Lifeblood

The bathroom opens to a closet already filled with clothes, everything from black leather catsuits to elaborate ceremonial robes, some white with green trim, some white with gold trim, some red with black trim, but all are in my size.

“These things...they’re luxuries,” I say. “Troikans are supposed to be dedicated taskmasters, all business and no pleasure. Myriad focuses on indulgence.” Wait. Am I complaining? I suck.

He gives my head another pat. “Keeping the citizens comfortable is an important part of business. Happy people are productive people. And there’s nothing wrong with pleasure.” He leads me to the smallest room in the apartment. “All right. Last stop. The kitchen.”

Seriously? “There’s no stove or refrigerator.”

“You’ll never need to cook again. The only food your spirit craves is manna.” He waves to a shelf where the manna is prepared in different ways: liquefied, cut into wafers, soft like ice cream, baked into little cakes. “We also have an abundance of honey, fruits and nuts to mix into your treat, better than anything you had as a human.”

He opens a jar, dips a spoon inside and offers me the dripping treat. “This is manna with pecans and honey.”

I accept, my eyes closing in rapture as the sweetness coats my tongue. My Lifeblood fizzes with electricity. I could run ten races. No, twenty. A hundred! I could—

I yawn.

“Uh-oh. You’re about to crash.” He wraps an arm around my waist. “Your spirit isn’t used to so much stimulation and demands a respite.”

“No, I—” Fatigue pours through my veins, my limbs suddenly as heavy as boulders. Black dots wink through my vision, and my legs wobble.

“See!” He helps me to the bedroom and tucks me under the covers. “Sleep well, Number Girl.”

I close my heavy eyelids, whispering, “One...two...threeee,” and drift off...

* * *

I dream about my brands, only then realizing the numbers line up. One glows, then another and another. There’s a clear sequence, I realize, and excitement sparks.

The number ten kicks off the first row, with seven numbers lined up after it, each bracketed by a period. Added up, those number equal 688. Eleven starts the second row, with seven numbers following it; when added, they equal 859. Twelve leads the final row, with seven numbers after it. When added, they equal 228.

And by adding the three totals, I get 1,775.

The year of the American Revolution. Any significance? I mean...am I supposed to start my own revolution? No, no. Why would I need to start one of those?

If my numbers are anything like Meredith’s words, they represent three specific ideals.

The dream shifts, those ideals remaining at bay. Suddenly I’m standing on a mountaintop, the world at my feet, the wind dancing through my hair. I’m alone.

Above me, a squawk rings out.

My gaze jerks up, my insides twisting around pins and needles. A flock of monstrous birds circles me. Spikes protrude from their beaks, and their wings look like a jumbled mess of razor blades, the rest of their bodies made from bone without muscle, flesh or feather. Metal claws glint in the sunlight.

Self-preservation screams, Run!

I take off in a mad sprint. I’ve encountered these birds before, in Many Ends, when they attempted to eat me alive. How did they find me here? I need to hide. Where? My wild gaze darts through the forest stretched out below me. There’s no place to hide, and I—

Crash into a wall of strength. Threat! I bow up, ready to fight for my life. I won’t go down easily.

Fist balled, I throw a punch. The wall—is a boy, I realize. A boy my age. A boy I know. He catches my hand in his and chuckles.

“Killian!” I throw my arms around him, stealing a hug. My skin heats rather than chills, and currents of pleasure ripple through me. The scent of peat smoke and heather envelopes me. “Come on. We can’t stay here. The birds. We have to—”

He presses a finger against my lips, quieting me. He smiles a devastating smile—a rare smile—his siren-song eyes glittering with undiluted joy. I go still. He’s never looked at me like this, as if all his cares have been washed away. As if he is Light. My Light.

“Forget the birds,” he says, his voice nothing but smoke and gravel. “Focus on me, lass.”

Shivers course through me. Looking away from him is impossible. He is my life raft. A promise of better.

Having died as an infant, he grew up in a Myriadian orphanage. Adopted as a toddler, returned a few years later. He’s endured rejection after rejection, trial after trial, hardship after hardship. Now scars mar his soul.

How did I manage to sneak past his defenses?

He cups my nape to draw me closer and presses his forehead to mine. “I’m lost without ye, Ten.”

“You’ll never be lost.” My fingers wrap around his wrists, my heart crying, Never let go. “I’ll always find you.”

Squawk, squawk.

Yelping, I look up, reminded of our audience. The birds are closer now, claws spread and ready to—

“Focus on me, lass.” Killian kisses me, his mouth covering mine.

His taste tantalizes me, and I melt into him—

The dream shifts, Killian vanishing. A scream of frustration bubbles in my throat. Noooo! I want to be with Killian. I want to experience his kiss, enjoy his sweetness and bask in the beauty of his strength.

How do I return to him?

I spin, searching for a way out of this...orchard? Zero! I’m standing in the orchard I passed on the way to the cathedral. Something terrible has happened here. The leaves are withered, the fruit rotten, worms slithering from holes.

A crowd of people surrounds me, penning me in, everyone reaching for me, pulling at my clothing.

“Why didn’t you help me?” someone cries.

“You could have saved me,” another wails, “but you left me to my torment.”

“You were supposed to sign my sister. You sent her to Myriad instead.”

Bang, bang.

I jerk upright. I’m panting, damp with sweat despite the cooling wafts of air from my mattress. The overhead light kicks on automatically, illuminating an unfamiliar bedroom. My bedroom. My new bedroom. I’m trembling, my blood molten.

Those dreams...

They can mean only one of two things: something or nothing. How long was I out?

With a heavy exhalation, I fall onto my pillows. If I close my eyes, will I return to Killian? Will he kiss me? I hug the blanket to my chest.

Bang, bang.

Again I jerk upright. A picture of Meredith and Clay flashes over my bedroom wall; the two appear to be standing in the hallway outside the apartment. She’s wearing an adorable pink catsuit with bows and ruffles, her golden hair fastened in a ponytail, and he’s wearing solid black.

“I know you’re in there,” she calls.

Oh, yes. They are standing in my hallway.

I throw my legs over the side of the bed and make my way through the apartment. As I walk, bulbs flip on to guide my path.

With a yawn, I open the door. Meredith and Clay march inside.

She looks me up and down and tsk-tsks. “You’ve been here two days and you haven’t changed out of your human clothes?”

What? “Two days? Does time pass more quickly here?”

“Time doesn’t change until you enter the Rest.” Clay nudges Meredith with his elbow. “Told you she’d still be sleeping.”

“Well. You’re up now, aren’t you, my dear,” she says. “And what perfect timing. I arranged for someone to cover my shift so I could show you around the realm.”

“Wait. Back up. Time passes differently in the Rest?” I bounce on my heels. “Faster or slower?” In Archer’s mind, how long has he been gone?

“One day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years is like a day.”

Ugh. Her answers are as cryptic as Levi’s.

“I’m more than happy to wait while you shower and change.” Her nose wrinkles. “Please.”

“Fine.” Eager to see the rest of Troika, I brush my teeth and hurry through a shower.

“To save you the trouble of second-guessing yourself about what to wear, I placed an outfit on your bed,” Meredith calls. “And a little manna.”

When I emerge, I see a black catsuit, like Clay’s. While living in Prynne, I only ever wore a pee-in-the-snow yellow jumpsuit, so this is a major improvement.

I eat the wafer of manna, delighted by the sweetness and accompanying jolt of energy, and don the skintight ensemble. Then I join my guests.

“Hot,” Clay says with a thumbs-up.

“Meow.” Meredith pretends to rake claws through the air.

My cheeks heat as they lead me out of the building. Along the way, every kid I pass glares at me. No more smiles or waves. I’m not gonna lie; it stings.

My companions fail to notice my subpar welcome, and I remain mute on the subject. I don’t want the offenders in trouble, especially for anger they’re entitled to feel. Besides, nothing Meredith or Clay says will change the minds of my haters.

But come on! I can’t be the sole offender. Has no one else ever dated a Myriadian? What about spending time with family? A parent whose child signed with the other side? A husband and wife split by the war?

“In Troika,” Meredith says, “there are seven major cities. The Garden of Exchange, the Baths of Restoration, the Temple of Temples, the Capital of New, where your apartment is based, the Museum of Wisdom, the House of Secrets and the Tower of Might.”

We enter a tube—or Gate—and after traveling at the speed of Light, emerge in...

“The House of Secrets,” she says with a proud grin.

We’re standing on a teeming sidewalk. A circular sidewalk about the size of a football field. Along the outer edge stands one skyscraper after another. In the center, almost like an island, is a massive oval of glistening mist...or maybe melted glass? Surrounding the mist-glass is a jagged, unpolished frame made of diamonds; the upper and lower points extend outward, creating an eyelash effect.

I grew up with wealthy parents, but nothing they owned compares to this. Nothing found in the Land of the Harvest compares.

Among the masses, no one is wearing a catsuit. Everyone is draped in a plain white robe. My memory...or maybe the Grid...supplies the reason. This is a business district, and different-colored robes are reserved for different tasks and ceremonies.

Tension is tangible, hustle and bustle obviously mandatory. Both men and women rush in and out of different buildings, though only a handful approach the center island. No one is smiling or laughing. Only a rare few appear at ease, as if they know something the others do not.

“The Eye,” Clay says, pointing to the mist-glass.

Meredith nods. “The Eye sees into the Land of the Harvest. Through it, Headhunters are able to monitor humans and compile dossiers for Leaders. Leaders then draft a recruitment game plan and figure out the best Laborer for every individual.”

I’m torn between three emotions. Awe—knowledge is power, and these people wield theirs like a sword. A resurgence of anger. How many times was I spied on? And envy. Does the Eye peer into Myriad? The Rest? What about Many Ends? If I could catch a glimpse of Killian and Archer and study a future battleground...

My heart skips a beat. I’m a hypocrite. As bad as the people who spied on me. “Can the Eye—”

“No,” she interrupts.

“You don’t even know—”

“Don’t I?” She arches a brow. “You aren’t the first newbie I’ve shown around, and you all ask the same things.”

Okay, yeah. She probably knows what I plan to ask. Disappointed, I change the subject. “I haven’t seen any animals. Are pets allowed in the realm?” I’ve always wanted a dog or a cat, but my parents flat-out refused.

“Oh, baby, the animals!” Clay slings an arm around my shoulders. “There’s a sanctuary in the Capital of New. Animals are allowed anywhere, anytime, but they usually prefer to stay in the sanctuary or visit the Sanatorium where Healers work. You’re welcome to visit either place.”

My brow furrows. “Why do animals prefer the sanctuary? Why don’t they live with families?”

Meredith snorts. “Why don’t you ask the animals? They’d love a chance to fill you in.”

Is she implying the animals...talk? No, surely not. But...maybe? How cool would a talking dog or cat be?

I see you has manna, hooman. I has no manna. Give me your manna.

We stroll down the sidewalk and enter another Gate, this one posed between two buildings. I hardly notice a change in my surroundings before we exit. Or rather, try to exit. A mammoth crowd blocks our path.

“This,” Meredith says, ramping up the volume in order to be heard over the crest of murmurs, “is the Temple of Temples, where the Secondking lives. There are three separate parts. The courtyard is located on the east side and opens to the Waft of Incense. The Waft of Incense—or WoI—leads to the Great Throne, where Eron presides.”

“And when the Firstking visits Troika, he stays here,” Clay adds, his tone wishful.

He wants to meet the Firstking, doesn’t he?

I’ve seen both kings only once before, when Archer allowed me to view Troika through his eyes.

A twinge of grief causes me to hiss. “How often does the Firstking visit?”

“Once a month.” Light flashes on the brands in the center of her palms. Frowning, she taps one, and a text message appears, hovering just over her hand. She sighs.

When she cants her head toward the Gate, I understand it’s time to go. We enter, returning to the House of Secrets. Next stop—my apartment. The tour is over.

“Something wrong?” I ask her.

“Nope.” She offers no more, and I decide not to press. I’m a newbie with, like, zero clearance.

However, I decide to ask questions about the realm while I have the chance. “Where does the Secondking’s fiancée live?” I got a glimpse of Princess Mariée, and she is more exquisite than the realm itself, her hair as pale as a lily of the valley, her cheeks as pink as a rose, her eyes as blue as the clearest ocean. “How long have they been engaged? And why is she called princess when she’s not yet married into the royal family? Are there other princesses here?”

Clay becomes waxen, disconcerting me.

Meredith wilts like a flower in summer heat. “Mariée is missing. I mean, we know she’s here—and alive—because she’s the other Conduit and her Light continues to shine through the Grid, but no one has seen or heard from her since your Firstdeath. Otherwise she would be overseeing your tour and training herself.”

I rub the galloping pulse at the base of my neck. If she’s out of commission, I’m needed now, not later.

But no pressure, right?

Am I wheezing? I think I’m wheezing.

“And no, there are no other princesses,” my grandmother adds, probably to distract me from a possible panic attack. “The title denotes her engagement. After marriage, she’ll become known as Secondqueen. Oh! They’ve been engaged for almost two thousand years.”

I nearly choke on my tongue. “Um, that doesn’t seem like an excessive wait time to you?” Like, put a ring on it already and lock that baby down.

“When you live forever, two thousand years is nothing. They say they’ll seal the deal after we’ve won the war.” A lock of my hair twirls in a sudden burst of wind, and she reaches out to shift the strands between her fingers. “What about you and your...boyfriend?”

“We are a classic example of it’s complicated.”

And yet, if he appeared in Troika right now, I’d pull him into a hidden corner and kiss the air from his lungs. I miss him as I’d miss a limb. He’s one of my favorite things.

Two people rush past us, their conversation snagging my attention. I cling to the distraction with all my might. They are speaking... Russian, I’m pretty sure, reminding me of the special Troikan language. “Where can I go to learn Troikan?”

“Nowhere,” Meredith says. “You’ll learn it when you use your Key and not a second sooner.”

Another light flashes on her brands. She checks the new message and stiffens. “Apparently I’m taking too long. We need to go.” Steps quick, she ushers us to the first Gate we exited.

As soon as we reach the Capital of New, she kisses my cheek and says, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven. I’m your date to the welcome party.” She rushes off, disappearing inside another Gate.

“You ready to go home, Number Girl? No? Good, didn’t think so. We’re going to have some fun.” Clay returns me to the woodland wonderland.

Reed and Kayla are seated at a table in back, looking at ease and without a care. The other tables are occupied by people I’ve never met...people who notice me and terminate their conversations. Silence descends.

I shift from one booted foot to the other. War is daunting, but this is worse.

Reed frowns. I gulp. Will he pretend not to know me?

“I should go,” I whisper.

A second later, Reed waves us over.

In a show of solidarity, Clay takes my hand and leads me to our friends.

“—Archer,” I hear someone say.

“I know. She’s the reason he’s dead,” another replies.

The heat drains from my face.

My choice, my consequences.

Before my stay at Prynne, my parents decided everything for me. At Prynne, Dr. Vans did all the deciding. What I ate, what I wore, who I spoke with. When I finally claimed the reins of control, I crashed and burned. Archer paid the price.

He had a life here. A family. People who counted on him. Because of me, they lost him.

I want to shout, “We can bring him back in the Resurrection! Spread the word. Vote for Archer.” But I don’t know anything about the others in the running. Maybe these people hope to bring back a beloved family member.

“I should go,” I repeat. I’m linked to these people through the Grid, so, I don’t just feel the white-hot ping of their stares; I feel the sickening burn of their dislike.

How can I end the war between realms when I can’t convince people predisposed to like me to actually like me?

Buck up. Find a way. The end result matters. Failure isn’t an option. My mom lives in Myriad, along with family I never had the chance to meet. And then there’s Killian, of course.

“We stay.” Clay squeezes my hand. “What has six wheels and flies?”

I’m in no mood for a joke—so what better time to make one? “What else? A garbage truck.”

He shakes a fist at the ceiling. “One day I’m going to stump her.”

As we take our places at the table, Reed offers us a piece of manna from his plate. Clay accepts, but I shake my head. If I swallow a single bite, it will come right back up, guaranteed.

“So what is today’s special?” Clay asks.

“Strawberry and honey,” Kayla replies. “The best yet.”

Okay. We’re clearly in a manna restaurant. Curiosity gets the better of me. “Who farms the manna? And how, exactly, do we pay for it?”

“There’s an agricultural section here in the Capital of New.” Reed taps his palm, types into the Light glowing over his hand, and a map appears in the center of the table. He points to a long sweep of pastureland. “Agronomists, a subdivision of Laborer, plant and harvest the crops.”

His ease with Troikan technology gives me hope. He hasn’t been here long, but look at everything he’s mastered.

“As for money,” Kayla says, “trainees are given a weekly allowance for necessities.”

Reed snorts. “An allowance you hoard, afraid the money will stop coming. When are you gonna realize this place isn’t like the Land of the Harvest.”

Kayla hmphs and flattens her hand on the side of the table. A Light flashes through her brand, and three beeps ring out. “There. I just paid for a fresh round of manna. You’re welcome.”

Sure enough, a waitress—another subdivision of Laborer—soon arrives with a smile and a plate of strawberry and honey manna.

“May you be ever enlightened,” she says before moving off.

Kayla offers me a bite before polishing off two pieces. “If you’d arrived five minutes earlier, you could have met Victor Prince. He’s—”

“Archer’s brother. Yeah.” I shift, uncomfortable again. “I met him when I first arrived.”

“Oh.” She traces a fingertip along the rim of her plate. “He’s tutoring me. He—”

The restaurant is silent, her voice booming. Her cheeks darken. I glance to the entrance and do a double take. My stomach sinks.

Elizabeth is here, and there’s a tall dark-haired guy at her side.

She glares at me, and I lift my chin. If she wants to use me as a punching bag, fine. Go for it. Pain for pain. I’m willing, and I won’t fight back. I deserve it. But I also won’t be cowed.

Kayla trembles, as if she’s the one on the receiving end of Elizabeth’s vitriol. Confrontation of any kind is difficult for her. In Many Ends, she had recoiled from almost every fight.

“Either the Myriad supporter goes,” Elizabeth announces, “or I go. Take your pick. But I suggest you choose wisely. One of us will help you. The other will stab you in the back.”

Murmurs erupt. All eyes focus on me and narrow. Heat sears my cheeks, and I’m sure my color matches Kayla’s. Lobster red.

“I choose you,” Reed tells me. “I’ll always choose you. You saved my life.”

I’m overcome with gratitude. Problem is, I know Elizabeth will make life miserable for him. “No,” I say. “Choose her.” Nausea churns in my gut as I stand. “She’s—”

“No way.” Clay stands beside me, and Reed quickly follows suit. Kayla, too.

My sense of gratitude grows. “Sit down, you guys,” I mutter, but they remain in place.

Killian would have laughed in Elizabeth’s face, maybe flipped over a table after flipping her off and then he would have told her to go, because he would be staying.

Archer would have apologized with heartfelt regret and left without inciting an incident.

I miss my boys.

“I’ll go. This time,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster. “My actions led to Archer’s death, and I take full responsibility. I accept punishment.”

“Liar.” Elizabeth hisses, “You expect forgiveness.”

Her companion watches us with enigmatic eyes. I can’t read his thoughts.

“One day, yes. I hope for forgiveness.” Can I ever forgive myself? “Archer taught me the value Troika places on the act...and it is an act, a decision rather than a feeling.” I hold up my hand and shout, “A round of second chances, everyone. On me.”

Elizabeth glowers at me.

Having made my point, I stride past her. She balls her fists, clearly debating the merits of hitting me. In the end, she opts to stand down. Smart.

I don’t start my fights, but I always finish them.

I make it out of the building without incident, my friends on my heels.

“I wish you’d stayed,” I tell them.

“All for one, and one for all,” Clay replies.

Kayla snorts. “So we’re the Four Musketeers now?”

“Nah. I vote we call ourselves the Reed Raiders.” Reed wiggles his brows.

“No way.” Clay flexes his biceps. “We’re the Clayminators.”

“I’m on board for the Kayniacs,” Kayla says.

“If we’re called anything but a nerd herd, I’ll be surprised,” I say with a laugh. “Besides, when someone threatens us, we just have to say, Do not make us count to Ten. Bad guys will run away, crying for their mommies.”

Chuckles abound.

My amusement doesn’t last long, however. As we head to my apartment, I throw a furtive glance over my shoulder. Nothing and no one is there, but I feel as if my troubles are following me.

And why wouldn’t they? They’re chained to my ankles, bricks I’ve been dragging behind me for years.

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