Firstlife (Everlife #1)

by Gena Showalter

  Reporters from all over the world are on the scene. Video feed dominates every wall in the living room, the projections offering us a panoramic view of the festivities, and we watch as the street fills with a sea of humans wanting to witness the horrific event. It’s as if this is nothing but a game.

  Public executions aren’t held often, but they are held and they are legal. Realms are allowed to punish signees who violate contracts as they see fit. Because Secondlife is a sure thing, the deaths aren’t considered terribly serious.

  I’ve seen three in my lifetime, and I remember my parents throwing popcorn at the screen.

  Come on, come on. We’re already armed for the most brutal of combat—I’m wearing half the weapons that were in my bag. All I could hold. There’s a time for peace, and there’s a time for war.

  Threaten my loved ones, and it’s war. No question.

  Deacon’s mouth curls in distaste. “Everyone looks so excited.”

  He’s right. No matter which direction the camera pans, smiles abound. Someone even brought a beach ball to toss around the crowd.

  Where is Archer? Why hasn’t he returned?

  Cheers suddenly erupt along with whistles and catcalls. Tensing, I scan the walls, circling the room until I find the source of the merriment. At last, Killian and Sloan are dragged to the “stage,” the plateau at the top of the marble steps in front of the spa.

  I’m expecting them, but the sight still horrifies me. I take a moment to study the scene.

  The gold collar is still wrapped around Killian’s neck, trapping his spirit inside the Shell. A Shell that is now utterly flayed, flaps of skin hanging by threads. He is a beautiful but morbid sight, covered in so much Lifeblood he looks as if he’s bathed in glitter. His tongue...his tongue has been cut out—I know because it’s pinned to his shirt. His wrists are shackled to fetters even now being anchored to the columns beside him, his ankles bound to fetters on the ground.

  His body forms an X. The Roman numeral for ten.

  X marks the spot.

  One of Sloan’s eyes is swollen shut. There’s blood matted in her hair and caked around her nose and mouth. She cried so much and so hard, her face is swollen, tear tracks having left welts on her cheeks. She, too, is shackled with fetters to form an X.

  A third person is dragged onto the plateau, and I gasp. My father’s head is down and though he’s uninjured, his arms are fettered behind his back. His dark hair is rumpled, and tears stain his cheeks.

  He’s placed a few feet away from Pearl, who looks like an angel. She’s wearing a ceremonial robe like the Troikans’, though hers is as white as snow, her pale hair falling to her waist in perfect waves.

  Just then I’m struck by a truth so real it might as well be a bolt of lightning: there is no greater evil than the one that cloaks itself in virtue.

  Pearl doesn’t waste any time. She lifts a gun, aims and squeezes the trigger. The loud boom causes the crowd to go quiet. My dad’s body jerks, and he collapses. “This man attempted to cheat his contract, and such behavior will never be tolerated.”

  Another gasp escapes me, and my hands fly up to cover my mouth. My dad lands on the ground and stays down, his eyes open but unfocused, a quarter-size hole leaking blood between his eyes. Nausea churns in my belly, and my knees begin to knock. He’s dead. My father is dead. Just. Like. That.

  Tears begin to pour down my cheeks. I might not have liked the man, and he might have tried to kill me—this might be what he deserves—but the little girl I used to be still loved him. That little girl will always love him.

  “I’m so sorry, Ten.” Deacon gives my shoulder an awkward pat, as if he doesn’t know how to offer comfort. “I had no idea she had your father.”

  My hands fall to my sides and fist. Meanwhile, the crowd cheers as if she’s said something amazing.

  Pearl peers into the camera and smiles. “If you sign with Troika, they die.”

  She’s speaking directly to me. She knew I’d be watching, because she’d taken great pains to spread the word this morning.

  The cheers from the crowd grow louder. I think I hear a few shouts of protest.

  Oh, yes. I do. Multiple people are holding HART signs that read What If You’re Next? Stop the Madness!

  Pearl holds up her hand in a bid for silence and finally addresses the masses. “I come to you with a heavy heart.” Her voice—now soothing—drifts through the living room. “Myriad’s love for you is boundless and as always we want only the best for you. Yet here I stand, admitting we failed you. The two traitors beside me were welcomed into our fold only to betray us—betray you—to Troika, the enemy intent on our destruction.”

  A chorus of “boo” erupts.

  She places her hand over her heart. “These two tried to hurt you, my people, my family, and that will never be tolerated. I will always fight for you—fight for what’s right for you, what’s best. Today, the traitors will face my wrath. Their attempts to harm those under my protection will end.”

  Cheers again.

  Fools! How can they not see the villain she is?

  Who am I kidding? I missed it for years.

  She looks straight into the camera, as if she’s peering straight into my soul. “We will proceed...unless anyone wishes to raise an objection?”

  “We go now,” I tell Deacon. “We can’t wait for Archer any longer.”

  He doesn’t protest, and I’m grateful. “All you have to do is survive, Ten. She won’t hurt them as long as you’re breathing.”

  By that reasoning, I should stay here. But we both know that isn’t an option. If I do, Pearl will hurt Killian and Sloan.

  “I’ll survive,” I vow. Whatever it takes.

  He wraps his arms around me—but nothing happens.

  I frown. “Are you sure this will work?”

  “Of course. Shells were patterned after human bodies. I’m waiting for you to close your eyes.”

  Please. I’m not missing a moment of this. I’ve been to Many Ends; I can handle anything. “Go!”

  Bright, blinding light basically incinerates my corneas. The foundation is ripped out from under me, and I’m thrown like a baseball across a field, the world around me nothing but a blur. I’m—

  “Here,” Deacon says.

  I hear gasps of surprise, but it takes me a moment to focus. My stomach churns, erupts. I hunch over and spew out my guts. More gasps, only these are laced with disgust. There’s a patter of footsteps as people rush to get away from me and my gross.

  As I straighten, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, the world comes into view. Deacon landed us right in front of the plateau, just a step below Pearl. His Oxi is already aimed. He fires.

  Three Myriad Shells rush from the sidelines to form a wall in front of Pearl, the blast nailing the guy in the middle, the air around him suddenly smoky. He tries to wave away the fumes as his comrades jump away from him, leaving him to decay. Clumps of his hair fall from his head, and his skin begins to age rapidly, wrinkles appearing, spreading, digging deeper.

  The guy on his right shoots him between the eyes and the Shell explodes into ash.

  Click. Click. Click.

  I don’t have to look to know that every Shell in the audience is now aiming a weapon at me. Are bullets in the chambers, or darts? Does she want to kill me right from the start, or try one more time to convince me Myriad is better than Troika?

  I keep my attention on Killian. He’s shaking his head no, his golden eyes—those beautiful eyes—beseeching me. Leave. Don’t do this.

  A part of me dies at seeing such a strong boy so helpless.

  “I’m here to bargain,” I call and his head falls forward in defeat.

  Four seconds pass before Pearl steps forward, her chin high. Four types of blood. Four horsemen of the apocalypse. Four stages in a human Firstlife: conception, birth, life and finally death.

  I’m going to deliver her Second-death.

  “The time for bargains has passed.” She nods at her
men. “Hobble her.”

  Hobble, not kill. She is confident she has the edge.

  As a thousand explosions ring out, Deacon whisks me away on a beam of light. I’m blinded for a moment, and my stomach rebels the second we land—directly behind Pearl.

  I retch all over Deacon’s boots, not that anyone notices. Or hears. Shells and humans are too busy toppling from the blasts. Without us there to take the blows, they end up shooting each other.

  Deacon raises the Oxi, the barrel aimed at the back of Pearl’s head, but she didn’t earn the title of Leader by sitting behind a desk.

  She senses him and ducks, spins, a Stag palmed from a pocket in her robe. As she fires off a shot of her own, Deacon shoves me out of the way and vanishes, and the dart embeds in the building behind me. I waste no time, unsheathing a dagger and tossing it. The tip slices through her wrist, her version of muscle clenching and unclenching, forcing her to drop the weapon.

  A pop, pop sounds at my left. Sharp pain erupts in my neck, electric pulses shooting through me, making me jerk, rendering me useless. Pearl smiles as she pulls the blade from her wrist, then nods in thanks to the Shell who pegged me full of darts.

  Can’t have failed so easily. So quickly.

  She walks toward me, saunters really, pep in every step. She’s proud of herself, even a little giddy. My gaze scans... Deacon is fighting a crowd of Myriad soldiers. A split second after he disappears, they disappear. A split second after he reappears, they reappear, the battle never pausing. Someone is always punching, throwing elbows or knees.

  “Help,” I manage to gasp.

  “Yes, help her,” Pearl calls. How smug she sounds. “Anyone?”

  Deacon glances my way and appears behind Pearl a second later, but that’s what she wanted him to do—draw out and conquer. She dives low when he swings at her and as she rolls, she nails him with a dart.

  He drops, his body twitching. No, no, no.

  My fault!

  No. Her fault. She stands, giving me another of those smug smiles, my dagger still in her hand. “You were right, you know. You can’t be Fused with my Ashley. Which means we were wrong about the other Generals. We have to be wrong.”

  Other Generals? Plural? “Wrong about what?”

  She ignores me, saying, “I’m supposed to bring you in if at all possible. I don’t think it’s possible.”

  The darts send electric pulses through every muscle in my body. It’s agony. Worse than anything Vans ever put me through. Before Many Ends, it would have overwhelmed me, and I might have tapped out.

  My trials were my darkest hours, but now I’ll use them as the foundation of my triumph.

  As Pearl raises the dagger, I push through the pain. My determination is unparalleled, the sun stroking over me, seeping into me...strengthening me? I manage to kick out my leg, knocking her feet out from under her. She falls, crash landing on a step. The pain grows worse, but my determination grows with it, the sun continuing to stroke me, warming me from the inside out. I’m able to reach up and yank the dart out of my neck.

  She and I stand in unison, facing off. Another dart—two, three, four—sink into my flesh, and I drop to my knees. But only for a second. Only long enough to pull out each one and stand again.

  Surprise and fear darken in her eyes. “You shouldn’t... No one should... How...”

  The sun continues to stroke me as I bend down and pluck out the darts in Deacon. I keep my eyes on Pearl. “Your pride dragged you here while my determination carried me. I’m a force to be reckoned with, and today is the day of your reckoning.”

  Backing away from me, she shouts, “Kill them! Kill Killian and Sloan.”

  A moment of surprise. She’s flipped the script and changed her game play. I was the ultimate target, but because she’s at a disadvantage—despite the army surrounding her—she’s determined to strike at me any way possible.

  I cast a panicked look at Deacon, who is still recovering. He’s gone a second later, reappearing in front of Sloan while I dive for Killian. Shots ring out as blinding white lights appear all over the plateau, all through the street, even in front of Killian and Sloan. Shells! An army from Troika!

  Archer stops the shots from hitting Killian. Or rather, his sword does. In one hand, he holds a sword of mesmerizing blue-white fire. The one I’ve asked him about, the handle actually growing from his palm. In his other hand, he holds a shield, and with a crisscross motion of his arms, he either burns the darts and bullets—everything fired his way—or blocks them. Nothing gets past him. He remains unharmed, Killian saved from Second-death.

  My relief knows no bounds. Nor does my irritation. “You’re late,” I say to Archer.

  A slight smile teases the corners of his lips. “Actually, I’m right on time.”

  Pearl is busy typing into the light in her wrist. Messaging for help?

  I lumber to my feet, brush the dirt and pebbles from my palms. “You ready to hear my bargain now?” I don’t give her a chance to respond. “Let Killian and Sloan go, and you’ll live. Fight us, and you’ll die.”

  “How about my bargain instead?” Behind her, other lights slam into the ground, new Myriad Shells appearing, each holding a crude-looking spear or bow and arrow. Guess the Generals don’t want us taking out one of their Leaders, even though she’s acting against orders. Or is she? They could want me dead, too, stories of Pearl going rogue nothing but lies for the people. “We fight, you die.”

  An instant later, Shells dive on Shells. Weapons slash. Limbs fall.

  I’m allowed only a glimpse of the carnage, a ring of Troikan warriors appearing around me. Each clutches a blue-white sword of flames, slashing at any projectiles that are fired in our direction as a swarm of Myriad Shells surround us. I’m Unsigned, and yet they’re protecting me as if I’m one of their own.

  One of the Troikan soldiers falls, his Shell littered with arrows. Another warrior crouches down, gathers his friend close and vanishes in a beam of light. The others tighten the circle, and I wonder why the fallen Shell wasn’t ashed, the spirit inside freed. The arrows must make it impossible, like the collar Killian wears. Yes! That’s it. Killian once told me a story about a Troikan woman he killed. He trapped her spirit inside a Shell. She hemorrhaged to death, unable to escape.

  How many are going to die today?

  Is Killian being guarded as fiercely as me? Probably not. He’s on the other team. Then again, this Troikan army isn’t just here for me, but for two who should be their enemies.

  Still. I can’t just sit here, doing nothing. Seeing no other recourse, I crawl out from between the legs of my protectors. Sorry, folks. Chaos reigns all around me, swords of fire swinging, body after body falling, ash floating on the breeze. Spears and arrows whiz past. More bodies fall and ash. Grunts, groans and screams create a macabre soundtrack. And that’s only what I can see and hear! No telling what’s happening with the spirits around us, invisible to humans.

  I scramble as fast as I can, my prize in sight. A single warrior is guarding Killian and in this case, one is enough. Archer dazzles me with his skill. I’ve never seen him like this, a lethal savage, a weapon in his own right and a terrible beauty to behold. He doesn’t meet my gaze, but I know he knows I’m there, his every motion well-placed to prevent me from being grazed by the sword as I close the rest of the distance. Finally I’m in front of Killian and—I’m already crying. I’m crying so hard. He’s a mess, more so than I realized.

  I cup his face and he uses up massive amounts of strength to lift his eyes. His irises...the beautiful gold is lighter than before and fading even now. I don’t have to be told what’s happening. He’s dying inside the Shell.

  “I told you I’d come for you. I’m getting you out of here.” I tug at his collar to no avail. I press against every inch, searching for an open sesame. There isn’t one. “You’re going to heal. I’m going to doctor you up so gently you’ll swear I’ve been to medical school.”

  I think he says, “Go,” but it’s hard
to tell.

  As I work at the fetters on his ankles, the heat singeing me, I say, “I’m staying put. Ten Lockwood isn’t leaving another man behind. Especially her man.”

  By the time the cuffs snap open, my hands are covered in blisters. I meet his gaze, which is a little brighter now and full of determination—good, that’s good—before I turn my attention to his hands.

  “Hurry.” Archer swings the sword this way and that, burning darts before they can soar past him. “The Myriad Shells are herding the humans into the line of fire, using them as shields.”

  I know him. He can’t—won’t—harm a human.

  I work as fast as I can, frantic, and finally Killian’s wrist cuffs open. With another moan, he sags against me. I ease him to the ground, place a soft kiss on his Lifeblood-stained lips and whisper, “This next part might hurt. I’m sorry.”

  Not knowing what else to do, I thread the open fetter through the collar, letting the outer heat soften the metal. I then thread through the wire in my wrist cuff and begin to saw with all my might. The wire was the only thing that made any headway with the Myriad locks, so why not the collar, too? Sparks fly, metal shavings raining down. Killian grimaces. It’s burning him, but it can’t be helped. I keep going, and finally the collar falls to the ground in pieces, freeing him from bondage.

  “Now! Ash his Shell,” I tell Archer. Set his spirit free!

  He swings around to face me, the sword raised and ready—but he never renders the blow. His body jerks and his eyes go wide as three arrows cut through his back and peek out his chest.

  chapter twenty-eight

  “If you don’t stand for what’s right, who will?”

  —Troika

  A scream of denial splits my lips. Archer is still jerking, as if his spirit is struggling to escape the Shell but can’t.

  I glance up at the person who did this to him. Not a person, a monster. Pearl grins at me as she lowers her bow.