Everlife Trilogy Complete Collection: Firstlife ; Lifeblood ; Everlife

by Gena Showalter

  Pressure… I turn away from him without saying a word.

  Clay blows me a kiss before refocusing on Archer. “How old are you, Mr.—”

  “Call me Archer. And I’m nineteen.”

  “How long have you been with Troika?”

  “I was raised in a realm.”

  In “a” realm. The odd phrasing catches my attention, but I let it go. I’m too tired to match wits with him, and besides that, I don’t want his attention returning to me.

  “I’ve always known people age in the Unending.” Clay frowns. “But no Laborer I’ve ever seen has looked older than thirty.”

  “Unlike physical bodies, spirits are eternal and never decay,” Archer says. “They reach a certain threshold—the Age of Perfection—and freeze.”

  Like our Age of Accountability, only better.

  My eyelids grow heavy, and I finally give up the battle, stretching out on Sloan’s other side. I’ll catnap. My circumstances have changed, yes, but my mind-set has not. No matter how much I trust Clay and, okay, all right, in this regard I trust Archer, too, I can rely only on myself.

  My mental lights go out…

  And switch back on—

  A needle jabs into my neck, and pain shoots through me. Vans laughs in my face. I try to kick him, but the chains on my wrists limit my range of motion—

  “Ten. Ten.”

  Hands on my shoulders, shaking me.

  “Wake up. Now!”

  Danger! Under attack!

  My eyelids split open and I jolt upright, swinging my arm.

  Sloan ducks, avoiding a punch to the cheek. “Wow. Not a morning person, are we?”

  I’m panting, my heart a jackhammer in my chest. I scan my surroundings—the glowing square. Archer stands at the farthest edge, his arms hanging at his sides. Sloan sits at my right, facing me. Clay sits at my left, his knees drawn to his chest, his eyes closed. No enemy lurks nearby. No one’s trying to hurt me.

  Calm. Steady. The torture…only a memory.

  Sloan, despite her teasing, is pale and trembling, but at least she’s alive.

  “What’s wrong?” I reach for my scalpel.

  “You were screaming in your sleep. What is this?” She motions to the glowing walls, then points to Archer. “Who is he?”

  Right. She missed yesterday’s intros. “That’s Archer.”

  “Great. Wonderful. But that bit of info tells me nothing. What is he?”

  Looking him over a second time, I notice details I previously missed. He’s as still as death, unblinking, and his eye sockets clear as glass. So. His spirit is no longer inside the Shell. He can leave it at will?

  Where did he go?

  There are multiple articles of clothing scattered around his booted feet, and it’s clear he took down an entire contingent of guards while we slept.

  I start with the most important fact. “He’s on our side.”

  “Good. He’s hot,” Sloan says in a stage whisper. Hoping he’ll hear and respond? Then she gives up all pretense of timidity and makes grabby hands. “Yummy yum yum, give baby some sugar.”

  I roll my eyes. “You know him better as Bow. The girl you tried to trip at breakfast.”

  She blinks in astonishment. “You lie.”

  “Oh, and he’s a TL.”

  Now she grimaces. “He just lost a few thousand do-me points. I’d say both realms can stuff their values where the sun doesn’t shine, but Myriad would be happy to comply and Troika wouldn’t take offense.”

  Her jaded makes my jaded look like a fluffy baby bunny.

  She shakes her head, as if dislodging cobwebs. “I think I’m in shock. Mr. Bow Archer is a hot slice of beefcake.”

  As Clay stirs, I scan the forest outside the square. So much for sleeping a minute or two. Obviously, I slipped into a coma for hours. The sun is high in the sky and gloriously bright. Trees are still covered in glistening ice, but there are no signs of guards.

  “Well?” Sloan brushes the dust from her palms. “What’s the game plan?”

  I snap to attention. Right. We need a game plan. “Mine is simple. Eat breakfast. Ditch Archer, avoid Killian.” I’m sick of being pressured. “Oh, and escape the mountain without getting shot. Survive till I’m eighteen.” Maybe I’ll even go to college and study to become an accountant.

  Mind porn! I shiver with a sudden burst of excitement.

  Maybe by then I’ll have figured out my Everlife.

  How do others choose? What seems like a great idea one moment can become a nightmare later on. I know this. I’ve seen pictures of my teenage mother’s new perm—hello frizz. The nap I just had to take in the hammock a few years ago—hello severe sunburn and possible melanoma. The tattoo I got at fifteen—hello planet Earth I can never wash off. And none of those things mean anything in the big scheme of things. This does.

  “Sounds good. I’m on board.” She rubs her temples. “And before my brain explodes, I guess I should tell you…thank you? You saved my precious.” She waves a hand to indicate the curves of her body.

  “I didn’t save you. He did.” I motion to Archer with a tilt of my chin.

  “Oh, thank goodness. I would rather smell like fart for all time than be in your debt for a single minute.”

  I snort. “What makes you think you don’t smell like fart?”

  Frowning, she lifts her arm, sniffs her pit. I laugh out loud, and she flips me off.

  “I don’t,” she says.

  A boom, boom, boom sounds, as if fireworks are exploding in the sky. The ground shakes, and Sloan gasps. Normally, we can go months without any kind of sign of violence from the realms. What’s happened the past few days, well, it doesn’t bode well for us, does it?

  Things are escalating up there. And where do the realms actually battle, anyway? Spirits bonded to Myriad can’t get inside Troika, and vice versa.

  Clay stands and stretches. “I’m going to excuse myself from this particular conversation.” He walks toward Archer, tentative, and glances over his shoulder, his brow furrowed with confusion. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Besides looking good enough to eat?” Sloan joins him at the Shell and reaches out, only to drop her arm just before contact, the no-touch rule ingrained. “No one seems to be home.”

  “Those in the Everlife must be able to enter and withdraw from a Shell at will,” I say. Which explains why Archer cursed at Killian in our cell. I couldn’t see the Irish seducer, but he could.

  Also explains why I heard their voices at odd times. They were trying to help me…and manipulate me.

  My hands curl into tight little balls.

  “You’re correct. We can, and we do. Often.” Archer’s voice rings out. “As easily as slipping a hand out of a glove.”

  Sloan screeches and stumbles backward.

  Clay grins. “I’m suffering from serious Shell envy right now.”

  Archer offers Sloan a helping hand, but she shakes her head no, adamant. With a shrug, he steps around her, his otherworldly copper gaze landing on me. “I found a town to the south of us. If we leave now, we can make it before nightfall.”

  “I’m not going anywhere just yet.” Maybe I won’t ditch him right away. Maybe I’ll use him the way he used me, let him take me where I want to go. “I have to eat.” My stomach rumbles. I dig through the backpack and hand both Clay and Sloan a can of food. Archer refuses his, reminding me of the time he turned down the protein bar. “You don’t need to eat, do you?”

  “Only manna.”

  “But you ate the asylum’s slop.” Even mentioned it looked the same going in as it did coming out. “Sometimes.”

  “The Shell has a compartment that allows me to ingest and expel at will and—”

  “I’m interested in what you’re saying
, I really am.” I can’t tear my gaze from my can of chicken. “But I’m actually not hearing anything you’re saying.” Food!

  I pop the top, Clay and Sloan following suit, and the scent of hot sauce and blue cheese wafts on the breeze. My mouth waters.

  Like savages, we shovel nugget after nugget into our mouths.

  I force myself to slow the closer I get to the bottom of the can, but it doesn’t help. Soon the can is empty. Well, zero. One gram of protein per bite, twenty-three bites. Enough fuel to get me through the day? We’ll find out.

  Clay rubs his stomach, hot sauce smeared all over his face. “Best meal I’ve had in forever.”

  “That’s sad,” Archer says.

  “Can we go now?” Sloan says, and she sounds bored. “We’ve got a Laborer to ditch and a mountain to descend.” She bats her eyelashes at Archer, more determined than coy. “Oops. Now we’ve lost the element of surprise. Whatever shall we do?”

  Clay shakes his head. “We need Archer. We won’t survive without him.”

  Archer stares at me, accusation in his eyes. “You planned to leave me?”

  “I did.” And I won’t feel guilty about it. “Then I changed my mind. Now. I need a moment of privacy.” My bladder is demanding serious attention.

  I stand on surprisingly steady legs and say, with my head high, “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Once you step out of our square of tranquility, the cold will crash into you.” Archer swoops down and tosses my coat in my direction. “I’d dress first, if I were you.”

  Right. I don the coat, gloves, mask and goggles. I’m still wearing my boots, but I exchange them for a better fitting pair found scattered at Archer’s feet.

  “Here.” He pulls a necklace out from under his shirt then over his head. A small vial dangles at the end. He closes the distance between us, extends the vial. “Liquefied manna.”

  Considering what I just ate for breakfast, my morning breath has to be at DEFCON Five. I angle my face away from him before I say, “You’re giving me spirit food?”

  “Yes. Drink it. If you dare.”

  The challenge is unmistakable. “Let me guess. I’ll drink it, and I’ll either fall head over heels in love with you or I’ll end up with explosive diarrhea. Punishment for wanting to give you the stinky boot.”

  “You should know me better by now.”

  Do I detect…displeasure? And dang it, I do feel guilty about this and the whole ditching thing.

  I grab the vial before I can talk myself out of it, pop the cork and drain the contents. The liquid is warm and sweet, like melted honey but not as thick, and as it washes through me, I feel hugged from the inside out. My veins begin to tingle, as if my blood is fizzing.

  “What’s happening to me?” I demand.

  “I’m sure you noticed that I smelled good while living in the asylum. Manna not only nourishes, it cleanses.”

  And addicts. More! Gimme!

  “This particular variety of manna is found only in Troika,” he adds, and I glare at him. Manipulated again. “Go. Do your thing.” He gives me a little push, and I end up outside the square.

  The jellyair appears wet, and yet I emerge on the other side completely dry. And within seconds, I’m close to frostbite. I trudge behind a tree and take care of business. As I’m fastening my pants—my butt stinging from cold slaps of wind—a snap of twigs. My heart stops. I go still.

  Danger!

  A familiar scent wafts to my nose. Peat smoke and heather… Pure seduction.

  Killian? Nearby?

  My heart kicks back into gear, beating hard and fast. Did he watch me pee?

  My cheeks burn.

  To him, I’m nothing but a soul to be won, I remind myself. One soul in a long line of souls. A number.

  Oh, the irony.

  He hates defeat almost as much as he hates Archer. No matter how sweet he can sometimes be, my best interests will never be his main concern.

  I sprint back to the square—only to realize I can’t see the square. Zero! What am I supposed to—

  Archer appears a few feet in front of me, my backpack slung over his shoulder. Sloan and Clay step forward, suddenly flanking his sides. The former inmates are dressed in winter gear, but Archer hasn’t changed out of his T-shirt and jeans. His beautiful features are twisted in a scowl, the stars branded on the palms of his hands glowing bright blue.

  “Killian,” we say in unison.

  “Want me with you now? This way.” Archer launches into motion, and we do our best to remain close to his heels.

  “Killian…the new kid?” Sloan asks, already wheezing. “Why are we running from him? He’s hotter than Bocher! That’s Bow plus Archer, in case your puny brain isn’t hip to my hop.”

  “He works for Myriad,” I explain. While I’m not yet wheezing, every step is more difficult than the last, my thighs burning and straining.

  “Know what I just heard?” she asks. “He’s young, hung and dumb. My type!”

  “Your standards need work,” I say, and okay, yeah, I’m wheezing now.

  “Can’t improve on perfection but ow, ow, ow, blisters! I’m not sure how much farther I can make it.”

  Archer grins at me over his shoulder. “Why don’t you recite a poem and distract Sloan from her total lack of stamina? Something uplifting for once. And make sure it rhymes. The best poems always rhyme.”

  Is he serious? “One poem, coming up.” I clear my burning throat, as if I’m about to say something profound. “You suck in so many ways, but at least our association pays. You kept us warm and away from the swarm, and you’ve got a really nice form. But you are a major pain in the ass, and that’s not just sass—it’s a bitch slap of truth from a sweet little lass.”

  He chokes on his one tongue. “That was not uplifting.”

  “Then you must not have been listening. I feel better already.” Sloan clutches at her heart as if she’s having an attack. “Only problem is I think I’m dying.”

  Archer glances at her then Clay, and he frowns. “Clay?”

  “When we reach the town, or wherever it is we’re going,” Clay announces with no hint of levity, “I’m going to sign with Troika. No more waiting. You were right.”

  I trip over my own foot, barely managing to remain upright. “Why the rush? Yesterday you said you had time and—” No! Zip it! His future is his own. I have no right to pressure him the way others have pressured me.

  It’s just…deep down I want him to wait until I make a decision, want him to pick the realm I pick.

  I’m just as bad as my parents.

  “I thought about it all night,” he continues, “and then this happened. We’re on the run again. None of us know when the end will come. And no matter how many mistakes I’ve made, I want to be ready for mine.”

  His assurance makes a mockery of my uncertainty.

  “We do this now.” Archer leads us into a small cave. “There’s no need to wait until we reach the town.”

  For several heartbeats of time, no one says a word. We’re too busy panting. And gagging. The canned chicken has challenged my stomach to a blood feud.

  Archer types into his arm, a soft blue light radiating from his flesh. Jellyair falls from the top rocky ledge of the entrance, finally hitting the icy ground and sealing us inside. “You ready?”

  Clay nods. “What do I need to do?”

  “Offer a simple pledge of allegiance. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “But remember,” I say as I clutch my side, “that simple pledge is permanent. There will be no going back.”

  Pressuring him again. Stop!

  “Don’t be an idiot.” Mist wafts in front of Sloan’s face as she continues to labor for every breath. “The realms only want worker bees and soldiers for their war.”

/>   “Does that really matter? He has to pick a realm. His only other option is Many Ends.” I shudder, knowing I can deny its existence no longer. Something I’d done because I hadn’t wanted to accept the possibility I’d end up there. “The realm is the Prynne Asylum of the Everlife, nothing but punishment and pain. I just… I don’t want to end up as your enemy, Clay.”

  He tugs at a lock of my hair. “You won’t. Not ever.”

  “You’re both buying into the hype. Many Ends can’t be as bad as Laborers claim,” Sloan says. “Eternal punishment simply for choosing not to sign with Myriad or Troika? Bullcorn!”

  Archer looks at her with pity. “A pledge to Troika creates a bond to the realm. Same with Myriad. A bond that grants entrance into the realm. The Unsigned are bondless, so their spirits have only one place to go. Many Ends.”

  I’ve heard this before, but for the first time I wonder… “Are the kids of the Unsigned sent to Many Ends?”

  “No. Children are somehow bonded to both Troika and Myriad. I’ve often been assigned the task of sitting with a dying child so that I’m there at the moment of death, able to escort the spirit into Troika. At the Age of Accountability, the bonds are broken and the spirit is allowed to choose us or Myriad, just like a human.”

  Sloan hunches over and waves her hand as if she has more to say, but she’s too winded to care anymore.

  I lean against the ice-cold rocky wall, happy for Clay, sad for me. “I’ll support your decision,” I tell him. “Whatever it is.”

  Archer pats him on the shoulder again. “All of Troika will become your family. When you need our help, you have only to ask for it. And when you enter the Everlife, you will be trained in the position most suited to you. Messenger, I think you said.”

  Clay is all but salivating. And then he does it. He utters the vow all children are taught by at least one of the Laborers—the vow that will forever decide the course of his life. “With my heart, mind and body, I believe Troika is the realm for me. I pledge my Firstlife. I pledge my Everlife. All that I am is Troika’s, and Troika is mine.”

  “And so it’s done,” Archer says with a big grin.

  Just. Like. That. A future now forever charted.