Kill. End your enemies, end your problems... A true temptation.
With a grunt, I fling myself at my opponent. He reels backward, and we fall into a spacious and well-lit room. No time to appreciate the finer aspects of the decor. Or the fact that Biscuit can't pass the lasers on the door. In the Light, my attacker's identity registers. General Shamus. I'm not surprised, only disappointed he's willing to harm me in order to keep Killian behind bars.
We spring apart and face off.
Though Shamus is taller and stronger than me, and far more experienced, I refuse to back down. I've taken down bigger and stronger.
"You shouldna have come here. You'll never convince me to leave with you, and I'll never decide it's a good idea to free the Butcher." He pops the bones in his neck. "You're part Myriadian now, and it's clear Troika isn't, and will never be, your top priority."
"And you, the guy who broke Troika's law to love his fellow citizens--to do no harm to one another--are a shining example of putting Troika first?"
He flinches.
Unfortunately for him, I'm not done. "If you only love the lovable, you're no better than the Myriadians you hate. You know that, don't you?"
"They killed my wife. I have good reason to hate them." His dark eyes are wild, his body vibrating with rage of his own. Or is his darkness fueled by mine? "She was a Messenger, had no battle experience, and wanted none. Like you, she craved peace. One day, she was in the Land of the Harvest, helping a human, when an ML spotted her and..." His hands fist. "He beheaded her. She'd done nothing wrong. Nothing! And he killed her."
--Enough conversation. Take him out.--
--You mean do your dirty work for you?--
Argh! Push, pull. Why am I doing this? Why am I fighting so hard to free a boy who plans to betray me? And he does plan to betray me, doesn't he?
The answer fills my head, and it is as simple as it is complicated. Plans can be changed. I have hope. Hope that Killian will remember our past. Hope that I will reach him. Hope that we didn't destroy our futures but can strive for better.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Shamus." I hurt for him. I really do. "Tell me true. Is Killian her murderer?"
He blusters for a moment. "What does that matter? A Myriadian is a Myriadian."
"Do you really believe that? Is one Troikan the same as any other Troikan?" As his cheeks darken, I demand, "Is. Killian. Her. Murderer?"
"No," he finally snarls.
"Then your vendetta isn't against Killian. Stop this. You are a General. The best of us. So be the best! Set an example of love and forgiveness." I give my words a second to sink in, pray they do. "Enough people have died. It's time for peace."
"As if we could ever trust Myriadians to keep a peace treaty. We would merely set ourselves up for slaughter. Again! Do you think we never tried your route in all these millennia? We did, and we suffered for it."
Why are we not taught about the attempt(s)? Let me guess. For the same reason we're not told about inter-realm bonding. To weed out the fools. "The Prince of Ravens is to blame." Everything I've learned about him tells me this. If he were a tree, his people would be his branches, feeding off him. He lies and cheats. Envies and steals. "When he's gone, the shadows will die." They must. You can prune the branches, but to kill the tree, you must uproot it. "Myriadians will be free of their influence." Killian will be free.
I will be free.
"You are supposed to be the best of us, Conduit, and yet you gave a key to our Grid to the Butcher!"
Zero! It's like I'm punching at the wind, getting nowhere. "He's lost people, too." His mother. Archer. And at one point, even me. Having seen into Killian's past, the constant rejections from potential families, the General who beat him and made him beg, I may never get over my guilt and remorse, or my desire to hurt those who hurt Killian.
I know nine Myriadian Generals died the day of my birth, his greatest tormentor among them. Deep down, I'm kind of...glad.
"Your compassion has ruined us," Shamus informs me.
Where is that compassion now? "No." I shake my head. "Your lack of compassion ruined you a long time ago."
My words push him over the edge. With a war cry, he hurls his big body at me. We bang together and fall. I take the brunt of impact as we slam against a table, shattering its legs. Pain sears me. As I sprawl over the remains, Shamus's heavy weight shoves the air from my lungs. Empty.
Stars wink before my eyes. Fear mixes with anger and congeals, becoming a hard lump I can't swallow. I've lost the fight before it ever really began? Unacceptable!
In one seemingly fluid movement, he maneuvers to his knees, straddling me and cocking his fist, ready to whale. I hold up my arms, blocking him. At the same time, I anchor a finger through each of the metal hooks on my wrist cuffs and stretch the two wires across the open space between us. His fist tangles in the wires, momentum shredding skin and muscle. Glittering Lifeblood pours and splatters over my face as Shamus bellows with agony.
Guilt makes a play, trying to overwhelm me, but I resist. How can I hurt a General? Easily.
Before he can try to land another blow, I jerk upright and slam the heel of my palm into his nose. Cartilage snaps, and a new bellow assaults my ears. More Lifeblood pours down his chin.
Determined, knowing I have a very small advantage, I work my legs out from under him, flatten my feet on his chest and push. I expect him to soar backward, but he's too strong and merely tilts.
Frustration mounts. Think, Ten. Think!
No time. He snaps upright and throws a punch. I kick up my leg, his fist meeting my thigh rather than my face. A saving grace. When he draws back his elbow to throw yet another punch, I react on instinct, wrapping both my legs around his neck and squeezing with all my might.
Threat... Must kill...
Guilt and remorse return, redoubled, reminding me of my choices. Find another way or deal with the consequences.
Is there another way?
He strains and pulls at me, but cannot free himself, and I force him to the ground. Momentum lifts my upper body and, with a screech of aggravation, I release him at last, spinning away while on my knees. I kick out my leg, my boot slamming into his jaw.
Killian is silent, providing no distractions for me. Appreciate it.
Fast as lightning, Shamus grabs my ankle and yanks, planting me on my back, the short swords clinking. In seconds, he has my legs tied together. Once again, I jolt upright, but this time he's ready and punches me in the jaw. Pain! The bone snaps out of place, annihilating the joint.
There's a slight ringing in my ears, but I think I hear Killian roar. Again, the desire to kill bombards me.
Must resist!
As panic knocks on the door of my mind, I fall back, punting Shamus in the face with my bound feet. Hissing, bleeding, he reaches for my arms, probably intending to bind my wrists, too. But I kick up my legs again, blocking him, before contorting my body. I swipe the space between my ankles over the tip of a short sword, and the rope is rendered useless.
A cool tide of relief propels me to my feet. Problem: Shamus palms a gun. Not a Dazer, meant to stun me, but a revolver, meant to maim. He aims, fires. The bullet whizzes through my hand, cracking bones and tearing muscles, and a cry leaves me. The newest wound throbs. Other sore spots make themselves known. Warm Lifeblood pours from the wound, weakening me, and I drop the sword.
My relief is gone, wiped away as if extinct. Helplessness hurries to launch a coup.
--Ten!--Killian is a commanding presence in my head, and he refuses to be ignored. --Kill him. Kill him now. Before it's too late.--
I can see Biscuit prowling behind the lasers, as if he's considering risking his life to enter the room.
"No," I shout, my heart galloping at warp speed. "Don't. Please."
Shamus takes aim a second time. Target: right between my eyes. Decided he's better off with me dead?
Cold fingers of dread creep down my spine as shadows flicker inside his eyes. Because of me. Because I w
elcomed the darkness. He was right about that, at least. Or maybe he's always had shadows, like me, and they're just now coming to light.
Maybe we all have shadows.
"You doona yet understand the price of betrayal." He radiates fury. Letting his emotions get the better of him. "But I'm going to teach you. As a General, it's my job to teach you."
An eye for an eye, a hurt for a hurt. This is a recipe for disaster.
But even faced with defeat, I will not buckle. I will fight for what I believe is right.
"How can I learn anything if I'm dead?" Every word is agony, my jaw unhinged. I hold up my hands, palms out. Pretend innocence. "But go ahead. Do what you think you must." Just as I will.
Killian protests, loudly. --What are you doin'? No! Accept nothin' but survival. Fight this. Fight him.--
"Trying to spur me into killing you?" Shamus stalks toward me. "Too bad, little girl. You're going to face a jury of your peers and answer for your crimes."
--If you doona take him down, Tenley Lockwood, I'll find a way tae survive without you and tear this realm apart.--
My eyes narrow, my lids heavy with fury of my own. --Isn't that your plan, anyway?--
A pause. Then, --Tenley. Ten.--
His tone beseeches me. Seduction is his default, after all. I ignore it--ignore him. I must.
The second Shamus is within reach, with every intention of binding me, I swing my arm. I've learned from my mistakes. With Nico, I hesitated and second-guessed myself. Too bad for Shamus I'm all systems go now. Full steam ahead.
He doesn't see the shard hidden between my fingers. Then, he doesn't see anything. The tip jabs into one of his eyes, then the other. With a scream, he drops the gun to reach for his face. Cold as ice, I act swiftly, hooking my leg behind his and sending him to his knees. He hits the ground, and I press my boot into his back, holding him down.
Kill him. My darker side. Again, I ignore it.
What will I do for my realm? For Killian? Anything.
"I meant what I said." Shamus is panting, and there's Lifeblood on his teeth. "I won't leave with you."
"That's okay. You can stay." I clasp the hilt of my other sword and raise my arm. Then, not giving myself time to second-guess my actions, I swing the weapon down, down, and remove one of his hands.
TROIKA
* * *
From: R_A_5/40.5.16
To: T_L_2/23.43.2
Subject: Bad news/worse news Check it. I'm outside the warehouse with Pop Tart, and we're peeking into the windows. We count roughly 100 humans. But there's no telling how many are inside the rooms without windows. Everyone is snoozing, and strapped to gurneys. Here's the thing that's got my Spidey senses tingling. There's no Myriadian Buckler up. Nothing to keep me from storming inside and going crazy on potential Abrogates.
Why aren't they protected to the max? Why aren't MLs here, acting as guards?
The only answer that makes sense: Myriad wants us to break in. This is a trap. I mean, they know we'll be desperate to sneak inside to pull the plugs before any of the humans wake up and spread Penumbra.
Okay, here's the worse news.
I know, I know. You thought you'd already heard it. Nope. Brace yourself.
Sloan Aubuchon is trapped inside. (I've never met her, but the Grid filled me in.) She's nailed to a pole, as if she's a Myriadian scarecrow. She's awake, and when she spotted us through the window, her eyes went wide and she flashed the number 6 (3 fingers from each hand, flashed 3 times, like Morse code or something). There's a gag in her mouth, so she can't call for help--or warn us about a trap.
Tell me what you think is the best plan of action. If I agree, we'll do it.
Light Brings Sight!
Conduit-in-training, Raanan Aarons
TROIKA
* * *
From: T_L_2/23.43.2
To: R_A_5/40.5.16
Subject: 6...6...6
Do not enter the warehouse. I repeat, do not enter the warehouse. At least not until we figure out Sloan's message. As much as I want to help her, I don't want to lose you to an ambush. (And when you do invade, make sure she's protected.) Now. Let's figure this out. Sloan and I go way back, spent more than a year locked in Prynne Asylum together. The number might deal with our confinement. But if that's the case, there are too many possibilities.
The sixth girl to die at Prynne...the sixth guard to die...our sixth class...my sixth roommate...our sixth fight...our six a.m. alarm...our sixth day together...our sixty-sixth day together... None of it means anything to me, though.
666--the universal sign for evil. Betrayal is evil.
6 + 6 + 6 = 18. Eighteen alarms. Eighteen bombs. Only eighteen Abrogates.
Argon has the atomic number 18, and is the third-most abundant gas in the Earth's atmosphere. Louisiana became the 18th state of the United States.
Whatever the answer, I agree with you. Myriad has set some kind of a trap.
Continue to watch the warehouse. Let me know if anything changes or anyone enters, leaves or even approaches. We'll design a game plan when we have more information.
Update: I've got the key to Killian's cage. I'm headed back to the house.
Light Brings Sight!
Conduit and Architect, Ten Lockwood
chapter eleven
* * *
"You have a treasure hidden inside you. If you take it for granted, you will lose it."
--Troika
Killian
My connection with Ten ends abruptly, my mind going blank. I fight to reestablish the link to no avail.
Curses tumble from my lips. She was punched, kicked and shot. She's in pain. I know, because searing pain throbs in my jaw and hand. She's losing Lifeblood fast.
I shouldn't care about her sorry condition. The bond is responsible for my concern, nothing more. Plus, with a little manna she'll be as good as new. But I do care, and it has nothing to do with saving my own hide. The girl genuinely likes me. She might be the only one in the realms who does. I'm not yet ready to lose her.
Going to lose her, anyway. One day. Why not now?
Because...just because!
Be at peace. She is strong. Capable. She will return to you.
My voice, courtesy of my Troikan side. And that's exactly what it is. Troikan Light, a gift from Ten. Strangely enough, I'm beginning to like him. Or rather, me. Like myself. Whatever.
My eyes flutter open. I'm crouched in the corner of my cage, my nose pressed into the wall. Must have given myself a time-out, to better block out the rush of activity that's taking place around me.
What if someone attacks Ten before she finds manna? Biscuit will guard her to the best of his ability, but what if his abilities aren't enough? How are they going to sneak past the armies to reach the house?
Forget peace. I worry.
As I try, again, to reach Ten through the bond, my fingers rub at the numbers tattooed atop the horse brand. 143, 10. Earlier I noticed Ten has 143, 11.9.12.12.9.1.14 tattooed on her wrist, and to my surprise, it doesn't take me long to decipher the meanings.
I love you, Ten
I love you, Killian
The knowledge steals the air from my lungs. I did. I loved her. That is why I bonded with her.
Numbers always tell a story, and they never lie.
Is this how I felt after meeting her for the very first time, all twisted up, like a vine wrapped around barbed wire?
Why remember the tattoo, though? Why now?
She thinks I need to learn to trust her without emotion.
The answer slams into me, stealing the air from my lungs a second time. I do trust her. Just a little, but enough. I trust her not to harm me. A little trust, a little memory.
If I want to remember everything else, I need to trust her fully, with the fate of my realm? No, sorry. Asking too much.
My ears twitch as the sounds of battle register. The growl of the dogs. The roar of the cats. The chorus of sounds from the other animals. Snorts, screeches, caws, bleats and
brays. Marching footsteps--then racing footsteps. Shouts. Not a single gun goes off, however. The TLs must not want to shoot the animals.
"Fall back, fall back!" Deacon's bellow echoes from beyond the house. "They're using some sort of sleeping gas."
I stand, and scan my surroundings. Only a few feet away, a side table is overturned, an unconscious Archer splayed in front of it, his body twitching. Seizing? He must have been standing at the bars of my cage, trying to get my attention, when he passed out.
Bea is licking his face.
Dawn is crouched beside him, pale and trembling, staring at an empty syringe as if it has let her down in the worst possible way. Her deer waits beside her. "Whatever they did to him, he's not responding."
They? Troikan soldiers?
"What happened?" I demand.
"He went outside," she says. "When he came back in, there was a dart in his neck. I pulled it out and he collapsed."
Some type of drug then. "Give him more manna." The more severe the trauma, the more medicine--strength--a spirit needs. Every word agonizes my jaw. "Give me some, too." Maybe I'll heal. Maybe I'll strengthen Ten through the bond.
"I'm out of manna," Dawn says, her gaze tormented. "And I don't know if I'd give him more, anyway. The first dose made him worse, I think."
Some people thrive under pressure, like Ten. Some people fall apart, like Dawn. "The soldiers wouldn't do anything that would lead to the death of one of their own. They had to know we'd give him manna. Maybe they want you to think he's worse after with manna, so you won't give him any more. Do it, and see what happens. This is a soldier's quarters. Soldiers get injured. There's more manna, guaranteed." Ignore the pain. "Check everywhere."
"Everywhere. Right." She climbs to her feet and rushes around the house, her deer following her every move.
I waste no time, sitting and shoving my legs through the bars. With my feet braced on either side of Archer's neck, I pull him toward me. Bea lunges at my ankles, and bites. When I run my hands along every inch of Archer's body, finding only a single dagger--will have to do--she bites my wrists.
Kill him...no better time...
The urge bombards and overwhelms me, rousing the new Mary Sue side of me.
Harm a defenseless man, and you harm your soul.