Firstlife (Everlife #1)

by Gena Showalter

  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 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 Unsig
ned 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.

  I expect bright lights, or cheering to echo from some secret place. Something. Anything! But nothing happens.

  Archer cups Clay by the nape and pulls him close for a bro-hug, the two patting each other on the back.

  “Welcome to the family, my friend,” Archer says.

  “Thank you.” There are tears in Clay’s eyes as he smiles up at the Laborer, and I’m almost knocked over.

  This. This is what I was waiting for. The moment is so...momentous. I hadn’t known the heavy weight Clay used to carry on his shoulders until just this second—because it’s gone, the weight is gone. His head is higher, his shoulders no longer hunched but squared and proud. Contentedness radiates from him, as if he’s shed years of fatigue.

  I want that. I want that so badly.

  “In Troika,” Archer says, “you’ll be rewarded for your deeds in this life. I’m not saying your deeds affect the benefits you receive while you’re here, only that the sacrifices you make for us will never be forgotten.”

  “What kind of rewards?” Sloan rubs her hands together, suddenly intrigued. “We talking jewels? Cash? Gold?”

  The scent of heather drifts on the wind, and in unison Archer and I stiffen. Oh...zero! “I’m pushing the pause button on this conversation. We’ve got to go.”

  “She’s right.” Archer disables the wall of jellyair.

  We follow him back into the frigid cold. We run and run and run, sunlight glistening off the ice at our feet. My wheezing returns, only it’s a thousand times worse, the burn in my lungs soon competing with the one in my thighs.

  “Changed my mind...need another break.”

  A light erupts from Archer’s wrist. He doesn’t slow as his fingers dance through it, typing, typing. Up ahead, a blue beam shoots from the sky and slams into the ground, leaving something behind when it fades.

  Archer grabs that something as he runs past it. “Here.” He tosses each of us a length of rope. “Knot them around your waist. You’re going to need them.”

  I don’t ask questions. As I run, I do as commanded.

  A new noise erupts behind us—a howl of rage. A war cry?

  Something dark whizzes past me and slams into Archer. The Laborer is thrown into the side of the mountain with so much force there’s a vibration at my feet. When he lands in a tangle of punching fists and kicking feet, I catch a glimpse of dark hair and an arm sleeved with intricate tattoos.

  Killian found us.

  I slide to a stop, grabbing hold of Clay and Sloan as they do the same. Together we stand or together we fall.

  “I’m going to kill you.” Killian delivers a viscous jab, jab to Archer’s nose. “You had no right—”

  “I had every right!” Archer ducks, avoiding the next round of fury. He lands three punches to Killian’s side. “She doesn’t want you.”

  “She doesn’t know what she wants.”

  She, meaning me. My stomach twists.

  “I won’t let you hurt her the way you hurt Dior,” Archer says through gritted teeth.

  Dior?

  “By the time I finished with your darling,” Killian says, his tone nothing but silk and heat, and yet I pick up the underlying note of his rage, “she was begging me for more.”

  That rage...over a girl... Killian is doing his best to hide his feelings, but he’s failing.

  He loved Dior, didn’t he?

  Mind scramble!

  The vicious fight rages on, the boys hitting rocks and razor-sharp ice as well as each other. I cringe as flesh is torn from both Shells, every tattered piece shimmering with diamond dust. Lifeblood, Archer called it.

  “Let’s not wait around to crown the winner.” Sloan pulls on my arm.

  “I can’t leave. I have to help Archer.” Clay is already moving forward. “He’s family!”

  I don’t understand the bond he feels so quickly. “Clay—”

  Boom!

  The explosion echoes from the sky, and again, it sounds as if fireworks have been unleashed. A battle is happening up there at the same time one is happening down here. Maybe... Archer’s friends are throwing down with Killian’s? Is that how it works?

  “Wait.” I tighten my grip on Clay’s wrist to hold him in place. If we get in the middle of two savage animals intent on killing each other, we won’t be walking away—we’ll be crawling. And that’s if we’re lucky. And...and...

  Are the vibrations at my feet getting stronger?

  “How many times did we sit on the sidelines and do nothing when other inmates needed us?” Clay’s eyes beseech me. “I can’t sit on the sidelines anymore.” He pulls from my clasp as Sloan gives me another tug.

  The counterforce sends me careening. I don’t mean to, but I take her to the ground with me. The impact is jarring, and even maybe knocks a little sense into me. Clay is right. No more sitting on the sidelines. If I can help Archer and Killian, I have to help them—before they send each other into Second-death.

  As I stand, another loud boom echoes from above. I look up and realize this one didn’t come from the sky but the mountain, heralding the beginning of an avalanche. The sky is nothing but snow, ice and rock—and falling straight for us.

  chapter eleven

  “Without an end, you cannot have a new beginning.”

  —Myriad

  Life is all about the numbers.

  Today those numbers are the seconds we have to reach safety. The tons about to crash down upon us. The feet/yards/miles we’re about to fall, unable to stop ourselves.

  “Come on.” I grab the end of Sloan’s rope and run as fast as I can. She isn’t prepared, and I have to drag her behind me. When I reach Clay, I grab his rope and drag him, too. We aren’t yet connected, but I try to remedy that as I run; I’m shaking too badly. “Archer! Killian! Come on!”

  Numbers never lie, and the center of a mass like this is always heaviest, so that’s where the avalanche will move the fastest and hit the hardest. If we can get far enough to the side, we can maybe, hopefully, avoid being buried.

  I glance up. Zero! We’re not going to get far enough to the side.

  There are no trees nearby to act as an anchor for our ropes. Not that we’d have time to tie ourselves to the trunks. What should we do next? Brace?

  The rumble of snow grows louder until I’d swear a freight train is hidden beneath the flakes. Yes. Brace. I recall a book I read and shout, “If you’re swept away, start swimming uphill as soon as you can.” The longer we’re buried, the harder movement will be. “Don’t stop until—”

  Impact!
<
br />   I’m thrown down, down, down by what seems to be ten thousand pounds of snow. I grip the ropes with all my strength as I tumble around like clothes in a dryer. Common sense tells me to keep a hand in front of my face—I might need to dig a tunnel to breathe—while keeping the other lifted above my head to help with disorientation. But I have a choice, always a choice. Help myself or help my friends by maintaining my grip on their ropes.

  I maintain my grip.

  When finally I stop, snow and debris are piled on top of me. I try to catch my breath but there’s not enough oxygen. Desperate, trying not to panic, I thrash with my legs, propelling up...up...

  Am I going the right way?

  Does it matter? If I’m buried under a foot or more, I won’t make it to the top on my own. That’s just fact.

  What seems an eternity later—yes!—I break the surface and suck back as much air as my lungs can handle. I’m frantic as I scan the sea of white, seeing no sign of the others. “Clay! Sloan!” No response. “Archer! Killian!” Again, no response.

  I tug one rope, then the other, and realize the two are on top of the snow, both facing the same direction. I use the lengths to fight my way through the rest of the deluge...

  “Ten!” Clay calls, beyond frantic. “Help me. You have to help me.”

  I lumber to my feet and follow the sound of his voice...skidding to a halt when I reach the edge of a cliff. Hanks of snow and rock fall over...and just keep falling.

  “Ten!” He’s clinging to a tree that’s been knocked over the edge, the roots the only thing keeping it in place.

  “I’ve got you.” I dig in my heels and try to pull him up with the rope. “Don’t worry.”

  “Ten... Ten...”

  A whimper at my right. I turn my head and see Sloan, and I almost lose my breakfast. She’s hanging over the same cliff, and like Clay, she’s white-knuckling a tree branch with every bit of strength she possesses.

  “Pleeease. Help me.”

  My panic returns with a vengeance. I won’t be able to pull them up at the same time. They’re simply too heavy. I have to pick one and pray the other holds on just a little longer.