls.
Before all this, I was pro-Myriad all the way. The fairy tales she wove about an enchanted land where daylight never intrudes and the royal ball never winds down, where candlelit castles are standard housing, and marrying a prince is a very real possibility, enthralled me.
The dirty little secret I kept from her? A part of me has always been Troi-curious.
Is the realm poverty-stricken? Does sunlight always glare? Are the homes basically cardboard boxes? Or is the sun bright and glorious, offering comforting warmth? Does the sweet scent of wildflowers saturate the air?
My (former) TL told me deception is Myriad’s greatest weapon. The hungry wolf hidden by a lamb’s skin. I haven’t heard from him since my incarceration.
To my parents’ consternation, it’s illegal to prevent a Laborer from speaking with a potential candidate if said candidate is willing. No matter the Laborer’s realm.
I’d mostly ignored my TL, not wanting to cause trouble at home...until a friend admitted she’d signed with Troika. In a moment of startling clarity, I’d realized we were—for all intents and purposes—enemies. I would be expected to excise her from my life. Even hate her.
I’d wanted to know why. So I risked chastisement at long last, going to a Troikan center, where humans in need of aid could request a meeting with a TL.
Before we parted, the TL assigned to me asked me a question that cracked through a hard outer shell I hadn’t known I’d erected.
Are you living your parents’ dream...or your own?
I’d scoffed at him then, but that night and every one after, I’d wondered... Why do I believe what I believe? What is truth and what is lie? What is real? What makes me right and so many others wrong? What if I’m wrong?
The wily bastard had planted seeds of doubt in the rich soil of my brain, and the more I searched for answers, the more those seeds were watered...the stronger they grew. Now the leaves are so thick I can’t see past them.
If I’m Fused, I’m not me. I’m part of someone else. Or several someone elses. But if I am me, I alone am responsible for my problems. Who wants to suck that badly?
But the thing I wonder most? Do I have a set fate, or can I change it? In other words...can I mess it up worse?
chapter four (#ulink_81d87860-f4bd-52af-b3f1-f7c487257bac)
“What is isn’t always what’s supposed to be.”
—Troika
I watch him. At lunch and dinner that day, I watch Killian. When he talks to girls, he seems utterly absorbed in the conversation, as if every word spoken is a secret he has to know. And the girls eat it up. He makes them feel special, I can tell. They preen for him. But those girls...they aren’t special to him. I can tell that, too.
He’s too aware of the world around him, his hand never far from his pocket, as if he has a weapon hidden inside. As if he expects to be ambushed at any moment. As if he wants to be ambushed.
Anytime the girl looks away from him—which isn’t often—his gaze finds me. He winks. He knows I’m watching him, and he wants me to know he knows.
His confidence lends him an aura of power and, someone please help me, I admire it.
Later that same evening, Vans does as promised and arranges my “date” with Killian. The doc is upping his game.
First, Nurse Ratched delivers a dress to my cell. A pink sundress. Pink. With ruffles and lace. I grimace. I’ll be the prettiest princess in the asylum.
Her parting words are both a threat (to me) and a triumph (to her.) “You can wear it...or you can go naked. Your choice.”
A red haze descends over my vision. A choice that isn’t really a choice is a violation of my rights.
What rights?
“Wow,” Bow says, looking me over after I’ve changed. “A make-out session would not be out of pity today.”
“Um. Thanks?” I smooth my hands over the ultrasoft fabric. “I feel ridiculous.”
“What’s the occasion?”
As I explain today’s therapy session, her eyes narrow.
“Son of a Myriad-troll,” she mutters. She’s sprawled atop her bed. “Wonder how much Mr. Flynn had to pay for that privilege.”
I spread my arms wide. “Because wanting me is completely unfeasible?”
She closes her eyes as she shakes her head. “Sorry. Sorry. You’re hot. You’re awesome, and I know he craves a taste of you. Who wouldn’t? But he’s a piece of scum, and he always has ulterior motives.”
A grumbled apology, but an apology nonetheless.
“You’re forgiven. I guess.” I mean, even I’m wondering why Killian has turned his predatory sights to me. “Tell me your history with the guy.”
She growls low in her throat. “He sucks. That’s all you need to know.”
This girl has repeatedly pried open my secrets with a crowbar. She doesn’t get to keep her own. “Don’t you want to help me build extra defenses against him?”
“Are your current defenses in danger of crumbling?”
No. Absolutely not. But... “Do you really want to take the chance? There’s something about him...”
She points a finger at me. “Is that breathlessness I hear in your tone, Lockwood?”
What? “No!” Me? Breathless? Never! “I’m as hard as steel.”
She punches her mattress, the springs squeaking. “You want details, fine. He stabbed his best friend in the back—twice! He’s selfish and cruel. He uses girls to get what he wants, and then he discards them.”
“Are you one of the girls he used and discarded?” I ask gently.
“No! Gross! I’ve never jonesed for his scones.” She shudders. “It’s just...he’ll sleep with you and leave you brokenhearted in the rubble that has become your life.”
Bow, who is obviously biased, has probably seen a distorted version of the truth. She’s never seen into Killian’s heart.
Or maybe I’m making excuses for the guy.
“If getting down and dirty is his main objective, I’m the last girl he should target.” I possessed the common sense and wherewithal to stop James every time his hands wandered past my shoulders, and I loved him.
And unlike Killian, James looked at me as if he adored me. He smiled with me, not at me. He whispered beautiful things in my ear...
So lovely.
So soft.
So perfect.
I’d been as mesmerized as I was flustered.
“I’ll never say yes,” I add.
“Famous last words. If you find yourself tempted, remember Killian is selfish in bed,” Bow says, as smoothly as if we’re discussing our favorite kind of donuts. “Oh. And I hear he’s small. Like, micropenis small.”
I roll my eyes. “Can you tell me something about him that doesn’t have anything to do with sex?”
“All right. For starters, he’s going into this thinking you’re going to fall for him and do anything to spend eternity with him.”
“Why does he even care? He’s human. If I sign with Myriad to be with him—” no boy is ever going to factor into my decision, because they don’t come with a guarantee, either “—he won’t be rewarded.”
She stands and walks over to pat me on my cheek. “Wow. You’re, like, Super Naive Girl.”
In the back of my mind, I note the temperature of her skin. Like James, she’s too cool, as if she’s incapable of absorbing heat.
Try to warm me up, James used to say.
“So... Killian will be rewarded?” I ask.
“Well, yeah. Everything we do has a consequence. Good or bad. In Firstlife and Everlife.” She tilts her head and studies me more intently. “Who’s your ML?”
“I’ve always had two at a time. Many have come and gone, but one has always remained the same. Madame Pearl Bennett.” A flawless blonde with a warm smile.
Distaste darkens Bow’s features. “Madame is the title for a Leader, which is step above a Laborer.”
“Yes.” A fact I’d pointed out to Madame Bennett as soon as I learned about the different positions. She’d smiled sweetly and said, You, my beauty, are special. I want to oversee your case myself.
I’d asked what made me so special, and her smile had only grown. You remind me of someone I loved and like her, you’re going to do great things for our realm.
I’d adored her. Once. She was the one who told my parents to send me to Prynne. I’d heard them talking. At first, my dad resisted the idea. When Madame promised him the experience would toughen me up, help me become the person I was meant to be, and snap me out of my pouty teenage refusal to sign with Myriad, he finally relented. Then he convinced my mother.
“Well,” Bow says, and I can’t tell what emotion she’s projecting. I only know it’s negative. “You must be as important to Myriad as you are to Troika. No one I know has ever had two MLs.”
Me, either. But... “Myriad doesn’t have Conduits.”
“No, they have Abrogates. Those who extinguish the light. The most powerful people in their realm.” She glares at me. “If you sign with Myriad, you won’t only deny Troika a Conduit, you’ll drain the Conduits we do have.”
I rub the back of my neck. “What would happen then?”
“Troika would plunge into darkness right alongside Myriad. It’s what the other realm has always wanted. It’s what we’ve always fought.” Bow bites her lower lip. “Are you sure you can resist Killian’s...charms?”
“Definitely.” His eyes make my blood sing... “Possibly. Hopefully.” His smirking mouth and blatant innuendos make my blood boil... “Definitely.”
She pushes out a heavy breath. “Do you have any experience with the opposite sex?”
“I’ve had a boyfriend,” I tell her, suddenly defensive.
“Here? He was human?”
“Of course.”
“How do you know?” she asks.
“How else? I was allowed to touch him.” Every Laborer comes to earth in a Shell, a humanoid outer casing that somehow makes a spirit tangible to the physical world.
Despite that tangibility, we’re forbidden from touching the Shells for any reason. Without being told why!
She crosses her arms. “What was he like? This boyfriend?”
“His name was James. I met him my first week. He snuck me food when I was starved and salve every time I was beaten.” The true miracle? In the quiet of the night, he made me laugh. “Why the curiosity about him?”
“Duh. I’m nosy. You know this. Was he Unsigned?”
“No. He was secretly a Myriad loyalist—” Vans would have fired him if he’d known “—but he rarely talked realm business with me.” He saw me, not a potential realm-mate.
“Ah.” She makes a face as she nods. “He was doing the long con.”
“Excuse me?” What did that mean?
“The long con requires more planning and preparation. A longer window of interaction with a target as well as a longer period of time to execute the main objective—signing you.”
White-hot anger sparks. “Not everyone is obsessed with eternity.”
“Yeah, but wouldn’t the guy who claimed to love you want you to be with him forever? And you once mentioned bonuses... I bet staff and inmates alike receive them.”
She...she... Oh! She’s ticking me off!
“What else did you like about him?”
“Screw you. I’m done with this subject.”
She gives a regal wave of her hand, all the queen wishes you to proceed. “Was he staff or inmate?”
“Staff. And he lived for me—then he died for me.” Apparently I’m not done with the subject. My chin trembles, my defensive tone echoing in my ears. “He was killed when he aided my escape attempt.”
Nine months have passed since Dr. Vans shot him in the chest.
A baby spends nine months in a mother’s womb. The phrase “on cloud nine” means to be happy or euphoric.
I’m anything but happy. Maybe I should sign with Myriad. I’ll get to see James again.
Part of me expected him to visit at least once. Even though the realms claim loved ones can damage a cause far worse than a stranger, so laws are in place to prevent after-death interactions.
“You saw his actions,” Bow says, “but not his heart.”
Is she serious? “Actions reveal heart.”
“Not always. Deception is all about perception.”
Okay. That’s it. “I’m done with this subject.” I mean it this time.
“Of course you are.” With an unfeminine grunt, she falls onto her pillow. “You’re a runner.”
The words are like a punch to the gut. “I’m a fighter.”
“Ha! Fighters take a stand.”
I throw myself on my bed and peer up at the ceiling, wishing I lived in a time before the realms existed. Not that there was such a time. There is and has always been a Firstking. He created both Myriad and Troika, a realm to give each of his sons. Then he created the Land of the Harvest and humans. Subjects to inhabit the kingdoms—after they picked a kingdom.
Of course, one brother soon plotted to destroy the other, hoping to rule both realms, and a war ignited.
Guess who says which brother is at fault?
Many Ends was (supposedly) created for criminals, but ultimately became the home for the Unsigned.
“Tenley Lockwood. You are expected in the commons.” The heavily accented female voice suddenly spills from the speakers strategically placed in our ceiling. Next, the door opens.
Well, zero. The time has come.
I give myself a pep talk: A pretty face won’t sway you, and pretty words won’t affect you. You will remain distanced. No boy is worth the hardships that accompany him—not here.
“Be careful.” Bow’s anger drains, and worry takes its place. “Do you have steel panties? If yes, put them on right now.”
I snort and rush into the hall, where I find Killian waiting for me. His eyes aren’t on me, but Bow, and they’re crackling with fury. His hands are balled into fists, ready to deliver.
Bow remains in place, staring back through slitted lids, but her hands aren’t balled, and she doesn’t try to sneak out and murder him, so I consider it a major improvement.
Like me, Killian has been relieved of his jumpsuit. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans, and both fit him to perfection. I mean, wow. If he was beautiful before, he’s exquisite now. He’s a boy—man—without equal.
“How old are you?” I find myself asking.
“Nineteen.” When his blue-gold gaze finally finds me, he gives me a once—twice—over and smiles. “For once, I’m glad for my lack of years.”
So he can score without being a major creeper? “You’re a legal adult.”
“And you’re not. I know. Opposites attract.”
“I mean, no one can force you to do anything you don’t want to do. Why are you here?” I asked before, but he only fed me a bunch of bull. “If you want to survive the evening with all your parts intact, answer honestly.”
His smile returns as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and hikes his shoulders in a shrug.
Irritating! “Be a big boy and use your words.”
“Maybe Vans is paying me to beguile you. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
Yes! And what if James was paid to do the same?
Argh! Bow! She’s in my head.
Killian offers me his tattooed hand. “By the way, you should always wear pink, lass.”
My stupid heart stutters and my stupid hand trembles as I link our fingers. His skin is as cold as Bow’s and James’s. That’s weird, right? Or am I the weird one?
“I shouldn’t have to mention this, but hey, why leave anything to chance? This isn’t a real date.”
“Don’t like the label? Fine. We’ll give it a new one. How about pants party for two?”
I almost laugh. Almost. “I’m not wearing pants.”
“Underpants?”
“I think I prefer the term death match.”
“Death match, it is. And look at me, willing to compromise. I really am the perfect guy.”
I do laugh this time. He’s shameless.
He leads me down the hall, into the commons, just not the commons I’m used to seeing.
One corner of the room has been transformed. There’s a small candlelit table with two cushioned chairs placed side by side. Platters of food occupy every inch of the tabletop. There’s even a bottle of wine and a chocolate cake.
Cake! Is this heaven?
Killian doesn’t lead me to the table. No, he leads me to the left, where a virtual tour is playing over the wall. One I’ve never seen before. A moonlit beach so realistic I can almost smell the salt and sand.
“You’re going all out, right from the start,” I mutter. Waves dance over the shore, leaving lacy foam behind. Pinpricks of light crawl toward the water—glow-in-the-dark turtles! I coo with delight. “They’re so beautiful.”
“Wouldn’t you love to hold one?”
An-n-nd my delight fades. “Do you really think I’ll be so easily manipulated?”
“You say manipulated. I say rewarded. You love the water. Don’t try to deny it.”
I go rigid. Either he eavesdropped, which isn’t likely—I would have noticed him nearby—or Vans’s cameras and mics picked up what I said to Bow, and the information was given to Killian.
The leash on my temper begins to unravel. Needing distance, I walk to the next wall. People have set up camp around a crackling fire pit—people who are talking and laughing, enjoying Everlife.
At the next wall, a different group is playing a game that looks like a cross between volleyball and football. Tackle folleyball?
“This,” Killian says, tapping the fire pit, “is what awaits you in Myriad.”
“Unless Troika is right, and this,” I say, tapping the net, “is just an illusion.”
When he offers no reply, I turn to him. His gaze is locked on the pit. No, not the pit, I realize, but the people around it. Is that longing I detect from him? Maybe even a hint of envy?
“Earlier, you mentioned surfing,” I say. “Who taught you?”
A muscle tics beneath his eye. “I taught myself.”
I’ve most definitely stumbled onto a sensitive subject. “What about friends? Your parents?”
“What about your friends and family?”
Oh, no. We’re not playing that game. “I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.”
Several seconds pass in silence. Finally he says, “My father never wanted me, and my mother—” He presses his lips together, shakes his head. “Thought I could, realized I can’t. I won’t ask personal questions and you won’t ask personal questions. Deal?” He takes my hand and ushers me to a chair.
“Deal.” I sit without protest and, as my heart aches for him—poor boy, his dad never wanted him!—I remind myself of a very important fact: Killian isn’t my friend; he’s bait.
I must remain detached.
My mouth waters, the scents stronger. “Let’s eat.”
He claims his own chair and snaps his napkin over his lap. “Ladies first.”
“You’ll probably come to regret that.” I fill my plate and a bowl with all kinds of goodies I haven’t had in over a year. A slice of chocolate cake—priorities!—a scoop of chicken potpie, slice of chocolate cake, scoop of yam casserole, slice of chocolate cake, two scoops of mashed potatoes, a slice of chocolate cake, a scoop of buttery green beans, a slice of chocolate cake—
“Going to save any cake for me?”
“No, actually, I’m not. Mine.” I point my spoon in his direction. “You don’t touch.”
He lifts his hands, palms out. “How long have you been a chocolate addict?”
“Since birth. The struggle is real.” I return my attention to my task. Now. Where was I? Oh, yes. Ten grapes, a slice of chocolate cake, ten strawberries, a slice of chocolate cake, and finally, to give this meal a health kick, a spoonful of pasta salad.
The problem? I have an odd number of cake slices.
I go ahead and take the final slice to even things out.
“There’s no way you’ll be able to eat all that.” He pours me a glass of wine. “You’re too little.”
“I’ll eat every crumb. And I’d like water to drink, please.”
“Well, I’d like your dress to spontaneously combust, but we don’t always get what we want, now, do we?”
Zero! Or maybe this time around I should use Vans as my favorite four-letter curse word. Killian’s one-track mind is going to cause me to spontaneously combust.
Is the plan to get me drunk? Make me vulnerable to suggestion?
“I’m underage.” Eighteen, the legal age for everything nowadays, can’t get here fast enough. “If I drink any alcohol, I’ll be breaking the law.”
“Sorry, lass, but that sounds like a you problem.”
So it’s wine or nothing. Whatever. I’ll sip. I won’t let myself get drunk.
He tsk-tsks. “Don’t look so gloom and doom. Two or more glasses of wine a day can severely reduce your risk of giving a shit.”
Nice. I accept the glass and take my first taste of something alcoholic. Mmm. Wine is tasty. Notes of raspberry and walnut, sweet yet earthy. “Just so you know, I’m not discussing the Everlife with you.”
“What are you willing to discuss? You know what, never mind. You’ll probably suggest the many ways to murder me.” He pushes his food around his plate before pinning me with a laser stare. “What if I said your allegiance to Myriad is a matter of life and death? Would you discuss the realms then?”
“Yes, but only to say you’re being ridiculous, trying to give me a god complex so I’ll feel important and believe that one measly girl will make a vast difference.”
The handle of his spoon bends. “One measly girl? Try one stubborn girl. Your continued refusal is causing all kinds of—” Once again he presses his lips together. “Myriad obviously needs you. They’re going to a lot of trouble for you.”
I catch another hint of the longing and envy. Does he think no one needs him, no one would go to any trouble for him?
I sigh. I’m reading too much into his expressions, aren’t I? Seeing what I want to see. Or even a reflection of my own emotions.
“How about we sit in silence?” I ask.
A voice spills over the intercom. “You will continue your conversation about the realms.” Dr. Vans, reminding me of where I am, who I’m with and the nefarious purpose of the evening.
My fingers tighten on my spoon with so much force I fear my knuckles will pop free of my skin. Of course Vans is listening to our every word, watching our every move.
“Did you know?” I ask, glaring at Killian.
“No,” he says, his teeth gritted. “He definitely isn’t part of my plan.”
Well, well. An outright admission that there is a plan.
Intent on ignoring both males, I sling one arm around my plate, guarding the contents, and shovel in heaping bite after heaping bite. First the cake slices disappear...followed quickly by, well, everything else. When I finish, I moan with satisfaction. And regret. Mostly regret. I probably should have saved something for Bow.
As I wipe my mouth with my napkin, Killian chuckles.
“What?” I demand.
“Now you’re a lady?”
I pat my stomach. “What? My gastrointestinal clock was ticking. I wanted a food baby.”
“Good thing I poked holes in the cake.”
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips, and I can’t stop it. I don’t want to like this boy, but dang it, he’s witty.
Then I remember Vans, and the urge to smile diminishes.
I gasp when Killian throws a plate at the cage-covered camera in the corner. A plate that clatters to the floor without shattering. The cage is unaffected, as well. Even still, the action makes us both feel better, and we share a look of understanding.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“I could remove my shirt and do push-ups, impressing you with my manly strength.”
I think he’s kidding, but I’m still tempted. Watch him ripple and sweat? Yes, please. I force myself to say, “No, thanks.” An idea strikes, and I go with it. “I want to talk about your parents.” He’s here to lure. I can’t allow him to enjoy the experience, now, can I? “And I’m sticking to our rules. I’m not asking questions. I’m demanding.”
He flicks his tongue over an incisor. “Pick a different topic. Otherwise you’ll be bored.”
“You mean adored.”
He snorts, even relaxes. Then he sighs, his stare seeming to drill into my soul. “My mother died before I had the chance to meet her, but my birth was recorded. I’ve watched the video so many times I’ve memorized every detail. At the end, she nuzzled my cheek and told me she’d never forget me. Now I wonder...”
A lump grows in my throat. Now he wonders, what? If she’s Fused? If she remembers him?
I reach over and pat his hand. “I’m sorry for your pain.”
He searches my eyes—for what? “I think you mean that.”
“I do.”
We go quiet again, but this time, awareness crackles between us. Crackles over my skin, making me tingle.
“If you’re not going to discuss the realms, you’re going to do a trust-building exercise.” Vans’s insistent voice makes us both flinch. “Ten, stand in front of Killian and fall backward. Killian, catch her before she falls.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Killian pops his jaw but stands. “If I wasn’t eager to get my hands on you, I’d hunt the bastard down and choke him with his own intestines.”
My brain locks on one thought: Killian will soon have his hands on me.
I drain my glass before I, too, stand. What? I’m thirsty. A fog spills through my brain and a sweet voice whispers, His towering height is a very good thing, there’s nothing to be afraid of, and maybe you should hold on to his shirt. For balance.
No! I call foul!
The fog is clearly a whore galore, and I decide to teach her a lesson by stepping back...into my chair. Oops! My butt hits with a little too much force, and I wince.
Killian pulls me to my feet. “You’re not getting out of this, lass.” He leads me away from the table. As he moves behind me—or rather he tries to move behind me—I turn with him. I don’t want him at my back.
He has to know the problem, but rather than castigating me, he distracts me. “What kind of punishment were you given this morning? I’ve wondered all day.”
His blue-gold eyes sizzle with a shocking amount of anger. Anger on my behalf.
He has a protective streak, doesn’t he?
Finally I turn. I don’t give myself time to think about my actions. Here goes nothing. I...lean...back. My stomach leaps into my throat, and I honestly expect to hit the ground.
He catches me and smiles. “Well?”
I’m so relieved, I find myself saying, “I kept a calendar on my wall.” RIP, sweet calendar. “Vans had it washed away.”
Killian’s brow furrows as he helps me straighten. “You screamed because of a calendar?”
“Well, it was a good calendar,” I say, defensive.
“Noted.” He twirls a finger, silently telling me to turn around. “What else has been done to you during your stay?”
“Just about everything you can imagine. Whippings, beatings. I’ve even been fried with a cattle prod.” I turn more easily this time. “Oh, and let’s not forget the time I was waterboarded. So fun!”
Shut up! common sense shouts. I’m oversharing when it’s time to be a vault.
Oh, who cares? This is a wonderful day, and I love absolutely everyone!
“Dr. Vans has waterboarded you?” Killian asks, his voice so low, so silky, I’m almost hypnotized by it.
“Yep. But here’s a better question. Are you ready for me?”
“Can anyone ever be ready for you, lass? But don’t worry. I won’t let you get hurt. You have my word.”
I hold my breath as I fall...fall...
Killian catches me again. This time, he spins me around, so that we’re face-to-face. “Do you want me to kill Vans for you?”
Maybe. I step closer, intending to reveal the most important piece of information in the history of the universe: his eyelashes are pretty and I’d like to measure them. Who am I kidding? I already know how long they are. Perfect inches. But I say, “There’s a pond in my brain, and a lovely fog is dancing over the water.”
Killian looks at me as if I’m the best birthday present ever.
Wait. I planned to tell him something... “Eyelashes.”
“You’re drunk,” he says.
“How dare you. I’m only probably drunk.” I reach out and trace a fingertip around each of his eyes. Soft eyelashes.
Frowning, he clasps my wrist and places my hand at my side. “Why didn’t you fight back today?”
Fight back...fight back? Oh! Vans. “There’s only so much I can do. I bet you’ve never been on the receiving end of an attack. You’re so big.”
“Oh, I’ve been on the receiving end of an attack.” His anger returns in a flash. “I’ve also gone back and repaid the person responsible a thousand times over.”
I’m shivering. Why am I shivering? “Not one for mercy, huh?”
“Victors are adored, failures are abhorred.”
As many times as I’ve failed to escape the asylum and save myself from more pain, well, he must think the worst about me. “I’m going to disrespectfully disagree with you. If victory is achieved the wrong way, it’s not really a victory at all.”
He arches a brow and sneers, “Your opinion is very en-light-ened.”
Ugh. Do I sound like a Troikan? Bow must be rubbing off on me.
“Your turn,” I say. “Turn around.”
“You really think you can catch me?”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
“And yet I’m still not reassured.”
I twirl my finger.
He rotates slowly, reluctantly. “By the way, victory is victory. I end up on top, not the bottom.”
“On top of what? The pile of heartbreak and suffering you leave in your wake?”
He opens his mouth, closes it with a snap—and falls.
I catch him, but he’s heavy, heavier than I expected. He keeps falling, taking me with him. We hit the ground and he laughs, then I laugh. We remain on the floor in a tangle of limbs.
“I’m beginning to think,” I say, “Might Equals Right should mean the strong are tasked with the protection of the weak, because the strong aren’t always strong and the weak aren’t always weak. Everyone stumbles. And one day, when you stumble—and you will—you’ll need someone to help you stand. Will there be anyone eager to do so, or will there be a line of people hoping to kick you while you’re down?”
His amusement does a disappearing act. Abracadabra...gone! He glares at me. “I’m done with this topic.”
The words are thrown at me. The same words I’ve thrown at Bow every time she’s hit a nerve; I know I’ve reached him, whether he’s willing to admit it or not.
“Okay, I’m going to break my own rule and discuss the realms.” I stretch out over the floor, more comfortable with him than I should be. And I can’t blame the alcohol. Stupid game! Killian caught me when he could have let me fall. “What made you side with Myriad?”
He leans back on his elbows, watching me warily. “There are too many reasons to list in a single evening.”
“Give me the highlights, then.” When he shakes his head, I say, “The top ten? Top two?”
“Why bother? My reasons won’t affect your decision.”
“So? Tell me anyway. I’m curious.” What remains unsaid: about you.
He gaze heats, as if he heard what I didn’t speak. “One. I’m more at ease in the dark. Two, Troika claims soul-fusion is a lie, but I know it’s real.”
Excitement turns the wine I’ve ingested into champagne—or what I imagine is champagne—the potent brew suddenly bubbling and effervescent in my veins. “You have concrete proof? Even though no other spirits have seen it happen and, from what I gather, the only way the people in Myriad know who’s Fused with whom is through guesstimates, matching the deaths in the realms with the births here.”
“I don’t have to see to believe. I’m sometimes pulled in two different directions.”
I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t, and my excitement fizzles.
Treading carefully, remembering his mother, I say, “I’m often pulled in two different directions, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m Fused. It means I’m divided, the potential for good and evil running through my heart.”
He scowls at me. “Someone who refuses to see the truth will accept the lie.”
Well. That’s kind of deep for a boy who presented himself as a shallow he-slut. Also, it’s kind of true. “Someone who accepts the lie will never see the truth.”
“I have to be Fused. My mother has to be Fused.” His accent is thicker. “That is the truth.”
Poor boy, I think again. He’s holding on to his hope with everything he’s got. “I hope you’re right,” I say and I mean it.
He nudges my hip with his foot. “Half the things that come out of your mouth make me want to punch a wall, and the other half make me want to kiss you...and only sometimes to shut you up.”
I reel. He wants to kiss me? “I gather you don’t like someone mucking around in your head.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“Not intentionally. Maybe.” His pretty eyelashes throw shadows over his cheeks, but the flicker of candlelight spilling from the table continually chases the darkness away with beams of gold.
He could be a poster boy for both realms. One moment he’s surrounded by darkness, the next he’s set free of the gloom. Radiant.
I lick my lips and ask, “Have you ever been in love?”
He gives me a strange look. “Why do you want to know?”
“Simple curiosity.”
“There’s nae such thing as simple curiosity. Either you’re analyzing me, or you’re interested in me.”
“Analyzing,” I rush out. Yes, yes. Surely that.
“Very well. The answer is yes I have, but no, I won’t give you any other details. Unless you’re willing to trade? My life story for your agreement to sign with Myriad.”
Zero! I’m beyond curious, but his price is too high. “You have to tell me without strings. We’re on a date, aren’t we?”
“No. We’re on a death match.”
Right. “So tell me about the girl, or I’ll scoop out your eyes with my spoon.”
“I’m pretty sure you ate your spoon.”
A statement I can’t refute, considering I don’t see the utensil anywhere.
Okay. That’s it. Wine and trust exercises make me stupid. Let’s put an end to this.
I push to my feet, sway just a little. I mean to say, I’m sure we’ve wasted enough of each other’s time. We’re parting ways. But he peers up at me, those long lashes teasing me, and what I end up saying is, “You should probably shave your eyelashes. They’re distracting. Good night.”
“Sit down, Ms. Lockwood,” Dr. Vans commands. “The date isn’t over.”
Killian snaps his teeth at the camera before he stands. He peers at me, his eyelids hooded, his lips pink and moist—he’s just run his tongue over them. “I could make you feel good, Ten. After you sober up.” And his voice...his voice is already in bed, naked and waiting for me.
I don’t want a naked boy in bed, waiting for me. Do I?
Oh! Oh! And his scent. Peat smoke and heather wraps around me, a delicious smoke that joins the fog in my head.
“You want to feel good...don’t you?” He’s practically purring.
I try not to shiver. I shiver a lot. The charmer is back, and he’s turned on high.
Turned on? Bad choice of phrase. What is wrong with me?
“I can make myself feel good,” I say and stop breathing. Please tell me I didn’t just utter those words. “How long will you make me feel good?”
“Does it matter? Good is good.”
A nonanswer that is more telling than he probably realizes. He’ll hit and run, and I’ll be left to deal with yet another rejection. “It matters, because I matter. To me! You’ll be done with me the moment I sign with Myriad. Well, I’m going to tell you a secret, and you have to keep it.” I cup my hands around my mouth and whisper-yell, “I may never sign with one of the realms.” Take that, Vans.
Killian’s features twist in a glower. “Why would you do that to yourself? Many Ends offers only pain and suffering.”
“Many Ends may not be real.” I push him away, but he’s strong and backs up only because he chooses. “I just want the freedom to make my own choice without interference. That’s all.”
“You have freedom. You have freedom right now. You had freedom yesterday, and the day before and the day before that. No matter where you are or what you’re doing, you have freedom of choice. You’re so afraid of making the wrong decision, you’re actually stagnant.”
I’m now astounded. He—the evil charmer—nailed it. I have the power to make my own decision any day...any second, but I haven’t done it, because I’ve let my doubts become quicksand at my feet.
Needing to get away before I throw myself at him and hug him, I inch around him. “I’m going to think about what you said...tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. I’m pre-hungover.”
He follows me, reaches out and sifts the ends of my hair through his fingers. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Too bad,” I say, now backing away from him. “This death match is officially over.” Sadly, I didn’t win. But then, neither did he. We’ve reached a draw.
“Ms. Lockwood,” Dr. Vans says.
I flip him off via the camera, continuing down the hall, heading for my cell.
chapter five (#ulink_52f45b8a-8af5-5479-afe1-b58b051189ef)
“Your mistakes do not define you, only the emotions you feel.”
—Myriad
It’s no big surprise when, over the next three days, Bow and I are locked inside our cell. It’s my fault, and I know it. (1) I didn’t sign with Myriad during my date with Killian and (2) I insulted Vans.
Starvation is clearly my punishment. Bow is collateral damage, and there’s nothing I can do to help her. Every morning, the knowledge guts me anew.
On the fourth day, a knock sounds at our door soon after the other girls are let out for breakfast. As I shamble over, curious, the knock comes again, louder and harder. Through the glass in the center of the door I see Sloan’s pretty face.
She presses a piece of paper to the glass. Enjoy—K. She points down before ducking out of view.
Frowning, I look at the floor and watch, mesmerized, as a thin protein bar slides under the crack. Food! My dry-as-the-desert mouth suddenly waters and my hands tremble as I pick up the prize. So the gift has touched dirty concrete. So what. True hunger isn’t a twist in your stomach accompanied by an embarrassing grumble. True hunger makes you feel as if razors are slashing through your gut. There’s a hollow sensation you can’t ignore, your body growing colder and weaker by the minute. Weaker in a time and place where only the strong survive.
Might Equals Right. But as I told Killian, it shouldn’t.
Hunger has even caused Bow to hallucinate more vividly. Before, she would talk to the wall. Lately, she snarls at air, saying things like, You can’t come where you’re not invited. Go! and You’re not getting this one, prick.
By the time I straighten, practically crying with relief—screw the cameras—Sloan is gone.
I admit I’m tempted to hoard every nibble, but I have enough faults. I don’t need to add greedy and selfish to the mix. I’m trembling as I split the bar and throw half to Bow.
Her mouth forms a small O. She’s lying on her bed, the covers bunched at her feet. “You’re sharing with me?”
“You say that like I’ve complained you’ve been using half our air.” I stuff the bar in my mouth, my eyes closing in bliss as I chew and swallow. Oh, wow. Oh, yes. I owe Killian big-time. My hunger fed on my hope, each day becoming more depressing than the last. Right now, I could sing and dance through the cell like a freaking Disney princess.
I guess I owe Sloan, too. She risked punishment to help me.
Wait. Why did she risk punishment? And why did Killian send her, of all people? Are the two friends now? More than friends?
My hands curl, my nails digging into my palms.
“You’ve been living on shower water.” Bow still sounds shocked.
“So have you.” If Vans shuts off our pipes—and I have a sinking feeling that will be his next move—we’ll be reduced to drinking from the toilet.
“You’re wasting away while I have untapped resources.” She smooths a hand over her rounded belly before tossing her ration at me. “Here. I’m not hungry.”
How can—
Whatever. I’m not going to argue with her. I devour the offering.
She anchors her hands behind her head and peers at me. “I know your parents want you to sign with Myriad, but why send you to a place like this to get the job done?”
“My dad is desperate. He loves his job and the money he makes, the power he has.”
If I do sign with Myriad, maybe I can get them to rejig their slogan/motto/whatever. I’d go with... I don’t know... Sharing Is Caring!
The thought makes me smile.
“He actually thought paying someone to beat you into submission was the perfect solution?” She snorts. “Has he met you?”
I hike up my shoulders. “Fear makes people stupid.”
“For sure. Fear destroys. Hope is always the answer.”
I like that. “When I was a kid, my mom used to say something similar. She grew up with Troikan parents.”
Bow perks up. “What made her sign with Myriad?”
“My dad, mostly. Oh. And the rigidity of Troikan law. She complained a lot.”
“Well, don’t believe the hype. No civilization can thrive without rules of conduct, and all of ours fall into one of three categories. King, realm and self. But everything boils down to this. Treat others the way you want to be treated, and hold no grudges.”
A tri-tier of rules...which makes sense. Troika means a group of three people working together, especially in an administrative or managerial capacity. My numbers-obsessed mind makes the connection, and gives me a little thrill.
“In a word,” I say, “unconditional love.”
“The foundation of all good things.” Sheepish, she adds, “As you’ve noticed, I sometimes have a wee bit of trouble with the grudge thing.”
“Yeah, but that aside, I thought Troika was anti-emotion.”
“No one is anti-emotion.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Feelings matter, but they can change in a blink, making them an unreliable guide.”
Over the intercom, the usual voice announces, “Tenley Lockwood. Your parents are waiting for you in Dr. Vans’s office.”
I tense with nervousness, maybe even a little eagerness. My mom actually kept her promise?
My dad has visited once every other month. When I asked him about my mom, he said, “We’re currently separated, living apart. She’s decided seclusion is better than family.”
She left him...and me.
Bow climbs to her feet. “If at any time you decide Troika is the place for you, verbalize your allegiance. That’s all you have to do. Your word is your bond.”
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- Жанр: Детская познавательная и развивающая литература, Детская проза, Детская фантастика, Детские приключения
- Язык: Книги на английском языке
- Объём: 400 стр. 33 иллюстрации
- ISBN: 9781474055581
- Дата выхода книги: 10 мая 2019
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
Tenley «Ten» Lockwood has spent the past thirteen months locked inside the Prynne Asylum. The reason? Her refusal to let her parents choose where she'll live after she dies…There is an eternal truth most of the world has come to accept: Firstlife is merely a dress rehearsal, and real life begins after death.In the Everlife, two realms are in power: Troika and Myriad, longtime enemies and deadly rivals. Both will do anything to recruit Ten, including sending their top Laborers to lure her to their side. Soon, Ten finds herself on the run, caught in a wild tug-of-war between the two realms who will do anything to win the right to her soul. Who can she trust? And what if the realm she's drawn to isn't where the boy she's falling for lives? She just has to stay alive long enough to make a decision…
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- TXT - можно открыть на любом компьютере в текстовом редакторе
- RTF - также можно открыть на любом ПК
- A4 PDF - открывается в программе Adobe Reader
Другие форматы:
- Сохраните файл на свой компьютер или телефоне.
