Firstlife (14 page)

“Why would I scream? Physical pain will never compare to mental anguish.”

The amusement drains. “I'm sorry,” he says again. “You should only ever be pampered.”

Is he
flirting
with me? Here, now? Or is he simply
winging it
?

“Just stop, okay? Unlike your other targets, I realize the fickleness of human attraction.” I may be led by many of my emotions, but not lust. Never lust. “The body doesn't always crave what's good for it. That's why attraction will never be enough for me. That's why there has to be more. Love. Devotion. Determination. Things
you
can't offer me.”

“How do you know what I can offer? And you only
think
you can overcome lust. If you'd ever experienced true physical pleasure, you'd realize how ridiculous you sound.”

My temper—a wild thing—blasts free of its cage. “Dreg! You have no idea what I've experienced. You'll
never
know.” I huff and puff in an effort to calm. “Lust will never be more important than commitment. Commitment stacks the odds of a successful relationship in my favor.”

Still he scoffs. “You think relationships can survive centuries? There are many tasty treats out there...many beauties to be sampled.”

“Beauty fades.” Beauty, Bow once said, was simply an outer shell. Heart and respect—those last forever. “Character lasts forever.”

One of his brows wings up. “Are you politely telling me you like my outside but not my inside?”

“I was polite? Well, score one for me. Unintentional counts for something, right?”

He chuckles softly as he finishes the stitches. Gently he wraps my wrist in a bandage. “There. All done.”

I hate to say it, but gratitude is owed. “Thank you.”

“Oh, lass. Don't thank me yet.” He smiles again, this one all about seduction. “Once you're healed, I'm coming after you with everything I've got.”

A warning. A challenge. My heart performs a series of flips inside my chest. “You forget,” I say. “I've seen you in action. You're no match for me.”

His smile only widens. “Is that so?”

“That's so. Prepare to experience your first defeat, Killian.”

chapter nine

“The end will always justify the means.”

—Myriad

I pull my injured wrist to my chest, ending all contact with the guy who's proved to be a cornucopia of contradictions. Kind yet cruel. Amiable yet acerbic. Concerned yet uncaring. For someone living in a realm where emotions are practically gold, he doesn't seem to know how to manage his. And maybe that's the point: releasing his emotions purges them.

But purging always leaves you empty.

Empty, you can be filled.

I expel a breath. Will I ever stop this tug of war?

Killian studies me, his expression unreadable as he says, “What makes you think losing you would be my first defeat?”

He might have been able to mask his expression, but he can't disguise the threads of bitterness in his voice, and I'm intrigued. “What—or who—did you lose before me?”

One second slips into another, tension sparking between us. Tension...and an undeniable awareness. It's as if I'm seeing into his soul and, despite what I said earlier, there's beauty inside him. He's a boy with hurts as strong as my own and dreams just as vivid.

“Right now,” he finally says, “I'm beginning to lose my patience. You know Myriad is perfect for you, and yet you resist making covenant. You know you fit with us. Know you'll be happiest with us.”

Moonlight...sunlight.

Vengeance...forgiveness.

Fused...solo.

He's wrong. How can I
ever
know?

I stand, swaying when my knees shake. “I'm finding the other inmates and—”

“No, lass, you're going to sleep.” A certain command. “The medicine will—”

“Do me a favor and don't be here when I return,” I interject. As I step forward, a wave of black sweeps over me. I fall. What the—

“—activate any second,” he finishes as his strong arms catch me. He eases me to the ground, and I know nothing more.

* * *

Gasping, I open my eyes and jerk upright. A collage of memories rush in at once. My escape. The fight with the giants. My rescuer, who is seated across from me, the fire crackling between us, tendrils of smoke curling to the roof of the cave. The walls are shaking, but soon stop. Another realm battle?

Killian doesn't seem to notice. He's comfortable in the darkness, a phantom within familiar depths.

A blue light emanates from his wrist, but with a single tap of his fingers, the light dies.

“You...that...” I stammer.

He dismisses my bafflement with a wave of his hand. “Sleeping beauty awakes at last.”

Irritation blooms. “Earlier you called me hideous. Basically a she-beast.”

“Earlier you
were
hideous. An
absolute
she-beast. Now the medicine has kicked in.”

The medicine... “How long was I out?” I ask with bite.

“Roughly six hours.”

There are six points on the Star of David. Six, the atomic number for carbon. A six-pack of beer—what I could use right now.

“Here's a better question,” he says. “Do you feel as good as you look?”

I...do feel good, I realize. The wound on my wrist is nothing more than a long, thin scab, the stitches absent. Dissolved? The knots in my muscles have loosened, and when I gingerly pat my jaw, I note the swelling is down.

“I'm not going to say thank-you,” I mutter. He helped me for
his
gain, not mine. “Not again.”

“You prefer to thank me with action instead? Well, I accept.”

I give him a double-birded salute. How's
that
for action?

He laughs outright, the sound of it rusty. “I've never understood the insult of showing off your middle finger. I'm number one in your book—what's to hate about that?” As he speaks, he reaches over, slides the scalpel from my pocket and turns, flinging the metal across the cave.

I gasp with surprise and confusion. Then I see the scalpel embedded in the throat of an intruder. A pained grunt echoes as the masked man falls to his face.

Killian jumps to his feet. “Stay here, lass. I want you protected at all times. Knowing you, however, you'll decide to run. If so, all you have to do is stay alive. I'll find you.”

My heart knocks against my ribs as he flies through the exit.

I rush to the injured man's side to rip off his mask, and a chill skims over me. He's a guard from Prynne. He worked there four months, six days and eight hours, during which I endured sixteen eyebrow wiggles, twenty-seven lewd grins and three invitations to the party in his pants. If I “sucked him off,” he said, he'd give me a candy bar.

A candy bar. As if that's all I'm worth.

The memory still boils my blood.

He peers at me, frantic, a rush of crimson gurgling from the corners of his mouth.

You don't know his heart. He's capable of change—we all are. Give him a second chance
, Archer would probably say.

Remove his junk and stuff it in his mouth
, Killian would definitely say.
He can eat his own candy bar.

“I'll help you. For chocolate.” My anger is speaking for me, more powerful than my capacity to forgive. “Don't have any on you? Aw, too bad.” By the time I've relieved him of his winter gear—mask, goggles, insulated coat, heated gloves and socks...everything but the blood-soaked scarf—he's dead.

I don't feel guilty. I don't!

Except dang it, I do. He never showed me a bit of compassion...and I acted just like him.

I dress as quickly as possible before stuffing the giant's coat in the backpack, hoping to share my bounty with other inmates. Screw Killian's order to stay here. Kids just like me are being hunted. I'm doing what I originally planned and finding as many inmates as I can. We'll make our way...somewhere else. Somewhere far away from the asylum. Far away from our parents. Far away from Laborers who use without thought.

I yank the scalpel from the guard's throat and clean the metal with the dry end of his scarf—a scarf I throw into the fire after returning the scalpel to my pocket. A weapon has never been more important.

I anchor the backpack over my shoulders, mentally polish the nuts I'm so infamous for, and step out of the cave. Night has arrived with a vengeance, the moon shielded by the tall canopy of snowcapped trees. My surroundings are nothing but doom and gloom...until the goggles switch on automatically and illuminate the world around me. A computerized scanning system even pinpoints Killian's footprints. Great for me, but bad for the kids the guards are chasing. I head in the opposite direction, and lo and behold, the rest of the gear works wonders, keeping me warm and toasty.

The problem? The farther I get, the more a sea of dark thoughts bombards me, soon so loud I'm surprised I'm not surrounded by a crowd of people. Or...maybe I
am
surrounded. By people I can't see. Messengers. Without Shells, they are spirits and therefore invisible to me.

I've heard Messengers are sometimes posted around homes and buildings to stop members of a rival realm from gaining entry.

Guess they can also be used to keep flight risks inside caves.

Go back, go back
, one says
. It's not safe out here. You'll die.

You're going to die, die, die. Turn around, before it's too late.

Go back! Your time is running out!

The words elicit fear, and as I'm learning, fear is Myriad's greatest weapon. My heart sprints toward a nonexistent finish line. Fire burns the center of my chest while ice freezes the blood in my veins. I begin to pant, sweat beading on the back of my neck.

Almost too late...go back!

The ground shakes, and the whispers suddenly stop. I breathe a sigh of relief and continue forward. I'm not going to die, and I'm not going to pander to fear, giving it power over me—power to direct my actions.

What I do will be my choice, not the choice of my emotions.

One point in Troika's favor.

And while the odds aren't currently in
my
favor, I'm not helpless. I have my wits.

Trekking down the mountain, I count my steps. One, five, ten...twenty...fifty...one hundred. One hundred percent, the full amount. One hundred degrees Celsius, the boiling temperature of pure water at sea level. The sum of the first ten odd numbers. (1 + 3 + 5 + 7 + 9 + 11 + 13 + 15 + 17 + 19 = 100)

Any lingering fear finally drains, my physical reactions returning to normal.
Good, that's good
. I pick up the pace, going another two hundred steps. Two hundred—bicentennial. The Latin word for this number,
ducenti
, also means “to the leading man.” Numerologists claim this particular number signifies insufficiency.

The ground shakes again, harder than before, throwing me off balance. I topple to my butt, pain vibrating through me. Dang it! How many battles are the realms going to fight today?

I shamble to my feet and resume my counting. Two hundred and fifty...two hundred and seventy-five...three hundred—a triangular number and the sum of a pair of twin primes: 149 + 151. A perfect score in bowling. The number of Spartans famous for fighting an army of two hundred thousand Persians.

At step three hundred and eighty-one, I wind through a tangle of trees. The ground is slippery, but my boots have a thick rubber frame with metal studs on the soles, helping me remain steady.

At step four hundred and six, a high-pitched ring blasts through my head, making me cringe. I stop and rub at the cloth covering my ears. The ring fades, and I hear—

“—another one, sir.” An unfamiliar voice. “He's already dead.”

Gasping, I spin to see who's come up behind me, but I'm alone. There's not even movement to indicate someone is hiding in the trees.

“Take him back to the facility,” another voice commands. “His parents will need to be notified.”

Realization dawns. The voices are spilling from speakers attached to the sides of the mask. I'm now hooked up to Prynne Radio.

“No sign of the girl,” yet another voice says.

The girl. Me? Surely not. There are others out here.

“Don't worry about her. You see her, you walk away.
Without
harming her.”

“But, sir—”

“No arguments. The order came from up top. Just...find the others and go silent. Our frequencies have been compromised.”

I pick up the pace and push through a jumble of gnarled limbs. Up ahead, I spot a glow-in-the-dark lump. One I recognize. The Prynne uniform. An inmate! Has to be. Relief gives me the strength I need to run...run. When I'm close enough, I drop to my knees and skid across the ice. I reach—a boy. He's lying on his side. With a gentle push, I roll him over.

His glassy eyes stare into the distance. Ice shimmers in his hair, and on his nose, mouth and chin. The rest of him is tinted blue.

I'm able to overlook my panic as I cling to hope. This doesn't mean he's dead.

With my teeth, I rip off my glove. I feel for a pulse, but...

My hope withers. He
is
dead. His spirit has already moved on.

Is he in Myriad? Or Troika? Or was he Unsigned, like me?

Is he in the Realm of Many Ends?

A crunch of ice sounds behind me, but I don't have time to investigate. Or prepare for an attack. Something—someone—collides into my back, knocking me to my face. On impact, a jagged piece of ice cuts my cheek, and my lungs are flattened. I fight for breath I can't catch, stars winking behind my eyes.

Anger engulfs me. No more abuse! With a roar, I jam my elbow into his torso. A bellow of pain echoes through the night, the heavy weight lifting from me in a blink. I turn and kick, nailing the culprit in the chin.

He falls, landing on his butt, and I look him over. A guard! We're wearing the same mask, coat and boots. But...why would one guard attack another?

“Big mistake,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Ten?” He tears off his mask, revealing dark hair and a blood-smeared face I recognize. A fellow inmate. Clayton Anders—Clay! Undiluted joy brings tears to my eyes.

He climbs to his feet, very much alive.

“Clay.” I jump up and tear off my own mask, the cold nipping at my skin and freezing the tears. My teeth chatter. “You're here. You're with me.” We close the distance and hug each other with complete abandon. “I'm so happy to see you.”

“Ditto, number girl. I've missed you every day. Thoughts of you kept me going.” His grip on me tightens. “Why is six afraid of seven?”

I laugh. This boy! He's always loved to tease me. “Why else? Because seven eight nine.”

He buries his head against my shoulder. Even through my coat I feel something warm and wet. Tears of his own? “I'd hoped you escaped. Sometimes I heard screams...”

“Yeah.” A tremor rocks him and seeps into me. “Yeah. I did escape. I made it outside the asylum, but last time I was unprepared for the cold. A group of Russians caught me. They did... The things they...”

“I know. I know.” I can imagine. I stroke his hair. “It's over, done. You're safe now.”

His next tremor is stronger. “The next morning, they brought me back to Vans. I was locked in an underground facility where the guards are trained.”

I pull back and fit my gloves over my hands. “How'd you get free yesterday?”

“Some pink-haired girl came through and opened my door.”

Bow. I owe her. Him. Whatever! “Have you found any other inmates out here?”

His voice is low and filled with countless regrets as he replies, “No one living. You?”

“The same.” There has to be more we can do. I won't accept failure.

A moan drifts on the wind, and I turn toward the sound. “Did you hear that?”

Another moan, softer but no less agonized.

“Yeah.” He fits his mask over his face. “Come on,” he says and races forward.