by Everly Frost
Beneath the Guarding Stars
Mortality Book Two
Everly Frost
Copyright © 2016 by Everly Frost
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead are purely coincidental.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Frost, Everly, author.
Beneath the guarding stars / Everly Frost.
ISBN: 9780995407336 (ebook)
Series: Frost, Everly. Mortality ; bk . 2.
For young adults
Subjects: Science fiction.
Young adult fiction.
Jacket design: Franziska Young zenagency.com.au
For information, contact www.everlyfrost.com
[email protected]
For Amy and Daniel
Table of Contents
Prologue
Part One – Glass
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Two – Shroud
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sneak Peek at Mortality Book Three
On this mountain, guard the stars,
shield the light and defend the soul,
shine and be counted among them.
The Oath of Starsgard, First Verse
Prologue
PEOPLE SAY that when my brother died, his death challenged everything we knew about ourselves. Our ability to heal was no longer absolute. Our long lives were no longer guaranteed. Suddenly, we could be killed.
Fear of mortality took on a life of its own and triggered a chain of events that threatened the peace and security of my home country, Evereach. When I escaped government custody, no longer safely contained, I became a threat to the nation and to the world.
But Michael and I fought our way to the borders of Starsgard and, despite everything, the Starsgardians are willing to let us in.
But fear is quiet. It waits.
It waits for me.
Part One – Glass
Chapter One
THE MOSS wasn’t calm for long.
The wall of greenery rippled around me, brushing back and forth, and I pressed against it, trying to sense from the agitated movement what might have gone wrong since we’d started ascending.
When I’d touched the bioengineered moss covering the stone wall at the base of the mountain, a woman’s image had appeared, agreeing to allow us across the mountainous border into the safety of Starsgard.
The moss was like nothing we’d seen before. It was a defense mechanism, designed to protect Starsgard from threats, and it lined the entire inner walls of the elevator. When I’d first touched it, it had felt warm, soft, and peaceful. Now, the inch-long tendrils rasped and dragged against my arms and neck as though they were sharpening, as though blades were forming all around me.
I jolted back in case they cut me, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to get away. Even the moss under my knees bit into me.
Michael was in the next elevator, vertical to mine, with thick stone between us. The small cavities were barely big enough for one person, so Michael and I had separated, each into our own cramped space. It was another of Starsgard’s defense mechanisms so groups of people couldn’t enter the elevators and ambush them at the top.
The woman had said we’d be safe, said we were accepted into Starsgard, but the sense of relief I’d felt as the doors closed on my old life was gone.
They must have changed their minds. They’d realized I was too much of a threat, that I endangered everything they held dear. Part of me didn’t blame them. Back in Evereach, it seemed that everyone wanted a piece of me: covert government operatives and terrorists alike, doing everything they could to seize control of my mortality and turn it into a weapon. I didn’t know what they’d do, how far they’d go to get me now that I was behind Starsgard’s borders.
I jolted as a long, green tendril whipped at my face. I sensed the cut on my skin.
The moss was growing, inch by inch, filling the empty pockets around me. The beginnings of a vine crept across my bent knees, multiple small buds appearing along its surface.
I tried to make myself as small as possible, but the buds elongated, sharpened, and sprouted things that looked like thorns. Several had grown toward the backs of my thighs, turning into long, thin needles. Others sprouted at my sides, growing toward my shoulders, forearms, and the side of my neck. A vertical row pointed toward my spine.
None of the rows of needles approached my chest or face. I hoped that meant they weren’t intended to be fatal. In another thirty seconds they’d impale me and hold me immobile.
I snatched the thorn closest to my right hand and attempted to break it off at its stem, but it was hard and unyielding. There was the slightest give … and then it snapped at its base. As soon as it broke, a new bud took its place, growing in seconds. I’d never break them all in time.
I searched the ceiling, inches above my head, the only place free of thorns. If I moved fast enough I might be able to shimmy my arms up and push, but I didn’t know if the top of the elevator would move, let alone open.
There was a screech—not inside my elevator but from somewhere to my left—a high-pitched whine like wrenching metal, muffled through layers of rock.
Michael.
There was another metallic shriek, a jarring thud that thrummed through the stone, as though his elevator was being thrashed from the inside. Was the same thing happening to him? Was he fighting it? I wanted to do the same—fight back, break as many of the needles as I could—but I didn’t have that option. A sharp prick against my shoulder told me the thorns were close. My eyes watered with anticipated pain, the burn of tears making me clench my fists. We had to be close to the top of the tower, and maybe the doors would open before the thorns pierced my skin.
“Ava!”
It sounded like Michael, shouting for me, full of fear and worry. I wanted to tell him I was okay: the thorns wouldn’t kill me. They’d hurt, but I’d been through worse. I told myself that over and over as I gritted my teeth and braced. I imagined the swishing of the rising elevator formed notes—a deep pounding. It reminded me of the white room in the Terminal, where Michael’s dad and godfather had held me prisoner as part of a covert government operation, the same vibrations in the walls beating to the rhythm of one of my dance routines.
I squeezed shut my eyes shut, wishing I could wipe away the memories of what they’d done to me and to Michael, but I’d never forget his tortured body as they tested my mortality on him.
Multiple sharp tips cut through my shirt down my spine and I stopped moving, knowing it would hurt more to thrash. I clenched the broken thorn in my hand, focusing on the pressure there instead of the pain in my back and sides, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to scream. I wanted to thr
ash. I didn’t care what I broke doing it.
I exhaled, hoping someone might be listening. My voice was a strangled whisper. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
As I spoke, the elevator came to a standstill, and so did the needles. Blood trickled down my arm where it hurt. I took another breath, expecting the sharp sting of thirty thorns, but everything had paused. I inched my shoulder back and away from the one that pricked my skin, waiting and holding my breath.
The doors opened.
Fresh air rushed into the elevator. Still clutching the broken thorn, I angled my body, scraping across needles, and scrambled out onto a polished stone floor, falling in my rush to get out.
A domed glass ceiling covered the top of the tower. There must have been gaps somewhere in the wall or the ceiling because wind snatched at my hair and whipped my torn clothes. The air was thinner this far up, and I found myself gasping, trying to take deep enough breaths. I searched the sky, forgetting for a moment that drones couldn’t enter Starsgard’s airspace, expecting to see the wasps swarm like they had at the bottom of the mountain, trying to stop us crossing Starsgard’s borders. I shook my head, reminding myself where I was, that Starsgard had repelled the attack.
A fine mist shrouded the dome, making it hard to see beyond, but to my right the glass extended down to floor level. If I pressed against it I’d see all the way to the ground. I’d see how far up I’d come, how far down I could fall. I stumbled away from the edge, away from the pull of down, and toward the left, where I found a semi-circle of wall-height stone stretching from where I stood at the edge of it.
I froze as I came upon a dark-haired woman, standing with her back to me only a few feet away.
She was dressed in long pants and a padded jacket, warded against the cold I could feel creeping through my t-shirt and jeans. Even without seeing her face, I knew she wasn’t the woman whose image we’d seen at the base of the mountain. This woman held herself differently: shoulders tense, head at a wary angle, loose hair only just reaching her waist, showing her age to be somewhere in her first century.
I gripped the thorn in my fist, the cuts on my arms throbbing, concealing it behind my back as I edged toward her in case I needed to use it.
She spoke in the direction of the stone wall only a few steps away, her arm raised away from me, palm up, her voice a command. “Give me the weapon, Michael.”
My gaze snapped to the left, seeking the other elevator door close by, as Michael’s tense voice reached me. “Where’s Ava? I swear if you’ve hurt her…”
There was something wrong with the way he spoke, as though he was catching his breath. I raced to the open door so I could see him, surprising the woman as I appeared at her side. I stayed one step behind her, forcing her to twist to see me, off balance, her hair blowing across her face.
She startled and stumbled away from me. Her gaze flickered in the direction of the elevator I’d left behind and back to me. “How did you get out?”
I kept her in the corner of my eye as I sought Michael’s face. “I’m here, Michael. I’m okay.”
But he wasn’t okay.
A hundred needles pierced his body, so many I couldn’t count them all, pinning his arms, jamming his shoulders forward in a slump over his chest, compressing his lungs, keeping his knees collapsed under him. A necklace of thorns wove through his hair and around the back and sides of his neck.
Piercing and healing, piercing and healing.
At each point, his skin blushed, trying to reject the thorns and repair itself. If even one of them broke off inside him he’d heal over it, and I didn’t know what would happen then. I remembered him fishing out a bullet after he’d thrown himself between me and death, retrieving it only just in time.
Michael’s eyes found mine and relief flooded his when he saw me. He didn’t move but a visible weight lifted off his shoulders. The corner of his mouth lifted in an attempted smile.
“Star girl. You made it.”
The woman took in my clothes and my way-longer-than-permissible hair, her gaze lastly resting on my face. There was a spark of curiosity behind her eyes but also the heaviness of something else. Fear? For some reason, I didn’t think it was me she was afraid of.
The woman presented me with her back, turning to Michael once more. “You can see that Ava’s okay. Now, give me the weapon.”
I studied her with a frown, wondering what she was talking about. Maybe Michael had managed to break a thorn too, maybe he’d threatened her with it. But that didn’t make much sense, because he was well and truly immobilized, and the look on her face told me she was worried about more than a mere thorn. True, I could attack her with the one in my fist and it would buy us a few moments, but it wouldn’t do more damage than that.
Michael’s mouth turned grim as he growled at the woman. “No.”
Desperation flooded her face. “Please, Michael, they won’t let you in unless you give it up. You have to give it to me. Right now.”
“How do I know they won’t use it? How do we know you’re any different to the people we left behind?”
The woman recoiled as though she’d been slapped, hurt washing her features.
At the same time, my confusion cleared, replaced by shock as I realized what they were talking about.
The mortality weapon, the one with a single bullet left. Michael had it.
I searched my memory for the escape from the Terminal, trying to remember what had happened to it. Michael had faced his father with that gun, and in the end his dad had let us go. I ran through the moments that followed as black ops soldiers swarmed after us: we’d raced past trucks to a side entrance; Michael had grabbed someone’s bag on the way, raided it for money, and we’d run down the side of the hill. After that, I didn’t see the weapon again.
“You brought it with you.”
Michael grimaced. “I was holding it and we were running. Then it was too late to leave it behind. I couldn’t just leave it somewhere.”
“No.” Bringing the weapon was dangerous, but dropping it somewhere was worse. A weapon like that would always be found. And if it were used…
“Starsgard can’t have it,” he said, his expression grim.
She shook her head, her face pale, the wind lashing at her. “They don’t want it. They don’t want the temptation.” She took a step forward, only a foot away from the elevator entrance, glancing at me. “Just having Ava here is enough to tempt us to seek out death, to do away with diplomats and negotiations, to carry out strategic assassinations, conquer our foes once and for all, but it would take even our most skilled scientist years to design the equipment needed, let alone formulate the mortality serum. That weapon—” She pointed at Michael with a shaking finger “—will cut the time into months. Your father was a genius, Michael, creating that weapon. With that ampule, we could reverse-engineer his formula within weeks, and the sheer possibility of it is too much. Even the most moral, the most ethical in our community—even our Council—will be tempted. They’ve sent me here to take it from you so we can destroy it.”
“No. I won’t give it to you.” Michael ended in a shout, his voice turning to a roar, his body seizing.
I started forward as his face convulsed, but the woman’s arm blocked me.
She hissed. “Don’t touch him. The moss will kill you.”
I shoved her arm aside, forcing her to take a step back, raising the thorn in my fist and aiming it for her heart. “Don’t ever tell me not to help him.”
Her eyes widened. “Why do you want to?” Her disbelief disappeared into the wind.
Michael roared again and I rushed to the elevator entrance, seeking the source of his increasing pain. The moss had changed color, pulsing with something dark, purplish.
Michael gasped; his body rattled and, close behind me, the woman dropped her head into her hands, screaming through her fingers. “Please, Michael! Until you hand it over, you’re a threat. The moss is a living creature designed to neutralize threats. It’s poisoning
you now…”
Michael laughed—a strangled sound. His voice forced through his teeth. “It won’t kill me. Nothing can. You know that.”
“Yes.” She bit her lip, her hands dropping away, not meeting his eyes. “Yes, I know. But it will cause you terrible pain. It’s already injected you with an enhancer that will stop your body blocking pain like you normally do. Next it will inject you with acid, and it only gets worse after that. It won’t stop, Michael. It never stops.”
The woman dropped to her knees, her hands grasping the air in front of her, eyes level with his, reaching out as though she would touch him across the distance between them. At the last minute, she pulled back, wild eyes taking in the plant growing around him. She looked as if she wanted to leap into the elevator and take the weapon, but she was too afraid of the moss. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Please, my darling, there must be a way through this.”
I froze. My darling…
She sounded so familiar, so full of despair, as though his pain were hers, but that couldn’t be possible. Empathy was rare to non-existent. I’d learned that at the Terminal. Still, I could see it in every line of her body. I took a closer look at her face, judging the length of her hair to estimate her age—halfway down her back like my mom’s, not yet a hundred years old, less than fifty in fact—and the same dark brown as Michael’s. I assessed the curve of their cheeks, noses, lips. All similar.
I thought Michael resembled his dad, but he resembled his mom more.
Of course they would send her to meet us, to convince Michael to give up the weapon.
Ignoring her, I stepped through the elevator doors and she gasped, reaching out to stop me. “Ava, don’t touch the moss!”
I shook her away. The moss in my elevator had stopped. It had let me go. I held my breath as I knelt down on the jagged floor, sensing it soften from purple shards to green velvet as soon as my knees touched down.
Relief flooded me.
For whatever reason, the moss wouldn’t hurt me.
I reached for Michael’s hand—the one pinned to his hip. He clenched three fingers and a thumb around my hand, his little finger rammed fast against his side.
