Everlife Trilogy Complete Collection: Firstlife ; Lifeblood ; Everlife

by Gena Showalter

  “While you’re wasting our time,” Sloan says, batting her lashes at him, “would you be kind enough to tell us where we are?”

  “The Urals.” His typing speed increases, his fingers jabbing at invisible keys.

  The Urals. A mountain range that runs through western Russia. My mind whizzes back to one of my first history lessons. Almost a century ago, snow covered the mountains, but unlike every year before, the deluge didn’t melt with the change of season. The climate worsened, becoming so harsh trees and wildlife soon died. The realms finally stepped in and planted sustainable foliage.

  “This town is like any other. There’s a mix of Troikan and Myriad loyalists as well as Unsigned. A few weeks ago, there was a riot among the three and tensions are still high.” The light fades, and Archer drops his arm to his side. His shoulders slump as he turns and shoves a bag of coins into my hand. “I’m sure the asylum has people living here, as well, to keep tabs on the citizens and in case inmates escape and live long enough to get here.”

  Wonderful. “We need weapons. Good ones.”

  “And you’ll get them. At the end of the street is a bed-and-breakfast. I know the owner. He’ll have everything you need… He’ll get you wherever you want to go.”

  “He’s trustworthy?” Sloan asks.

  “He is.”

  Good. “You can go now,” I tell him. I’m done with him, with all of it.

  He opens his mouth only to snap it closed. He can’t override free will. Part of the “love people unconditionally” law, I’m sure.

  “Goodbyes are sad,” Sloan says, dragging her fingertips down her cheeks in her signature move. “Let’s wrap this one up before we start craving ice cream and start nomming on the streets.”

  I meet Archer’s gaze, the copper irises haunted—and haunting. “We’ll be okay on our own.”

  “Will you really?”

  I’ll make sure of it. “Go.”

  “I have a minute or two of leeway before I’m forced to obey.” He offers me a sad smile. “Without me, Killian will be able to reach you. And he will. He’s coming for you.”

  “I can handle him.” It’s the truth. It has to be the truth. “Who’s the girl? Dior?” I’m not sure why the question leaves me now. Actually, I do. Killian is coming for me, and I want all the info I can get. Information is power.

  A slight hesitation before Archer says, “Invite me back, and I might tell you.”

  “Oh, no. You don’t get to play the intrigue card. You owe me.”

  “Just as you owe me.”

  How dare he! “I don’t owe you any—”

  “You’re lying to yourself, or you’re lying to me. Which is it?” He doesn’t give me a chance to reply. He places his right hand over his heart and his left over his right, and a second later, he’s gone.

  MYRIAD

  From: P_B_4/65.1.18

  To: K_F_5/23.53.6

  Subject: Daily Means DAILY

  Not only did you kill Vans before we finished with the resource, you have now missed several reports, Mr. Flynn. Miss Lockwood is important to me—to all of us. Tell me how you’re progressing with her NOW. After your fight with Archer, the Generals are debating your reassignment, among other things.

  I’m debating whether or not to forget the identity of the person Fused with your mother.

  Madame Pearl Bennett

  MYRIAD

  From: K_F_5/23.53.6

  To: P_B_4/65.1.18

  Subject: Threaten Me, and I’ll Ruin You

  You want to reassign me? Please. I’ve been in the field since the age of fifteen. That’s four years, in case you’re having trouble with the math. In those few years, I’ve bagged more Firstlifers than Laborers who’ve worked for centuries. The Generals need me, and they know it. No one else will get through to this girl. No one else had better try. They do, and I’ll kill first, ask questions later. She’s mine.

  She’s different from anyone I’ve ever dealt with, and I need more time to figure her out.

  Also, if you try to use my mother against me again, I will do as I promised in the subject line.

  Killian Flynn

  MYRIAD

  From: P_B_4/65.1.18

  To: K_F_5/23.53.6

  Subject: WHO Are You?

  Usually you make snide comments, but you rarely become angry. And you’ve NEVER cared if we allowed another Laborer to take a shot at your assignment. You’ve always seen it as a personal challenge, a way to prove your superiority.

  Are you falling for the girl?

  That makes sense, I suppose. The General she’s Fused with is my daughter, Killian. You loved Ashley once. Remember? Because I do. I’ve never forgotten.

  Work harder to sign Ten. Please. The longer she remains Unsigned, the more time Troika has to win her. We can’t allow her to side with the enemy. We just can’t.

  I’ll kill her myself before I allow that to happen. Then I’ll kill your mother.

  I, too, make promises rather than threats.

  MYRIAD

  From: K_F_5/23.53.6

  To: P_B_4/65.1.18

  Subject: Your Inner Bitch Is Showing

  What I remember? Nine Generals died in a single battle. Yes, your daughter was among them, but she was like a sister to me. Nothing more. She isn’t the one Fused with Ten Lockwood. I’d know it; I’d feel it.

  I don’t.

  And I will sign Ten. Now leave me alone and let me work.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Your Firstlife sets the stage for your Second.”

  —Troika

  I motor through the mountain town, sticking to the shadows, Sloan on my heels. I’m a girl on a mission. (1) Avoid detection. (2) Acquire shelter. (3) Regroup.

  By the time we reach the bed-and-breakfast, situated in what looks like a miniature nuclear power plant, my feet throb and my back aches. While the other buildings are box-shaped with three tiers and crumbling stone, this one is tall and round, like a cooling tower, steam wafting from the top.

  Inside, lavender-scented warmth envelops me and I check number one off my list. Murals cover the walls, a summer garden here, a spring meadow there. The carpet is a stunning shade of green, made to resemble the softest grass. There are people milling around a small kitchenette that offers free tea and cookies.

  Sloan pushes her way forward and snags one of the cookies. She pops the entire thing in her mouth—and gags. “Oh, gross. This is the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

  “You must be a Myriadian, then,” says the woman next to her, and judging by the derision in her tone, I’d wager she’s the chef. “They wouldn’t know a good thing if it bit them.”

  “I’m currently Unsigned.”

  The woman steps away from Sloan as if the girl has a contagious disease. “A clear indication you have poor taste. My cookie is packed with nutrition.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but nutrition is just another word for feces.”

  I leave the two to their argument and close in on the old lady manning the back counter. When I ask to speak with the owner, she gives me a tsk-tsk.

  “You wanting a piece of him? Don’t try to deny it. Girls just can’t seem to keep their hands off his goods and services.” Mirth glows in her pretty dark eyes, making her appear slightly younger than her two million years—or however long she’s lived. With her stooped shoulders and heavily wrinkled skin, I’m not sure I’ve ever met an older human. “Mr. Brando deserves to be treated with respect, he does.”

  “I’ll be respectful, promise. I’m…” I lower my voice, whispering, “Archer sent me.” There’s no need to use my own name. “I’d like a room.” Among other things.

  She doesn’t ask for any other information but holds out her weathered hand in
silent demand for money. I offer one of the coins the Laborer gave me. An Amethyst geode, cut to the size of a quarter. The deep purple glints in the light, and there’s a crown engraved in the center. This came from Troika, and it’s worth more than most people make in a year.

  “Is that… It is! We’re rich,” Sloan says, coming up to my side. She stares at the old woman. “That coin better cover dinner, too. A feast fit for two queens. And clothes. We definitely need clothes.”

  Another tsk-tsk. “You’ll get what you get and you’ll like it, you will.”

  At least we’ll get, and I’ll be able to check off number two on my list.

  “In the morning,” the woman adds, “you might or might not get a visit from the owner.” She smiles with another hearty dose of mirth. “I’m sure he’ll see you either way.”

  * * *

  Ten tears fall, and I call. Nine hundred trees, but only one is for me. Eight times eight times eight they fly, whatever you do, don’t stay dry. Seven ladies dancing, ignore their sweet romancing. Six seconds to hide, up, up, and you’ll survive. Five times four times three, and that is where he’ll be. Two I’ll save, I’ll be brave, brave, brave. The one I adore, I’ll come back for.

  As I toss and turn, unable to sleep, Loony Lina’s song plays through my head. A silly rhyme we recited while holding hands and spinning in a circle. As soon as we uttered, “The one I adore, I’ll come back for,” we collapsed on the floor and giggled. But Loony Lina’s giggles had always turned into sobs.

  I’m sorry you had to die, especially so horribly, she’d say. I missed you.

  Always she’d spoken in past tense about events that had never happened. Loony Lina. So much older than me, but not any wiser.

  I’m not dead, I’d tell her. I’m right here with you.

  When I turned thirteen, my dad stopped letting her come around. He stopped talking about her completely, in fact, as if she no longer existed. And anytime I asked about her, the subject was abruptly changed.

  Another conversation rises to the forefront of my mind.

  You didn’t become an accountant, silly. The lost dream that never should have been a dream, she’d said. So sad.

  At the time, becoming an accountant hadn’t even been on my radar.

  “What do I become?” I’d asked.

  “A somebody!”

  A somebody…like a Conduit or an Abrogate?

  Finally, morning sunlight pushes through the window. I give up trying to snooze and ease upright, scrubbing a hand over my eyes. A new day. A new trial to face.

  I frown when I notice the digital note glowing above the nightstand.

  Ten,

  In case you ever want to strangle Archer.

  Yours,

  Killian

  He snuck into the room, and I failed to detect him.

  I jerk my hand through the light, and the words vanish. Two leather wrist cuffs rest on the nightstand, each with a small metal hook in the center. When I tug the hooks, a wire extends, forming a…garrote.

  Zero! The bracelets are perfect for me. Absolutely perfect. I owe him…the way I owe Archer, who saved me from the cold. I admit the truth at last, even though I don’t like it.

  I anchor the leather beauties in place and pad through the room, a garden paradise just like the lobby. Portraits of roses hang on the walls. Wildflowers are sewn into the comforter, and lilies are woven throughout the emerald green carpet.

  In the bathroom, I shower, blow-dry my hair and brush my teeth. Instead of putting my clean body in dirty clothes, I slip into one of the robes I find in the closet. By the time I’m finished, Sloan is awake.

  “Hate mornings,” she mumbles. “And afternoons. And evenings.”

  As she showers, I order breakfast and—giving it another shot—new clothes. Everything arrives an hour and a half later, but Sloan still hasn’t emerged from the bathroom.

  I knock on the door. “You okay in there?”

  “Fine, fine,” she says. The door swings open. Like me, she’s wearing a robe. She’s tense, her cheeks pale, but she brightens when she spies breakfast. “Food!”

  The meal consists of eggs, bacon, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, everything straight from a can and absolutely delicious. In my old life, I would have rather starved.

  In my old life, I was stupid.

  When there’s nothing left, I rub my full belly. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like my clock is about to zero out, ya know?” She tugs on a buttercup-yellow shirt that has blue stripes along the sleeves, and bright blue tights decorated with lilies. “Vans won’t stop looking for me.”

  She doesn’t know. “Vans is dead.”

  Her eyes go wide with hope—and disappointment? “Are you sure? How do you know?”

  “I saw his body. And I used his severed hand to open the gate and free you.”

  “Who had the honors?” Her voice is strained.

  “Killian.” My motions brusque, I dress in an outfit very similar to hers. A pink shirt that has green flowers sewn along the sleeves and green tights with pink stripes. The material is lightweight but stretchy, molding to my body like a second skin.

  “I wanted Vans dead, but I wanted to be the one who killed him,” she says and stomps her foot. “It’s not fair.”

  “If life was fair, Clay would be alive.”

  She blanches and turns away. “So. What’s the plan?”

  “Meet with the owner of the hotel whether he wants to or not, weapon up, and find a way off the mountain.”

  “Yeah, but to where?”

  “As far away from the institution and our families as we can get. I need to hide out until my eighteenth birthday, and I’m sure you do, too. After that, I’m buying a house on the beach.”

  She thinks for a moment, nods. “Sign me up.”

  “You ever surfed?”

  “No, and I never want to. I’ll soak up the sun and cheer you on while drinking margaritas. Then, after I turn eighteen, I’ll go home to Savannah and—”

  Knock, knock.

  I share a concerned look with Sloan before palming the scalpel I’ve managed to hold on to and making my way to the side of the frame. “Yes?” I call. There’s a peephole, and I steal a quick glance.

  A little boy?

  “Have you seen my mommy?” He’s trembling and looks like he’s going to burst into tears at any second.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sloan mutters.

  I open the door to find the boy—probably three or four—clutching a stuffed teddy bear to his chest. He’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, even when he wipes his snotty nose on his shirtsleeve. His curly dark hair resembles a mop, and his eyes are big, slightly darker than his skin. They are familiar eyes. Where have I seen them?

  “We haven’t left our room, kid.” Sloan walks over and crouches to meet him eye to eye. “We have no idea where your mom is.”

  He hiccups. “But…but…”

  “We can help you find her,” I add in a rush.

  His expression changes in an instant, from somber to gleeful. He tromps into our room, saying, “Dude. I’m getting so good at this.”

  My brow furrows in confusion.

  He snickers. “You can’t tell I’m a Shell? You should be embarrassed. Well? Don’t just stand there. Shut the door,” he says, dropping the teddy bear to the floor to use as a stepping stool. He perches at the edge of the bed.

  “You’re a Shell?” Sloan shuts and locks the door. “Okay. That does it. I feel like a chicken with my head cut off. Pissed as hell and kinda lost.”

  Realization floods me. Those eyes…they belong to the old lady who manned the counter last night.

  I move in front of the boy—woman, whatever—with my I-used-to-live-in-a-crazy-house face on. “W
ho are you?”

  “The one who’s gonna save your skinny ass. Archer said you two are looking for a way off the mountain.” Such a sneering tone is weird coming from such an adorable face.

  “You know Archer.” A statement not a question.

  “Of course.” He kicks his legs, one after the other. “I’m Steven, and I own this place.”

  “You own it?” Sloan presses a hand to her forehead. “How old are you? Really?”

  “I’m seventeen.” His chest puffs up with pride. “A mature seventeen.”

  This cute little snot-nosed kid is my age. I think I need to avoid the world today. There’s no way I can adult. My mind is scrambled again.

  “I did not just get played by a seventeen-year-old punk,” Sloan mutters.

  “An experienced seventeen,” he adds, wiggling his brows.

  I try not to vomit in my mouth. “You’re with Troika?”

  “Ding, ding, ding,” Steven says. “Though I’m currently on sabbatical.”

  I stare him down. “Which means…?”

  “I might or might not have gotten in trouble for selling black-market Lifeblood.” He buffs his nails on his shirt. “I might or might not have called it TOP. Taste of Pleasure.”

  “And you’re, what, planning to help us out of the goodness of your sweet little heart?” Sloan might have used a sugar tone, but she gives the boy the stink eye. “Only later we’ll realize you expect us to hand over rights to our Everlife, right?”

  “Weren’t you listening, blondie? Or is the air in your head clogging your ears? I’m not on duty, so I’m not signing no one. All I expect from you is a hand job.” He wiggles his brows.

  Ugh! I do throw up in my mouth. I also throw a dirty sock at him.

  He grins. “Fine. My help has nothing to do with you.” He hops down and toddles to the closet—to a hidden panel with a minibar. He offers up a bottle of vodka and when we turn him down—in our sitch, sober girls survive—he drains the contents. “I owe Archer a favor. He called it in.”