Firstlife (20 page)

He barks out a laugh and waves his fingers at me. “Come on, then. The toll has been paid in full.”

I slide my feet out of my favorite house slippers, a luxury I haven't experienced in over a year. Funny how I used to take such things for granted. I've known great wealth, and I've known great loss. I've had tastes of happiness and sorrow in both states.

Emotions never discriminate.

I tug on a pair of combat boots and follow him downstairs. I've memorized the layout of the house to ensure I'll be able to find my way to any room blindfolded. Never know when something like that will become necessary. There are four bedrooms upstairs, each with its own bathroom. Sloan has spent the bulk of her time in bed, and Deacon has spent the bulk of his seeing to her wounds and coaxing her to eat.

“You'd choose Troika again today, even if you were given the chance to change your mind,” I say. “Wouldn't you?”

“I would. I love my realm. I love my family. I love my job.”

Would Killian say the same?

Killian. Where are you?

We stride through the spacious living room furnished with an oversize leather sofa, two recliners and a blazing fireplace. Archer swipes a large black bag from a coffee table made from logs. He turns left, and the scent of bacon and eggs almost draws me in the opposite direction. If I were to go right, I'd enter the kitchen, a paradise of gray stone, rose-veined marble and oak cabinets, rustic yet opulent. Deacon must be cooking breakfast.

“Later,” Archer announces, sensing the direction of my thoughts.

I whimper like a spoiled baby.

He stalks outside and, a few yards from the house, drops the bag. His legs are encased in leathers that reveal every flex of his muscles as he crouches to dig out a gun, two daggers and a thing I can't identify.

I really like this guy. He's more emotionally secure than Killian, but then, I think he's had a better support system. He doesn't need me, but I'm pretty sure he could use me, and not just because of his realm. After the way he handled those boys in Prynne, the ones who called him names, I can guess how badly he wants to dish out Troikan light to those in need. And even to Myriadians. He just hasn't found a way to do it. He needs a bridge.

He glances up, notices I'm staring and smiles slowly, his copper eyes alight with amusement. “Please don't tell me you want a piece of me.”

“Gross! I most certainly do not.”

“Good. What about Killian? You wanting a piece of him?”

I...think I do, but I also think Archer isn't ready to hear the answer.

He wags a finger at me. “I'm not going to warn you about him. Not again.”

Guess my expression gave me away. “Thank you. I appreciate—”

“But I
am
going to tell you about my feud with him. He—”

I'm about to tell him to spill now, now, now when a tornado rolls over the top of the dome. I gape. Fence posts and other debris swirl inside a vortex of wind I can't feel.

“Only an F-2,” Archer says. “There's a battle going on between the realms, but it hasn't reached critical.”

“What's the battle about this time?”

“Myriad wants you out of our safe house.”

The fact that I'm the cause is a weight around my ankles, pulling me deeper and deeper into a sea of guilt. Soon I'm going to drown. I hate the thought of innocent people being hurt because of me.

I make a decision to leave the safe house
tonight
.

I'll send a flash-scribe message to Madame about my intentions, and I'll leave a note for Archer. Can't take a chance they'll try to stop me.

“Well. Tell me about your feud with Killian,” I say.

He works his jaw. “There was a girl.”

Nailed it. “Dior?” I ask, remembering the name the two spat at each other.

“Yes. We were both assigned to her. I loved her. When she laughed, she had a dimple right here.” He touches his cheek. “She dreamed of being a doctor, of tending anyone of any realm who couldn't afford medical care.”

Hesitantly I ask, “He stole her away from you?”

His nod is clipped. “Then he tricked her into signing with Myriad.”

I almost can't breathe, my chest is so tight, but I manage to say, “He was just doing his job, what he thought was right.”

Archer's nostrils flare. “Usually Myriad Laborers earn more for getting humans to accept the least possible amount, but he ensured she received the worst possible deal just to spite me, adding fine print she didn't understand.”

“So she didn't get a fancy house or car. So what? There's more to life.”

“
You
don't understand. She's in medical school right now, but even then, if she saves the life of a Troikan loyalist, she earns a penalty in Firstlife
and
Everlife. There's nothing I can do to help her.”

What Killian did...yeah, it was bad. There's no getting around that fact. But he's not the same Killian. Firstlife didn't mean anything to him back then. Now he's learning to value human life. Why else would he put himself in harm's way to save me?

“Can you get her out of her contract?” I ask. “What about court?”

“I begged her to demand a day in court, but she's too afraid of the repercussions of losing.”

“I'd like to meet her.” Somehow I'd like to help her.

“I'll arrange it.” He straightens, waves a hand over the weapons. “Now. Where would you like to start?”

“I don't know what half those things are.”

“This is an Oxi.” He holds up one of the guns. “With a single blast, it causes Shells to decay.”

And what if I misfire and hit
myself
? “No, thanks.”

“This one, the Stag, shoots darts that, when embedded in a Shell, trap the spirit inside it and shut down mobility. This is a shield with rotating razors at the edges.”

“What about a sword of fire?” I've heard they are the ultimate spiritual weapon.

“I can wield a sword of fire. You cannot.”

Bummer.

“So. Back to your choices. There's also a dagger, a—”

“That. A dagger.” I'll go with what I know. For now.

“Very well.” He swipes up one of the daggers. “Lesson one.”

I blink, and something cold and sharp is pressing into my neck, Archer directly in front of me. “You... How...”

“Distraction kills as surely as this blade,” he says. “Concentrate.”

Now I smile sweetly at him. “Cockiness kills as surely as this knife.” I use the tip of my weapon to give his berries a little pat.

He barks out a laugh. “Touché. Or should I say testies?” Backing up a few steps, he says, “Let's do this again. This time, when I lift the blade, block with your right arm and stab me with your left.”

“Really stab you or just—”

But he's in front of me a second later, the blade at my neck.

He huffs with disappointment. “Again.”

We spend the next several hours training. He isn't gentle, but he isn't overly rough, either. He shows me the most vulnerable spots on a human as well as a Shell, then comes at me with the dagger, with his fists, with well-aimed kicks. My still-healing body aches and shakes, but I don't let it slow me down. I like this. I need this. And Archer is good about explaining how he was able to knock me down and how I can prevent it from happening again.

When we decide to quit for the day, I'm sweaty and shaky. I collapse on the ground, letting the warm sun caress my exposed skin. And I have a lot of exposed skin. For the first time in over a year, I'm wearing a tank top and shorts.

He walks to my side, his shadow covering me. “I've asked our Watchers to find out who ordered the plane crash, but they haven't found the answer.”

Watchers. No need to ask what
that
job entails. “I don't recall a Watcher on the list of Everlife jobs.”

“They fall under the subdivision of Scout.”

So much to learn. So much to keep straight.

I open my mouth to respond, but a motion at my left catches my attention and I turn—and gasp.

Killian is alive, and he's outside the jellyair!

chapter fifteen

“Without us, you have nothing.”

—Myriad

I run. Archer calls my name, his tone exasperated but not angry. If Killian is here, it means one of two things. The Troikans lost the battle in the sky or my TL allowed my ML to get close. My guess? Archer logged in a request.

I think—hope—he sees me as more than a conquest. Well, a possible conquest. I hope he sees me as a friend.

“You are such a pain,” he shouts. “You know that, don't you?”

Oh, yes. He sees me as a friend.

I'm grinning as I pass through the jellyair. A shower of warmth. A silken caress. Then I'm standing in the gloom of darkness, fat gray clouds hanging in an onyx sky, trees knocked over from the earlier tornado. Locusts are singing and crickets are chirping. A frog croaks. A breath of wind rattles tree branches together, causing leaves to dance.

Anticipation uncoils inside me, but Killian is already gone. I spin one way then the other, finding no sign of him. Dang it! Where is he? I know he couldn't see me through the jellyair, but surely he wouldn't leave.

“Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”

I do another spin and find myself facing a short black girl. What she lacks in stature she makes up for in curves, and her face...wow! She looks like a living doll with big brown eyes that are heavily lashed, heart-shaped lips that are even now pulling tight in a snarl, and round cheeks.

“I gotta say,” she adds after scanning me up and down, “I expected you to have a third boob or something.”

A boy steps up beside her. He's the taller of the two, but not by much, and leanly muscled. He's Asian and beautiful, his dark hair dyed red at the ends and styled in a mohawk.

He gives me the same up-and-down scan. “You must be wearing your jealousy goggles, E, because I can totally see her appeal.”

“Now would be a good time for introductions,” I say. Both kids have Myriad brands on their wrists. Are they here to finish what the plane crash started?

“Or?” the girl asks with a tinkling laugh.

I think she's a Shell, but I need to touch her to be sure. “Or I prove the way to a person's heart is through their ribs.”

She smirks at the boy. “Dibs! I get to use that threat the next time we're up against Ts.”

“Ten.” Killian steps into my line of sight, and my heart leaps. “You're here.”

The girl has a similar reaction, I think. Her features soften, and the rise and fall of her chest quickens.

Acid-tipped daggers scrape at my insides. Are the two romantically involved?

Killian's gaze remains locked on me, intense and blazing. “Ten, I'd like you to meet Charles, my Flanker, and Elena.”

Elena. “You are Sloan's Laborer.”

“I'm also your worst—”

“Enough.” Killian takes my hand, the scent of peat smoke and heather delighting my senses—I'm like an addict who just got a fix. He leads me into a palatial tent. “Dinnae be disturbin' us,” he says over his shoulder.

The walls are made of jewel-toned scarves, and there are faux-fur blankets and plush pillows scattered around the floor. A small circle of fist-sized stones rests in the center, light glowing from each, illuminating the entire tent. A large wooden tub consumes the far left corner, steam rising from the water.

“Is this a Myriadian safe house?” I ask.

“Merely a temporary camp. Troikans can enter, if they so foolishly choose.”

“The threat to Archer is noted,” I say drily. Now, time to get to the main reason I'm here. I place my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Thank you for staying with me in the plane.”

He gives a casual shrug. “I'm as brave as I am strong.”

“But
no
thank you for staying in the plane,” I add with bite. “And did you really just compliment yourself?”

“I did. Because you never do.”

The accusation makes me blink. And laugh. I shouldn't laugh in the midst of such a grave discussion. “Did you get in trouble for staying with me?”

He turns away, blocking my read of his emotions. What he can't hide? The rigidity of his posture. “I don't want to talk about this.”

“Too bad. Did you. Get in. Trouble?” He should know me well enough to know I never give up.

“Yes,” he hisses. “Yes.”

Guilt winds around my neck like a boa. “What was done to you?”

“That, I won't tell you.”

I jump in front of him, but he darts out of range—only to return in a hurry.

“You have fresh bruises,” he says, voice hardening. “Why do you have fresh bruises?”

He won't answer my questions, but expects me to answer his? Sorry, but that's not the way I play. “Why don't we discuss the crash...and your realm's involvement?”

His lips purse, letting me know he isn't happy with my sidestep. “If Myriad is responsible, no one has taken official credit. What makes you so sure Troika isn't at fault?”

I just...know. “How can one girl be the tipping factor in the war? How can one girl decide the winner?”

A tense pause. “How about we pretend there's only here and now?” He motions to a tray perched in front of a pillow. “I bought you a chocolate cake.”

Cake? “Gimme!” Yeah, I'm
that
easy.

I rush over, only to skid to a stop when he adds, “Elena ate it while I was out. So you get fruit.”

Bitch gonna get cut!
“She's in a Shell. She doesn't need or even like human food.”

“Shells can taste, just as they can feel.”

Stupid Shells. I sit by the tray and dip a strawberry in the bowl of cream. As I chew, I'm pretty sure I have a mouth-gasm. Archer has been feeding me well—steaks, shrimp, bacon—but he's neglected my sweet tooth.

Killian sits across from me, leans forward and gently wipes a bit of cream from the corner of my lip. A bit he licks away, making something low in my gut clench. My heart—the treacherous organ—drums out of control. My blood heats and the tingles only he can elicit return.

I'm trembling as I select another piece of fruit. Between one second and another, I tweak my plan: tell Killian here and now. “I came to thank you for saving me, yell at you for saving me...and to say goodbye.”

Killian goes still.

“I'm asking for three hundred and forty-three days. Alone.”

343 = 7 x 7 x 7

Seven days in a week. Seven dwarfs. Seven is often considered a holy number.

“I'll use the time to figure out my future,” I say.

“No.” He gives a clipped shake of his head. “Absolutely not. Even a day is too long. You need to make a decision, Ten, and you need to make it now. No more waiting. That's why I'm here before my spirit—”

Before his spirit...what? Had time to heal from a punishment?

“Killian,” I say, the invisible boa squeezing again.

“Someone wants you dead. Letting you figure out your future when there's only a fifty-fifty chance you'll make the right choice is no longer on the agenda.”

“That's a chance I'm willing to take.”

“Well, I'm not.” He shouts the words, his temper now fully engaged.

I blink in surprise. He's usually calm sophistication and wicked seduction.

He takes a deep breath, slowly releases it. “Let me give you another tour. Your gift to me for risking my life to save yours. You'll relax and enjoy and I'll
do something
.”

This is a manipulation. One of his greatest abilities. But unlike before, when we first met, this isn't about signing me simply to win. He cares about me, a fact we both know.

“All right.”

“Thank you.” He's smiling as he stands, walks over and stretches out beside me. He urges me to my back.

My heart races as I rest my head on his shoulder. He drapes his arm around me, his fingers at the hem of my tank, and my breath snags in my throat. I've only ever lain like this with James, and the difference between the two boys astounds me. Body-wise, James was slim. Killian is all muscle. I feel surrounded...protected.

Light suddenly shoots from the device in his wrist and a picture forms on the roof of the tent. A skyscraper knifes toward a night-darkened sky. Stone, chrome and glass with multicolored lights glowing from each floor.

“This is where I live,” he says. “The Tower of Many Labors. An Abrogate must train for every position, so for the time you train as a Laborer, you'll live here, too.”

The video zooms toward a specific window, and I see a group of girls sitting around a table, eating golden wafers, animated as they talk. In another window, a father rubs his knuckles into the crown of a little girl's head. She snickers and bats him away.

A pang of homesickness surprises me. I used to have parents who teased me, and I miss them so badly.

“We work hard,” Killian says. “We play harder. Everyone you see in the tower is off duty. They've either finished a case or they're on vacation.” The video pans to the area outside the building, where candlelit lamps illuminate a gorgeous marble sidewalk. The outfits the people wear range from prim-and-proper to mega punk rock. Some of those people are walking while others are...floating?

No, they aren't floating but riding atop sleek, shiny hovercrafts. Nearby, someone is riding on the back of a lion that's as big as a horse.

“That's pretty cool,” I say.

“Better than cool, and you know it.”

Inside another building, a party rages. Music blares, and people bump and grind together. A Victorian maiden hangs from a cage. A Goth boy scales the chain dangling from the bottom, picks the lock on the door and slips inside. She rewards him with a kiss, as if he's just won a prize.

“We could have a lot of fun at a party like this,” Killian says softly.

“We certainly could.” The kind of party I dreamed of attending every time my parents demanded I stay home so I wouldn't endanger my life in the big, bad world. “If I'm being honest with you, though, nothing I've seen has changed my mind. I still want time.”

“Don't give up on me. The tour isn't over yet.”

The camera races down, down the street, finally swooping inside another tower. There are multiple columns, each made from a different jewel. Emerald. Ruby. Sapphire. Diamond. The waterfall—an inside waterfall, as if the tower presses up against a mountainside—has an ivory mermaid perched at the top, a shell tipped over and spilling...not water. Liquid gold? The walls are painted with different murals: cherubs on clouds, warriors in battle, a majestic dragon in flight. The couches have floral prints. Every chair frame is carved to resemble a different animal. The floor gleams like a sea of polished pearls.

The same pearls make up the edges of the hearth, which is the size of my old bedroom. Above it hangs a portrait of the most beautiful male I've ever seen. Golden curls surround flawless features that can't possibly be real. His eyes are vibrant blue and as clear as an ocean in the tropics. A crown rests upon his head.

There's a smaller portrait to the right of his. One of a woman with hair a darker shade of gold and eyes of burnished copper. She's smiling as if she knows a secret I do not, more mysterious than the one kept by the Mona Lisa.

On the left of the bigger portrait are one...five...ten...twenty portraits roughly four-by-four in size, so small I can't make out the faces from this distance.

“Our King and Queen,” Killian says with unmistakable awe.

“The King...he kind of looks like...”

“Archer. Yes.” Bitterness has displaced his awe. “Archer is one of his many sons. One of his biggest disappointments.”

Wait. Stop. Go back
. “Archer's dad is the King of
Myriad
?”

“A privilege Archer never appreciated.”

Wow! Mind scramble!

I gasp as a small winged dragon lands on the King's shoulder. “The portrait—”

“Isn't a portrait but a type of hologram. Like the televisions humans watch.”

Neat! The video zooms into the next room, a dining room as elaborate as the others. The King sits at the head of a long square table, dressed in what looks to be formal military garb. Form-fitting, with medals pinned along the wide expanse of his shoulders. At the sides of the table are nine kids; most look to be under sixteen. Two of the boys—twins—can't be older than thirteen.

“Meet our Generals. They weren't ready to ascend to their roles, but after their mentors were slaughtered, they had no choice.”

Nine kids...and I'm to be the tenth. The complete cycle. The beginning of the countdown.

Coincidence? Fate?

“One day, you'll be seated at this very table.”

I hear awe again... I hear envy. When—if—one day comes, will I hear resentment and bitterness?

The King stands and walks along the sides of the table, patting each kid on the shoulder. “You do your realm—your King—proud. Together there's nothing we cannot do. No height we cannot reach. No realm we cannot conquer.”

The kids bang their silverware against the table in agreement.
Clank, clank.

“He loves us,” Killian says. “Only wants the best for us.”

“And you love him.” I'm certain of it.

He doesn't try to deny it. “Archer befriended me when we were very young, and he invited me to the royal palace on multiple occasions. Despite the King's busy schedule, he always made time for me while I was there.”

A puzzle piece clicks into place. Archer rejected the man Killian clearly wishes was his own father.

What drove Archer to give up his parents and his realm? And Killian, his friend?

Just how devastated was Killian when Archer left?

“I'm surprised he, the son of the King, chose Troika when he reached the Age of Accountability,” I say before I start crying.

“Trust me. We all were.”

The words sound as if they've been pushed through miles and miles of broken glass.