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.
She did this. And she will pay.
"N-no," Archer says.
One word, but I realize I'm allowing hatred for Pearl to pull my strings--allowing her to pull my strings. That's Myriad's way. Not my way. A road leading to an end I don't want.
Forget her. I squeeze Archer's hand. He's more important. I'll guard him from another attack, even at the cost of my own life.
Pearl reaches back and slides an arrow from the pouch now hanging over her shoulder, but she doesn't have time to aim. A sword of fire cleaves her head from her body, killing her.
I feel nothing. Not even relief. As her head soars down the steps, her body topples, revealing a panting Deacon behind her.
"Archer needs Lifeblood," I tell him. "Now!"
He takes a step forward, but Myriad soldiers are so enraged by the death of their Leader, they release their human shields to race up the steps and attack Deacon en masse. He herds them to the bottom of the steps, away from Archer.
How am I supposed to save him?
Sloan is free on the other side of the plateau, at least, leaning against a column and crying. She can't help me, either.
I focus on Archer and the arrows, accidentally jarring him, and the hum of a motor erupts. He arches his back, bellowing in agony.
"Can't move arrows...blades in shaft...drip poison...every time you pull." Killian's voice! He rolls to his side, facing us. He'd been drinking Lifeblood from one of the fallen soldiers, his mouth glittering. His tongue is already growing back, his skin weaving back together. "He needs Lifeblood."
>
"I know! But no one has any to spare and--" Wait! I do. I have Lifeblood. I'm not just a body. I'm a spirit. "Killian, how do I get my spirit out of my body without dying and going to Many Ends?"
"You don't." His voice is stronger now. "You can't."
"I must! If I don't share my Lifeblood with Archer, he'll die."
Killian inhales sharply, his features tortured. "I'll give you ten seconds, no more. The moment your spirit leaves your body, your body will die. It won't revive until your spirit returns, and the longer you're separated, the less chance there is it has the strength to accept your spirit when you attempt to return unless you're flooded with Lifeblood, but as you can see, it's in short supply right now."
I don't understand how he thinks he can give me ten seconds. Then his Shell goes still, the eyes clearing. He's gone? But--
An invisible hand clutches my heart in a vise grip. I'm yanked forward--no, not my body, I realize a second later, but my spirit. Suddenly I'm crouched before Killian. The real Killian.
Only a split second passes as I look at him, though it seems like an eternity. So beautiful... Muted sunlight shines over him, chasing away the dark shadows trying desperately to cling to him, and my breath catches. His hair is jet-black silk, the locks long enough to hang over his brow, the perfect frame for features that have been chiseled by a master. His eyebrows are just as black and the perfect thickness. His eyes, those golden eyes with the crystalline flecks, are pure male aggression, intense...perfect. His perfect blade of a nose leads to the perfect shadow of stubble. His top lip is the same plumpness as his bottom lip, the two a perfect pair. His skin is a perfect bronze, as if it's been painted on by perfect brushstrokes.
Perfect. Yes. That's what he is. Perfection made flesh. Or spirit.
Scars wrap around his neck like a boa, but there are tattoos strategically placed to mask them. More lines and stars. They are raised, seemingly alive. I reach for him, and see that parts of me are glowing. The beams are muted, but there, as if I'm shedding the same shadows clinging to Killian.
"One," he says. He has hold of my shoulder, but slides his grip to my wrist. He's the one keeping me from returning to Many Ends, isn't he? "Two."
Zero! The countdown.
I turn to Archer--who is aglow, even through the Shell, so bright my eyes tear. One by one, I rip out the arrows. He flops around like a gutted fish, too weak to bellow again. I look around for a weapon, realize I couldn't touch one anyway. Like to like. I'm spirit right now, not tangible to the Land of the Harvest.
I bite into my wrist, actually tearing into my flesh like a dog with a bone.
"Six," Killian says, his grip on me tightening.
"Just a little longer!" I place my wrist over Archer's mouth. My Lifeblood pours into him, slides down his throat as strength drains from me. I glance up, at the battle, and what I see takes my breath away.
I see Shells, and I see spirits. It's the battle between the spirits that is the most brutal. Spirits aren't just on the ground; they're in the air, hovering as they fight. Swords of blue fire against swords of red fire. I don't have to wonder who is Troikan and who is Myriadian. The Troikans seem to absorb sunlight while a dark film covers the Myriadians.
These men and women...they aren't just sun against moon but truly light versus dark. I tried to have the best of both worlds, while doing to others what I hated others for doing to me. Pushing my own agenda. I wanted peace. They didn't. My choice versus theirs, when I only had half the story. Even now I realize there's so much about the realms I don't know.
"Nine."
"Wait!" I say. "Please. Just a little longer. He needs more--"
"Ten." Killian is merciless, yanking me backward and basically stuffing my spirit back into my body, and I'm too weak to stop him.
I gasp as spirit and body connect, my first thought of Archer. I scan his Shell. Despite my Lifeblood, his flesh isn't yet repairing itself.
"Archer," I say, my chin trembling.
"Okay. It's okay."
No! There has to be something else I can do. There just has to be. "Deacon!" I shout.
Archer gasps in a breath, blinks open his eyes. He blindly reaches for my hand, and his fingers curl weakly around mine.
Our gazes meet, and tears refill my eyes, only to splash upon his cheek.
"The Rest," he says and gives me a smile I will never forget. Satisfied. Content. He's lived a good life. "Finally."
"No," I say with a hard shake of my head. "You stay here, and you stay with me. I need you. You have more to do."
"You will be...fine without me. Take care... Deacon, Killian...and yourself...don't forget yourself. The law."
"Stop talking like we're saying goodbye." My tears fall faster. "Deacon," I shout again, scanning the battlefield, seeing no faces I recognize. "Someone! Help Archer! He needs more Lifeblood."
The battle continues to rage. I can no longer see the one raging between the spirits, and I wonder who is winning.
Archer's smile slips a little, now both sad and eager. "Not much time...tell me poem. Happy. Rhyme."
As my insides are ripped to shreds, I close my eyes. He isn't going to make it, is he? My Lifeblood just isn't strong enough. Maybe because I'm Unsigned. Maybe because I'm still recovering from my own injuries. Maybe because of a thousand other reasons. I might never know the truth, but one thing is suddenly clear: his death is because of choice. Pearl's choice to fight me. My choice to save Killian and Sloan.
And now, Archer will pay the price. My decisions--my indecisions--have never affected me alone, as I so confidently told myself what seems a lifetime ago. They affect everyone I love, everyone in my life. Even those I will someday meet. Even those I will never meet.
I mocked Pearl's pride, but look where my own brought me. Look where my own brought my friends.
The knowledge washes through me, horrifying me, utterly destroying me, but I fight past the overwhelming influx of regret and sorrow. For now. I have to. Archer needs me. This wonderful guy needs me to be strong for him, to ease him into the Rest. After everything he's done for me, I can do this for him. I will do this for him.
I will mourn tomorrow.
"A poem. One just for you." I smooth a shaky hand over his brow, like a mother soothing her child before bed. "Year after year I hated my life. No matter where I looked, I only saw strife. Oh, poor me, I had no one to live for...until you arrived and taught me to soar."
His lashes flutter shut, the sadness vanishing from his smile, leaving only happiness. So much happiness, despite the battle raging around us. Thankfully, Troikans have taken up posts around the dais, preventing Myriadian soldiers from closing in. "More. Please."
I continue. "You saved me from the worst kind of death, as if you breathed into me my very first breath. You, Archer Prince, oh, how you shine. Now and forever, you'll always be mine. I'll miss you, dear Bow, for the short time we're apart." My chin trembles as I say, "Take care of this gift...for I give you my heart. You are loved, I love you. Because of you, I've been made new."
"Yesss," he says again, the drawn out s tapering off as he expels his last breath.
His head lolls to the side, and his grip on me goes lax. I imagine his bright, bright glow fading completely.
He's gone. He's really gone.
I collapse onto his chest, sobs racking me. He deserved so much better than this.
"Ten," Killian shouts, horror in his voice.
I straighten and turn to him. He's sitting up, diving in front of me.
"No," he cries, but it's too late.
Something sharp cuts through his back, comes out his chest, enters mine and rips through my back, pinning us together. The pain is incredible, and it spreads through every cell in my body in seconds until I'm wholly consumed.
She stabs you in the back, Lina said.
I expected the attack to come from Pearl, but she's dead. I gaze up in horror--and discover Sloan.
Tears glisten in her lashes. "I'm sorry," she cries. "I'm so sorry,
but they offered me something I couldn't refuse."
The only thing she'd wanted was revenge against Vans, despite his death. Either Pearl lied to her or she has--had--a way to get to Vans, something Killian and Archer were unable to do.
"I hate him more than I love you. I'm sorry," she repeats with a sob of her own.
A sense of betrayal nearly chokes me.
"Ten." As Killian tries to pull himself from the spear, the motor hums, cutting at him, cutting at me, leaking poison. "Sorry, I'm sorry."
With a roar, he yanks backward, freeing himself from the spear. When he rights himself, he repeats, "I'm sorry," then grabs on to the shaft and jerks with all his might.
I scream as blades cut, cut, cut at me. Finally, though, the spear leaves me.
As blood rushes up my throat and chokes me, I manage to turn my head and watch as Killian swings the spear. Blood-soaked metal glints from the shaft--as it slices through Sloan's stomach. Her eyes go wide, and her knees collapse.
She's not going to survive the day, either.
I want to hate her, but as one second ticks into another, I realize I'm just sad for her. Her decisions, like my own, brought her here.
Killian crawls to me. I'm panting and wheezing. The death rattle. This is it, isn't it? The end. I'm going to die. I'm going to die today. Only minutes...seconds?...remain.
I once told my life story in a nutshell, but some of my numbers have changed.
Seventeen--the number of years I've lived. Existed is no longer a strong-enough word.
Two--the number of boys I've grown to adore since my escape from Prynne. Archer, the family I've craved for so long, and Killian, who took a shattered heart and put the pieces back together.
Three--the number of friends I've lost in my quest for the truth.
One--the number of lives I have left.
Three--the number of choices remaining for my eternal future.
"Ten, you won't survive this." There's a tremor in Killian's voice. "The poison...it's in my system, too. My Lifeblood won't help you."
Baiser de la mort, the kiss of death, even now rushing through me.
He frames my face with his hands. He's trembling.
"Go," I manage. "Get...help...for...you." Don't die with me! I have a Secondlife. He doesn't have a third.
"I was wrong about so many things." He gives my lips a soft kiss. "The victor isn't always adored and the failure isn't always abhorred. I failed to sign you... I lost...and I'm glad for it. Sign with Troika, Ten. It's where you belong."
Firstlife Page 33
