He is the saint to Killian’s sinner.
Like Killian, he’s without a coat. He’s wearing a T-shirt that hugs the massive cut of his biceps. Also like Killian, he’s tall and gloriously muscled.
“Stay where you are,” Clay commands. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”
“Why would you hurt me? Ten asked for my help.” The newcomer takes one more step, landing in a beam of moonlight. “Here I am.”
“You heard her call for Archer, could have decided to pretend you’re him to take advantage of her.”
His gaze locks with mine, his eyes odd yet captivating, the color of copper, and smoldering with an intensity that should be too much for any one person to contain. They are Bow’s eyes.
“I am Archer.”
I detect a slight English accent, the very voice that once whispered through my head, and I reel anew. Killian told me I would see Bow again—Bow, as a male named Archer.
Well, I’m seeing him.
“What are you?” I want to hear him say it.
He smiles. “You know what I am... Sperm Bank.”
I lurch back.
“Well, I don’t know who you are. Why are you talking about a sperm bank?” Clay turns to me. “And what do you mean, what is he?”
“You’re a TL,” I say to Archer. “My TL, to be exact.”
His nod is relieved and resigned at once. “And you’re going to have to trust me, at least for a little while, if you want Sloan to live. I can get her warm and hide her from approaching guards.”
I’m just as relieved, just as resolved, but I’m also angry all over again. How dare he pretend to be a girl, invading my privacy? How dare he pretend to be my friend?
I don’t trust him, not anymore. He’s as bad as Killian, only wanting one thing. But I give him a clipped wave over anyway. At the moment, he is Sloan’s best and only chance for survival.
He needs no more encouragement and springs into motion. Clay and I stand in place, watching as Archer crouches, holds out his hands and taps his fingers over the top of his palm. A bright blue light springs from his flesh—like the one I saw on Killian—and my jaw drops.
“What do you really look like?” I ask.
“Exactly like this.” He dances his fingers through the light, as if he’s typing. I think... I think he is typing. He stands, moves a few yards away and repeats the process, crouching and typing. He does this four times in total, until he’s formed a square with us in the center.
“What’s happening?” Clay asks, his incredulity as fierce as my own. “How are you glowing?”
“One of the perks of the job. I’m always hooked to the Grid.”
Grid?
He advances until he’s inside the square with us then types into the blue light one more time. The light vanishes—only to reappear in the four corners he created. Beams shoot up, out, over and under us, forming walls and surrounding us with heat, such delicious heat. And the walls are so freaking beautiful, sparkling with diamond dust. I can almost convince myself the sky fell on top of us and stars are glimmering.
I reach out with a trembling hand and ghost my fingertips over the wall. And that’s exactly what it is. A wall of air with a jellylike consistency—jellyair. Trademark pending, I think drily. I can joke or sob. How is any of this possible?
Ripples spread from one wall to the other, entrancing me. “How are we hidden?”
“We see the light.” Archer crouches beside Sloan and measures her pulse. “Others see the reflection of the forest.”
“And if they bump into us?”
“They won’t. The moment the light activated, Troikan Messengers arrived. You can’t see them, but they’re there.”
“Fear based?” I ask, still resentful of my encounter with the Myriad Messengers.
He gives me a look, all, Who do you think you’re dealing with, puny human? “Distraction based.”
“Messengers.” Clay rubs the back of his neck. “That’s the job my ML and TL said I’d have in the Everlife.”
“Have you signed with one of the realms?” I panic at the thought. What if we end up on different sides?
“Not yet. But I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I’m leaning toward Troika. My family is Troikan and I’d like to spend eternity with them.”
“But... I thought you hated your family for sending you to Prynne.”
He peers at his feet. “I hated myself. And as horrible as my experience at Prynne has been, I can’t regret coming here. I’m sober. I met you...and Marlowe.”
Marlowe, who might or might not be in Troika right now.
“After I help Sloan, I can give you a tour of the realm.” Archer takes a dagger from a sheath at his ankle and slashes his wrist. He holds the wound over Sloan’s lips.
“Wait. What are you—” He’s not doing the vampire thing, at least. Glittery liquid leaks out rather than blood.
“I’m giving her Lifeblood,” he says. “She’ll heal.”
As droplet after droplet trickles into her mouth, she gives no reaction. But Archer appears satisfied by the time his wound mends. Mends, right before my eyes, the flesh weaving back together. I’ve never seen anything like it.
He lowers his arm and smiles at Clay. “Now for the tour.”
The words are for Clay, but the tour is for my benefit, I’m sure. My anger with Archer hasn’t lessened, despite his cool tricks, and I currently want nothing to do with his realm.
He types in his arm again, and a few seconds later, images begin to play over the walls. Like Killian, he shows me a beach. Only this one is sun-drenched, revealing the crystal clarity of rainbow-colored water. When I see surfers riding waves—and whales!—I close my eyes, every muscle in my body clenching. He’s using the information he gathered against me. Information he shouldn’t have.
Can no one like me just because I’m me? Will I always be a commodity to win rather than a person to love?
chapter ten
“Grass isn’t greener on the other side. Grass is greener when you water it.”
—Troika
A bead of sweat trickles between my shoulder blades, and I remove everything but my uniform to use as a cushion, creating a cozy spot to rest beside Sloan. She’s still unconscious, but I’m happy to note rosy color is seeping into her cheeks. Archer’s Lifeblood worked.
I guess he’s not a total ass.
Clay does a similar strip after the tour, sits beside me and focuses on the TL. “I refused to speak with my TL for years. A way to punish my parents, I think. Maybe myself. I’ve regretted the decision for a while now.”
“If you’ll accept me, I’ll be happy to be your TL by proxy.”
“You can do that?”
“I’ve already requested and gained permission.”
“I’ll accept you, thank you.” Clay looks down at his wringing hands. “A covenant was offered to me years ago. My parents told me the offer was revoked. I’d done too much...”
“No,” Archer says. “No. An offer is made to every child and once made, it remains active until Firstdeath.”
Expression agonized, Clay whispers, “But...you don’t know the things I’ve done.”
“I don’t need to know. Nothing you’ve done can compare to the things I did, and yet, when I was ready, I was welcomed with open arms.”
Hello, intrigue. What did Archer do? He’s so by-the-book, I can’t imagine him purposely breaking a rule.
“I just... I want to make up for my mistakes before I pledge.” Clay scrubs a hand through his hair. “Want to be worthy.”
“Why?” Archer walks over, pats him on the shoulder, clearly surprising him with the forbidden touch. “It’s not necessary, and you never know how much longer you have left in the Land of the Harvest.”
Realization suddenly hits me. Harvest is a farming term, and here, Troika and Myriad reap souls. At the moment, I’m not sure if I’m insulted or flattered.
“I’m young. I’m finally clean. I’ve got time,” Clay says.<
br />
Archer’s shoulders hunch in ever so slightly. He’s like a kid who’s just been denied his favorite dessert. “Be careful. No one knows the day or the hour.”
Two Prynne guards approach our well-lit square. Just before they reach us, however, they veer to the left, as if deep, deep inside they know to avoid what their eyes cannot see.
Messengers in action. I can’t see them either, but I can see the result of them.
Surprise! There’s more to the world—worlds—than I ever thought possible.
“Neat.” Clay yawns and stretches.
The yawn is contagious. Despite my earlier rest, I’m operating on nothing but the fumes of an adrenaline surge that has already crashed and burned. The medicine Killian used on me is wearing off, my soreness coming back. I’m also hungry, cranky and weak.
“You’re tired. Both of you.” Archer gives me a pointed look. “I’ll keep you safe. Sleep for once. Don’t fight it.”
Another reminder that he knows more about me than he should. “You should have told me you were a guy before I showered in front of you,” I snap at him.
Unabashed, he says, “You’re in a mood. Is it that time of the month for you, too? Have our cycles finally synced?”
Oh, them be fightin’ words.
I yawn again, my jaw cracking. Okay, fine. Them be fightin’ words tomorrow. “What about Killian? He’ll stop at nothing to find me.” At the mere mention of the boy’s name, my blood heats and crackles like the fire, making me tingle. Foolish! “Or to keep me from signing with you.”
“Killian?” Clay asks.
There’s a flash of resentment in Archer’s copper eyes. “The epitome of Myriad evil. And he can’t see us, either.”
Good. That’s good. Of course.
Archer’s gaze narrows on me. “Have you accepted your importance? Have you realized you’re the final drop of water that causes the cup to overflow?”
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?”
&
nbsp; “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.
Firstlife (Everlife #1) Page 15
