Firstlife (Everlife #1) Read online

  chapter six

  “What you know and feel matters, but what you do matters more.”

  —Troika

  There are days a smart mouth gets you into trouble, and you wish you could travel back in time to glue your stupid lips shut. For me, this is one of those days.

  The sad thing? Even if I’d remained silent during the meeting, I would have ended up in this position.

  My parents are escorted out of Vans’s office. In the doorway, my mom stops to glance back at me. Her cheeks are stained with tears, several droplets caught in her lashes.

  Stay strong, she mouths.

  Help me, I mouth back. I’m not too proud or foolish to ask while I have the chance.

  Eyes welling, she ducks her head and leaves. As her sob drifts through the quiet of the room, my heart crumbles. My one chance for no-strings aid is gone.

  Comrade Douche and Titball enter the room. Without speaking a word, they grab my arms and drag me into the hall. I offer no protest. I catch a glimpse of my parents slipping through the door in the opposite direction. Are they headed to a nice hotel? Going to stop for a delicious brunch?

  I’m taken to a small sterile room devoid of furniture. Two chains hang from the ceiling, and both have fetters at the ends...just big enough for my wrists. I can deal with anything except chains.

  At last I begin my struggle for freedom, but it hardly matters. I’m malnourished and weak, and I’m subdued easily, my wrists soon encased. The outside of the fetters begin to glow as little needles extend from the inside, drilling past skin and into bone in seconds. I hiss. The pain is substantial but nothing I haven’t endured before. The problem is the mental anguish.

  Trapped! No way out!

  The guards pull the chains taut, lifting me off my feet. My shoulders scream in protest, the pressure more and more agonizing. Finally, all I can do is breathe...in...out...in...

  Comrade Douche whispers, his accent thicker than usual, “You need strong man to take you in hand. I come for you tonight and prove, yes?”

  Now I want to vomit again.

  Vans discards his lab coat and rolls up his shirtsleeves, displaying a patchwork of scars from one of Sloan’s attempts to kill him. The impassive, even affable, mask he’d donned for my parents’ benefit is stripped away, revealing the monster I’ve come to despise.

  “You know,” he says as the guards march out of the room—Douche pauses to blow me a kiss. “I’ve always admired your spirit, Ms. Lockwood. It’s a shame I have to damage it.”

  I can’t give him the pleasure. Get it together. Stay strong. “Go ahead. Do your worst.”

  Common sense shouts, What? Take that back!

  “Your best has only ever tickled,” I add. Common sense and I are currently bitter enemies.

  Anger flickers in the depths of his eyes, and I know his overinflated pride has been injured.

  My satisfaction is minimal, considering the circumstances.

  Nurse Ratched wheels a large silver tray inside the room and the door closes behind her, sealing the three of us inside.

  Stay calm. Think. Stall, stall, stall. “You don’t have to do this. You said there are no other options, but that’s not true. You can give me the time I asked for.”

  “Time is running out.” He smiles. “No, we’re going to do this. Money buys happiness, and anyone who says otherwise is lying. I want my money.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of what awaits you in the Everlife?”

  He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve never cared about tomorrow. Only today.”

  “Is that why you’re Unsigned?”

  “In part. Troika’s benefits aren’t worth my time, and Myriad hasn’t offered me enough.”

  “So you want to wait for a better deal, but I’m supposed to accept the scraps thrown my way?”

  “Yes. Exactly.” He slants his head in my direction. “As your father said, one day you’ll thank him for this. One day you’ll even thank me.”

  Never! “You’re lying or deluded.”

  “I believe the word you’re searching for is right. I’ve been where you are, Ms. Lockwood. My father ran this institution, and his father before him. Everything I’ve done to you has been done to me. And look at me now. I’m strong, unbreakable. Drop me in any situation—war, famine, plague—and I can survive.”

  “Living shouldn’t be synonymous with surviving.”

  He pops on a pair of gloves. “You have my permission to scream as loudly as you’d like. These walls are soundproofed.”

  I swallow the lump growing in my throat. There will be no more stalling, then.

  “You have my permission to scream,” I tell him. Looking past the pain in my shoulders, I arch my back for momentum and naturally rock forward, kicking both my legs as high as they’ll go and nailing the good doctor in the jaw. His head whips to the side, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

  He grunts. His eyes narrow as he licks the crimson from his lips. “You’ll regret that.” The words are filled with promise...and anticipation.

  I raise my chin with as much dignity as I can muster. “I only regret your birth.”

  He slaps me across the cheek, and the taste of copper trickles over my tongue.

  We are nose to nose a moment later, his hot breath fanning my split lip, burning me. “Say another word. I dare you. Your parents have given me permission to do anything I wish to you. You heard them. I can even cut out your tongue, if I so desire.”

  He’s just cruel enough to do it.

  I glare at him, but I don’t speak another word.

  Triumphant, he backs away from me and nods to Nurse Ratched.

  She lifts a syringe and thumps its belly, only to freeze as the room—the entire building?—begins to shake. The walls rumble, and dust plumes the air. Both Vans and Ratched stumble and fall, and if not for my chains, I would have gone down, too.

  The shaking stops as suddenly as it started, and the pair climb to their feet.

  “The realms must battle nearby,” Nurse Ratched says, dusting off her pants.

  She’s probably right. Whenever Troika and Myriad engage in battle, the violence spills into the Land of the Harvest through earthquakes, tornadoes, tsunamis and, during the worst of the confrontations, asteroids.

  Nurse Ratched swipes up the needle she dropped and approaches me, her dark eyes glittering. “Adrenaline and others goodies to enhance your experience.”

  I struggle against my bonds, trying yet again to ignore the pain shooting through me, but I’m already sluggish, and with my limited range of motion, it isn’t long before she’s able to shove the needle deep into my arm. A sharp sting registers—minimal to everything else—followed by a wash of cold...then heat, such horrible heat. Sweat beads over my brow and upper lip, igniting a fire inside me. When the flames reach my heart, the organ bursts into a raging gallop, knocking so hard against my ribs I’m certain they’ll break.

  Only momentary, I remind myself. It doesn’t help.

  Vans waves a thick metal syringe in front of my face. “You’ve heard of the poison the realms use to kill humans, I’m sure. This little concoction is a variation of it. Baiser de la mort, it’s called. The kiss of death. You’ll want to die, but you won’t.”

  Fear courses through me—beg, plead—but still I manage to smile. “Is the big, bad doctor afraid to get his hands dirty? Don’t think you’re strong enough?” If he wants to take my tongue, fine. Do it. It’s only ever gotten me into trouble. “You’re a little bitch, aren’t you? That’s why you use poison.”

  “Hold her,” he snaps.

  While Nurse Ratched cradles me against her body, effectively caging my head and arms, he sticks me in the neck.

  I tense, expecting an immediate reaction. The injection hurts, but I’ve experienced worse. I relax; I even offer the pair another smile. “Aw. Looks like you’re destined for another failure.”

  He offers no reaction, but then, he knows what I do not: I’ve spoken too soon. My blood begins to
boil, every cell in my body becoming a flame, my veins close to total disintegration.

  My skin bubbles, melting like cheese on a pizza. Surely.

  “This is only the beginning,” he gloats.

  I open my mouth to reply—but I scream. All at once, I feel a thousand razor-sharp pinpricks in my veins, my head, as if bugs are crawling through me, their dagger-tipped legs tap, tap, tapping where they don’t belong. My muscles knot. I think my bones crack. Pressure builds in my temples, and when it becomes too much, warm liquid leaks from my eyes, ears and nose.

  I’m bleeding, and I’m dying. I have to be dying. No one can survive this.

  Momentary...just a blip. But a single heartbeat might as well be a hundred years.

  Don’t care. Stop. Have to make it stop.

  I’ll do whatever he wants. I’ll sign with Myriad.

  Stop, stop, stop.

  If I change my mind about my future later on, I can go to court. Bow mentioned the possibility for the coerced. Yes, yes. Too many lose, she’d said, but I’m willing to take the chance.

  Stop!

  “I—” My mind breaks, disconnected with me, disassociating with reality—a memory becoming my new truth. I’m seven years old. My dad is home, but he’s pacing in his office, worried about money. How are we going to pay this, Grace? We’re tapped out.

  My mom is painting in her studio, preparing to sell one of her pieces earlier rather than later, leaving me in Aunt Lina’s care. She’s come for a visit. We’re alone in my bedroom, and she’s twirling. She’s Loony Lina today, the personality that is blind. Blind and yet, somehow she manages to avoid bumping into my furniture.

  “I’m sorry the poison hurt you so bad,” she says in a little-girl voice, despite the fact that she’s twenty-seven, like my dad. “But I’m glad the doctor died.”

  “Poison?” I ask, confused. “Doctor?”

  “You escaped!”

  Loony Lina always says crazy things.

  Now I’m baffled. Ten years ago she mentioned poison and escape? But...but...back then, she couldn’t have known this would happen. Right?

  Vans pinches my chin between his fingers, jerking me from my thoughts, forcing me to face him. I’m unable to focus, my vision too cloudy.

  “You know what to say to make the pain stop.”

  Stop...stop...yes, that’s exactly what I want. Will do anything! Panting breaths wheeze through my mouth as I try to tell him—

  What?

  My parents’ dream...or mine?

  “No,” I manage to croak.

  Rage contorts his features. He snaps his fingers in Nurse Ratched’s direction. “Give her another injection.”

  Another? No, no, no. I struggle to contain my whimpers of protest.

  “You kill her?” Nurse Ratched asks. “That is what happens next.”

  “Give her another injection!”

  No! Bow, I try to scream. She said she would rescue me. She promised. I just... What do I have to do? Say the word—what word? Troika?

  Nurse Ratched hurries to the tray and, after rooting through the utensils scattered across the top, returns to my side. Another sting. Another wash of cold followed by intense heat. The terrible sensations in my head magnify a million degrees, and I release a bloodcurdling scream that springs from the depths of my soul.

  Over and over Vans tells me to sign with Myriad, and over and over I somehow find the strength to deny him. My dream...dream... He pokes and prods at me. He hits me with a closed fist, backhands me with an open palm. He slices at my arms and legs with a scalpel but through it all...dream, dream, dream... I resist.

  Finally he has two choices. Stop, or watch me die.

  “Let her down.” His disgust is clear.

  Nurse Ratched adds slack to the chains until my feet touch the floor. My legs are the consistency of jelly, and I can’t hold myself up. I sag, my head falling forward, my chin pressing in my sternum as my arms continue to bear the bulk of my weight. Then the fetters are removed, and I crash, knocking out what little air I managed to collect in my lungs.

  Vans is right about one thing. I really, really want to die.

  “You damaged her.” An all-too-familiar voice slashes through the silence. A male voice with a slight Irish lilt.

  Killian is here?

  My relief is boundless. A savior! I don’t even care that I’m a damsel in distress.

  I can’t lift my head, but I find the strength to pry open my eyes. A cascade of blood obstructs my vision. All I see are two shadows standing face-to-face.

  “This is a restricted area,” Vans barks. “Leave. Now.”

  “Unfortunately for you, you aren’t the one who pulls my strings,” Killian says. “Do you know who you are? The bastard who used my actions against the girl. Oh yes, I heard about that.”

  A third shadow appears. “Your services aren’t necessary, Killian.” Bow’s voice! She’s come for me, too. “You can leave. I’ve got this.”

  A menacing growl from Killian. “I’m not going anywhere without Ten.”

  “You’ll get her over my dead body.”

  “Agreed. But first I’m going to dispose of the trash.”

  “Now wait just a—” Vans begins.

  “Don’t kill—” Bow says.

  Both go silent.

  Different sounds hit my awareness. Rustling clothes. The whoosh of air. Gurgling. A loud snap. A louder thump. A whisper.

  “Things will be better now, lass.” A soft brush of fingertips through my hair as Killian’s scent fills my nose.

  My whimper is barely audible.

  “Get your filthy hands off her,” Bow demands.

  “Why don’t you make me, Little Bow Peep Show?”

  More rustling clothing. When it ceases, I hear panting.

  “Vans should have been locked away,” Bow shouts.

  “Do you truly believe he deserved a second chance?” Killian asks. “Or is your realm speaking for you?”

  “I happen to agree with my realm. You don’t deserve a second chance, and yet you live.”

  “I’ve never asked for a second chance. I am what I am. I like what I am. In this case, I’m the victor.”

  Bow blows out a frustrated breath. “We need permission from Ten or someone in her familial line to intervene on her behalf—any more than we already have. Until then, our hands are tied.”

  “Your hands are tied. Her mother gave her own ML permission to protect the girl from mortal harm. Permission that’s been passed to me. I just protected Ten from mortal harm. Which I’ll continue to do outside these walls.”

  “You can’t escape with her.”

  “I can. Your laws aren’t mine. You should have convinced her to leave days ago.”

  “You want an Unsigned out there? She would have died sooner rather than later.”

  Huff, puff. “With me, the level of danger doesn’t matter,” Killian retorts.

  A curse from Bow, then a curse from Killian. The two go silent. I hear...typing?

  Bow grunts and walks closer to me. I hear splashing. She crouches to do...something. Her hand is moving. She’s writing? On what?

  “What are you doing?” Killian demands.

  “Her grandmother has requested I clear a path of escape. The girl will choose whether she stays or goes.”

  She’s delusional. My grandmother is dead. Both of my grandmothers are dead, in fact. One is in Troika, and one is in Myriad.

  “So much for keeping an Unsigned inside these walls, eh?” Killian’s dry tone seems to suck any humidity out of the air. “Guess what? My new orders just came in. I’m supposed to stop you—put your claws away. I won’t obey.”

  “Thank—”

  “Don’t thank me, Archer. I won’t let her leave with you, either.”

  Archer?

  “She’ll leave with me,” Killian continues. “If you get in my way, well, I’ll happily kill you.”

  “You can try.”

  Footsteps. Muttered arguing. Then...nothing.

/>   I’m not sure how much time passes. I drift in and out of consciousness, but finally...finally I’m able to move. My fingers twitch. I roll my shoulder. I lift my arm, wipe my eyes to clear my vision and—

  Scramble backward.

  A few feet away from me, Vans is on his back, motionless, his dull eyes staring at nothing. His mouth is open, crimson dried at the corners of his lips. He’s...dead? He must be. He’s lying in a pool of blood. One of his hands has been removed, and it’s cuddled up next to my ankle, like a puppy.

  Did Killian do this?

  If you get in my way, well, I’ll happily kill you.

  I bolt to my feet, different parts of me threatening to revolt.

  Killian and Bow are gone. They saved me...then left me behind?

  Clear a path of escape...

  Frowning, I stumble to the open door and peek into the hall. Two guards lie motionless on the floor.

  Bow’s doing? Or Killian’s?

  Does it matter? There’s no better time to escape. Go, go!

  I rush through the room. The problem? My rush is actually slo-mo. I’m weaker than I realized, operating on empty. I manage to swipe up the lab coat Vans dropped and, despite the pain shooting through me, shove my arms inside the proper holes. The doctor’s key card is attached to the lapel. Perfect. I stuff the scalpel in my pocket, grimace as I pick up the severed hand—the number 830543 is scripted across the top. A message from Bow?

  A composite number. A prime number. The prime factors are: 7, 59, 2011

  My brain wants to dissect each of the individual numbers, but there’s no time. I drop the hand beside the scalpel and beat feet to the best of my ability, heading for Vans’s office.

  The number of obstacles in my way: two, at the very least. Nurse Ratched will be nearby just in case Vans has need of—

  I trip, landing with a hard thud, losing my breath. I look over my shoulder and discover Nurse Ratched slumped against the wall, her neck at an odd angle.

  Ooo-kay. One obstacle. The lock on the office door.

  In the distance thunders a stampede of feet, the wild cheers of inmates, the thud of furniture being turned over. An alarm screeches to life.