Firstlife Page 19

  Crazy thought: Now I can surf.

  I laugh hysterically as dizziness sweeps over me. Darkness is fast on its heels--

  *

  I come to with a realization that I'm floating...no, I'm dropping, down, down...thud.

  Lying on my back, I crack open my eyes and discover I'm in the middle of a moon-drenched jungle, gnarled trees and thick foliage all around me. The only light comes from thousands of lightning bugs, many of which are buzzing around me.

  Ouch! Several land on my arm, burning me. Not lightning bugs, after all. I think they are...living embers? I wave my hands to shoo them away and find blisters in their place.

  The air is dry, white-hot, and sweat is pouring from me. Screams, so many screams, waft on the breeze. They are pain-filled, agonized, a story as certain as numbers--this is suffering in its purest form. Snakes, their forked tongues hissing at me, slither along branches that are stretching, stretching in my direction. Some kind of monkey-like creatures are highlighted by the ember-bugs and they are staring at me from between leaves that look like they have razor-sharp teeth.

  Where am I? This doesn't look like anyplace I've ever been.

  "Sloan?" I call her name as I scramble to my feet. "Killian? Archer?"

  There's no response.

  The monkeys jump to the ground a few yards away from me, and I realize they aren't monkeys, after all. They have the bottom half of a giant spider--which is a nightmare all its own. Eight legs, each hairy and lined with sharp ivory horns.

  I take a step back. They follow me.

  This isn't part of the Land of the Harvest, is it?

  Could this be Many Ends?

  For once, an answer is easy. No. This isn't Many Ends. I'm not dead; I'm very much alive.

  Boom!

  The ground shakes so hard I'm knocked off my feet. The monkey-spiders dart behind the foliage, many of the stems now withdrawing into turtle-like shells. I turn to see a thick, horribly dark cloud mushroom toward the sky, and when it reaches yellowed clouds, it tips over like a waterfall and rains down, down, down upon the tops of the trees, where it breaks into a million pieces, those pieces darting in every direction, the smoke somehow morphing into big, black birds with skeletal bodies, spiked beaks and metal claws.

  Snakes are grabbed with those claws. Monkeys are snagged with those beaks. I swallow a scream and run, counting my steps and turns. Eight steps, right turn. Eleven steps, left turn. I'm not sure how I got here, or how I'll leave, but I need to know how to return to the spot I first arrived. Just in case it's the key to going home...home... Where is home?

  Twenty-three steps, another right. Some patches of air are shimmery, like curtains, but I feel no different when I pass through them, so I'm not sure what they do.

  Six sharp pinpricks spear me in the back as I'm swept into the air. I scream and flail, panic threatening to overtake me. Ember-bugs slam into me, leaving blisters behind.

  What should I do? What should I do!

  Fight!

  Right. I palm my scalpel--zero! I came with the clothes on my back, but not my weapon. Okay, it's okay. I grab hold of a branch as we pass, our momentum allowing me to rip off the tip as well as the skin on my palm. Which doesn't bleed, I notice, but leaks a thick, shimmery liquid.

  Lifeblood.

  I am dead. And this...this is Many Ends.

  The knowledge rips through me, tearing my insides to shreds. I reel, the shock of my new reality almost too much to process. This means... No, no, no. My Firstlife is over, and I've officially entered the Everlife.

  I can't... I don't... I need to...

  Get it together!

  A freak-out isn't helping. My strength is draining--hemorrhaging--and I have to act quickly. I can worry and lament whenever I'm free.

  I twist as best I can, take in a face that is nothing but a thorny beak and pitted bone, and swing up my arm, stabbing the branch into the creature's side. A squawk rings out, as warm, black liquid gushes over my hand, burning like acid. Those claws open, at least, and slide out of my back. I drop.

  When I slam into a patch of gnarled treetops, I lose my breath and quickly roll into branch after branch...finally landing on the ground with a thud. A rock has gouged my side, stealing what little oxygen I managed to suck in.

  Though the dizziness has returned with a vengeance, I'm able to sit up and take stock of my new location. I frown. Nothing is different. Same gnarled trees, same toothy plants now slithering toward me--it's as if running and turning this way and that and being flown roughly three hundred feet took me right back to where I started.

  A groan escapes me as I stand. A flock of the bone-birds squawks overhead.

  Sticking with my calculations of three hundred feet, I backtrack. Bugs buzz around me--lizard-like bees, flies with saber teeth--and I pass through countless shimmery patches of air. The placement of trees and the fall of branches remain the same.

  Go somewhere, yet go nowhere.

  My ears twitch as a high-pitched scream pierces the air, one that is louder than all the others. One that is closer to me. Is someone else here?

  "Sloan?" I call. Guilt slaps me. Did I lead her here?

  A rustle of tree limbs. A hard weight slams into me from behind, pushing me facedown. I gasp, but when I look around, there's nothing and no one there. More rustling sounds. Another slam, slam, as if I'm being punched. I wheeze and spit dirt and--water gushes out of my mouth.

  I'm forced to my side as I cough, my throat coated in acid, my lungs on fire.

  "That's it. That's the way." Hard hands continue patting at my back, and I expel another gush of water. The black fades from my vision, revealing a rocky beach, a large body of water with metal and debris, smoke rising from the top, curling toward a wealth of skyscrapers. "You're alive. You're alive now."

  I am? I died and came back to life?

  Again, my shock is almost too much to process. This time, I can't stop my freak-out. I was dead. I was dead, and I was in Many Ends. Many Ends is real. A real place. A gruesome, awful place.

  I don't want to return. Ever.

  "Sloan," I manage to croak.

  The hands smooth over my back more gently, offering comfort now. "She's alive." Archer's voice registers.

  He came! Sloan survived!

  "You died," he says, as unsteady as I am, "but you're back. You're back, and you're all right."

  Tears of relief burn my eyes. I'm all right, I'm all right. The words echo through my mind, but I'm not sure I believe them. And oh, no, no, no, did my bowels release? I jerk my gaze down, expecting the worst. I'm soaked with ocean...lake?...water but I'm clean. My spirit must have stayed connected to my body, despite the distance between the two.

  "My friend Deacon is seeing to Sloan's care," Archer says.

  "Killian?" I ask.

  A pause. A pause that grabs hold of my heart and squeezes. Then--

  "His Shell is toast, and his spirit isn't in the area."

  I almost grab him, almost shake him. "Tell me his spirit survived."

  "I...can't. If he disconnected from the Shell before impact, there's hope. Did he disconnect?"

  I swallow a sob. The boy who once considered Firstlife a nuisance did his best to save mine. He stayed with me every second, keeping his strong arms wrapped around me.

  He didn't want me to wind up in Many Ends. And he might have lost his Secondlife for it.

  chapter fourteen

  "If you can see or feel it, you can change it."

  --Troika

  I'm not ready to move or stand but Archer says, "We need to go before the authorities arrive," so I do both. With the movement, the cuts I've sustained tear deeper into muscle, and my bones vibrate. My limbs are waterlogged. They weigh two tons, at least.

  "The plane was on fire when it crashed into the water," Archer says. "If we hadn't buffered you, you would have died."

  "Thank you." The words aren't good enough, but they're all I've got. I grind my molars as pain shoots through me. "Where are we?"
Had the pilot gone off course?

  "East Coast. New York." He leads me to Sloan, who's seated inside a circle of rocks, her knees drawn up to her chest as water froths around her feet. There's a cut on her forehead and obscene streaks of blood over each of her cheeks. Her gaze is focused above, where rainbow beams of light dance through the sky. Either the northern lights have moved or there's another realm battle going on.

  "The pilot told me he was sorry, but he'd been offered the only thing he ever wanted." Her chin trembles. "I didn't understand at the time. He hit me, and when I opened my eyes, he was gone and we were...we were..."

  "I know." He willingly purposely signed our death warrants. But...why? "Who would want us dead before we'd signed away our futures?"

  "Myriad," Archer says. "They're tired of waiting for you to make a choice and don't want to risk a covenant with Troika."

  No. "I don't believe that. Killian fought to save us." He's alive. He has to be alive.

  "Yes, and I'm sure he'll be punished for it. He's been different with you, going against orders, even killing Vans."

  Rocked to the bone, I look up to the sky and shout, "If Killian is hurt, I will never sign with Myriad."

  There's a whistle of wind, and it scrapes against my nerves. But there's no voice. No eruption of lights that spell out, He's safe.

  A really tall, really muscled guy--Deacon?--approaches us. His features are rough; they are those of a warrior who's lived on the battlefield and danced in the blood of his enemies. His hair is cropped and dark, but his eyes are the color of summer, green and lush with life, the perfect foil to his ebony skin. His nose is a little too long and his mouth a little too thin but both work for him, and work well. He'll never be on the cover of a magazine, but I'm willing to bet he's the star of many fantasies.

  He assists Sloan to her feet and drapes a jacket over her shoulders, speaking to Archer in a language I've never heard before. A beautiful language that rolls from his tongue.

  Archer replies in the same language.

  "Come," he finally says to me.

  "What--" I begin.

  He already knows what I'm going to ask. "The Troikan language. That way, if any spirits from Myriad lurk nearby, they won't understand what we're saying."

  We're hustled to a van he's procured. The back is empty, perfect for lying down.

  The driver introduces himself--yep, he's Deacon. As he takes corners a little too swiftly, Archer does his best to patch our wounds. He doesn't have the most delicate touch, and the bumpy ride only makes his inelegant ministrations worse. I wince when he ties the bandage around my arm a little too tight.

  Boom!

  The van rattles, and both Sloan and I gasp.

  "A battle between the realms," Archer confirms. "My boss's men are stopping Madame Bennett's men from getting close to you."

  No wonder the battles seem to follow me. They are. "What about Killian?"

  "No one has reported seeing him."

  Fear and disappointment combine, threatening to flatten me. "Why don't you just give us your Lifeblood?" That's how he healed Sloan of her frostbite.

  "We lost too much fighting our way to you before the crash and even more as we fished you out of the water."

  Now that I've hemorrhaged, I understand.

  "If we lose any more," he says, "we'll be useless for days. Since your injuries aren't life threatening, I'm not going to weaken myself. You need me strong."

  "I get it," I say, and I do.

  We lapse into silence. Sloan is shivering, so I draw her closer. I should be as traumatized as she is, but despite everything, I'm somehow calm. Well, calmish. And tired, the vibrations from the road doing their best to lure me to sleep. I fight to remain awake. Part of me suspects I'll open my eyes and find out I'm back in Many Ends.

  "All right, folks." Deacon's voice echoes through the van as the vehicle comes to an abrupt stop. "We've arrived."

  I sit up gingerly and exit with Archer's help. Deacon climbs into the back, scoops up Sloan and carries her out. We're--in the middle of nowhere, nothing but green grass and mountains for miles. It's pretty, but it's not my idea of a well-guarded hideout where we can recover in peace.

  Silver lining: I'm not freezing.

  "This way." Archer steps forward and vanishes.

  Right. Jellyair. With a sigh, I follow him and suddenly I'm standing in front of a dream come true: a two-story log cabin with twinkling lights strung around the roof. Fields of lavender scent the air. Lush green trees have actual beehives hanging from the branches. Around the cabin itself are troughs with wild strawberries overflowing from the sides, and my mouth waters for a taste.

  This is a home. Where doting parents sit on the porch, rocking in handmade chairs while watching their children run and play.

  Archer takes the lead but stops with his hand on the doorknob and looks over his shoulder at me. "This is a Troikan safe house. No one from Myriad will be able to pass through the borders."

  Meaning, Killian. "What keeps the Myriadians out?"

  "The beams are infused with light. A Myriadian touches them, and they burn. Badly."

  "But Shells aren't burned by light." Only spirits, according to Killian.

  Deacon laughs as if I've said something funny. Have I? There's so much I don't know about the realms.

  "This is a special light," Archer says with a glare directed at his friend. "Myriad Shells disintegrate in seconds." He stomps into the house, done with the conversation.

  I stay where I am, looking past the wall for any sign of Killian.

  "We have safe houses all over the world. They aren't opulent, but they should have everything you need." Deacon comes up beside me and sets Sloan on her feet. "Go inside, girl."

  "As long as this place has hot water and a tub," she says, trudging forward, "this can be a slaughterhouse for all I care."

  When she's on the porch, I say to Deacon, "Do you bring humans here often?"

  "Only the ones who have been marked for death. You're welcome, by the way."

  "So high and mighty. Troika is just as likely a suspect."

  "That's not the way we roll." Deacon looks at me, adding, "A lot of people have gone to serious trouble for you, but they'll let you go if that's what you want."

  "Even though I'm a Conduit?" Supposedly. More than ever, I don't feel like one of the most powerful people on the planet.

  "Even though. We'll die to preserve your right to choose. If your choice destroys you--destroys us--so be it. And it will. Destroy us both, I mean. We've lost two Conduits in the past five hundred years. We have only two others. If even one is killed, we won't have enough light to sustain our people for more than a few decades."

  Pressure...

  He sighs. "I hope you're worth everything we're doing."

  "I'll save you the trouble of wondering. I'm not." I'm undecided and pretty much changing sides as often as I change underwear.

  Considering the scare I just had, I'm probably due for another.

  "With that attitude?" he says. "No. You're not."

  "You'd rather I do the narcissistic song and dance? I'm so amazing and wonderful." I fluff my hair and bat my lashes at him. "Of course I'm worth the trouble."

  He rolls his eyes. "You have your moments, but I'd rather you saw yourself as Archer does."

  "And how is that?" Maybe I would, too.

  "When he was first assigned to you, he saw you as a spoiled rich girl with a little too much crazy. Mommy and Daddy are mean to me, boo-hoo. All this torture, wah-wah."

  "Screw you both. Pain is pain, and if you've never been whipped or beaten or injected with poison, your opinion in this matter doesn't mean jack."

  "I make light, because you didn't have to go through any of it. You could have signed with us--"

  "I could have, yes, but I didn't because I don't know where I fit. I don't know where I belong."

  "You do. Everyone knows. Everyone always knows. Deep down, where it matters. But they want something else, a seemin
gly better offer, perhaps, so they talk themselves into doubt and confusion--darkness of the mind. Then, finally, the doubt and confusion morph into certainty you were wrong to begin with."

  "No." I shake my head.

  "I've lived longer than you. I've seen more. I know, and you know. You just don't want to face the truth."

  "And what if the truth is Myriad?"

  "Then for you, it's Myriad."

  I scoff at him. "You're not going to try to change my mind?"

  "I never debate the truth. You know your answer, so grow a pair of balls and accept it. Stop wasting our time. Now, are you going to let me finish telling you my story?" he asks.

  I wave my hand in regal command.

  "After the institution, Archer told me there's something about you...an inner strength very few people possess. A goodness untouched by the evil around you. A generosity of spirit that allows you to put the safety of others above the safety of yourself. And I hope he's right, because word came down today. For Archer's part in your friend's untimely death, he will experience the Exchange."

  *

  I use my time at the safe house to recover from my wounds and plan my next move.

  Myriad wants me dead and without Troika's assistance, I can't hide from them. I'm only human. But then, I don't want to hide from the realm, and I don't want to rely on one over the other. I want to see Killian, thank him, maybe hug him and slap him for risking his life.

  There's been no sign of him, no rumors about his life--or his death.

  I absolutely refuse to consider he died and he's now Fused with a newborn, that he has a new Firstlife tied to someone else. He's out there. What's he doing?

  I miss the jerk.

  By the dawn of the seventh day, I realize I have only one viable option. It's simple, but it just might work. I will request the one thing I've wanted since this whole travesty began: time to think without interference. I'll promise to voice my decision the day before my eighteen birthday. Of course, the closer we get to the date, the more danger I'll face, the realms fearing my defection. But the fact remains: any time I gain is more than I currently have.

  It'll mean saying goodbye to Killian and Archer--shredding my heart when I lose the best friends I've had in forever--but it'll only be for a little while. At least for one of them.

  With a sigh, I press the tip of a steak knife into my finger, a drop of blood welling. A drop I wipe on the wall beside my bed, leaving a smear of crimson behind.