Firstlife (9 page)

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

“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.”

Right. Troika offers the same terms to everyone. Part of the “no exceptions” thing.

“The realm will provide health care, schooling, therapy when needed, financial assistance and even protection services upon request,” she adds.

I think I prefer Myriad's MO. They offer different packages and bonuses. If you want bigger and better, you have to work for it. But greater risk, greater reward.

She pats me on the shoulder. “Don't worry. I'll be with you in spirit.”

There's a thread of amusement in her voice. A thread I don't understand.

Whatever. Dread replaces my eagerness, my blood morphing into fuel as I approach the door. All I need is a match, and I'll catch fire and burn. The lock disengages, the metal block opening, allowing me to step into the hallway.

No one is waiting for me. Knowing I'm being watched on a panel of monitors, I make my way to the left, snake around a corner, bypass the empty commons and enter the overcrowded cafeteria, where the scent of slop makes my mouth water. Really, the protein bar was only an appetizer.

When I spot Sloan, I nod my thanks, but she quickly looks away.

I search for Killian, finding him easily when he stands. Our gazes merge. He's bigger than I remember. Like,
really
big. Loaded with muscle big. The kind of muscle found in a gym only after years of training.

My heart skitters into a faster rhythm, and tingles rush through me. I shiver. For a moment, I want to run to him. I'm falling down a pit of despair...confusion...darkness, and because of the trust exercise, I know he'll catch me.

I resist the urge.

His cunning gaze assesses the situation as if he's already considered three ways to destroy everyone present.

His closet protector is coming out to play.

I mouth,
Thank you
.

He frowns and gives a clipped nod.

“Chop, chop,” Nurse Ratched commands from the gate blocking “patients” from the offices.

As soon as I reach her, she pivots on her heel and presses her index finger into the ID box. After a quick scan, she swipes her card across the side and punches in a code. The gate buzzes open, and she stalks through.

My surroundings change in an instant, as if I've stepped through an invisible portal into a fairy tale. From cold and impersonal to warm and inviting. The walls are vibrant baby blue rather than medicine-cabinet gray. Six portraits hang throughout, three on each side of me. Each bears a different-colored rose, meant to add a touch of beauty to a bona fide hellhole. A large wrought-iron candelabra is twisted into the shape of a dragon. The creature's mouth is open, his teeth monstrous, but he spews blackbirds rather than fire, the metal flock stretching to the door at the end of the hall, where Nurse Ratched stops and smiles coldly at me.

She's tall and big boned, with frizzy red hair framing a face that is littered with acne scars. Over the past year, I've had plenty of time to observe her in her natural habitat and I've come to realize she uses her job as a way to obtain what she's never gotten outside these walls. Power.

Myriad must be her wet dream.

“Go ahead,” she says. “Fight your future the way you always do. Insult Dr. Vans and your parents with that viper tongue.”

“I will, thanks.” Whatever happens, I'll survive. My parents need me alive.

How sad is that? The best I can say about the people who created me is that they need me to continue breathing.

The girl I used to be would have curled into a ball and sobbed. The girl I am raises her chin and presses on.

“Afterward,” she adds, “we have extra-special plan for you.”

Last time, I was tied down and beaten with brass knuckles.
Extra-special
scares me.

I ignore the fear, as always, knowing it will only help her sense of empowerment.

“So sweet of you.” Like Sloan, I trace fingertips down my cheeks. “Tears of joy.”

She pats my cheek with a little too much force. “Enjoy the meeting, Miss Lockwood. I have feeling you won't enjoy
anything
for long time to come.” With that, she knocks on the door and strides away.

I want to vomit.

The door to Vans's office slides open, and cold fingers of dread crawl down my spine.

I can do this.
Whatever “this” is. I remind myself of the three most important facts of life.

(1) Firstlife, good or bad, is fleeting, even if we live a hundred years. Numbers never lie. A hundred years is nothing compared to thousands of years in the Everlife. So a few hours...days...weeks of pain? Means nothing. Because—

(2) pain is temporary, just as Bow said. It won't follow me to the other side.

And (3) what happens after death will be forever, making the afterlife far more important than anything that happens here and now.

Still, I break out in a sweat as I step inside the spacious office, where everything is ornate and overdone. An arched ceiling with a crystal teardrop chandelier dangles above a desk the same size as the conference table. The walls are made of light stone and dark wood, the two framing multiple bookshelves and a marble fireplace with legs carved to resemble lions. Lions with golden collars clamped around their necks, their heads bowed.

Gossip claims there's a door to the outside world hidden somewhere in this room.

Vans is already seated at the conference table, alongside my parents. Yes, my mother is here. A pang of homesickness overtakes me. Homesickness, along with regret and sorrow. The painful deluge nearly chokes me.

Fat tears stream down my mother's cheeks as she meets my gaze. She's gained at least twenty pounds since last I saw her, yet she used to flip out over a single ounce. Priorities change.

I cut off a bitter laugh.

As I stare at her, silent, a sob leaves her. When I was a little girl and someone said an unkind word to me, she would whisper,
You don't have haters, sweetheart, you have prefans.

“Ten—” she begins.

“Tenley,” I correct, my tone cool. “Only my friends call me Ten.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Her chin trembles as she struggles to control her reactions. “I understand.”

I hurt her. Good.
She's
hurt
me
.

Sorrow has marred features that are strikingly similar to mine. We both have pale skin with a smattering of freckles and eyes almost too big for our faces, though hers are a rich chocolate brown. Our cheekbones are high and sharp, our noses small but pert, our lips heart-shaped. She has a shoulder-length crop of auburn hair artfully cut while my last trim came from a butcher knife courtesy of Nurse Ratched.

“Are you here to take me home?” I ask.

She looks down at her hands and shakes her head.

“Not unless you're ready to sign the contract,” Senator Lockwood says. He sits rigidly in his chair, his features strained as he looks me over.

He's aged. There are new frown lines around his eyes and mouth, and his once-olive skin is sallow. His hair, so black it gleams blue in the light—an attribute I inherited from him—is now salted with gray. His mismatched eyes, one green, one blue—another attribute I inherited—watch me with determination.

Despite his shortcomings, he's still a handsome man. Women everywhere have always thrown themselves at him. Girls, too. My friends would giggle about him behind their hands.
So sexy
.

At the table, only one chair is empty, and it's on the opposite side of the others. Their way of saying
we're a unit, you're alone
.

I sit with all the dignity I can muster.

“Tenley.” The senator pulls at the collar of his shirt. “It's nice to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

His flinch is slight, but I notice. Does he ever wonder if he made the right decision sending me here?

Vans pushes a digital pad my way, putting my forced breeziness to shame. “Are you ready to sign with Myriad?”

“Nope. Now, if we're done here...” I stand.

“Refuse,” he continues as if I haven't spoken, “and I'll be forced to punish Killian for sneaking food to your cell.”

I gasp. The cameras. Or he and Killian planned this, thinking I'd feel so guilty about the boy who caught me when I fell, the boy who fed me when I was hungry, I'd finally cave. “No mention of Sloan?” I grit out.