How can I end the war between realms when I can't convince people predisposed to like me to actually like me?
Buck up. Find a way. The end result matters. Failure isn't an option. My mom lives in Myriad, along with family I never had the chance to meet. And then there's Killian, of course.
"We stay." Clay squeezes my hand. "What has six wheels and flies?"
I'm in no mood for a joke--so what better time to make one? "What else? A garbage truck."
He shakes a fist at the ceiling. "One day I'm going to stump her."
As we take our places at the table, Reed offers us a piece of manna from his plate. Clay accepts, but I shake my head. If I swallow a single bite, it will come right back up, guaranteed.
"So what is today's special?" Clay asks.
"Strawberry and honey," Kayla replies. "The best yet."
Okay. We're clearly in a manna restaurant. Curiosity gets the better of me. "Who farms the manna? And how, exactly, do we pay for it?"
"There's an agricultural section here in the Capital of New." Reed taps his palm, types into the Light glowing over his hand, and a map appears in the center of the table. He points to a long sweep of pastureland. "Agronomists, a subdivision of Laborer, plant and harvest the crops."
His ease with Troikan technology gives me hope. He hasn't been here long, but look at everything he's mastered.
"As for money," Kayla says, "trainees are given a weekly allowance for necessities."
Reed snorts. "An allowance you hoard, afraid the money will stop coming. When are you gonna realize this place isn't like the Land of the Harvest."
Kayla hmphs and flattens her hand on the side of the table. A Light flashes through her brand, and three beeps ring out. "There. I just paid for a fresh round of manna. You're welcome."
Sure enough, a waitress--another subdivision of Laborer--soon arrives with a smile and a plate of strawberry and honey manna.
"May you be ever enlightened," she says before moving off.
Kayla offers me a bite before polishing off two pieces. "If you'd arrived five minutes earlier, you could have met Victor Prince. He's--"
"Archer's brother. Yeah." I shift, uncomfortable again. "I met him when I first arrived."
"Oh." She traces a fingertip along the rim of her plate. "He's tutoring me. He--"
The restaurant is silent, her voice booming. Her cheeks darken. I glance to the entrance and do a double take. My stomach sinks.
Elizabeth is here, and there's a tall dark-haired guy at her side.
She glares at me, and I lift my chin. If she wants to use me as a punching bag, fine. Go for it. Pain for pain. I'm willing, and I won't fight back. I deserve it. But I also won't be cowed.
Kayla trembles, as if she's the one on the receiving end of Elizabeth's vitriol. Confrontation of any kind is difficult for her. In Many Ends, she had recoiled from almost every fight.
"Either the Myriad supporter goes," Elizabeth announces, "or I go. Take your pick. But I suggest you choose wisely. One of us will help you. The other will stab you in the back."
Murmurs erupt. All eyes focus on me and narrow. Heat sears my cheeks, and I'm sure my color matches Kayla's. Lobster red.
"I choose you," Reed tells me. "I'll always choose you. You saved my life."
I'm overcome with gratitude. Problem is, I know Elizabeth will make life miserable for him. "No," I say. "Choose her." Nausea churns in my gut as I stand. "She's--"
"No way." Clay stands beside me, and Reed quickly follows suit. Kayla, too.
My sense of gratitude grows. "Sit down, you guys," I mutter, but they remain in place.
Killian would have laughed in Elizabeth's face, maybe flipped over a table after flipping her off and then he would have told her to go, because he would be staying.
Archer would have apologized with heartfelt regret and left without inciting an incident.
I miss my boys.
"I'll go. This time," I say with as much dignity as I can muster. "My actions led to Archer's death, and I take full responsibility. I accept punishment."
"Liar." Elizabeth hisses, "You expect forgiveness."
Her companion watches us with enigmatic eyes. I can't read his thoughts.
"One day, yes. I hope for forgiveness." Can I ever forgive myself? "Archer taught me the value Troika places on the act...and it is an act, a decision rather than a feeling." I hold up my hand and shout, "A round of second chances, everyone. On me."
Elizabeth glowers at me.
Having made my point, I stride past her. She balls her fists, clearly debating the merits of hitting me. In the end, she opts to stand down. Smart.
I don't start my fights, but I always finish them.
I make it out of the building without incident, my friends on my heels.
"I wish you'd stayed," I tell them.
"All for one, and one for all," Clay replies.
Kayla snorts. "So we're the Four Musketeers now?"
"Nah. I vote we call ourselves the Reed Raiders." Reed wiggles his brows.
"No way." Clay flexes his biceps. "We're the Clayminators."
"I'm on board for the Kayniacs," Kayla says.
"If we're called anything but a nerd herd, I'll be surprised," I say with a laugh. "Besides, when someone threatens us, we just have to say, Do not make us count to Ten. Bad guys will run away, crying for their mommies."
Chuckles abound.
My amusement doesn't last long, however. As we head to my apartment, I throw a furtive glance over my shoulder. Nothing and no one is there, but I feel as if my troubles are following me.
And why wouldn't they? They're chained to my ankles, bricks I've been dragging behind me for years.
chapter five
* * *
"There is power in consistency."
--Troika
At seven sharp the next evening, Meredith arrives at my doorstep. I've almost forgotten my encounter with Elizabeth.
Almost.
I spent the rest of the day holed up in my apartment, watching video feed of Jeremy and even Meredith, who visited him and Levi. Clay, Reed and Kayla spent an hour with me before they had to rush off to their classes. I'd asked questions about HART and their methods of operation, secretly brainstorming ways to stop the war with Myriad.
We gathered people from both realms and encouraged everyone to list their grievances so that changes could be made, preventing future clashes, Reed had said. But the powers that be always stepped in and stopped the proceedings.
He'd given me an idea, and I'd come up with steps one, two and three of what I'm sure will be a Ten-part plan.
Set a meeting with Elizabeth, allowing her to list her grievances with me. Win her over--and everyone else in the process. Convince Troikans that war with Myriad isn't in our best interest.
You know, easy stuff.
Maybe I'll host a Myriad Lovers Anonymous party.
T + M = TuisM
Tuism: the practice of putting the interests of another before one's own.
When the letters T and M are replaced by their numerical equivalents--20 and 13--they equal 33
Thirty-three is the atomic number of arsenic, a poison, but it is also the age often associated with the Age of Perfection.
Thirty-three is the numerical equivalent of AMEN: 1 + 13 + 5 + 14 = 33.
I'm going to need help with my Tuism. What if I can convince Killian to form an alliance with me? We could--
What? Convince others to join our cause? Prove Troikans and Myriadians can lo--like each other?
I tug at my collar. No need to throw words like love around, right? Killian would probably freak.
Zero! I need to contact him, but I have no way to do so.
Meredith clears her throat, and I realize I'm standing in the doorway, staring into the distance. My cheeks heat as I motion her inside. She sweeps past me, the scent of orchids fluttering in her wake.
She's wearing a formal white robe with black seams. The material conforms to her curves one m
oment but flows freely the next.
She holds up a bundle of metal links. "I brought you a dress."
That is supposed to be a dress? "You're kidding, right?"
"Usually, but never about fashion." She manhandles me, removing my catsuit and fitting me into the links. A wide smile blossoms. "You are ravishing."
"Thank you." I excuse myself and go into my bedroom, where I strap a kitchen knife to my thigh.
While I crave peace, I can't deny I have enemies. I have to be prepared for anything. A lesson I learned inside Prynne.
Curious about my "ravishing" appeal, I study my reflection. The top of the dress is made of small ovals, one laid over another to give the illusion of feathers. Those faux feathers form a deep V between my breasts before branching into multiple chains braided together and wrapped around my waist, the ends cascading to create an ankle-length skirt.
The entire ensemble should weigh a hundred pounds or more, but it's as light as a cotton T-shirt. Even more astounding, I have full range of motion.
I wish Killian were here. He would look me over slowly and say, "Nice dress. Now take it off." And I would laugh a throaty laugh to mask my shivers of need. I would ache to be in his arms.
I do ache.
Where is he at this precise moment? What's he doing? Who is he with?
I dreamed about him again last night, and I'm still raw. I felt the soft brush of his lips a split second before he vanished like morning mist.
I can't shake the feeling he needs me. That we need each other.
What if he's in some kind of trouble? What if he's trying to reach me, desperate for my help?
What if he's trapped in the Kennels?
I shudder. The Kennels are Myriad's number one choice for punishment. Cage is stacked upon cage, a different spirit locked inside each one. Men and women, boys and girls. Age doesn't matter. Everyone is degraded, cramped and starved.
I cover my eyes, as if I can somehow block the horrific image.
I have to find a way to contact Killian.
Head high, I rejoin Meredith. "Will everyone be dressed like this?" Good. I sounded normal, breezy.
In lieu of an answer, she says, "Oh, honey bunny. You have to dress for the job you want, not the job you have."
"Then I should wear a calculator." If I'd had a longer Firstlife, I'd planned to get an accounting degree.
"Tsk-tsk. Your nerd is showing."
"And your old lady is showing."
We share a smile, but I notice the merriment doesn't quite reach her eyes. Upon closer inspection, I notice the lines of tension bracketing her mouth.
Considering her reaction to yesterday's message, something bad has happened behind the scenes.
"Tell me what's wrong, Madame." I use my most authoritative tone. "That's an order from your exalted superior."
Her tension lessens, and she snorts. "You want to know? Fine. You're going to be briefed, anyway."
I am?
"Myriad has been guarding a girl they've already signed as if she's...well, as important as you. And she just might be. There are rumors she's infected with..." She shudders as she leans in to whisper a single word, "Penumbra."
I flip through mental files, find no reference. "What is--"
She slaps a hand over my mouth and shakes her head, her eyes wide as saucers.
All right, all right. I hold my hands up, all innocence. Top secret topic. Got it. "Why don't we call it the Bra?"
Her hand falls away, a half smile teasing one side of her mouth. "The Bra is a highly contagious disease we've only ever dealt with in rumor-form. There has never been a breakout. Half our population believes it's a scare tactic while the other half believes it's a time bomb waiting to blow. Humans are, supposedly, the only ones susceptible, but the infected can develop the abilities of an Abrogate."
Abrogate--the highest rank of General in Myriad. My counterpart. I draw Light--or rather, I will--and Abrogates drain it.
"Which camp are you?" I ask.
"Time bomb. The Book of the Law predicts the worlds as we know them will one day end. What better way than this? But that's another story for another time."
Maintaining a neutral expression requires a massive effort. The worlds are going to end? This is the first I've heard of any upcoming disasters!
What makes you think the changes will be disastrous?
The disembodied voice I heard the day I died, springing from the back of my mind. This is the Grid. My link to the heart of Troika. I'm certain now.
Deep breath in, out. "If the worlds as we know them change, they could change for the better." Like...peace could be achieved.
Her head cants to the side. "Very true. But because we've never dealt with this disease, we have no definite cure. However, we are certain Conduits are the key. If Pen--the Bra is total darkness, then the Light must chase it away."
Cold fingers of dread creep down my spine. With Princess Mariee MIA, Troikan powers that be will look to me for Penumbra containment, won't they? No wonder I'll be debriefed.
I'm supposed to save us. Me. All by my lonesome.
I'm not ready.
I'll never be ready. But I'm going to help, anyway.
"What causes a...Bra outbreak?" I ask. "Why can't other Troikans wield the necessary amount of Light?"
"Have you heard of Torchlight?" When I shake my head no, she adds, "For us, Light is power. Our version of electricity. If a spirit is hit with too much electricity, his body shuts down. Torchlight is the spiritual equivalent."
Stomach cramp. There's so much I don't know--so much I need to know if I'm going to survive. "This war," I say with a sigh. "The realms have been fighting for centuries. Do people even remember why they're fighting?"
"Of course. Right versus wrong. Values versus anarchy." She nudges my shoulder, saying, "Speaking of fights. I heard about your run-in with Elizabeth."
Recruit my grandmother to my peace plan--strike one. "She's angry with me. And I get it. I do. But I don't want to fight her. I don't want to fight anyone. Why can't we all just get along?"
"Easy. If we don't fight for what's right, we'll be overpowered by what's wrong."
Okay. Strike two.
She checks a wristwatch she isn't wearing and gives me a gentle shove toward the door. "Enough chatter. We should go."
"Fine," I grumble.
We exit my apartment. The hallway overflows with trainees just hanging out and talking. Most are wearing armor while a few are draped in robes. Everyone stops whatever they're doing to bow...to Meredith?
Ooo-kay. Here, we are all equals in terms of love and respect, but this is a show of respect for her position as Leader. The fact that I'm with her--or maybe the threats Levi voiced last night have spread like wildfire--earns me a handful of smiles and even more waves. No one glares at me. A few girls gaze at my dress with longing.
We take two Gates to the Temple of Temples. There's a crowd, but this one is much thinner, allowing me to note details previously missed. The courtyard teems with an abundance of roses in an array of colors. No petal is dry or withered, no leaf droops. The stems have no thorns.
The next chamber is the Waft of Incense, and I suddenly understand the reason for the name. A heavenly fragrance saturates the air. With every breath, I'm certain I'm inhaling pure life.
Fourteen men and women stand before the gold brick wall guarding the entrance. I scan each face, taking the measure of my peers, and scout out every possible exit.
Work now, relax later.
The fourteen represent a mix of nationalities and appear to be average Troikans, but they are the only ones wearing turquoise robes with short metal links sewn into the shoulders. Levi is among them.
Fourteen, a multiple of seven. A double portion. In numerology, it means deliverance from pain, problem and panic.
Long ago, when people married, they celebrated the wedding feast for fourteen days.
To the right of the fourteen, eight people form a line. Eight is the atomic number
of oxygen. Meredith and I take a spot at the end, making us nine and ten. How appropriate.
"Spine straight, shoulders squared," she says as we make our way forward. "You're about to meet our mighty Generals."
Nervousness pricks at me. Will I be rejected or welcomed?
When we reach the front, Meredith takes care of introductions. Just when I think I'll never be able to remember their names, the Grid kicks in. Agape, Ying Wo, Tasanee, Bahari, Mykhail, John, Spike, Alejandro, Marcos, Jane, Chanel, Luciana, Shamus and of course, Levi. They hail from all over the globe, and they welcome me as they welcomed everyone, with genuine warmth and affection. I'm hugged, patted and teased about my obsession with numbers.
"You're going to do good things here," Alejandro tells me. I kinda sorta want to stare at him for the rest of eternity. He is beauty personified. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. The poster boy for perfection.
"I hope so," I say. I really do.
I'm practically floating as Meredith escorts me into the courtyard, where she introduces me to the eight who stood in line with me. The other newbies.
Eight--looks like the symbol for infinity. A stop sign has eight sides. With me, we are nine. According to yoga, a human body has nine doors--two eyes, two ears, the mouth, two nostrils, and the openings for...um, waste removal and the one for procreation. A cat has nine lives. Happiness is found on cloud nine.
The newbies are Raanan--the guy who'd accompanied Elizabeth to the manna restaurant--Fatima, Winifred, Nico, Rebel, Hoshi, Sawyer and Clementine. They, too, come from all over the globe. Thankfully the Grid allows us to understand each other, no matter the language we speak.
At six--and a half, foot stomp--Fatima is the youngest, killed in a house fire. At seventy-three, Nico is the oldest. I feel like such a creep for thinking this but...he's hot.
To my delight, I'm not the only one with odd hair. Clementine has pink ringlets, Nico's mass of curls are fire-engine red and Hoshi's straight-as-a-pen locks are the color of plums, dark with purple undertones.
Everyone but Raanan offers an enthusiastic greeting; he remains mute, his expression contemplative. Despite him, I'm relieved by my easy camaraderie with the others, considering we are strangers. Strangers in a strange land flock together, I guess.
"By the way some of the others have been talking about you," Fatima says with an innocent grin, "I expected you to have horns, fangs and a forked tail."
"I know, right?" Rebel, who is fourteen, playfully elbows the little girl in the side. "I'm actually megadisappointed."
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