Firstlife (13 page)

Easy to say, hard to prove. “How do you know his mind-set if you weren't working for him?”

“I wired the entire building and listened to his every conversation. As soon as I tapped into your final torture session, I began looking for you. He thought it was okay to hurt you, to use my actions against you. I taught him the error of his ways.”

A violent gust of wind blows between us, so strong it sends me skidding into the base of a tree. Air bursts from my lungs, my bruises screaming in protest.

My gaze looks past Killian. I have no idea what to say to him.

Is he or isn't he?

I lumber to my feet. My teeth chatter as I trip around him and crouch beside Big. He's the smallest of the three and, even better, his clothing has sustained the least amount of damage, despite Killian's best efforts. There are only a few drops of blood on his coat. I remove it with quivering fingers. My wounds protest as I shove my arms through the holes and pull the hood over my head.

“Stealing clothes from a corpse?” Killian sounds impressed. “That's pretty hard-core, yeah?”

“You planned to do it.”

“Yes, but I'm actually hard-core.” His accent has changed. No, not changed, not really, but the more intently I listen, the more I detect accents from different parts of the world.

Branches snap, though neither of us moved. Is someone out there? One of the kids from the institution? One of the guards? Another mountain man? I shudder, sway. And zero! Dizziness is knocking on the door of my mind.

I do my best to focus as a large shadow slips over the leaves, moving slowly, a mere inch at a time. Gnarled fingers of dread creep down my spine. I'm not sure how much fight I have left.

“Killian,” I whisper. “Someone's coming.”

His scowl is dark, a promise of violence. “I know. Tell him to stay away from us.”

Him? “Who's out there?” An inmate?

“Tell him he's not wanted here.”

A guard? “Words won't do any good. We have to—”

“In this case, words are all you need.”

All
I
need. Not him? Though I don't understand, I lift the knife he used on Bow. “We're armed. Don't come any closer.”

“You can do better than that, lass. Tell him you want nothing to do with him.”

Why? Something about this situation is
wrong
, I feel it in my frozen bones, so I say nothing else.

“Very well. I'll work with what I've got.” Killian clasps my wrist and drags me away. “Let's get you to a safe place.”

The shadow follows us, but maintains the same distance, as if he won't—or can't—come any closer.

Along the way, Killian sends my blade flying with a single bat of his arm. “You won't be needin' this.”

My shoulder vibrates with pain, and I whimper as I wrench away from him.

The noise makes him flinch. “I'm sorry,” he grumbles. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

I offer no reply. I still have the scalpel, but I don't use it as he turns, picks me up and cradles me against his chest, his arms strong, intractable bands around me. I even sag against him, surprisingly docile. I'm tapped out. Got nothing left.
I'll fight tomorrow.

He heads toward...my cave, I realize. He knows where I spent the night?

The fire is low but still crackling. He sets me down and stokes the flames with logs hidden in the shadows. When the flames are high enough, heat wafting through the air, he wrestles me out of the coat.

“What are you doing? Hey! Give that back! It's mine. I stole it fair and square.”

“I'm going to tend to your wounds. You couldn't pay me enough to wear the coat. I have standards.”

Then why was he trying not to bloody it during the fight? For me?

The idea throws me for a loop.

He adds, “I suggest you dig deep and find your own.” The derision in his tone...

As if we're playing a game. Enough of his games! They keep me off balance and—

They keep me off balance
. Well, no wonder he plays them.

I go still. If he
is
an ML, he won't hurt me. He'll do as he claimed and tend my wounds. Because I'm the one with power in our relationship. I'm the one with something he wants: the key to my future.

He settles in front of me and claims my wrist in a grip as intractable as his hold. Like Bow, like every time before, no heat radiates from him.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks, and there's now an edge to his tone.

Does he actually care about the answer? “I was. Now I'm not exactly sure.”

“Do you think I'll take advantage of you?”

“Maybe. I don't know you. Not really. Wait. Scratch that. I know you're a murderer.”

“Still harping on a few measly kills?” His expression is gentle as he meets my gaze. “I will
never
hurt you. Not again. All right?”

I nibble on my bottom lip. “Are you a Myriad Laborer?” I ask again.

“If I were, do you think the powers that be would allow me to admit it before you figured it out?”

Maybe. Maybe not. “If you are, you should know I can't be charmed or frightened into making my choice. My allegiance has to be earned.”

“Are you
certain
you can't be charmed?” He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles, making me shiver. “Or is it my charm that frightens you?”

“No?” Ugh. Just ugh. A question? Really?

He's smiling as he releases me and pulls a thin black cloth from his back pocket. When he unwinds the material, I see syringes, a spool of thread glowing as brightly as fetters, packaged cleaning wipes, thin tubes of ointment and bandages.

I remember the vodka in the backpack and though I would love to drink my way to oblivion, I decide not to indulge. Too vividly I remember my wine-buzzed attempt to caress this guy's eyelashes.

Besides, the warmth of the fire is helping to clear my thoughts, and the answers I don't want to face are beginning to crystallize, battering against what remains of the disbelief. I may not want to accept the truth, but I must.

Bow without eyes...without blood...the electrodes...the name Archer...my doubts shed one by one until I'm left with the only bare-naked truth.

She—he—
is
a TL. He came to Prynne to recruit me. He befriended me, spied on me and tried to manipulate me.

I was just too dumb to see it.

And then there was James, whose body was as cool as Bow's and Killian's. Was he—is he—an ML? Did he purposely mislead me?

The long con...

An arrow of uncertainty leaves me bleeding. I genuinely loved him, but that doesn't mean he genuinely loved me.

The uncertainty expands, creating a fresh wound in my heart. He told me stories about his childhood, how he played hide-and-seek with his teddy bears, pretending they were brothers and sisters, and I'd related. I petted his chest while he admitted being a guard at Prynne was merely a stepping-stone to becoming a detective.

I sobbed for him after he was shot. I lay awake night after night, tossing and turning, blaming myself for what happened to him. I'd wanted so badly to escape, to start a life with him. A real life.

I still mourn him.

Killian cups my cheeks and forces me to face him. He's frowning. “What's caused this upset?”

I tell him the truth. Why not? “James.”

A muscle ticks under his eye, as if he's angry. “The boyfriend.”

“Yes.” And oh, zero. My eyes are burning, my chest constricting and my temples throbbing. My entire world has been turned upside down and inside out, and my mind is about to break. I hurry to change the subject before I break down. “Were there any other kids out there?”

“A handful.” He offers no more as he lifts the tools he needs from the cloth.

“How many were alive?”

“Less than a handful. Others were captured by mountaineers.” He smooths a clear gel over my wound.

A sudden tide of nausea nearly doubles me over. I breathe past the pain, saying, “What will happen to them?”

“I don't know. They aren't my problem.”

“Well, I'm not your problem, either.” A plan takes shape. Save the inmates captured by the mountaineers, deal with my injuries later. Time is of the essence.

But isn't it always?

When I try to stand, Killian holds me down.

“You're not going anywhere. You
are
my problem.” His gaze meets mine and stays locked, the air between us thickening. “You know why. Say it.”

“I...do know why.” Finally I vocalize the admission. “You... You're my ML.”

A cascade of relief accompanies the words.
And the truth shall set you free.

“I am.” He reflects the relief back at me. “There are many different kinds of Laborers. My subdivision isn't to confess our origins unless and until the human figures it out, enabling us to move in and out of lives at will, making our mission less complicated.”

My cheeks heat as I ask, “Do you really have sex with your humans?”

He gives me a half smile. “Shells feel. I've experienced every human sensation but bleeding. I've only ever hemorrhaged.”

“Hemorrhaging isn't bleeding?”

“Not for spirits.” He brushes his thumb over the pulse in my wrist. A pulse that only beats faster. “Let me show you more of my realm. I'll answer any other questions you have, and you'll see how perfectly you fit. You'll understand how important you are to our cause.”

“I can guess how important you think I am.” Do I sound as bitter to him as I sound to myself? “Troika considers me a Conduit, which means Myriad considers me an Abrogate.”

“I didn't see it at first. Thought you were just another army drone. But you're so much more, lass, and we need you. You'll command a legion of Leaders and Laborers, plan strategic attacks and lead your personal army into battle.”

“So, an
easy
job.”

His next smile is megawatt.

“Maybe my first act as Abrogate will be ensuring you're publicly flogged.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn't be the first time.”

The throwaway admission actually...
saddens
me.

“If Troika wins you, their light will intensify and encroach into our realm. It's happened before. Only once, but we lost millions. Our spirits cannot survive in light, just as theirs cannot survive in darkness.”

The fate of the war depends on my decision? No, absolutely not. The pressure...it's too much. “I've seen you in the light, and Archer in the darkness.”

“No. You've seen my
Shell
in the light and his Shell in the darkness.”

Pressure...growing... “I'm not interested in another tour or answers.” Not right now. I'm in the middle of a tug-of-war, the rope wrapped around my neck, and every answer he gives me removes a little more slack. “There's too much to do. As soon as you've patched me, I'm going after the other inmates.”

“We'll see about that.” Killian cleans the gel he'd applied with a moist towelette, and it stings, but only at first. There must be some type of numbing agent soaked into the cloth.

He selects a syringe, and when his finger makes contact with the belly, the liquid inside begins to bubble. Bubbling liquid he injects deep into the wound. All hint of numbness wears off, foam rising from the center and spilling over the sides. I hiss.

“Would it break your heart to discover Saint James is a Laborer?” he asks as he works. “That he was sent to convince you to sign with Myriad?”

Mind...threatening to break down again...
“He loved—loves—me.”

“Are you sure? You would stake your life on that fact?”

“Yes,” I start to say, only to hesitate. Zero! I can't overlook evidence just because I don't like it.

“Did he?” I ask softly. “Does he?”

“You tell me.”

Not this crap again. I need the truth, even if it does shatter me. At least I'll be able to put myself back together. “I admit he's a Laborer, okay. Now
you
tell
me
. Was I simply a mission to him?”

He gazes at me with heat growing in his eyes, and it's like a fever suddenly overtakes
me
. “Remember, the truth hurts for a little while. Lies hurt forever.” His voice is as soft as mine. “Yes, you were merely a mission to him. I'm sorry.”

I...believe him. I believe him because he has no reason to lie and every reason to hide such a damaging truth.

James used me. Tricked me. Those stolen moments of comfort, so precious to me, were as much a tool of manipulation as Vans's torture. But the worst part? Vans, a vile mercenary, was honest about his intentions, while James, who professed to love me, only ever deceived me.

How he must have laughed at me, the blind, desperate fool.

“I'm sorry,” Killian repeats. “James uses a script. A method of deception for getting what he wants.”

A long con.

My dream of happily-ever-after with him, one I hadn't known lingered in my heart despite his supposed demise, dies a thousand violent deaths.

For once, a death really is the end.

Keep it together.
“You also have a script,” I say without any inflection of emotion.

“I never lied to my assignments. And I
had
a script. Show you a part of Myriad I knew you'd love, impress you with stories of my strength. My script worked as well as his.” Killian weaves the spool of glowing thread through my skin—threads that are as hot as fetters, cauterizing the wound after drawing my flesh together. “Now I'm doing something new. I'm winging it.”

Sweat beads over my brow, and another hiss escapes me. “That's not going to work for you, either.”

“We'll see about that, as well.” He flicks me a small smile that hints at a wealth of secrets. The past he'd only begun to share. “Your threshold for pain surprises me. I thought you'd scream.”