Firstlife (Everlife #1) Page 9

  I guess I owe Sloan, too. She risked punishment to help me.

  Wait. Why did she risk punishment? And why did Killian send her, of all people? Are the two friends now? More than friends?

  My hands curl, my nails digging into my palms.

  “You’ve been living on shower water.” Bow still sounds shocked.

  “So have you.” If Vans shuts off our pipes—and I have a sinking feeling that will be his next move—we’ll be reduced to drinking from the toilet.

  “You’re wasting away while I have untapped resources.” She smooths a hand over her rounded belly before tossing her ration at me. “Here. I’m not hungry.”

  How can—

  Whatever. I’m not going to argue with her. I devour the offering.

  She anchors her hands behind her head and peers at me. “I know your parents want you to sign with Myriad, but why send you to a place like this to get the job done?”

  “My dad is desperate. He loves his job and the money he makes, the power he has.”

  If I do sign with Myriad, maybe I can get them to rejig their slogan/motto/whatever. I’d go with... I don’t know... Sharing Is Caring!

  The thought makes me smile.

  “He actually thought paying someone to beat you into submission was the perfect solution?” She snorts. “Has he met you?”

  I hike up my shoulders. “Fear makes people stupid.”

  “For sure. Fear destroys. Hope is always the answer.”

  I like that. “When I was a kid, my mom used to say something similar. She grew up with Troikan parents.”

  Bow perks up. “What made her sign with Myriad?”

  “My dad, mostly. Oh. And the rigidity of Troikan law. She complained a lot.”

  “Well, don’t believe the hype. No civilization can thrive without rules of conduct, and all of ours fall into one of three categories. King, realm and self. But everything boils down to this. Treat others the way you want to be treated, and hold no grudges.”

  A tri-tier of rules...which makes sense. Troika means a group of three people working together, especially in an administrative or managerial capacity. My numbers-obsessed mind makes the connection, and gives me a little thrill.

  “In a word,” I say, “unconditional love.”

  “The foundation of all good things.” Sheepish, she adds, “As you’ve noticed, I sometimes have a wee bit of trouble with the grudge thing.”

  “Yeah, but that aside, I thought Troika was anti-emotion.”

  “No one is anti-emotion.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Feelings matter, but they can change in a blink, making them an unreliable guide.”

  Over the intercom, the usual voice announces, “Tenley Lockwood. Your parents are waiting for you in Dr. Vans’s office.”

  I tense with nervousness, maybe even a little eagerness. My mom actually kept her promise?

  My dad has visited once every other month. When I asked him about my mom, he said, “We’re currently separated, living apart. She’s decided seclusion is better than family.”

  She left him...and me.

  Bow climbs to her feet. “If at any time you decide Troika is the place for you, verbalize your allegiance. That’s all you have to do. Your word is your bond.”

  Right. Troika offers the same terms to everyone. Part of the “no exceptions” thing.

  “The realm will provide health care, schooling, therapy when needed, financial assistance and even protection services upon request,” she adds.

  I think I prefer Myriad’s MO. They offer different packages and bonuses. If you want bigger and better, you have to work for it. But greater risk, greater reward.

  She pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll be with you in spirit.”

  There’s a thread of amusement in her voice. A thread I don’t understand.

  Whatever. Dread replaces my eagerness, my blood morphing into fuel as I approach the door. All I need is a match, and I’ll catch fire and burn. The lock disengages, the metal block opening, allowing me to step into the hallway.

  No one is waiting for me. Knowing I’m being watched on a panel of monitors, I make my way to the left, snake around a corner, bypass the empty commons and enter the overcrowded cafeteria, where the scent of slop makes my mouth water. Really, the protein bar was only an appetizer.

  When I spot Sloan, I nod my thanks, but she quickly looks away.

  I search for Killian, finding him easily when he stands. Our gazes merge. He’s bigger than I remember. Like, really big. Loaded with muscle big. The kind of muscle found in a gym only after years of training.

  My heart skitters into a faster rhythm, and tingles rush through me. I shiver. For a moment, I want to run to him. I’m falling down a pit of despair...confusion...darkness, and because of the trust exercise, I know he’ll catch me.

  I resist the urge.

  His cunning gaze assesses the situation as if he’s already considered three ways to destroy everyone present.

  His closet protector is coming out to play.

  I mouth, Thank you.

  He frowns and gives a clipped nod.

  “Chop, chop,” Nurse Ratched commands from the gate blocking “patients” from the offices.

  As soon as I reach her, she pivots on her heel and presses her index finger into the ID box. After a quick scan, she swipes her card across the side and punches in a code. The gate buzzes open, and she stalks through.

  My surroundings change in an instant, as if I’ve stepped through an invisible portal into a fairy tale. From cold and impersonal to warm and inviting. The walls are vibrant baby blue rather than medicine-cabinet gray. Six portraits hang throughout, three on each side of me. Each bears a different-colored rose, meant to add a touch of beauty to a bona fide hellhole. A large wrought-iron candelabra is twisted into the shape of a dragon. The creature’s mouth is open, his teeth monstrous, but he spews blackbirds rather than fire, the metal flock stretching to the door at the end of the hall, where Nurse Ratched stops and smiles coldly at me.

  She’s tall and big boned, with frizzy red hair framing a face that is littered with acne scars. Over the past year, I’ve had plenty of time to observe her in her natural habitat and I’ve come to realize she uses her job as a way to obtain what she’s never gotten outside these walls. Power.

  Myriad must be her wet dream.

  “Go ahead,” she says. “Fight your future the way you always do. Insult Dr. Vans and your parents with that viper tongue.”

  “I will, thanks.” Whatever happens, I’ll survive. My parents need me alive.

  How sad is that? The best I can say about the people who created me is that they need me to continue breathing.

  The girl I used to be would have curled into a ball and sobbed. The girl I am raises her chin and presses on.

  “Afterward,” she adds, “we have extra-special plan for you.”

  Last time, I was tied down and beaten with brass knuckles. Extra-special scares me.

  I ignore the fear, as always, knowing it will only help her sense of empowerment.

  “So sweet of you.” Like Sloan, I trace fingertips down my cheeks. “Tears of joy.”

  She pats my cheek with a little too much force. “Enjoy the meeting, Miss Lockwood. I have feeling you won’t enjoy anything for long time to come.” With that, she knocks on the door and strides away.

  I want to vomit.

  The door to Vans’s office slides open, and cold fingers of dread crawl down my spine.

  I can do this. Whatever “this” is. I remind myself of the three most important facts of life.

  (1) Firstlife, good or bad, is fleeting, even if we live a hundred years. Numbers never lie. A hundred years is nothing compared to thousands of years in the Everlife. So a few hours...days...weeks of pain? Means nothing. Because—

  (2) pain is temporary, just as Bow said. It won’t follow me to the other side.

  And (3) what happens after death will be forever, making the afterlife far more important t
han anything that happens here and now.

  Still, I break out in a sweat as I step inside the spacious office, where everything is ornate and overdone. An arched ceiling with a crystal teardrop chandelier dangles above a desk the same size as the conference table. The walls are made of light stone and dark wood, the two framing multiple bookshelves and a marble fireplace with legs carved to resemble lions. Lions with golden collars clamped around their necks, their heads bowed.

  Gossip claims there’s a door to the outside world hidden somewhere in this room.

  Vans is already seated at the conference table, alongside my parents. Yes, my mother is here. A pang of homesickness overtakes me. Homesickness, along with regret and sorrow. The painful deluge nearly chokes me.

  Fat tears stream down my mother’s cheeks as she meets my gaze. She’s gained at least twenty pounds since last I saw her, yet she used to flip out over a single ounce. Priorities change.

  I cut off a bitter laugh.

  As I stare at her, silent, a sob leaves her. When I was a little girl and someone said an unkind word to me, she would whisper, You don’t have haters, sweetheart, you have prefans.

  “Ten—” she begins.

  “Tenley,” I correct, my tone cool. “Only my friends call me Ten.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Her chin trembles as she struggles to control her reactions. “I understand.”

  I hurt her. Good. She’s hurt me.

  Sorrow has marred features that are strikingly similar to mine. We both have pale skin with a smattering of freckles and eyes almost too big for our faces, though hers are a rich chocolate brown. Our cheekbones are high and sharp, our noses small but pert, our lips heart-shaped. She has a shoulder-length crop of auburn hair artfully cut while my last trim came from a butcher knife courtesy of Nurse Ratched.

  “Are you here to take me home?” I ask.

  She looks down at her hands and shakes her head.

  “Not unless you’re ready to sign the contract,” Senator Lockwood says. He sits rigidly in his chair, his features strained as he looks me over.

  He’s aged. There are new frown lines around his eyes and mouth, and his once-olive skin is sallow. His hair, so black it gleams blue in the light—an attribute I inherited from him—is now salted with gray. His mismatched eyes, one green, one blue—another attribute I inherited—watch me with determination.

  Despite his shortcomings, he’s still a handsome man. Women everywhere have always thrown themselves at him. Girls, too. My friends would giggle about him behind their hands. So sexy.

  At the table, only one chair is empty, and it’s on the opposite side of the others. Their way of saying we’re a unit, you’re alone.

  I sit with all the dignity I can muster.

  “Tenley.” The senator pulls at the collar of his shirt. “It’s nice to see you.”

  “I wish I could say the same.”

  His flinch is slight, but I notice. Does he ever wonder if he made the right decision sending me here?

  Vans pushes a digital pad my way, putting my forced breeziness to shame. “Are you ready to sign with Myriad?”

  “Nope. Now, if we’re done here...” I stand.

  “Refuse,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken, “and I’ll be forced to punish Killian for sneaking food to your cell.”

  I gasp. The cameras. Or he and Killian planned this, thinking I’d feel so guilty about the boy who caught me when I fell, the boy who fed me when I was hungry, I’d finally cave. “No mention of Sloan?” I grit out.

  “Who is—” my mom begins.

  The senator shakes his head. “We don’t need the details.”

  Correction: he doesn’t want the details.

  I ease into the chair and cross my arms. “You want me to sign, Senator? Convince me.”

  His next flinch is more noticeable. He’s always hated when I use his title. He reaches up to give his collar another tug but catches himself. “I’ve tried. Look where we ended up.”

  “We?” That’s rich!

  My dad pushes out a heavy breath. “You have no idea what it’s like to grow up in poverty, the child of Unsigned. I had nothing. Not even friends. Myriad changed everything. I owe them. You owe them.”

  I flash back to the night I heard my parents arguing about my grandparents—my mom’s parents. The Troikan loyalists.

  “They just want to spend time with their granddaughter,” my mom said.

  “We can’t risk it,” my dad replied. “They’ll fill Ten’s head with nonsense, the way they once filled yours.”

  “They won’t. They only want to make memories with her.”

  “Don’t be naive, Grace. Everyone has an agenda.”

  “You’re wrong. And cynical! They’re wonderful people.”

  “If they’re so wonderful, why did you reject everything they taught you?”

  “To be with you,” she’d whispered.

  I glance at my mom. She’s still crying. Does she ever wish she’d sided with her parents instead of my dad?

  “Myriad will take care of you,” he says, his desperation showing. “They’ll take care of us all.”

  He’s deceived, a voice whispers in my ear. I detect a slight English accent and immediately think of Bow. Only the voice belongs to a boy. You’ll be used up and thrown away like garbage.

  I jerk my head left, right, then behind. No one stands near me.

  “Are you all right?” My mother reaches across the table to clasp my hand.

  I lurch back, avoiding contact. A single touch will be more than my fragile state of mind can handle.

  She presses her lips into a thin line.

  “Think,” Vans says. “Once you agree, there’ll be no more pain. No more hardships.”

  “And Killian?” I demand.

  “He’ll be pardoned.”

  Zero! Dr. Vans knows me well. If there’s a chance Killian is a victim of his manipulations, I can’t allow him to be hurt.

  Trepidation crawls the length of my spine. Am I actually considering doing this? “Give me a minute.”

  My dad nods eagerly. “Yes, yes. Of course.”

  I swivel my chair and face the door.

  I know this present life is hailed as a simple dress rehearsal. A test, some say. A type of school, others believe. Either way, if I sign with Myriad, I might be able to live for the very first time.

  I’m ready to live.

  My parents believe Myriad is the right choice. As much as I resent them, I admire their confidence. And dang it, I still love them. They’re as worried about their future as I am about my own.

  “If you were to sign with Troika,” Vans says, “you would be on the opposite side of the war. One day, you might even be tasked with killing your parents.”

  I resent the pair, but I could never kill them. Even temporarily.

  I spin back around, finally ready to do it. To say yes. I mean, why not? When I open my mouth, however, no sound emerges. After everything I’ve endured—physical hunger, weakness and depravation, mental exhaustion and trauma, emotional upheaval—my decision comes down to their needs over my own?

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I can’t. Not yet.”

  My dad closes his eyes, his shoulders hunching in. A position of defeat. He’s known among his peers for his indomitable strength and unwillingness to back down. “I only want the best for you. Why can’t you see that?”

  “Maybe because there’s usually blood in my eyes,” I snap, unmoved by his unusual display of emotion. And wow, when did I become so cold and callous?

  Oh, I know. The day I arrived at Prynne.

  His nostrils flare. He glares at Vans, unloading a shotgun full of fury. “This is your fault. You promised us results.”

  The doctor dons an impassive mask. “I’ve asked repeatedly to take my efforts to the next level. You refused.”

  What? My dad actually prevented certain tortures?

  “I even advised you against the massages and other privileges.”

&nb
sp; What!

  “Say the word, and I’ll hurt her in ways you can’t even imagine—without breaking her, of course.”

  I clutch my churning stomach.

  “No,” my mom says, shaking her head. “Absolutely not.”

  “I won’t kill her,” Vans assures them. “She won’t be violated. But an increase in pain is the only option we have left. All I need is your permission to proceed.”

  My father pinches the bridge of his nose.

  I tremble in my seat. Say no, Daddy. Say no.

  “Yes,” he croaks, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from screaming. “I don’t want to proceed this way, but you’ve left me with no other choice. One day you might even thank me.”

  I don’t... I can’t...

  I blink rapidly, fighting tears. “Fathers are supposed to protect their little girls.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do,” he shouts. “I’m trying to protect your future.”

  Right words. Only, they are a lie. He’s protecting his future. Mine is shattered, just like my heart.

  “You’ll be pleased with the results, Senator Lockwood.” Vans lifts his famed digital pad. “I’ll send you pictures documenting the procedure.”

  Sign with Troika. The voice hits my awareness again, so distinct that I can’t pass it off as my imagination. Swear allegiance right now, and I’ll get you out of here. No one will hurt you.

  “Who are you?” I demand.

  Vans frowns at me. “Is someone speaking to you, Ms. Lockwood?”

  My parents share a look of shock. Well, the senator is shocked. My mother is almost...hopeful.

  “Is there a Laborer in the room?” My father looks around.

  A Laborer? But—wait! A memory sparks. Laborers are sometimes allowed to visit a human while in spirit form.

  Please, the voice says. End this travesty before it starts.

  “Does no one else hear him?”

  A chorus of “No” rings out, each individual negation tinged with a different emotion. Irritation, relief and confusion.

  So. A TL is here to help me. And all I have to do is hand over my eternity.

  To Dr. Vans I say, “What are we waiting for?” I clap my hands, as though overcome with excitement. “Stop the unnecessary chitchat and get this party started.”