Everlife Trilogy Complete Collection: Firstlife ; Lifeblood ; Everlife

by Gena Showalter

  Eyes narrowed, he angles his body toward me. “What did you think would happen when the war ended? I would defect?”

  “Yes. Before our bond, you already planned to defect. We were—are—going to help both realms.” Deciding to take a calculated risk, I add, “But if you’d rather sever our bond, as the Generals said, go ahead. It will break my heart, but broken hearts mend.”

  I’m not going to let him hold our bond, and our plans, over my head, as if they need to be ransomed. He needs to understand, and fast, that he has as much at stake as I do.

  “Sever our bond.” He scowls, as I’d hoped. “You’ll let me go, just like that?” He snaps his fingers.

  “Don’t you see?” I grab and shake him. “I’m fighting to stay with you. Why don’t you help me?”

  A roar cuts through the night, and my gaze zooms skyward, just in time to watch a dragon the size of a Mack truck fly overhead. His black-and-green scales are resplendent, his wings magnificent. A spiked tail wags behind him.

  “Only guards and prisoners are allowed in the Kennels,” Killian says, picking up our conversation as if the argument never began. His grumbling tone tells a different story, however. “We’ll be noticed the second we enter. But I have a plan.”

  “If you tell me we need to get ourselves arrested, I’ll punch you again.”

  He rolls his eyes. “As you can see, no one can resist a good party. We’ll spend the day spreading word about the one we’re going to throw. Once that party kicks off, we’ll convince everyone to walk through the Gate with us. As they’re kicked out, we’ll sneak past the guards.”

  It’s…not a bad plan. “Will your friends help us?” The more people we have on our side, the better our chance for success.

  “I have no friends,” he admits. “None outside the Kennels, anyway.”

  How sad. A good support system matters. Everyone needs someone who will pick him up when he’s down. Someone to laugh and cry with—someone willing to tell the truth when lies abound.

  I squeeze his hand, offering comfort, but he quickly pulls from my grip. Hope fizzles. If he remembered me, I could ask what’s wrong and how I can help. This stranger isn’t interested in revealing his vulnerabilities to me.

  Deep breath in, out. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “We’ll walk around, telling everyone we meet about the party. Since this is our honeymoon,” he adds, “I won’t even charge you for my escort duties or party planning.” Eyes glittering with amusement, he nudges my shoulder with his own.

  “What’s your normal fee?” I ask.

  “You misunderstand. I’ve never given a tour to anyone else. But here, nothing is free. Everything costs.” He leads me forward, and I gasp. Every time we take a step, a stone lifts from the ground to meet us, allowing a smooth descent to the land below. “We work hard for our money, and our time is valuable. We don’t part with a coin or a single second lightly.”

  “The people of Troika work hard, too, but gifting is a way of life.” In fact, the giver often looks more joyous than the receiver.

  “Ridiculous. The more you give away, the less you have.” We pass a group of teenage boys, and Killian nods in greeting. “Dudes. Party at the beach tonight. Clothing optional. Trust me, you don’t want to miss this. Tell your friends.”

  The boys whoop, holler and high-five each other.

  The next group we pass is made up of older women dressed in elaborate Victorian gowns. Killian bows and says, “I bid you good morrow, ladies. There’s a gathering at the beach tonight. I hear Victor Prince is hoping to meet a bride.”

  Feminine twitters erupt as the ladies hurry on.

  Unease pokes at me. He’s telling everyone what he thinks they want to hear. How many times has he done the same to me?

  “Give me the lowdown on Myriad.” Facts are facts, and there’s no reason to lie. The more I know about enemy territory, the better chance I’ll have of escaping when the time comes. Or hiding, if it proves necessary.

  He nods, saying, “The realm is divided into ten territories. The City of Carnal Delights, or CCD, where we are now. This is also where most businesses are located. They’re open 24/7. Then there’s the Museum of True Wisdom, where dossiers are kept on every citizen, human and even Troikans. There’s the Temple of Unholies, where the Prince of Ravens lives. Although he has a home in every territory.”

  “The fortress I saw when we entered…”

  “Yes,” he says. “Then there’s the Tower of Absolution, where we train. The Garden of Zen, where speaking is forbidden. The Capital of Bliss, where I live. The Mountain of Vengeance, where the dragons reside, and also where the Kennels are located. The House of Indulgence, where official ceremonies are held. The Center of Learning, where orphans are raised. And finally, the Fountain of Tears, where people go to indulge every emotion to the fullest.”

  The differences between Myriad and Troika shouldn’t surprise me. Not even a little. They are night versus day. Logic versus emotion. Ten versus Killian. But I’m surprised, I admit it. The self-indulgence…the carnality… How does anyone get anything done?

  We reach a small beach with onyx sand and water the color of a sky at sunset. The scents of salt and coconut, so familiar to me, fill my nose.

  Killian calls out another party invitation to the people in the water—they’re the ones with the metal wings. They fly in and out of the surf.

  “Compared to Troika, you must have triple the population,” I say.

  “More than triple,” he replies. “With every new arrival, the realm expands.”

  The name Myriad makes sense. Myriad = countless multitudes.

  Having more soldiers doesn’t necessarily equate to having a stronger army, clearly, or Troika would have been conquered long ago.

  We walk along the cobbled path for over an hour. Killian continues to tell everyone he sees about the party, or gala, or cheese tasting—whatever seems the most desirable to the people involved—and no one says no.

  In Troika, citizens wear either catsuits (armor) or robes, nothing in between. Here, citizens wear whatever they want. Or so I’m guessing. Besides the Victorian ball gowns, I spot scanty togas and punk rock leather. Some men wear kilts, some wear loincloths. Others wear slacks or jeans. A mix of cultures, traditions and fashions.

  The party vibe never fades, however. The throng that meanders along the streets, or in the buildings, never thins. Voices rise and blend together; though the volume of all those conversations ebbs and flows, it’s never less than a dull roar.

  The skin on the back of my neck prickles. A warning. Something is wrong. Stiff as a board, I search the faces around me. No one seems overly fixated on me, but…my suspicions aren’t laid to rest.

  “Still nervous?” Killian asks. Something about his tone… And the flush is back on his cheeks.

  “Yes and no.” I check our bond, and find a mixture of guilt, shame, remorse and determination.

  Zero! What did he do?

  Anger sparks to vibrant life, burning my chest.

  Betrayed, the shadows whisper, throwing fuel on the fire.

  Stop, just stop. I don’t know what he’s done. Whatever it is—however big or small—there’s still time to reverse it.

  I must continue my course: Seduction. Maybe, if I make my husband want me, desire will prompt trust and trust will prompt his memory. I need him to remember me, need him on my side. Before it’s too late.

  Another dragon flies past us, casting a massive shadow. The shadows inside me moan with delight, loving it.

  Ignore. Stay focused. “You’re a wonderful escort. Totally worth the cost.” I lean my head on Killian’s shoulder and say, “Speaking of cost, how do you guys pay for things?”

  He jolts, as if surprised, but he doesn’t dart away.

  One step at a time. I must take joy in small victories.

&nbs
p; “Credits.” He holds out his arm, and points to his wrist. “We have a chip implanted. Every time I convince a human to sign with Myriad, a certain number of credits are added to my account.” His tone hardens. “When I fail to convince a human to sign with Myriad, I lose a certain number of credits.”

  A barbed lump grows in my throat. “How many credits did you lose when I made covenant with Troika?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Come on.” He leads me to a small chrome and glass building. Near the closed—and locked—door, he holds his wrist under what I assume is a scanner.

  Bingo! The scanner thanks him for paying a credit, and the door unlocks.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “We can’t be traced.” Now he leads me inside the building.

  Well. He wasn’t kidding when he said everything costs something.

  I find myself in—A white-hot blush heats my cheeks. A small bedroom. There are mirrors on the walls and the floor. There’s a vanity-slash-wet bar, complete with mirror and stool, a bed without sheets, and a cabinet filled with individual packets of sheets that are for sale. A desk occupies the far corner, a screen hanging on the wall in front of it. Beyond another door is a bathroom with a shower—and a scanner in order to turn on the water—plus a bin with a sign overhead that reads, Dirty sheets go here.

  The door locks behind us.

  “This is a love shack,” I blurt out. “A place for a quickie on the go.”

  “Also a place to make inquiries. You want to see Dior, don’t you?” He scans his wrist at the wet bar, and a shot glass slides from a cubby in the wall. A spout extends from a different cubby to fill the glass. He downs the shot before sitting at the desk, scans his wrist on a different scanner, and begins to type on the desktop, despite not having any kind of keyboard. Images appear on the screen. “I need to log on to the data system under an alias.”

  Interested in the exchange of money, I hold my wrist under the sink’s scanner, but nothing happens.

  “Chips are placed inside Myriadian comms,” he says. “Scanners scan a spirit, even when a Shell is involved. But there are ways around it. There’s a chip in my Shell that overrides the one in my comm.”

  “Are you using stolen credits, then?” I ask, realizing he can’t use the ones he earned while using a Shell that isn’t linked to him.

  “Only from the dead.” Noticing my confusion, he adds, “When a spirit experiences Second-death, their remaining credits are wiped from the system. But not right away. Not until the bodies are collected and identified. See, when we go to battle, we lose soldiers. It’s inevitable. I take note of who bites the dust. As soon as I return to Myriad, I break into the accounts of the fallen soldiers, take a small amount of credits, and assign them to a new owner.”

  “So credits aren’t passed to family members?”

  “Nothing is passed on to family members or loved ones. If you don’t do something to help the realm—”

  “You don’t get,” I finish.

  He nods.

  “What will happen if you’re caught?”

  “Depends. The number of credits you steal is the number of days you spend in the Kennels. But how will I get caught? The dead won’t come back to tattle.”

  I detect a note of bitterness in his tone, that the system is so broken, and part of me wants to exploit it. Think of all the times Myriad has punished you, let you down, or hurt you. You don’t want to help the realm, do you? Instead, I move to the doorway that separates bathroom from bedroom and lean against the frame, watching as he works.

  He curses. “Dior’s location has been blocked. I can’t track her.”

  Disappointment flares, and I quickly tamp it down. “We’ll find another way.” We always do.

  My thoughts travel another road, returning to the problem with his memory. Maybe seduction isn’t the answer. Not on its own, anyway. People only ever take from Killian. By his own admission, everything he’s gotten, he’s had to pay for. I can give him access to my mind—my heart—free of charge.

  “How long are we allowed to stay in here?” I ask. The longer we’re here, the less time I can be watched by whoever is following us. And someone is following us, guaranteed.

  He pauses, meets my gaze. Curiosity and interest glitter in his eyes. “One hour. Well, fifty-six minutes now. Why?”

  A slow smile blooms. I walk toward him, stepping out of my Shell and saying, “Because I have plans for you.”

  TROIKA

  * * *

  From: A_P_5/23.43.2

  To: T_L_2/23.43.2

  Subject: Something strange is happening

  You know how you’re an Architect now? Well, so is Raanan. He’s making other Conduits, Ten. Like, a lot. Deacon, Clementine, Clay and Reed and…drum roll, please…ME. Yes, you read that correctly. Me. Archer Prince. He touched me, that’s all, and a bolt of lightning shot through me. Suddenly I could see—and absorb—Light like never before.

  So yeah, I rock hardcore. The entire realm is going batcrap crazy over this. (Be honest. Are sophisticated Conduits like us allowed to use the word batcrap???)

  I’m sure you want other updates, though I’m sure we can both admit I just gave you the most important one.

  The princess: She’s come out of hiding. Not just to help Raanan, but to train us. In fact, with so many Conduits, she has no reason to hide anymore.

  Warehouse: We haven’t engaged. Yet. Deacon figured out Sloan’s code (you know, the flash of three fingers, three times.) She was warning us. There are eighteen warehouses just like the one we found. The moment we trip one of many silent alarms, the machines shut down and the potential Abrogates wake up. A new battle begins.

  Kayla: She’s doing well. She’s on her feet, and standing with us.

  Have you found Dior?

  Wish you were here!

  Light Brings Sight ←Especially to me! Because I’m a Conduit!

  TL Conduit Archer Prince

  TROIKA

  * * *

  From: Mailer-Erratum

  Subject: THIS MESSAGE HAS BEEN DEEMED UNDELIVERABLE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  * * *

  “There are no moral absolutes. What is wrong for one might be right for another.”

  —Myriad

  Killian

  I have plans for you. As Ten saunters toward me, full of confidence and the embodiment of feminine wiles, her final words echo in my mind. I’m undone.

  I look at this girl, and I want her. I scent her sweetness, and I want her. She has become the sun to my world, and I cannot help but gravitate to her. The loss of control enrages me, even as it thrills me.

  The earth cannot touch the sun without being engulfed by flames. The problem is, I long to be engulfed. I’m as desperate as a man dying of thirst.

  I should walk, no, run, from this room.

  I’m trembling as I stand, my body thrumming with aggression, my blood hot. I step from my Shell, becoming myself again…and sit at the edge of the bed.

  I’m not leaving.

  The bond…it can’t be blamed. Not fully. Not this time. The bond isn’t responsible for Ten’s breathtaking smile, or the way her mismatched eyes light up every time she looks at me. The bond also can’t take credit for her stunning wit and staunch determination…or the trust she continues to have in me.

  Trust I do not deserve.

  She has no idea I’ve already sold her out. After our shower, I was reeling more forcefully than ever before. Or harder than ever before. Yeah. That, too. In more ways than one. Touching her had been a revelation. The softness of her skin nearly unmanned me. The little mewls in the back of her throat delighted me. Everywhere they traveled, my fingers left a trail of goose bumps, and it thrilled me. When she touched me…

  My world upended. I craved more, then and now.

  The craving consumed me, and I freaked out. I shouldn
’t want her this much. Shouldn’t want anyone this much. At some point, I’m going to lose her, either because of the war, or because of my own foolishness. I thought, Why prolong the inevitable, making things worse for myself?

  Rip the bandage. Move on. Quickly.

  Next I thought, If I have to sacrifice myself and my desires to get this done, so be it. For my realm, and my king, I will do anything. I believe in both—yes?

  As soon as I entered the closet to dress, I sent a message to my Leader, Sir Zhi Chen. Because of me, an ML was waiting for us just beyond the Veil of Midnight. Took me a while to pinpoint who, exactly, but only one Shell followed us to every location.

  The second I lost him, I darted in here.

  We’re at a serious disadvantage. Except for my cuffs, our weapons are bogus; they don’t work.

  What have I done?

  My dark side provides an answer: the right thing. If I hadn’t bargained for Ten’s life, death would have been a real possibility, if not an outright inevitability.

  Now, Ten will stay safe. And so will I.

  The true shocker: When I made the bargain, I wasn’t concerned about my future, only hers.

  Right now, she’s looking at me with the same intense longing and desire that is smoldering inside of me. When she finds out what I’ve done, she’ll look at me with hatred.

  “Mr. Flynn. Where are you? I demand a report.”

  Zhi’s voice fills my head, unbeknownst to Ten, interrupting the moment, and I grind my teeth. I programmed my Shell to relay every incoming message via audio rather than text. Texts can be sent along the Grid, which is a danger while I’m connected to Ten.

  Once again, Zhi speaks. “We have intercepted a message from Archer Prince to Miss Lockwood. There’s been a startling development. Either that, or the Troikans have realized we’ve hacked into Miss Lockwood’s feed and hope to trick us. But either way, something must be done ASAP.”