Lifeblood
“Don’t let anyone near her until she’s hooked,” Killian says, jolting me.
Hooked?
“My men and I will keep the area clear as long as we can,” Deacon says and rushes off.
My gaze finds Killian’s, and my heart thuds. His eyes are gorgeous, soulful gold with flecks of electric blue. In one, there are five flecks. In the other, three. At our first meeting, I compared those flecks to an octave. The fifth and third notes create the basic foundation for all chords. Whenever he looks at me, my blood sings.
Today is not an exception.
A Myriadian soldier breaks through the protective ring created by Deacon and his men. Without disrupting our stare-down, Killian reaches out with a quick jab-jab, a dagger in hand. I gasp. He just killed one of his own. Savagely. Brutally.
Lifeblood coats the weapon, clear and glittering, a macabre but lovely sight. He closes in on me, menace in every step, but I remain rooted in place, unafraid. This boy will never harm me.
“Stop slaying your people on my behalf,” I command.
“I’ll protect you however I see fit, lass.” He sheathes his dagger and cups my face, his palms calloused from years of combat.
Those calluses tickle my skin, creating friction—heat. Such delicious heat. Soon the battle is forgotten. I’m basically on fire for him, my blood steaming, tormenting me—thrilling me. All because of an innocent touch!
I’ve always reacted to this boy, but never this intensely. Maybe because we’ve never before experienced skin-to-skin contact, nothing between us. Not flesh, not a Shell. Not life-or-death stakes.
I lean into his grip like a kitten being petted for the first time.
Are the sensations this potent with all spirits?
I close my eyes and breathe him in. Peat smoke and heather. My favorites. My head fogs all over again, and I know he’s intoxicating me without even trying.
“Look at me, lass.”
I obey. He is studying me, as if he’s memorizing my features. I study him right back, helpless to do otherwise. Shadows cling to him, but they fail to detract from his otherworldly beauty. Ebony silk hangs over a strong forehead and swoops to one side, creating a roguish frame for equally roguish features. His eyebrows are thick and black, his skin bronzed and poreless, as if his flesh has been painted on. His nose is blade-sharp and leads to a mouth so lush, it could be classified as feminine. His triangular jaw is dusted with sexy stubble.
“In the coming weeks,” he says, agonized, “I need you to trust me, no matter what. Can you do that?”
Without hesitation, I reply, “Of course.” I trace a fingertip over the seam of those lavish lips, acting without thought. He might be firm and muscled everywhere else, but he’s soft as rose petals here, and I shiver.
His pupils dilate, a sign his awareness of me is deepening. “There’s no of course about it. The situation will be bleak, but you must trust that I will always have your best interests at heart.” His grip tightens. “Please.”
I want to reassure him, and I totally mean to do so until a burst of wind blows a strand of hair in my eyes. I frown as I hold a lock up to the light. Cobalt blue? What the what? Before I died, my hair was black.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“You should see the other changes.” Killian’s hand brushes mine as he sifts the strands between his fingers.
A sharp lance of pain sends me stumbling back, a cry parting my lips.
Was I just...stabbed?
“You’re tense.” Killian catches me, latching on to my wrists and holding me steady. “Relax.” His obey me or die tone is usually reserved for everyone but me.
I bristle. “You relax! I—” Agony claws at my insides, and it’s too much, far too much. “I don’t know what’s... I can’t... I’m...” Dying for the second and final time? So soon?
“You’re being hooked to your realm’s Grid.”
Grid? “I think something’s wrong with the connection.” I manage to push the words past the barbed lump growing in my throat.
“Nothing’s wrong.” He draws me against him, caresses the ridges of my spine, offering comfort. “Everyone goes through this. Even Myriadians.”
I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in and out with purpose. Despite our efforts, I feel as if I’m trapped inside a never-ending pit, falling into one sword after another while taking an endless rain of bullets to the brain and torso.
Kill me! Let me die.
But...the pain is fading just as swiftly as it began.
Warmth envelops me, sinks into me and shines...shines so brightly that emotions I’d hidden in dark corners long ago are suddenly exposed. Those emotions scramble in every direction like tiny bugs. Hatred for my father. Rage for circumstances beyond my control. Sorrow over the loss of my mother and little brother.
Nothing can hide. I hiss and sob in unison. The sound a wounded animal must make.
“You’re strong. You’re brave,” Killian tells me. “You’ve got this, lass.”
As the warmth gathers in three distinct places—both hands and an arm—I squeeze him so tightly, I’m sure I bruise him. He never once complains. The warmth...it burns now. I think I’m being...marked?
In the center of each palm, a circle with three leaves appears. The Troikan symbol. They are pale at first but gradually darken. Along my right arm, three sets of numbers emerge.
“Spiritual brands,” Killian says, passing his thumb over one of the symbols without actually touching me. “An outward sign of your inward loyalty.”
Finally, blessedly, the remaining pain subsides, and I whimper with relief.
“A Key.” Killian moves his attention—and his phantom-touch—to the numbers. “I’d heard rumors Troika forces their new recruits to work for their rewards, but no one has confirmed or denied.”
“A Key?” When his thumb strokes my skin, I’m hit with a punch of cold. My jaw clenches, and my teeth chatter.
Fury contorts his features, startling me as much as the punch. He releases me and steps back, increasing the distance between us.
I’m not yet ready to part with him. Lifting my chin, I step toward him and flatten my hand over his precious heart. Another blast of cold hits, this one stronger, unbearable.
“Zero!” My favorite curse escapes, and I jump back. In a blink, the horrible cold vanishes.
“I tried to warn you,” he grates.
As I gaze into his siren-eyes, the truth becomes clear. Physically, our bodies will forever reject each other. Darkness and Light cannot coexist. One will always chase the other away.
By siding with Troika, I doomed our relationship.
Tears well. “Killian,” I say. He did try to warn me. I convinced myself we’d find a way to be together, not yet comprehending the obstacles we’d have to face.
“What’s done is done.” He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head as he backs away from me. “If I fight for you, I help my realm lose the war. If I fight against you, I lose you. There’s no middle ground. Not with us. Like you, I have to choose.”
chapter two
“Tribulation merely proves you lack a protector. Let us protect you.”
—Myriad
Killian’s words echo inside my mind. If I fight for you, I help my realm lose the war. If I fight against you, I lose you.
No middle ground.
Choose.
My tears—such silly, useless tears—spill over my cheeks, leaving hot, stinging tracks in their wake. I thought I was prepared to give up everything for my new home. I thought I could live with any consequences.
But the cost is already too high.
What am I supposed to do? Killian is more than the object of my fascination. He’s my best friend. The only one I have left. Archer, a boy I loved like a brother, died trying to save my Firstlife. He died today. Worse, he died for nothing!
Grief rips through me. It grips me in a stranglehold and kicks me in the stomach. It whispers, There’s nothing you can do.
Sorrow and helplessness join the pity party, and I despise both. These emotions are not innocent, but deadly. They devoured my past, eating at my happiness until nothing remained; I can’t cede my present or my future, too.
I speak the promise burning a hole in my heart. “You matter to me, Killian. I’ll fix this.”
“Do I?” The rough disbelief in his tone guts me. “Will you?”
I’ve never ascribed to the notion that words are enough, and I’ve never trusted those who huff and puff, furious when someone dares to question another’s claim of affection. I won’t pretend otherwise just because a spotlight now shines on me.
My actions can make or break us.
“You do, and I will,” I say, lifting my chin. “I’ll prove it.”
He gives a hard shake of his head. “Don’t be putting yerself in danger on my behalf, lass. I’d rather you hate me and live than lo—like me and die. Deacon,” he calls. “She’s ready.”
Deacon appears at my side. “Time to go.” He takes my hand, and my spirit welcomes the connection, Light always a complement to Light. I warm rather than freeze—the way I should have done with Killian. The way I used to do with Killian.
What have I done?
Deacon appears to be my age, though he’s infinitely older. He’s black and beautiful, his dark hair shorn to his scalp, his green eyes pulsing with the very heartbeat of summer. His nose is a smidge too long and his mouth a smidge too thin, but neither matters. He looks like the bad boy he likes to accuse Killian of being: rough, tough and totally buff.
He’s wearing a black leather vest with small silver blades pretending to be buttons. His matching leather pants have five zippers on each leg.
5 + 5 = 10
Wait. I saw him only minutes before I died, and he was wearing a white robe with white trim. My brow furrows with confusion. Changing clothes during the heat of battle isn’t impossible, but also isn’t likely.
The answer rides a newly installed train track through my mind—the mysterious Grid, I suspect—and I rub my temples. His spirit was encased in a Shell that he has since shed.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” he says, “we’re in the middle of a combat zone. You are weak, vulnerable. We need to get you to safety now.”
Leave? I shake my head. He wants to separate me from Killian.
Good idea. Sworn enemy, remember?
Once, these two boys worked together to save me from a madwoman, but Archer was the go-between. Deacon and Killian will never work together again, will they? They will never fully trust each other. One realm can’t trust the other. Too many betrayals litter the past.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. I won’t abandon my friends when they need me most. I peer at Killian. “I’ll stay. I’ll help.”
“Help?” He sneers at me. “Don’t kid yerself, lass. Ye’ll get hurt, and I’ll be forced to watch. You are no longer mine to protect.” His bitterness creates an invisible wall between us. He turns and slips inside his Shell. “Go! Before it’s too late.”
No longer mine...
The pain I felt before? Nothing compared to this. “I’m sorry.” I did this. I broke us—broke him. The boy who risked his life to save mine.
Help him, help Troika. Two needs. One will always negate the other.
“An apology without a change in behavior is worthless.” He doesn’t glance in my direction. “Prove you mean yours and leave.”
My determination to remain only strengthens. I will prove my affection for him by saving him from my realm.
I stand my ground and prepare to fight, scanning my surroundings. Oh...zero. I swallow hard.
Countless spirits and Shells who fought to either rescue or kill me are in pieces. Death should not be pretty, but the sight is as glorious as it is sickening. Lifeblood glitters in the sunlight, turning war into a twisted fairy tale.
During my Firstlife, I had trouble differentiating between humans and Shells. Now? I can tell with a single glance. Shells are dense with a plastic-like appearance I never before noticed. They are like life-size dolls. I can pick out the spirits and humans; spirits are luminescent and human flesh is dull. I can even tell who is Troikan and Myriadian. Troikans are the sunrise, a dawning illumination, while Myriadians are the sunset, a herald of darkness.
Light versus shadow. Bright versus gloom.
Those who haven’t been chopped to bits are still locked in a gruesome battle. Grunts and groans blend with the pop of breaking bones and the gurgle of warriors choking on blood, creating a horrific sound track. My hand covers my mouth.
“You’re not going to like this next part, lass.” Killian grabs hold of a spear. The one Sloan used to kill me—the one still lodged in her lifeless chest.
He yanks. The weapon exits her body, taking pieces of rib with it. “After Firstdeath, most spirits remain trapped inside the body until freed by another spirit.” He reaches into her torso, his fingers ghosting through her flesh. He yanks—
And there she is, the real Sloan. For a moment, rage overwhelms me. Behold, my betrayer! She looks the same, and yet completely different. The model-pretty blonde has morphed into an exquisite, incomparable beauty with hair as white as snow and lips as red as wine.
She killed an innocent human. She should be as haggard on the outside as she is on the inside.
My hands ball into fists. I can end her, the way she ended me. I can destroy her Everlife before it begins. Does she truly deserve a second chance?
Do you?
The question drifts through the train track in my mind, startling me.
Sloan gazes at the world around her with wide eyes the color of a morning sky. She’s distracted and unaware of the danger. There’s no better time to strike...
I’m going to do it, I decide. I don’t care if I deserve a second chance or not. Don’t care if my actions make me a hypocrite and contradict my beliefs.
What’s wrong with me?
I don’t care about that, either. I wrench free of Deacon and take a step toward her. Black shadows rise from the ground, covering her feet...her calves...her thighs. Pain twists her features.
“Help me.” She reaches for me with a trembling hand.
I stop abruptly.
She reaches for Killian. He steps back, leaving her alone with her agony. Then she’s gone, no hint of her anywhere.
“Where did she go?” I demand, only to fight a torrent of shame. Her absence is a gift, the temptation to harm her gone. I should let her go, not chase after her.
“Where else? Myriad.” Deacon shackles my biceps in a firm grip and tugs me in the opposite direction. “You need to head to Troika. You’re vulnerable here.”
The war still rages, soldiers cutting each other down with fiery swords, shooting each other with laser guns. Shells are disintegrating left and right, the sight devastating.
“I’m staying,” I croak. Running away is cowardly. I am the cause of the battle. I will ensure it ends.
“What do you think you can do, Ten?” Deacon’s grip tightens. “You’re riding an emotional roller coaster right now.”
“How do you—”
“I’ve been where you are. I know the Grid is exposing aspects of yourself you may not like. I also know you cannot help anyone but yourself right now. No speech, no matter how inspired, is going to penetrate the bloodlust currently plaguing these soldiers.” He wrenches me to the side, startling and tripping me.
An arrow soars past me as I flail.
“See!” he shouts. “You’re in danger.”
“Go, Ten. Now!” Killian spins and swings the spear, stabbing a Troikan in the process of sneaking up behind him. “If you’re killed, everything we’ve done to help you will be in vain.”
I should be thrilled he’s avoided injury, but his actions only feed the fury Sloan unearthed. I step toward him, intending to...what? I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t allow him to kill another Troikan, either. These people...they’re my brothers and sisters now.
Whoa. Such affinity for individuals I’ve never met?
Deacon tightens his hold. “I can’t escort you to Troika without your permission. Say yes.”
Free will matters, even in a war zone?
I struggle with duty and desire as more and more Troikans gather around Killian, attacking him en masse. He’s strong and skilled, but is he skilled enough to survive this?
Fear for him—for everyone he’s fighting—leaves me ice-cold.
A group of his comrades rush over to aid him, and I’m as relieved as I am ashamed. The group could harm my people.
More arrows zoom in my direction. Deacon uses a sword to deflect them, saving me from injury. Or worse.
Zero! If I throw myself into the fray, I can help Troika or I can help Killian, but not both.
No need to ponder. I have to help Killian. I recently lost my mom and brother. Earlier today I watched as my dad was gunned down. I lost Archer. I can’t lose Killian, too.
Already lost him...
No. Absolutely not! And yet, hot tears blur my vision and streak down my cheeks. The Grid, whatever it is, has turned me into an emotional wreck.
Forget emotion. I need to act. Now or never.
Now! With a roar, I plow into the chaos. Grunts and groans. Limbs fly, some with purpose, a target in sight, others because they’ve been severed. The scent of blood saturates the air and zings with tension. Determined, I swipe up a sword.
The weapon is ten times heavier than I expected, and my arm shakes as I assume a battle stance.
“Stop,” I shout. “Troikans love, forgive. Let’s walk away and save lives. No one else has to die today.”
I’m ignored. Deacon was right. A speech will never penetrate this blood-haze.
One of the Troikans notches an arrow and aims at Killian. I scream, diving at him, intending to shield him. As weak as I am, I fail to go the distance and hit the ground, useless. Killian doesn’t need my help, anyway. Lightning fast, he uses the spear to block. The arrow pings, falls.
No time for relief. Other soldiers rush at him, trampling me in the process. Combat boots—
Miss me? Yes! I’m in spirit form while the soldiers are in Shells. We’re intangible to each other.
Reeling, I climb to my feet. At warp speed, two other arrows hurl at Killian; he’s fast enough to block both.
Behind him, a Troikan is coming in hot, a Stag aimed.
For a Shell, a Stag is the worst of the worst. A single dart traps a spirit inside its Shell, preventing any sort of mobility and rendering both defenseless.
I have no idea what a Stag will do to a spirit without a Shell, and I don’t care. I put more pep in my step and jump. This go-round, my timing and efforts pay off. The dart flies through me and slows, giving Killian a chance to duck.
Agony sears me, and I scream. Seizing, I drop. Bolts of lightning set all of my organs ablaze.
The girl who pulled the trigger stares at me in horror. She just shot one of her own, and I just saved the enemy.
Her distraction puts her at a disadvantage, allowing a Myriadian to race in and swing a sword. Target: her head.
“Nooo!” Another Troikan shoves her out of the way. The sword slices through his shoulder, removing the arm of his Shell. Lifeblood spurts from the wound.
My horror mirrors the girl’s. Shells and spirits are connected. Is the boy’s spirit now missing an arm?
Above me, Killian whirls his spear, preventing several arrows from finding a new home in my chest. He kicks backward, nailing the Troikan sneaking up behind him.
“I told you to go, Ten.”
I...can’t. I can’t leave him. Part of me fears I’ll never see him again...and what you fear, you welcome into your life. I know it as surely as I know my name.
I try to stand, fail.
He ducks, avoiding the swing of a sword. Remaining low, he takes out his opponent at the ankles.
“If she’s killed today,” he says to Deacon, who is fending off a Myriadian soldier, “I’ll blame you, aye. I’ll retaliate by killing everyone you love.” He is cold, merciless. And he’s not done. He all but spits daggers at me after he clears the crowd around me and helps me stand. “Say yes to Deacon. From this moment on, every death I deliver is on your hands, not mine.”
Contact is just as painful as before, but what’s worse? My sense of disappointment. In his words. In my failure. In what this means for our future.
“Don’t let me go.” My knees are like jelly, yes, but I think the other part of me, the girl who hopes for the best, expects him to whisk me away. No more fighting, no need to choose between a home and a boy a second time.
I couldn’t be more wrong. He holds me up with one arm and uses the other to quickly and brutally stop the next Troikan who challenges him.
My fault.
A contingent of MLs rushes over. Killian defends me from his own people, adding to his list of crimes.
My heart shrivels into a tiny ball of self-recrimination. By staying, I’m doing far more harm than good, aren’t I?
“Yes,” I shout at Deacon. “Yes, yes, yes.”
The TL finishes off his newest attacker, closes the distance and drops his weapon to pull me from Killian’s side and cradle me against his chest.
Killian holds on to my hand as long as possible. I cling to his.
Is this goodbye?
This can’t be goodbye.
Deacon runs. He’s injured, Lifeblood gushing from a wound in his shoulder and soaking his shirt. My shriveled heart aches. I’m not the one who wielded the sword, but I’m the one who placed him in its path.
Never slowing, he says something in a language I don’t know but have heard him use with Archer. A special Troikan language the Myriadians can’t understand.
My gaze locks on Killian. He pauses, the battle forgotten. He’s so beautiful and strong, but he’s haunted. A fallen angel with a thousand and one regrets.
He reaches for me. I extend my hand to him.
A beam of Light slams into me. I blink, and I’m standing atop the parapet of one of the guard towers with Deacon. TLs border us on every side, at the ready. Killian is gone. I swallow a whimper.
No future with Killian. No present with Archer.
“Stop thinking about everything you’ve lost,” Deacon commands, “and start thinking about everything you’ve gained.”
He’s right. This isn’t the time or place to break down. “Is that why you’re so calm about Archer’s death?”
“That, and I know there’s a chance I’ll see him again.”
What? Surely I heard him incorrectly. Archer entered into the Rest. The end.
Questioning him isn’t an option. Myriadians materialize, circling us, shadow-tipped arrows notched...and soon arching through the sky. Troikans use fiery swords to block, and the arrows burn to ash.
As the opposing forces leap together in a vicious tangle of limbs and weapons, Deacon drops me. I crash-land, still too weak to stand on my own. Scowling, he yanks a small vial hanging from his neck and throws it at me.
“Every drop,” he insists.
I uncork the top, already knowing what swirls inside. Liquefied manna, everything a spirit needs to heal and thrive. The sweet scent teases me. I drain the contents.
Deacon stabs an ML, turns, and stabs another.
I begin to strengthen.
Two MLs rush at Deacon in unison. He throws himself at the taller one. I roll to my back and kick out my legs, knocking the shorter guy’s ankles together. Deacon is there to finish him off before hefting me to my feet.
“Time to go.”
No way! “I’m racer-ready. Let’s stay and help.”
“You’re that eager to die again?”
Hey! “I’ve got skills.” Both Killian and Archer worked with me before—
My shoulders hunch as a sense of dejection pierces me.
“You have zero skills,” Deacon says, merciless. “Right now you’re like an infant. All you can do is cry and crap your pants. So...” He turns, stabs an incoming ML. “If Her Majesty is ready to continue her travels...”
How can he stand to help me? Archer was his best friend, and I put him in the line of fire by requesting a Troikan army be sent to save Killian, who still defends Myriad despite being beaten by his bosses, and Sloan, who secretly had already made covenant with the enemy.