Firstlife (18 page)

Sloan and I gather our meager belongings, don our new coats and make our way outside. The air is as bitterly cold as I remember, despite the bright rays of light and warmth spilling from the sun, but with every blast of wind, our clothes actually
heat
. I scan the surrounding sidewalks for Archer... Killian. There's no sign of either boy.

Archer can't approach me until I invite him back. Killian can show up at any time.

As promised, a black sedan waits at the curb. As we step forward, the back door opens without outward assistance. I hesitate only a moment before sliding onto the cushioned leather seats.

The partition blocking us from the driver is shaded, hiding our identities. And his. A fact that makes me nervous, but I say nothing, merely remaining on alert. Get to the airport, get to the States.

We motor forward, soon twisting and turning along a thin, treacherous road that offers no railing to prevent a plummet over the side of the mountain. There are signs posted along the way.

Light Brings Sight!

Might Equals Right!

We HART You! Humans Against Realm Turmoil!

Don't Believe the Lies! Realms Are Simply a Way to Control You!

Sloan looks away from the window and sighs. “What are you going to do after you buy your beach house and learn to surf?”

“Stuff myself on Twinkies and Ding Dongs and finally figure out my eternal future.” And it'll be easy...maybe. There will be no one to pressure me.

She gives me a double thumbs-down. “I'm going to marry the first unsuitable suitor I can find.” She spreads her arms and throws back her head, laughing. “Granny will be soooo ticked.”

“Did she really try to force you to marry some old fart just to save her estate?”

“Oh, yes, she surely did.” Anger and bitterness twist her expression. “One day, I'm going to burn down the ancestral estate. But I don't want to discuss my revenge.”

Afraid I'll try to change her mind? “No prob. You were boring me, anyway.”

She snorts. Then she shifts nervously in her seat and rubs her hands over her thighs. “So... I wanted to wait until I had my head wrapped around the details before I talked to you about this, but, well, I'm too eager. I have new Laborers. My TL is Deacon, and my ML is Elena. She visited before my shower, and afterward I actually called for my TL. Just said,
I'd like to speak with someone from Troika
, and he appeared.”

I go on higher alert. “And?”

“Myriad offered me a house of my own design, any car I desire and a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus deposited straight into my bank account. For my Everlife, I'm to train as a Laborer.”

My heart flutters. “Did you accept?”

“No, but for the first time in my life, I'm actually thinking about it. I'm not sure Many Ends is as bad as we've heard, but if there's a remote possibility, well, I need a new Everlife plan.”

“What did the Deacon guy offer?”

“Same thing Archer offered Clay. Family, aid whenever requested, you know the rest.”

“You interested in that?”

“Are you kidding? I hate my family. Why would I willingly sign on for another one? But, girl, Deacon is hot, so
of course
I said I'd think about it. I'm considering allowing him to plead his case...in bed.”

I roll my eyes. “You're as bad as Killian.”

When the car stops, I peer out the window to see a line of caves—the airport? Seriously? In one of the caves, I can make out the nose of a plane, the wings retracted to fit inside the smallish hole.

“I think we have a talent for going from bad to worse,” Sloan mutters.

“Agreed.” Up ahead, there's a long stretch of flat ice. Most likely the runway. Seems
perfectly
safe.

The door swings open, but this time it's courtesy of a man—the driver.

“Hallo, Ten.” Killian smiles at me, slow and wicked. “So good to see you again.”

Butterflies dance in my stomach a split second before anger mows over them, shredding their wings. I glare up at him. “Your actions led to the death of my friend.”

His smile vanishes. “Clay is in the Everlife now. We should be happy for him.”

Happy?
Happy?
“Your favorite little motto—Victors Are Adored and Failures Are Abhorred—is garbage. You might have won your skirmish with Archer, but you lost my respect.”

An unreadable mask falls over his features. “I said
should be
, Ten, not that I am. I haven't been able to forget your words.
If victory is achieved the wrong way, it's not really a victory at all
. I didn't want your friend to die. Especially not that way.”

“And yet you helped kill him.”

His gaze lifts, staring at the other side of the mountain. “One day, you'll see him again.”

“That doesn't negate the loss I feel
now
. His Firstlife mattered. To me! To him! He had hopes and dreams.” I swallow a sob.

If I ultimately choose Myriad, Clay will become my enemy despite his claim to the contrary, and I hate the very idea. But war is war.

“Firstlife matters,” I repeat.

“Hear, hear,” Sloan calls. “I'm looking forward to wrinkled skin, gray hairs and most especially the use of diapers.”

“Maybe it does matters,” he says, acting as if she didn't speak, his attention steady on me, “but it's still not the end. When you live as long as we do, loss is inevitable. You have to learn to let go.”

Never! “Some things are worth clinging to, no matter the cost. If you have nothing to lose, well, I pity you.”

He scowls at me. “
Never
pity me.”

I blow him a kiss. “Pride is a weakness.”

His scowl deepens as he offers me his hand.

I take it, asking through gritted teeth, “How did you know about the car?”

He remains directly in front of me, keeping the sunlight out of my eyes. “Steven owed me a favor, ta. I cashed it in.”

His accent is stronger than usual, his voice huskier. “A Troikan owed a Myriadian a favor? How did
that
happen?”

“With great skill.” The mask falls away, and he looks at me with something akin to desperation. “I spy, and I wait. When circumstances appear hopeless, I offer hope...for a price. I'm owed
thousands
of debts.”

A deal with the devil. But...part of me suspects he's trying, once again, to impress me with his strength, reverting to old habits. It may be kinda sorta endearing, and it softens me when I want so badly to remain fortified against him.

His gaze sinks to my wrist, and he practically vibrates with happiness. “You like your present.”

I sigh. “I do.” I'm not one of those girls who can't accept a gift. Gimme. “Thank you.”

Sloan slides out behind me, saying, “Maybe you didn't see or hear me, handsome. Surprise! Here I am! I'd love to catch up.” She moves around me to link her arm with his and draw him away from me.

He allows it, frowning at me over his shoulder, as if he's unsure how to proceed.

Again, it's endearing.

“We've been so
vulnerable
on our own,” she continues. “We're so weak, and here you are, a big strong slice of beefcake, ready to save the day.” When they reach the wall of the cave, where the nose of the aircraft peeks out, she pushes him with all her might, and presses a toothbrush shank against his carotid. “Or not. Lookit. I know your type. Sweet when things are going your way, but meaner than a wet panther when they're not.” The sugar has abandoned her tone completely, leaving only anger. “I'd rather die than allow you to hurt Ten. Rephrase. I'd rather kill you than allow you to hurt Ten.”

“Is that so?” In a lightning-fast move, he grabs her wrist and rotates her so that her back presses against his chest and her cheek against the icy, rocky wall. “Let me tell you what
I'd
rather do.”

“Don't harm her,” I shout, rushing over.

He lets her go in an instant, holding up his hands, palms out, and my relief is palpable.

A scowling Sloan pivots, pointing the shank at him once more.

“No,” I say, moving between them. “Put the weapon away, Sloan. He's not here to hurt me.”

He yanks me behind him, safeguarding me from the shank. As if she'd hurt me now. Still. The protective gesture is—freaking—endearing.

I'm so sick of the word!

“Enough, you two. Please.” I wait until both nod before leaving them to their own devices and entering the cave.

There's someone checking something under the plane.

“Hello,” I call, a sense of unease sliding over me. I'm not sure why. Kind of reminds me of the fear I experienced when I ran from Killian, and yet I'm not fearful. Just wary.

Are Messengers from Troika here, attempting to guide me?

“I thought I heard voices out there.” An unfamiliar man closes the hatch and strides over to greet me. He's tall with gray hair and craggy skin. “You must be my newest cargo.”

“Yes.” I extend my hand for one reason and one reason only, and it's not to be friendly. We shake, and I conclude he's human rather than a Shell, his skin calloused and warm. He's also an Unsigned, his hands and wrists free of brands.

But...my unease only grows stronger. I ignore it, determined to leave this place.

“Where are we headed?” Killian asks, his voice devoid of emotion.

“I've got enough fuel to take you anywhere you want to go.”

“Hawaii,” I say, making a split-second decision. I'll be far from LA—and my parents—but close to water.

“It's settled then,” the pilot says. “Go ahead and board and we'll take off.”

chapter thirteen

“Reality exists within the scope of your senses. If you feel it, it's real.”

—Myriad

We're in the air fifteen short minutes later. The aircraft is small and the flight is bumpy, and I'm laid bare by a certainty I'd rather not face: I'm afraid of heights. Well, afraid of falling.

The way Clay fell...

I shudder.

“Cold?” Killian asks. He's perched in the seat next to mine, toying with the ends of my hair. “Or frightened?”

“Screw you,” I mutter. Why can't I be like Sloan? She's as happy as a boss in the copilot seat.

Fear hinders, never helps. Look past it.

“I can distract you,” he says. “Or we can sit in silence.”

“I pick silence.”

“Very well.”

True to his word, he says nothing
for hours
. Despite my annoyance, I manage to nap for several more. But, after I wake up, another hour slips by as I shift uncomfortably and visualize the many ways to die in a plane, I finally admit the cold-shoulder treatment is only hurting myself.

I give up, saying, “Earn your keep. Do something to distract me.”

His chuckle is warm, not the cold thing I expect. “Dance, monkey, dance?”

“Good. You understand.”

“How about we negotiate terms for your covenant?”

Why not? I'm a little curious and a lot desperate. “All right. Tell me what, exactly, Myriad is willing to offer me.”

He goes still. “You're serious?”

I swallow a snort. “Yes. I'm serious.”

As if he's afraid I'll change my mind, he rushes to say, “Your contract will last your Second-death. We will ensure your Firstlife is filled with fame and riches that far surpass anything your parents ever achieved, and in your Everlife, you'll be given a place of honor inside the palace, as well as any other home you desire. If you want it, you get it, even if it's occupied. You will never lack for anything. You will have servants, and you will answer only to our King.”

“I have no desire for fame and riches.” I've already experienced the heavy cost of each. “And I don't want to steal someone's home.”

I think I've surprised him again. He regards me quizzically. “Name your desire then. Your wish is my command.”

No way I'll tell him about the beach house. I want to buy it with my inheritance and owe no one. “What about a job?”

“As an Abrogate, you'll need to train for other positions. Messenger. Laborer. Scout. Leader. The more you know about each, the better Abrogate you'll be.”

“But...how do you even know I'm an Abrogate?”

“For starters, you're Fused with a General.”

He drops the news as if I'm supposed to coo with excitement. Thing is, I'm not even slightly startled. I should have guessed this was always about the spirit I'm supposedly Fused with, not me.

“Again I ask how you know—beyond any doubt.”

A slight pause. “We...don't. We can only guess, but all our Generals were wiped out at once, and their Second-death coincided with your birth.”

“Yeah, well, I'm sure my birth coincides with a lot of Second-deaths.”

“Yes, but your spirit glowed through your skin. That only happens when a soul is Fused with one of the more powerful positions.”

“Or, as Troikans believe, the soul is a Conduit.” At least, I'm guessing.

He gives a formal nod.

“Abrogates are Generals, and Generals are decisive, right? They make battle plans. They lead the masses. They aren't torn about a major decision. Like me.”

“You don't know
what
Generals are. You've never spoken to one.” He pauses. “Would you like to? I can arrange a meeting.”

Again curiosity gets the better of me. “Yes. All right. But only if you answer one more question for me.”

“Anything.”

I lick my lip, a small tremor moving through me. “Do you like me, or am I just a job to you?”

He grapples for a response, finally settling on, “The two aren't mutually exclusive.”

No, they aren't. “Do. You. Like. Me?”

“I...do,” he says and scowls, as if the admission is painful. Maybe it is. Friends have the power to hurt you in ways enemies never can.

He curses suddenly and throws a glance over his shoulder to the seat in back. “Enough! Leave us.”

My eyes go wide. “Someone's here?”

He faces me again, his expression stony. “No.”

Word games. “Who
was
here?”

“One of my Flankers.” He flicks his tongue over an incisor. “Before you ask, Flankers are a subdivision of Laborer. They follow me to chronicle my exploits.”

One, I'd had no idea he had a tail. And two, someone actually
chronicles
his
exploits
? Like he's what, a knight of the days of old with a troubadour?

I laugh at him—I can't help it—and soon, he's laughing with me.

When we hit a particularly nasty bump, I gasp. He winds an arm around my shoulders and I let him, offering no protest. I even lean against him of my own volition, resting my head in the hollow of his neck, where the scent of peat smoke and heather soothes me.

“Why don't you take another nap?” he says. “I like listening to your one-sided conversations.”

He's heard my sleep talking? Great! “What have I said?”

“Ten's tears fall...”

“No. Ten tears fall. The number ten.”

“No. You clearly said
Ten's tears
. Your name.”

I did? “Yeah, well, you leak liquid glitter when you're injured.”

“Glitter? How dare you. My manliness is offended.”

“Your manliness will survive.”

He caresses my shoulder, almost as if he's petting me. “A spirit doesn't function like a body. While we have muscle and bone, we're sustained only by Lifeblood, and when we lose it, we hemorrhage power.”

I try not to react to his touch...yeah, I
try
. “So, when you lose all your Lifeblood...”

“We experience Second-death.”

“So you can die, even inside the Shell.”

“Yes. I've lost many friends that way.”

The news...isn't welcome. What happens afterward? Fusion, or the Rest?

Another air pocket causes us to lurch, and I go cold inside.

He attempts another distraction. “You should drop Sloan. She'll always put her wants above your needs.”

“Someone else's actions will never decide my own.” A facet of my free choice. One I embrace wholeheartedly.

The blue light flashes on his wrists, and he curses.

“A message?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“You aren't going to respond?”

“No. It's from Madame.”

“Madame...what?”

“Madame Arse Pain.” His teeth are clenched, his tone filled with disgust. “She's my Leader.”

“Don't like working for a woman, huh?”

“Don't like her, period.”

“What'd she do—”

“Oh, no. I'm not airing my dirty past with her. You still have to deal with her.”

Ah. Madame Bennett.

The light flashes a second time, and he slaps his wrist. “She wants another progress report.”

Another
. Just how many of our interactions has he shared with her? “Full disclosure. I'm walking away from
you
when we land.”

“Me? What'd I do?”

“What you know, Myriad knows and what Myriad knows, my parents know.”

“Your parents haven't been told of your escape...yet.”

That's something, at least. “Why the reprieve?”

“Prynne has only informed parents of the deceased, and I requested Myriad keep quiet about you. Your parents...annoy me. Your mother is hiding something, and your father is an adulterous prick.”

Shock and horror nearly choke me. “He's cheating on my mom?”

Killian goes still. “You didn't know?”

I shake my head as the plane hits another nasty air pocket, the nose dipping. My internal organs shrivel and for a moment, my mind spins round and round on a carnival ride.

He tightens his grip on my shoulders. “Turbulence is natural, lass. We aren't going to crash.”

“Don't use the C-word!”

His chuckle is as beautiful as the rest of him. “I think everyone in the realms heard you. But don't worry. I'm the big strong manly man and I'll keep my weak little girl safe.”

“Jerk,” I mutter, but I begin to relax against him. I won't think about my dad's infidelity and the mental hatchet job it must be doing on my mom.

Killian leans down, his mouth hovering over my ear. I think he's going to kiss the lobe but he whispers, “Do us both a favor and sign with Myriad.”

My heart hammers as I lift my head. “Killian—”

Our gazes connect, the air between us heating, crackling. He presses his forehead against mine and cups my nape, his thumb stroking up, into my hair and down, under the collar of my shirt.

“I don't just want you,” he says. “I
want
you.”

“I don't understand the difference,” I tell him honestly. Even still, his admission makes me tingle.

“The first I can easily walk away from. The second...you make me feel—
you make me feel
.”

The words aren't pretty, but they're ragged. His tone isn't sweet, but raw.

I'm nearly undone. Is he being for real? Or is this just another con to win me over?

The plane jiggles again, but at first, I don't really care. Not anymore. When it continues, growing increasingly more violent, I freaking care. I freaking care
a lot
. The bin above us pops open and my backpack spills out as the nose of plane dips at a more acute angle. If not for our seat belts, we would have pitched forward.

This isn't normal.

I'm nearing full-blown panic when the pilot steps from the cockpit, a bag slung over his shoulders. He moves swiftly, avoiding our gazes.

Killian releases me, saying to the man, “What are you doing?”

The pilot wrenches open the side door and I'm blasted by a cold punch of wind and a hard kick of shock. My hair slaps at my cheeks as he—

Jumps!

“Help! Help! Killian, Ten. He hit me!” Sloan's screaming voice cuts through the brutal bellow of the airstream. “He's gone!”

Yes. He's gone. He, our only means of landing. The shock collides with panic, and my brain nearly shuts down. I focus on Killian. “What should we do?”

“Stay here.” He jerks at his seat belt, his expression grim. “And sign with Myriad. Verbalize your agreement to the terms I presented. Don't risk your Everlife, Ten. Please. If I can't land the plane...” He shakes his head, as if he's unwilling to consider the possibility. “Please,” he repeats.

I remind myself I'm no longer a damsel in distress. I can think this through. What I can't do? Base my decision on fear. Because, while I might be free to make my choice right now, I'll never be free from the consequences of that choice. And I think I'd rather wind up in Many Ends than in Troika, warring with Killian, or in Myriad, warring with Archer and Clay.

“D-do you know how to fly a plane?” I shout over the squall.

He remains grim-faced. “As a Laborer, I've trained for all kinds of situations.”

I'll take that as a no.

His buckle finally gives, but the plane has taken another dip and dive. He bangs into the wall that divides front from back. A wall he grips, pulling himself around the edge; a Herculean task considering the gale-force wind.

He disappears from sight and a few seconds later, Sloan peeks out from behind the wall. Foolish girl! She's going to be sucked out!

I lean over and stretch out my arms. “Grab the hooks on the bracelets!”

As soon as she has a firm hold, I tug while she kicks at the wall. Midair, her body begins to edge toward the opened door. I yank with all my might, using a reservoir of strength I didn't know I possessed.

She plows into Killian's vacant seat. Shaking, she buckles up. She's pale, her cheeks stained with dried tears.

Eyes haunted, she asks, “Do you think we're going to die? Say no, and I'll believe you. You never lie.”

I meet her gaze and remain silent.

She covers her mouth with an unsteady hand. “We should pick a realm, either realm. Many Ends...”

“Yes,” I tell her. “Choose.” Not knowing what else to do but remembering Archer's final words to Clay, I whisper, “Archer. I'm asking you for help. Please.”

There's no bright light, and he doesn't magically appear.

Sloan must have read my lips. A tremor rocks her against me. “Where is he? Ten,
where is he
?”

Her panic is kindling for my own, but I manage to tamp it down. “We don't have to see him to know he's here.” I've learned the hard way.

“What if he's only allowed to help Troikans?”

“We're potentials. We qualify.” We must.

“I want to see him. I
need
to see him.”

I...don't, I realize, shocked. I trust him. Despite everything—or maybe because of everything—I know he's doing everything within his power to save us. The real question is—will it be enough?

The plane continues to plummet. My pulse points race harder and faster, as if I've been injected with a thousand vials of
baiser de la mort
.

I glance out the window and see no sign of clouds—only land. Green. Lush. Pretty. We are going to crash. There'll be no stopping it. Any moment now...

“Brace for impact,” I tell Sloan.

“Ten.” Tears cascade down her cheeks.

“Have you chosen?”

Long locks of her pale hair slap her cheeks as she shakes her head.

Some people say your entire life flashes inside your head just before the end. Mine doesn't. I don't have an amazing epiphany with all the answers. I know only that I'm not ready to die, and that I won't—I can't—allow courage to fail me. Today I fight to live and live to fight.