Firstlife Page 17

  I don't.

  And I will sign Ten. Now leave me alone and let me work.

  chapter twelve

  "Your Firstlife sets the stage for your Second."

  --Troika

  I motor through the mountain town, sticking to the shadows, Sloan on my heels. I'm a girl on a mission. (1) Avoid detection. (2) Acquire shelter. (3) Regroup.

  By the time we reach the bed-and-breakfast, situated in what looks like a miniature nuclear power plant, my feet throb and my back aches. While the other buildings are box-shaped with three tiers and crumbling stone, this one is tall and round, like a cooling tower, steam wafting from the top.

  Inside, lavender-scented warmth envelops me and I check number one off my list. Murals cover the walls, a summer garden here, a spring meadow there. The carpet is a stunning shade of green, made to resemble the softest grass. There are people milling around a small kitchenette that offers free tea and cookies.

  Sloan pushes her way forward and snags one of the cookies. She pops the entire thing in her mouth--and gags. "Oh, gross. This is the worst thing I've ever had in my mouth."

  "You must be a Myriadian, then," says the woman next to her, and judging by the derision in her tone, I'd wager she's the chef. "They wouldn't know a good thing if it bit them."

  "I'm currently Unsigned."

  The woman steps away from Sloan as if the girl has a contagious disease. "A clear indication you have poor taste. My cookie is packed with nutrition."

  "Hate to break it to you, but nutrition is just another word for feces."

  I leave the two to their argument and close in on the old lady manning the back counter. When I ask to speak with the owner, she gives me a tsk-tsk.

  "You wanting a piece of him? Don't try to deny it. Girls just can't seem to keep their hands off his goods and services." Mirth glows in her pretty dark eyes, making her appear slightly younger than her two million years--or however long she's lived. With her stooped shoulders and heavily wrinkled skin, I'm not sure I've ever met an older human. "Mr. Brando deserves to be treated with respect, he does."

  "I'll be respectful, promise. I'm..." I lower my voice, whispering, "Archer sent me." There's no need to use my own name. "I'd like a room." Among other things.

  She doesn't ask for any other information but holds out her weathered hand in silent demand for money. I offer one of the coins the Laborer gave me. An Amethyst geode, cut to the size of a quarter. The deep purple glints in the light, and there's a crown engraved in the center. This came from Troika, and it's worth more than most people make in a year.

  "Is that... It is! We're rich," Sloan says, coming up to my side. She stares at the old woman. "That coin better cover dinner, too. A feast fit for two queens. And clothes. We definitely need clothes."

  Another tsk-tsk. "You'll get what you get and you'll like it, you will."

  At least we'll get, and I'll be able to check off number two on my list.

  "In the morning," the woman adds, "you might or might not get a visit from the owner." She smiles with another hearty dose of mirth. "I'm sure he'll see you either way."

  *

  Ten tears fall, and I call. Nine hundred trees, but only one is for me. Eight times eight times eight they fly, whatever you do, don't stay dry. Seven ladies dancing, ignore their sweet romancing. Six seconds to hide, up, up, and you'll survive. Five times four times three, and that is where he'll be. Two I'll save, I'll be brave, brave, brave. The one I adore, I'll come back for.

  As I toss and turn, unable to sleep, Loony Lina's song plays through my head. A silly rhyme we recited while holding hands and spinning in a circle. As soon as we uttered, "The one I adore, I'll come back for," we collapsed on the floor and giggled. But Loony Lina's giggles had always turned into sobs.

  I'm sorry you had to die, especially so horribly, she'd say. I missed you.

  Always she'd spoken in past tense about events that had never happened. Loony Lina. So much older than me, but not any wiser.

  I'm not dead, I'd tell her. I'm right here with you.

  When I turned thirteen, my dad stopped letting her come around. He stopped talking about her completely, in fact, as if she no longer existed. And anytime I asked about her, the subject was abruptly changed.

  Another conversation rises to the forefront of my mind.

  You didn't become an accountant, silly. The lost dream that never should have been a dream, she'd said. So sad.

  At the time, becoming an accountant hadn't even been on my radar.

  "What do I become?" I'd asked.

  "A somebody!"

  A somebody...like a Conduit or an Abrogate?

  Finally, morning sunlight pushes through the window. I give up trying to snooze and ease upright, scrubbing a hand over my eyes. A new day. A new trial to face.

  I frown when I notice the digital note glowing above the nightstand.

  Ten,

  In case you ever want to strangle Archer.

  Yours,

  Killian

  He snuck into the room, and I failed to detect him.

  I jerk my hand through the light, and the words vanish. Two leather wrist cuffs rest on the nightstand, each with a small metal hook in the center. When I tug the hooks, a wire extends, forming a...garrote.

  Zero! The bracelets are perfect for me. Absolutely perfect. I owe him...the way I owe Archer, who saved me from the cold. I admit the truth at last, even though I don't like it.

  I anchor the leather beauties in place and pad through the room, a garden paradise just like the lobby. Portraits of roses hang on the walls. Wildflowers are sewn into the comforter, and lilies are woven throughout the emerald green carpet.

  In the bathroom, I shower, blow-dry my hair and brush my teeth. Instead of putting my clean body in dirty clothes, I slip into one of the robes I find in the closet. By the time I'm finished, Sloan is awake.

  "Hate mornings," she mumbles. "And afternoons. And evenings."

  As she showers, I order breakfast and--giving it another shot--new clothes. Everything arrives an hour and a half later, but Sloan still hasn't emerged from the bathroom.

  I knock on the door. "You okay in there?"

  "Fine, fine," she says. The door swings open. Like me, she's wearing a robe. She's tense, her cheeks pale, but she brightens when she spies breakfast. "Food!"

  The meal consists of eggs, bacon, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, everything straight from a can and absolutely delicious. In my old life, I would have rather starved.

  In my old life, I was stupid.

  When there's nothing left, I rub my full belly. "How are you feeling?"

  "Like my clock is about to zero out, ya know?" She tugs on a buttercup-yellow shirt that has blue stripes along the sleeves, and bright blue tights decorated with lilies. "Vans won't stop looking for me."

  She doesn't know. "Vans is dead."

  Her eyes go wide with hope--and disappointment? "Are you sure? How do you know?"

  "I saw his body. And I used his severed hand to open the gate and free you."

  "Who had the honors?" Her voice is strained.

  "Killian." My motions brusque, I dress in an outfit very similar to hers. A pink shirt that has green flowers sewn along the sleeves and green tights with pink stripes. The material is lightweight but stretchy, molding to my body like a second skin.

  "I wanted Vans dead, but I wanted to be the one who killed him," she says and stomps her foot. "It's not fair."

  "If life was fair, Clay would be alive."

  She blanches and turns away. "So. What's the plan?"

  "Meet with the owner of the hotel whether he wants to or not, weapon up, and find a way off the mountain."

  "Yeah, but to where?"

  "As far away from the institution and our families as we can get. I need to hide out until my eighteen birthday, and I'm sure you do, too. After that, I'm buying a house on the beach."

  She thinks for a moment, nods. "Sign me up."

  "You ever surfed?"

  "
No, and I never want to. I'll soak up the sun and cheer you on while drinking margaritas. Then, after I turn eighteen, I'll go home to Savannah and--"

  Knock, knock.

  I share a concerned look with Sloan before palming the scalpel I've managed to hold on to and making my way to the side of the frame. "Yes?" I call. There's a peephole, and I steel a quick glance.

  A little boy?

  "Have you seen my mommy?" He's trembling and looks like he's going to burst into tears at any second.

  "You've got to be kidding me," Sloan mutters.

  I open the door to find the boy--probably three or four--clutching a stuffed teddy bear to his chest. He's the cutest thing I've ever seen, even when he wipes his snotty nose on his shirtsleeve. His curly dark hair resembles a mop, and his eyes are big, slightly darker than his skin. They are familiar eyes. Where have I seen them?

  "We haven't left our room, kid." Sloan walks over and crouches to meet him eye to eye. "We have no idea where your mom is."

  He hiccups. "But...but..."

  "We can help you find her," I add in a rush.

  His expression changes in an instant, from somber to gleeful. He tromps into our room, saying, "Dude. I'm getting so good at this."

  My brow furrows in confusion.

  He snickers. "You can't tell I'm a Shell? You should be embarrassed. Well? Don't just stand there. Shut the door," he says, dropping the teddy bear to the floor to use as a stepping stool. He perches at the edge of the bed.

  "You're a Shell?" Sloan shuts and locks the door. "Okay. That does it. I feel like a chicken with my head cut off. Pissed as hell and kinda lost."

  Realization floods me. Those eyes...they belong to the old lady who manned the counter last night.

  I move in front of the boy--woman, whatever--with my I-used-to-live-in-a-crazy-house face on. "Who are you?"

  "The one who's gonna save your skinny ass. Archer said you two are looking for a way off the mountain." Such a sneering tone is weird coming from such an adorable face.

  "You know Archer." A statement not a question.

  "Of course." He kicks his legs, one after the other. "I'm Steven, and I own this place."

  "You own it?" Sloan presses a hand to her forehead. "How old are you? Really?"

  "I'm seventeen." His chest puffs up with pride. "A mature seventeen."

  This cute little snot-nosed kid is my age. I think I need to avoid the world today. There's no way I can adult. My mind is scrambled again.

  "I did not just get played by a seventeen-year-old punk," Sloan mutters.

  "An experienced seventeen," he adds, wiggling his brows.

  I try not to vomit in my mouth. "You're with Troika?"

  "Ding, ding, ding," Steven says. "Though I'm currently on sabbatical."

  I stare him down. "Which means...?"

  "I might or might not have gotten in trouble for selling black-market Lifeblood." He buffs his nails on his shirt. "I might or might not have called it TOP. Taste of Pleasure."

  "And you're, what, planning to help us out of the goodness of your sweet little heart?" Sloan might have used a sugar tone, but she gives the boy the stink eye. "Only later we'll realize you expect us to hand over rights to our Everlife, right?"

  "Weren't you listening, blondie? Or is the air in your head clogging your ears? I'm not on duty, so I'm not signing no one. All I expect from you is a hand job." He wiggles his brows.

  Ugh! I do throw up in my mouth. I also throw a dirty sock at him.

  He grins. "Fine. My help has nothing to do with you." He hops down and toddles to the closet--to a hidden panel with a minibar. He offers up a bottle of vodka and when we turn him down--in our sitch, sober girls survive--he drains the contents. "I owe Archer a favor. He called it in."

  To trust this odd little stranger or not to trust? A choice. Not one I like, but one I'll make of my own free will.

  "I've got a car out front ready to whisk you to our version of an airport, where a plane is being prepared to fly you stateside. Anywhere you'd like to go. Oh, and there's a gun for each of you below the floorboard."

  Trust, I decide. For once I'll take the easy road. "Thank you."

  "Yeah, yeah. My job is now officially done."

  Sloan isn't so easily convinced. "Maybe I'll scoop you up and take you with us. You'll be our shield, just in case you've set any traps."

  "Go ahead. Would you like a preview of what's gonna happen when you carry me outside the inn?" He tosses the empty bottle at the trash can, misses, then skips over to scoop up the teddy bear. He meets Sloan's gaze, his bottom lip turning down in a pout. Tears well in his eyes. "I tried to s-stop her, officer, but she t-touched my private p-place."

  "Why you little--" Sloan launches forward, but I grab her wrist, stopping her.

  Steven, eyes now dry, cackles as he strides to the door. He has to stretch on his tiptoes to reach the doorknob. He steps into the hall and pauses to look over his shoulder. "Archer visited while you were sleeping. He cashed in a favor and asked me to help you. Otherwise, I would have let you fend for yourselves." With that, he skips away.

  Archer couldn't help me directly, so he was helping me remotely.

  Zero! I don't want to like him. Not after everything that's happened. But I do. He's a good guy, and maybe...maybe he truly cares about me, not just my decision. Or maybe I'm deluded. How am I ever to know?

  Sloan and I gather our meager belongings, don our new coats and make our way outside. The air is as bitterly cold as I remember, despite the bright rays of light and warmth spilling from the sun, but with every blast of wind, our clothes actually heat. I scan the surrounding sidewalks for Archer... Killian. There's no sign of either boy.

  Archer can't approach me until I invite him back. Killian can show up at any time.

  As promised, a black sedan waits at the curb. As we step forward, the back door opens without outward assistance. I hesitate only a moment before sliding onto the cushioned leather seats.

  The partition blocking us from the driver is shaded, hiding our identities. And his. A fact that makes me nervous, but I say nothing, merely remaining on alert. Get to the airport, get to the States.

  We motor forward, soon twisting and turning along a thin, treacherous road that offers no railing to prevent a plummet over the side of the mountain. There are signs posted along the way.

  Light Brings Sight!

  Might Equals Right!

  We HART You! Humans Against Realm Turmoil!

  Don't Believe the Lies! Realms Are Simply a Way to Control You!

  Sloan looks away from the window and sighs. "What are you going to do after you buy your beach house and learn to surf?"

  "Stuff myself on Twinkies and Ding Dongs and finally figure out my eternal future." And it'll be easy...maybe. There will be no one to pressure me.

  She gives me a double thumbs-down. "I'm going to marry the first unsuitable suitor I can find." She spreads her arms and throws back her head, laughing. "Granny will be soooo ticked."

  "Did she really try to force you to marry some old fart just to save her estate?"

  "Oh, yes, she surely did." Anger and bitterness twist her expression. "One day, I'm going to burn down the ancestral estate. But I don't want to discuss my revenge."

  Afraid I'll try to change her mind? "No prob. You were boring me, anyway."

  She snorts. Then she shifts nervously in her seat and rubs her hands over her thighs. "So... I wanted to wait until I had my head wrapped around the details before I talked to you about this, but, well, I'm too eager. I have new Laborers. My TL is Deacon, and my ML is Elena. She visited before my shower, and afterward I actually called for my TL. Just said, I'd like to speak with someone from Troika, and he appeared."

  I go on higher alert. "And?"

  "Myriad offered me a house of my own design, any car I desire and a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus deposited straight into my bank account. For my Everlife, I'm to train as a Laborer."

  My heart flutters. "Did you accept?"


  "No, but for the first time in my life, I'm actually thinking about it. I'm not sure Many Ends is as bad as we've heard, but if there's a remote possibility, well, I need a new Everlife plan."

  "What did the Deacon guy offer?"

  "Same thing Archer offered Clay. Family, aid whenever requested, you know the rest."

  "You interested in that?"

  "Are you kidding? I hate my family. Why would I willingly sign on for another one? But, girl, Deacon is hot, so of course I said I'd think about it. I'm considering allowing him to plead his case...in bed."

  I roll my eyes. "You're as bad as Killian."

  When the car stops, I peer out the window to see a line of caves--the airport? Seriously? In one of the caves, I can make out the nose of a plane, the wings retracted to fit inside the smallish hole.

  "I think we have a talent for going from bad to worse," Sloan mutters.

  "Agreed." Up ahead, there's a long stretch of flat ice. Most likely the runway. Seems perfectly safe.

  The door swings open, but this time it's courtesy of a man--the driver.

  "Hallo, Ten." Killian smiles at me, slow and wicked. "So good to see you again."

  Butterflies dance in my stomach a split second before anger mows over them, shredding their wings. I glare up at him. "Your actions led to the death of my friend."

  His smile vanishes. "Clay is in the Everlife now. We should be happy for him."

  Happy? Happy? "Your favorite little motto--Victors Are Adored and Failures Are Abhorred--is garbage. You might have won your skirmish with Archer, but you lost my respect."

  An unreadable mask falls over his features. "I said should be, Ten, not that I am. I haven't been able to forget your words. If victory is achieved the wrong way, it's not really a victory at all. I didn't want your friend to die. Especially not that way."

  "And yet you helped kill him."

  His gaze lifts, staring at the other side of the mountain. "One day, you'll see him again."

  "That doesn't negate the loss I feel now. His Firstlife mattered. To me! To him! He had hopes and dreams." I swallow a sob.

  If I ultimately choose Myriad, Clay will become my enemy despite his claim to the contrary, and I hate the very idea. But war is war.

  "Firstlife matters," I repeat.

  "Hear, hear," Sloan calls. "I'm looking forward to wrinkled skin, gray hairs and most especially the use of diapers."

  "Maybe it does matters," he says, acting as if she didn't speak, his attention steady on me, "but it's still not the end. When you live as long as we do, loss is inevitable. You have to learn to let go."