Killian, please! You have to come back. I can’t fight this alone.
Might Equals Right!
ML-in-training,
Sloan Aubuchon
MYRIAD
From: Mailer-Erratum
To: S_A_5/46.15.33, K_F_5/23.53.6
Subject: THIS MESSAGE HAS BEEN DEEMED UNDELIVERABLE
Report to Zhi Chen for debriefing.
MYRIAD
From: Z_C_4/23.43.2
To: S_A_5/46.15.33
Subject: Your loyalty is rivaled only by your stupidity
Your devotion to Killian Flynn would be admirable, if he hadn’t made the grave mistake of siding with a Troikan and disgracing his realm. The moment he’s found, he’ll be placed in the Kennels or killed. There are no other options.
Get your priorities straight, Miss Aubuchon, or you’ll join him, whatever his fate.
Now, on to more pleasant news. I’m assigning you a mentor to help steer you in the right direction. His name is Victor Prince, and he’s an exalted son of our Secondking.
Years ago, Victor made covenant with Troika in order to spy for us. Just last night, he managed the impossible. He defected and returned to our midst without having to go to court. Unfortunately, he lost both hands in the process.
Side note: As new as you are, you might not know spirits regenerate limbs. In time.
Until Mr. Prince is whole again, he’ll remain inside a Shell. You’ll remain inside one, as well, since he is now responsible for your training. Yours, and your new partner’s, who is rising through our ranks. His name is Leonard Lockwood, and he is Tenley Lockwood’s father.
I know you’ll treat him with respect, because you know what will happen if you don’t.
Might Equals Right!
Sir Zhi Chen
MYRIAD
From: H_S_3/51.3.6
To: Z_C_4/23.43.2
Subject: Javier Diez and Dior Nichols, among other things
Yo! I heard from one of our queens, who heard directly from our Secondking. Ambrosine wants the spirits of Javier Diez and Dior Nichols in Myriad, el pronto. No more waiting. Find someone to do the honors. I’m busy managing a warehouse full of ticking time bombs.
Speaking of, I flagged all messages about this particular topic, and came across one sent by a Laborer under your command. Sloan…something. Abadabado? Whoever she is, send her my way. I’m ensuring Troikans find the warehouse later today. Considering she’s a sympathizer, she’ll make excellent bait.
You might be willing to pardon her for her loyalty to Killian, but I am not. She can no longer be trusted, but she can be used.
Get ready. The war is about to take a drastic turn—for our better!
Might Equals Right!
General Hans Schmidt
chapter one
“Life isn’t about what you gain; it’s about what you give.”
—Troika
Ten
Present day
I peer up at the indomitable Killian Flynn, my heart thudding against my ribs. Every breath I take fills me with hope, wonder…and dismay.
Our relationship is about to change. Everything is about to change.
Earlier, we snuck out of our realms to meet in the Land of the Harvest. A secret cave in Russia’s Ural Mountains, to be exact. Now we stand face-to-face, hand in hand. Jagged rocks create the perfect frame for Killian’s wild, ravaging beauty and the unwavering strength he wields. Strength forged on the bloodiest of battlefields.
There’s no other warrior I’d rather have at my side.
Our people might be at war, but we are going to usher in peace. One step at a time.
I drink him in, this boy I’m trusting with my present—and my future. His skin is a magnificent shade between bronze and gold while his hair is jet black. His eyebrows are thick, masculine, and his nose sharp as a blade. His mouth is soft and lush. Pure temptation…
A shadow of a beard dusts his triangular jaw. Under his T-shirt and jeans, his deliciously muscled body is covered in tattoos. Skulls, stars, roses and other images, all connected by lines, creating some sort of map. That map appears on both his spirit and his Shell—an outer casing made to resemble a spirit—but he’s never told me where it leads.
One day, he’ll share all. We both will.
But it is his eyes that draw me in and hold me captive. His eyes are a soulful gold with flecks of electric blue. Always those flecks strike a chord inside me, different songs piercing my soul. Some are fast and erratic, eliciting passion, while others are slow and dreamy; always they are haunting.
Today I hear a seductive melody that sets my blood aflame and chills me to the bone. Makes sense. I am fire, he is ice, yet we fit. After all, the warmth of a fire is best enjoyed on a frigid winter’s day.
So many differences. Too many, most would say.
Just enough to rock the entire world.
I am day. He is night.
I strengthen in Light. He is unrivaled in darkness.
I like rules, structure. He thrives in chaos.
I believe our worst emotions should never dictate our actions; we should help, forgive and care for others. Emotions are fleeting, after all, and subject to change. Why let one ruin your life? He believes emotion should drive us every moment of every day, and caring for others is foolish. Those you help now will stab you in the back later.
To me, today’s choices dictate tomorrow’s reality. To him, Fate decides for us.
I’m a Troikan Conduit. He’s a Myriadian Laborer. We are Lifeblood-born enemies, and yet he is the love of my Everlife.
As different as we are, we are also the same. Painful pasts shaped us, made us stronger. We hold on tight whenever something—or someone—threatens the people and things we love. We fight for what we believe is right, no matter the obstacles in our way.
I’m one of only two Conduits responsible for lighting Troika, and I’m supposed to kill Killian, our enemy. I’m going to marry him, instead.
Chemistry doesn’t care about expectations. I love and adore this boy, and I hold on tight, remember?
Even if I despised him, I would say “I do.” There’s more at stake than our hearts.
Once we unite our spirits, we will have the opportunity to unite our realms and facilitate the peace we so desperately crave. Together, we will enter Myriad and slay Ambrosine, Prince of Ravens. The realm’s corrupt Secondking.
A corrupt leader corrupts his people absolutely.
Then Killian will take the crown, and command, and order his armies to stand down. He will accept the truce Troika once offered. A truce Eron, Prince of Doves and the Secondking of Troika, has wanted for centuries.
Finally the war will end.
Once that is accomplished—or maybe before, we haven’t decided on an order yet—we will save the poor souls trapped inside Many Ends, the hellish sub-realm connected to Myriad.
Many Ends is home to the Unsigned who experience Firstdeath, as well as monstrous beings with a single goal: kill everyone. Spirits are hunted and killed in the most horrific ways. Again…and again. Because, once a spirit “dies” in Many Ends, it comes back to life, ready for round two… three…four…
Four, the number for stability, order and justice. A strong foundation, considering there are four sides in a square. Four cardinal directions—north, south, east, west. Four seasons to complete a year—winter, spring, summer, fall. Four winds, and four phases of the moon.
Four is the only numeral spelled with the same amount of letters as its numerical value.
Focus. I believe the spirits trapped inside Many Ends come back to life, but my theory hasn’t yet been proven.
Another uncertainty? Killian’s mother, Caroline, and my friend Marlowe could be there. But here’s the thing. Neither Caroline nor Marlowe were Unsigned. Caroline made covenant with Myriad years before, only to experience Second-death within days of reaching the realm. Marlowe made covenant with Troika, only to void it when she committed suicide. Different people, different polici
es.
Myriad claimed Caroline’s spirit Fused with the spirit of a newborn infant the day of her death, but I think they lied. I think all Myriadians wind up in Many Ends, like all Troikans wind up in the Rest.
If people knew, they might not sign with Myriad. Falsehoods and propagandas keep business booming.
I need to save the damned, and I can. I know I can. Not because I’m special. Please. I’m just a girl who can navigate Many Ends’ treacherous labyrinth better than most, because I’ve been there.
A shudder of dismay rocks me.
“I hope you weren’t thinkin’ of me just then, lass.” Killian lifts my hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles, sending tingles down my spine.
“Are you kidding? The great Killian Flynn only ever makes girls shiver with desire.”
“Or vibrate with anger.”
I’m smiling as I nod. “That’s fair.”
The ring on his thumb glints in the firelight, warming my heart. After my grandmother Meredith experienced Second-death, I was presented with a token of remembrance. A gun-ring with six-round cylinders, 2mm pinfire. A gorgeous piece of weaponry and a fashion statement. My most prized possession.
I could think of no better gift to give to Killian when he gave me a hand-carved pendant in the shape of pi. Infinite possibilities rest within the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter; every possibility for every life. A number without end. Convert letters to numbers, and they, too, can be found within pi. Meaning, every number with any meaning—from our birthdays to the date we die—and every word ever spoken, every word that will be spoken, exist within pi.
“I love you” becomes 9 + 12 + 15 + 22 + 5 + 25 + 15 + 21 = 619.
Or as Killian says:
I = one letter.
Love = four letters.
You = three letters.
143, 10.
Even now, the pendant hangs from a string of leather around my neck, both beautiful and useful. Whenever I’m in trouble, I can press the center, and my location will be sent to Killian’s comm. He can find me in an instant and help.
Now, we’re going to help each other and intertwine our futures with an unbreakable covenant.
What if, despite this, I’m unable to enter Myriad?
Zero! The doubt devil surfaces, and swarms of others follow. Will my Light hurt him? Will his darkness harm me? Will we weaken or strengthen each other? Will our covenants to the realms be voided? What if, after this, neither of us can return home?
Firstlife was a dress rehearsal. Now the curtain is up, and we’re performing in front of a live studio audience. Every word, action and decision comes with a consequence. There are no second chances to right our wrongs. No do-overs.
I’ve been told I’ll turn the tide of the war, somehow, some way. What if my bond to Killian turns the tide in Myriad’s favor?
Maybe I should back out. Except…every fiber of my being suddenly screams in denial. Both realms have reached a boiling point. Every day innocents are slaughtered. Something has to change, and fast. This is our best shot at peace. Our only shot. And really, I want to save Myriad just as much as I want to save Troika. I shouldn’t put one realm above the other.
Face it. If I back out now, fear wins and everyone loses.
I will not make decisions based on “what if.” I will do what’s right, always. Because, in the end, I’m the only one who has to live with my regrets.
Doubt devils can suck it.
Killian squeezes my hands. “Yer paler by the second, lass. There’s still time tae back out.” His accent—a mix of Irish, Scottish, and I have no idea what else—is thicker than usual, his voice low and husky, and irresistibly sexy. “I doona want you feelin’ pressured.”
“I just… I wish we could speak with other inter-realm couples. We aren’t the first Troikan and Myriadian to fall in love. We can’t be.” Though we’ve searched high and low, we’ve found no one else. Either the others are in hiding…or dead.
He stiffens, as if he’s expecting a devastating blow. “We can put this ceremony on hold and continue searchin’.”
And end up right where we are, perhaps far too late. “We’re doing this. I’ll share my Light with you, and you’ll share your darkness with me. I’ll pass through the Veil of Midnight.” The doorway that leads into Myriad freezes Troikans to Second-death. But I’m about to become half-Myriadian. Maybe. Probably. Fingers crossed.
He is far from comforted. “If yer only doin’ this for your mother…”
Mom is locked in the Kennels, a prison in Myriad. I’m going to find and free her, so she can defect to Troika to raise my little brother, Jeremy. “She’s one of many reasons,” I say.
He relaxes, but only slightly. “Yer only seventeen years old. We can revisit the bond in a few decades, yeah?”
Decades? I inhale deeply, drawing in the familiar and beloved scent of peat smoke and heather. His scent. A new wave of calm flows over me, as warm and sweet as honey. “I’m almost eighteen, and you’re only nineteen. So what? We’ve lived, died and lived again. I’m not going to wait to fight for what’s right, and I’m certainly not going to wait to claim you.”
“I doona want ye doin’ something you’ll regret.”
His accent has reached maximum thickness. Aka sweet, mouthwatering molasses. Meaning his emotions are engaged and running rampant, and I’m melting as my blood heats. “How could I regret a miracle?” I ask.
One dark brow arches as his incredible eyes glitter. “Explain.”
“There are over one hundred billion galaxies. And counting! There are incalculable universes, two realms in the Unending, two sub-realms, nine planets in our solar system, one hundred and ninety-six countries, seven seas and over seven hundred islands. The fact that we found each other—miracle.”
He laughs. “You tryin’ tae seduce me, lass? ’Cause it’s workin’.”
This boy. Oh, this boy. He’s the one seducing me. Heart, mind, body. I love him.
But go ahead. Remove love from the equation. It doesn’t matter. Still I trust him. Time and time again, he’s defied the orders of his Secondking in an effort to protect my family. He’s helped me when he should have harmed me.
“It’s working, but it hasn’t carried you to the finish line yet?” I mock-growl. “I can’t believe you’re making me talk you into this. It was your idea. Maybe I should wait until you get down on one knee to beg for the honor of becoming my husband.”
His good humor fades in an instant, his features tight with tension. “I willna beg. I had tae beg for scraps as a child, simply tae survive. Now I’d rather die than beg for anythin’.”
“Hey, hey.” Amusement gone, I gently cup his face. Tenderness wells inside me. There’s so much I don’t know about him. So much I’m eager to learn. “I was only teasing, I promise.”
He releases a shuddering breath. A second later, his lips curve in a slow smile full of promise, and tendrils of heat unfurl inside me. He is beautiful beyond imagining, though every chiseled line is cut by cruelty, as if pain lives and breathes inside him. I look at him, and I want to kiss him, hug him and shake him all at once.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You get I’ll be cherishin’ you every day of my Everlife, aye?”
Just like that. I’m undone. One smile—and I fall deeper in love with him. One moment of time—and I can’t imagine a single day without him. One sentence—and I’m happier than I’ve ever been.
I rise on my tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his lips.
“Will you be cherishin’ me? I mean, yer wearing Troikan armor. Think yer marriage is goin’ to be a battlefield?” His irises glitter with a teasing light, but his tone is serious.
I give the collar of my black catsuit a self-conscious tug.
“I kid, I kid.” Killian brushes his knuckles across my jawline. “You look good in anythin’. And I canna imagine a more beautiful bride.” His voice takes on a husky timbre. “Later, you’ll look even better in nothin’.”
Heat
blooms over my cheeks.
His smile returns, and it’s full of mischief, wonder and adoration. He brushes his thumbs over the rise of my cheekbones. “Yer eyes are like mini-TV screens. They broadcast yer emotions.”
Others have told me I’m impossible to read. But then, Killian knows me better than most, and he wants me anyway. Not because I’m a rare Conduit, but because I’m me. Tenley Lockwood. A girl who’s messed up, time and time again, but continues to get up and keep fighting the good fight.
“Today, a new future will be forged,” I say. “Enemies become family.”
“The first step toward concord between our realms.”
Wind whistles outside our cave, snow billowing, while a fire crackles inside. My gaze snags on the far wall, where the numerical equivalent of our names is carved. 68 + 39.
Killian: 11 + 9 + 12 + 12 + 9 + 1 + 14 = 68
Ten: 20 + 5 + 14 = 39
68 + 39 = 107
“Sonnet 107” by William Shakespeare.
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Suppos’d as forfeit to a confin’d doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur’d
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assur’d
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I’ll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes;
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.
In other words, love is not subject to time, or even death.
Everlife (An Everlife Novel) Page 2
