Everlife Trilogy Complete Collection: Firstlife ; Lifeblood ; Everlife

by Gena Showalter

  “I don’t understand you,” I say. “What’s your motive for showing me this?”

  “You once expressed curiosity about the Exchange. Now you can see it for yourself.” He stalks to the bed and stretches out in the center, and wow, it’s difficult to track him; I manage it only because his iridescent flesh ripples like waves in an ocean. “Come,” he says.

  Sloan reaches out and squeezes my hand before taking the spot at Deacon’s left. My knees shake as I close the distance and lie at his right. He types in the light projected from his hand and, just like the time Killian gave me a tour of Myriad, an image appears on the canopy above the bed. An image that begins to expand, until the entire bed is surrounded by the most breathtaking garden I’ve ever seen. There are hanging vines of wisteria, honeysuckle and ivy. The fruit trees are in full bloom, branches heavy with peaches, oranges and lemons.

  “Usually we can use cameras to guide you, but cameras are forbidden in this part of the realm. I’m linked to a friend of mine,” Deacon says. “You’re seeing Troika through her eyes.”

  “Her?” Sloan waves a hand, as if she doesn’t care. “Whatevs. You two get married and have a million babies.”

  The friend is clearly walking, taking us deeper and deeper into the garden. We pass an archway, a patch of wild strawberries and blackberries, and navigate a maze of wildflowers. Someone comes up beside us, a grim-faced girl with freckles on her nose and fire-engine-red curls.

  “Don’t want to be late,” she says. “Better hurry.”

  We clear the garden and come to a sea of people. No one looks as if they’re over the age of thirty-five. There’s not a gray hair or wrinkle in sight.

  “They’re so beautiful,” Sloan says.

  “Yes. Only the human body decays,” Deacon replies.

  “Why is everyone wearing a robe?” In Myriad, the people wore clothing from what I assume was the era of their Firstlife. But here, almost everyone is draped in a violet robe with gold trim, elaborate and ornate, absolutely stunning. Those who aren’t in violet are draped in red. I count one, two, three…six. Definitely the minority.

  “Ceremonial robes,” Deacon says.

  Up ahead is a dais and behind the dais a palace, the walls glittering like diamonds, the trim…ah-maz-ing. Sapphires, rubies, emeralds. Topaz, beryl, onyx and jasper, each pure and flawless. Three people exit the palace to stand in the center of the dais. They, too, are dressed in robes, but unlike the others, they also wear crowns.

  A tall, strong man consumes the middle. I can’t make out his features. There’s a light behind him—a rainbow, as if he carries it on his back, like a bow and arrow—and it glows so brightly he’s partially obscured.

  Power radiates from him. So much that I can feel it through the connection Deacon has with the girl. It makes my blood fizz, and my skin feels as if lightning is zinging over the surface.

  “Behold. The Firstking,” Deacon says, his tone reverent. “Creator of the realms. Father to the Kings.”

  At his left is a woman with long braided hair the color of newly fallen snow. Her features are more apparent, but I almost wish they weren’t. Her beauty is overwhelming, overpowering, and as I stare at her, I’m tempted to edge closer just to touch her.

  Look away, look away. The third person—a male—is younger than the Firstking. His features are clearer than the others, but he lacks their beauty. In fact, he’s almost plain. But his eyes…oh, his eyes. They are striking, as blue as the morning sky, and when he meets my gaze—

  I gasp. He’s looking straight at me, as if he knows I’m watching.

  He smiles in welcome.

  “The Troikan King is the Firstking’s firstborn son, known here as the Secondking,” Deacon says with the same reverent tone. “The woman is the Secondking’s future bride.”

  The Firstking, the Secondking and the Secondking’s fiancée. Troika, meaning three. Numbers always tell a story.

  Despite the masses, not a single word is spoken. Not a whisper is heard until the Secondking steps forward. There are brands on his hands. Brands that are larger than any I’ve seen, going deeper.

  “My people…my heart. For justice to serve one and all equally, always and forever, there can never be an exception to the law.” His voice is thunder, and every word causes every cell in my body to burn. “If a crime is committed, a crime must be punished.” The Secondking’s voice booms, sweeping over the crowd, strong and sure. “For every word, every action, there is a choice. Right and wrong. Life and death. Blessing and cursing. I made my choice long ago—to keep the law intact. Who among you has transgressed?”

  The crowd parts in rows of four. One by one, men and women move to the bottom of the dais. I scan…there! Archer has taken his place among those at the dais, and it’s then I realize the ones being punished are the ones wearing red. Their heads are bowed, their hands clasped behind their backs.

  I count the red robes—thirty-three in total—and my stomach gives another twist.

  Thirty-three, the numerical equivalent of the word “amen.” 1+13+5+14=33. A normal human spine has thirty-three vertebrae when the bones that form the coccyx are counted individually. The atomic number of arsenic.

  A moment passes. Nothing happens, and no one speaks.

  Then, one by one, the people in red robes begin to drop to their knees. A few cry out in pain. Others tremble. All keep their heads bowed.

  “What’s happening?” I ask in a whisper.

  “They are experiencing the pain the one they harmed experienced.”

  The Exchange. I suddenly have the answer I’d so badly wanted. Archer is experiencing Clay’s death. In his mind, he is hanging from a tree trunk, snow hitting him in the face. He is waiting for me…he is falling…he is bursting inside like a melon.

  My chest begins to ache.

  “Through this, we learn how our actions affect others,” Deacon says.

  I hate the thought of experiencing something like this, of knowing firsthand the pain I caused someone else. But…in a way, the experience is a gift. Knowledge is power. And here…here is where compassion is born.

  When it’s over, the ones in red robes stand. The royal family joins them and speaks softly to each one. Hands are clasped. Hugs are given.

  The red robes return to the crowd, their heads still bowed. Archer, however, pushes his way to Deacon’s friend and meets the girl’s gaze—meets my gaze. His expression projects torment and sorrow.

  This is the first time I’ve seen him without the Shell, and I notice little difference. The tone of his skin is more bronzed. The ends of his hair are like molten gold. His lashes are longer, his jaw a little more square. He really is quite beautiful.

  The two clasp hands and suddenly the view changes. I’m looking at the friend rather than Archer. A girl identical to the redhead we met before.

  “Thank you,” Archer says.

  She rises on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “If you need me, all you have to do is ask.”

  The two part ways. Archer takes us back through the garden, his gait fast. Pain must not linger after the Exchange. Not physical pain, anyway. When he clears the other side, a neighborhood comes into view, the houses a hodgepodge of designs; they look as if they belong in different parts of the world. A Southern plantation is next to a Spanish pueblo, which is next to an English cottage.

  Waiting in front of the plantation is—

  “Clay!” I exclaim.

  He smiles at Archer, and he looks good. His dark hair is a mess, his eyes sparkling. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that conforms to his biceps, which actually look bigger. Someone’s been working out like a fiend.

  “You asked me to be here,” Clay says. “Well, here I am.”

  Archer enfolds him in a hug. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I put a feud before your safety, that I wasn’t there to s
ave your life.”

  Tears fill my eyes.

  Clay pats his shoulder as he draws back. “I told you, man. All’s forgiven.”

  A pause, and I think Archer really wants to apologize again. “How’s training coming?”

  “I’m learning to inhabit a Shell, and next I’ll learn how to use the weapons. I’ve only been drooling over those Oxies since my arrival.”

  Archer pats his shoulder. “Light Brings Sight, my friend.”

  Clay grins. “Light Brings Sight.”

  The two part ways, and a weight lifts from my shoulders.

  Clay is happy. He’s got a bright future ahead of him.

  Archer makes a beeline for the plantation, passing towering pillars…a massive set of doors, already open. The interior is a dream come true. Wainscoting and detailed frieze molding. Vibrant rugs and crystal chandlers suspended from arched ceilings. I want to study everything in more detail, but Archer doesn’t focus on anything but the man standing at the foot of a winding staircase.

  I know him. Levi. My former TL. There’s not a strand of dark hair out of place, and his lips are turned up in a welcoming smile. He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. He’s dashing, the epitome of charm and sophistication.

  He pats Archer on the shoulder. “Hello, Miss Lockwood. Miss Aubuchon.”

  We both jolt in surprise.

  “Ten,” he continues, walking to a pretty woman who is holding an infant. “I thought you’d enjoy a peek at our newest little charmer.”

  Jeremy? I’m trembling. “Yes. Please, yes.”

  He picks up the baby, oh…oh! Jeremy looks so healthy. His skin is pink and his cheeks rounded. He waves his arms and kicks his legs, and he’s smiling! He isn’t swaddled in a blanket—maybe he doesn’t need to be while in spirit form—but he’s wearing a onesie that reads Turn On the Light!

  “He’s thriving,” Levi says. “And he is already loved. I’ve never had so many females visit my home.”

  I place my hand over my mouth to mute my cry. This. This is joy.

  Light in the house flickers, and Levi frowns. He hands Jeremy back to the woman. “Guard him with your life.” He strides into another room.

  Archer follows him. “What’s going on?”

  “One of our Conduits is in danger. We must—”

  The connection to Archer, to Troika, is severed, cutting off his words.

  “No!” I gasp out. “How is a Conduit in danger?”

  The entire house shakes, a crack appearing in the wall. Am I the one in danger?

  When the shaking stops, Deacon pushes us off the bed. “Someone’s coming.”

  As we hop to our feet, a thump sounds in the hallway. Then the door bursts open and Killian strides inside the room. There’s a cut on his temple, the flesh leaking shimmering Lifeblood.

  “We need to go,” he says to me. “Now.”

  MYRIAD

  From: P_B_4/65.1.18

  To: K_F_5/23.53.6

  Subject: Not Your Smartest Move

  Where did you take the girl, Killian? Bring her back or this won’t end well for you.

  MPB

  MYRIAD

  From: P_B_4/65.1.18

  To: K_F_5/23.53.6

  Subject: Answer Me!

  We’ve captured one of Troika’s Conduits. He made the mistake of leaving the realm.

  Bring the girl to me, or I kill the Conduit—and your mother.

  MYRIAD

  From: P_B_4/65.1.18

  To: K_F_5/23.53.6

  Subject: Too Late

  The Conduit is dead. Your mother is next.

  MYRIAD

  From: P_B_4/65.1.18

  To: K_F_5/23.53.6

  Subject: Last Chance

  Troika is severely weakened. Now is the time to strike! You’ve always wanted a chance like this. Come back, and you’ll get it. Or I can return to Myriad and track the girl, which I WILL do. Afterward, I’ll assign you to the Kennels for a decade—if I don’t kill you outright.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “We see who you’ll be.”

  —Troika

  Killian takes my hand. He’s trembling and mumbling about Pearl being a bitch. As he tugs me from the bedroom, I cast Sloan a look goodbye, but Deacon is already hustling her toward the window.

  “Jump,” Killian says. There’s a dark edge to him. One I’ve never seen before.

  I obey and end up on the other side of the fallen guard. Judging by the fist-size lump on his temple and the trickle of blood running down his cheek, he’s human rather than Shell.

  Word about my earlier outburst must have spread, because no other guests have come up here.

  “What are you doing, Killian?”

  “Making sure you survive the night.”

  We pass my mother’s room. At the end of the hall, he stops to pick the lock on my father’s door. We rush inside. Well. Not everyone heard I’m on a rampage. Three people in different stages of undress leap from the bed when Killian flips on the light. He palms a gun, aims and fires off three consecutive shots. There’s no boom, no pop, only a soft whiz. Darts, I realize. All three people collapse.

  He pushes me into the walk-in closet. He throws clothes from one of the racks, and I kick off my high heels. If we’re going on the run, I kinda need to be able to run. “Your dad needed a way out of the house if protests ever got too violent. There should be a lock—here.”

  Click.

  A doorway opens up, revealing a dark, dank staircase. We enter, the door closing behind us automatically. The scent of dust pervades, tickling my nose and throat, and I sneeze.

  “I don’t want you in trouble, Killian,” I say.

  “My choice, Ten.”

  Zero! He’s using my own words against me. “Why are you choosing to do this?”

  “I told you. You’ll make your decision without pressure.”

  I can’t stop my next actions and have no desire to try. As soon as we reach the bottom, I throw my arms around his waist, hugging him from behind. “You are a wonderful person, Killian. Better than you’ve ever given yourself credit for.”

  He turns and clings to me for a moment, only a moment. A stolen treasure of time. Then he disengages and, as if nothing happened between us, continues down the passage. When we reach the end, he punches a code into the pad by the door. The door’s hinges creak as he peeks outside.

  “How did you know the code?”

  “Archer spoke to Maggie, then to me.”

  The two are working together now? Without my aid?

  Killian leads me into the haze of the approaching night, the security lights that surround the house shining from different walls. Not that it matters. He’s an expert at evading every pocket of illumination. And the guards on patrol. Without incident, he gets us to the road, where a silver Porsche awaits. I’m surprised when Elena climbs out and throws the keys at Killian.

  He utters a hasty “Thank you” before taking her place behind the wheel.

  “I hope you’re worth it.” She glares at me. “He’ll never recover from this. Neither will I.”

  “I—Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say, and know she won’t accept an impromptu hug. I climb into the passenger seat. Tires squeal as Killian speeds away. “Killian—”

  “I’ll be fine.” He reaches over and takes my hand. He’s still trembling. Our fingers link, and I don’t mean to, but I cleave to him. “I always am.”

  “There’s a first time for everything. What if—”

  “No. We can’t go there.” Can’t operate in a state of fear. “Do we have a destination tonight?”

  “Yes. Your aunt’s house.”

  Aunt Lina. Loony Lina. “I haven’t seen her in years.” I won
der which version of her I’ll find today. “Won’t that be the first place Pearl looks?”

  “Yes,” he repeats, “but she won’t find you there.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t worry. You will. Pearl mentioned tracking you, which means she had a tracker put inside you. I should have known.”

  A tracker? “How?” I ask, appalled. “Where?”

  He squeezes my hand. “Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you?”

  There’s a sense of urgency in his tone now, as if he has a wealth of things to say but only a short time to do so. “Let me guess. Great, she’s crazier than I heard.”

  His chuckle is soft but ragged. “Yes, but soon after that?”

  “After I punched you in the throat?”

  “During our date.”

  “No.” I lose my breath. “Tell me.”

  “I thought of something Archer told me right before he defected to Troika. Something I hadn’t allowed myself to think about until that day. About a horse—”

  “Hey!”

  He smiles at me. “A warhorse. It’s a compliment.”

  “Well, then, let’s hear the rest of this supposed compliment.”

  “The day Archer chose Troika, I told him we were enemies and I would come for him. I told him that his father would forever hate him, and that he’d make it a personal mission to destroy him. His response confused me, until today. He said, The warhorse paws fiercely, rejoicing in its strength, and charges into the fray. It laughs at fear, afraid of nothing; it does not shy away from the sword. The quiver rattles against its side, along with the flashing spear and lance. In frenzied excitement it eats up the ground; it cannot stand still when the trumpet sounds. At the blast of the trumpet it snorts, ‘Aha!’ It catches the scent of battle from afar, the shout of commanders and the battle cry.” Killian squeezes my hand. “Then he added, When you fight for what you know is right, my friend, you already have the victory. There’s nothing to fear.”

  I place my free hand over my heart, moved in a way I would never have expected. A warhorse, unafraid of battle, actually craving it, daring his opponents to fight him, his enemy’s efforts only making him laugh, because he knows he’ll win. “You thought I was brave.”