She--he--is a TL. He came to Prynne to recruit me. He befriended me, spied on me and tried to manipulate me.
I was just too dumb to see it.
And then there was James, whose body was as cool as Bow's and Killian's. Was he--is he--an ML? Did he purposely mislead me?
The long con...
An arrow of uncertainty leaves me bleeding. I genuinely loved him, but that doesn't mean he genuinely loved me.
The uncertainty expands, creating a fresh wound in my heart. He told me stories about his childhood, how he played hide-and-seek with his teddy bears, pretending they were brothers and sisters, and I'd related. I petted his chest while he admitted being a guard at Prynne was merely a stepping-stone to becoming a detective.
I sobbed for him after he was shot. I lay awake night after night, tossing and turning, blaming myself for what happened to him. I'd wanted so badly to escape, to start a life with him. A real life.
I still mourn him.
Killian cups my cheeks and forces me to face him. He's frowning. "What's caused this upset?"
I tell him the truth. Why not? "James."
A muscle ticks under his eye, as if he's angry. "The boyfriend."
"Yes." And oh, zero. My eyes are burning, my chest constricting and my temples throbbing. My entire world has been turned upside down and inside out, and my mind is about to break. I hurry to change the subject before I break down. "Were there any other kids out there?"
"A handful." He offers no more as he lifts the tools he needs from the cloth.
"How many were alive?"
"Less than a handful. Others were captured by mountaineers." He smooths a clear gel over my wound.
A sudden tide of nausea nearly doubles me over. I breathe past the pain, saying, "What will happen to them?"
"I don't know. They aren't my problem."
"Well, I'm not your problem, either." A plan takes shape. Save the inmates captured by the mountaineers, deal with my injuries later. Time is of the essence.
But isn't it always?
When I try to stand, Killian holds me down.
"You're not going anywhere. You are my problem." His gaze meets mine and stays locked, the air between us thickening. "You know why. Say it."
"I...do know why." Finally I vocalize the admission. "You... You're my ML."
A cascade of relief accompanies the words. And the truth shall set you free.
"I am." He reflects the relief back at me. "There are many different kinds of Laborers. My subdivision isn't to confess our origins unless and until the human figures it out, enabling us to move in and out of lives at will, making our mission less complicated."
My cheeks heat as I ask, "Do you really have sex with your humans?"
He gives me a half smile. "Shells feel. I've experienced every human sensation but bleeding. I've only ever hemorrhaged."
"Hemorrhaging isn't bleeding?"
"Not for spirits." He brushes his thumb over the pulse in my wrist. A pulse that only beats faster. "Let me show you more of my realm. I'll answer any other questions you have, and you'll see how perfectly you fit. You'll understand how important you are to our cause."
"I can guess how important you think I am." Do I sound as bitter to him as I sound to myself? "Troika considers me a Conduit, which means Myriad considers me an Abrogate."
"I didn't see it at first. Thought you were just another army drone. But you're so much more, lass, and we need you. You'll command a legion of Leaders and Laborers, plan strategic attacks and lead your personal army into battle."
"So, an easy job."
His next smile is megawatt.
"Maybe my first act as Abrogate will be ensuring you're publicly flogged."
He shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time."
The throwaway admission actually...saddens me.
"If Troika wins you, their light will intensify and encroach into our realm. It's happened before. Only once, but we lost millions. Our spirits cannot survive in light, just as theirs cannot survive in darkness."
The fate of the war depends on my decision? No, absolutely not. The pressure...it's too much. "I've seen you in the light, and Archer in the darkness."
"No. You've seen my Shell in the light and his Shell in the darkness."
Pressure...growing... "I'm not interested in another tour or answers." Not right now. I'm in the middle of a tug-of-war, the rope wrapped around my neck, and every answer he gives me removes a little more slack. "There's too much to do. As soon as you've patched me, I'm going after the other inmates."
"We'll see about that." Killian cleans the gel he'd applied with a moist towelette, and it stings, but only at first. There must be some type of numbing agent soaked into the cloth.
He selects a syringe, and when his finger makes contact with the belly, the liquid inside begins to bubble. Bubbling liquid he injects deep into the wound. All hint of numbness wears off, foam rising from the center and spilling over the sides. I hiss.
"Would it break your heart to discover Saint James is a Laborer?" he asks as he works. "That he was sent to convince you to sign with Myriad?"
Mind...threatening to break down again... "He loved--loves--me."
"Are you sure? You would stake your life on that fact?"
"Yes," I start to say, only to hesitate. Zero! I can't overlook evidence just because I don't like it.
"Did he?" I ask softly. "Does he?"
"You tell me."
Not this crap again. I need the truth, even if it does shatter me. At least I'll be able to put myself back together. "I admit he's a Laborer, okay. Now you tell me. Was I simply a mission to him?"
He gazes at me with heat growing in his eyes, and it's like a fever suddenly overtakes me. "Remember, the truth hurts for a little while. Lies hurt forever." His voice is as soft as mine. "Yes, you were merely a mission to him. I'm sorry."
I...believe him. I believe him because he has no reason to lie and every reason to hide such a damaging truth.
James used me. Tricked me. Those stolen moments of comfort, so precious to me, were as much a tool of manipulation as Vans's torture. But the worst part? Vans, a vile mercenary, was honest about his intentions, while James, who professed to love me, only ever deceived me.
How he must have laughed at me, the blind, desperate fool.
"I'm sorry," Killian repeats. "James uses a script. A method of deception for getting what he wants."
A long con.
My dream of happily-ever-after with him, one I hadn't known lingered in my heart despite his supposed demise, dies a thousand violent deaths.
For once, a death really is the end.
Keep it together. "You also have a script," I say without any inflection of emotion.
"I never lied to my assignments. And I had a script. Show you a part of Myriad I knew you'd love, impress you with stories of my strength. My script worked as well as his." Killian weaves the spool of glowing thread through my skin--threads that are as hot as fetters, cauterizing the wound after drawing my flesh together. "Now I'm doing something new. I'm winging it."
Sweat beads over my brow, and another hiss escapes me. "That's not going to work for you, either."
"We'll see about that, as well." He flicks me a small smile that hints at a wealth of secrets. The past he'd only begun to share. "Your threshold for pain surprises me. I thought you'd scream."
"Why would I scream? Physical pain will never compare to mental anguish."
The amusement drains. "I'm sorry," he says again. "You should only ever be pampered."
Is he flirting with me? Here, now? Or is he simply winging it?
"Just stop, okay? Unlike your other targets, I realize the fickleness of human attraction." I may be led by many of my emotions, but not lust. Never lust. "The body doesn't always crave what's good for it. That's why attraction will never be enough for me. That's why there has to be more. Love. Devotion. Determination. Things you can't offer me."
"How do you know what I can offer? And yo
u only think you can overcome lust. If you'd ever experienced true physical pleasure, you'd realize how ridiculous you sound."
My temper--a wild thing--blasts free of its cage. "Dreg! You have no idea what I've experienced. You'll never know." I huff and puff in an effort to calm. "Lust will never be more important than commitment. Commitment stacks the odds of a successful relationship in my favor."
Still he scoffs. "You think relationships can survive centuries? There are many tasty treats out there...many beauties to be sampled."
"Beauty fades." Beauty, Bow once said, was simply an outer shell. Heart and respect--those last forever. "Character lasts forever."
One of his brows wings up. "Are you politely telling me you like my outside but not my inside?"
"I was polite? Well, score one for me. Unintentional counts for something, right?"
He chuckles softly as he finishes the stitches. Gently he wraps my wrist in a bandage. "There. All done."
I hate to say it, but gratitude is owed. "Thank you."
"Oh, lass. Don't thank me yet." He smiles again, this one all about seduction. "Once you're healed, I'm coming after you with everything I've got."
A warning. A challenge. My heart performs a series of flips inside my chest. "You forget," I say. "I've seen you in action. You're no match for me."
His smile only widens. "Is that so?"
"That's so. Prepare to experience your first defeat, Killian."
chapter nine
"The end will always justify the means."
--Myriad
I pull my injured wrist to my chest, ending all contact with the guy who's proved to be a cornucopia of contradictions. Kind yet cruel. Amiable yet acerbic. Concerned yet uncaring. For someone living in a realm where emotions are practically gold, he doesn't seem to know how to manage his. And maybe that's the point: releasing his emotions purges them.
But purging always leaves you empty.
Empty, you can be filled.
I expel a breath. Will I ever stop this tug of war?
Killian studies me, his expression unreadable as he says, "What makes you think losing you would be my first defeat?"
He might have been able to mask his expression, but he can't disguise the threads of bitterness in his voice, and I'm intrigued. "What--or who--did you lose before me?"
One second slips into another, tension sparking between us. Tension...and an undeniable awareness. It's as if I'm seeing into his soul and, despite what I said earlier, there's beauty inside him. He's a boy with hurts as strong as my own and dreams just as vivid.
"Right now," he finally says, "I'm beginning to lose my patience. You know Myriad is perfect for you, and yet you resist making covenant. You know you fit with us. Know you'll be happiest with us."
Moonlight...sunlight.
Vengeance...forgiveness.
Fused...solo.
He's wrong. How can I ever know?
I stand, swaying when my knees shake. "I'm finding the other inmates and--"
"No, lass, you're going to sleep." A certain command. "The medicine will--"
"Do me a favor and don't be here when I return," I interject. As I step forward, a wave of black sweeps over me. I fall. What the--
"--activate any second," he finishes as his strong arms catch me. He eases me to the ground, and I know nothing more.
*
Gasping, I open my eyes and jerk upright. A collage of memories rush in at once. My escape. The fight with the giants. My rescuer, who is seated across from me, the fire crackling between us, tendrils of smoke curling to the roof of the cave. The walls are shaking, but soon stop. Another realm battle?
Killian doesn't seem to notice. He's comfortable in the darkness, a phantom within familiar depths.
A blue light emanates from his wrist, but with a single tap of his fingers, the light dies.
"You...that..." I stammer.
He dismisses my bafflement with a wave of his hand. "Sleeping beauty awakes at last."
Irritation blooms. "Earlier you called me hideous. Basically a she-beast."
"Earlier you were hideous. An absolute she-beast. Now the medicine has kicked in."
The medicine... "How long was I out?" I ask with bite.
"Roughly six hours."
There are six points on the Star of David. Six, the atomic number for carbon. A six-pack of beer--what I could use right now.
"Here's a better question," he says. "Do you feel as good as you look?"
I...do feel good, I realize. The wound on my wrist is nothing more than a long, thin scab, the stitches absent. Dissolved? The knots in my muscles have loosened, and when I gingerly pat my jaw, I note the swelling is down.
"I'm not going to say thank-you," I mutter. He helped me for his gain, not mine. "Not again."
"You prefer to thank me with action instead? Well, I accept."
I give him a double-birded salute. How's that for action?
He laughs outright, the sound of it rusty. "I've never understood the insult of showing off your middle finger. I'm number one in your book--what's to hate about that?" As he speaks, he reaches over, slides the scalpel from my pocket and turns, flinging the metal across the cave.
I gasp with surprise and confusion. Then I see the scalpel embedded in the throat of an intruder. A pained grunt echoes as the masked man falls to his face.
Killian jumps to his feet. "Stay here, lass. I want you protected at all times. Knowing you, however, you'll decide to run. If so, all you have to do is stay alive. I'll find you."
My heart knocks against my ribs as he flies through the exit.
I rush to the injured man's side to rip off his mask, and a chill skims over me. He's a guard from Prynne. He worked there four months, six days and eight hours, during which I endured sixteen eyebrow wiggles, twenty-seven lewd grins and three invitations to the party in his pants. If I "sucked him off," he said, he'd give me a candy bar.
A candy bar. As if that's all I'm worth.
The memory still boils my blood.
He peers at me, frantic, a rush of crimson gurgling from the corners of his mouth.
You don't know his heart. He's capable of change--we all are. Give him a second chance, Archer would probably say.
Remove his junk and stuff it in his mouth, Killian would definitely say. He can eat his own candy bar.
"I'll help you. For chocolate." My anger is speaking for me, more powerful than my capacity to forgive. "Don't have any on you? Aw, too bad." By the time I've relieved him of his winter gear--mask, goggles, insulated coat, heated gloves and socks...everything but the blood-soaked scarf--he's dead.
I don't feel guilty. I don't!
Except dang it, I do. He never showed me a bit of compassion...and I acted just like him.
I dress as quickly as possible before stuffing the giant's coat in the backpack, hoping to share my bounty with other inmates. Screw Killian's order to stay here. Kids just like me are being hunted. I'm doing what I originally planned and finding as many inmates as I can. We'll make our way...somewhere else. Somewhere far away from the asylum. Far away from our parents. Far away from Laborers who use without thought.
I yank the scalpel from the guard's throat and clean the metal with the dry end of his scarf--a scarf I throw into the fire after returning the scalpel to my pocket. A weapon has never been more important.
I anchor the backpack over my shoulders, mentally polish the nuts I'm so infamous for, and step out of the cave. Night has arrived with a vengeance, the moon shielded by the tall canopy of snowcapped trees. My surroundings are nothing but doom and gloom...until the goggles switch on automatically and illuminate the world around me. A computerized scanning system even pinpoints Killian's footprints. Great for me, but bad for the kids the guards are chasing. I head in the opposite direction, and lo and behold, the rest of the gear works wonders, keeping me warm and toasty.
The problem? The farther I get, the more a sea of dark thoughts bombards me, soon so loud I'm surprised I'm not surrou
nded by a crowd of people. Or...maybe I am surrounded. By people I can't see. Messengers. Without Shells, they are spirits and therefore invisible to me.
I've heard Messengers are sometimes posted around homes and buildings to stop members of a rival realm from gaining entry.
Guess they can also be used to keep flight risks inside caves.
Go back, go back, one says. It's not safe out here. You'll die.
You're going to die, die, die. Turn around, before it's too late.
Go back! Your time is running out!
The words elicit fear, and as I'm learning, fear is Myriad's greatest weapon. My heart sprints toward a nonexistent finish line. Fire burns the center of my chest while ice freezes the blood in my veins. I begin to pant, sweat beading on the back of my neck.
Almost too late...go back!
The ground shakes, and the whispers suddenly stop. I breathe a sigh of relief and continue forward. I'm not going to die, and I'm not going to pander to fear, giving it power over me--power to direct my actions.
What I do will be my choice, not the choice of my emotions.
One point in Troika's favor.
And while the odds aren't currently in my favor, I'm not helpless. I have my wits.
Trekking down the mountain, I count my steps. One, five, ten...twenty...fifty...one hundred. One hundred percent, the full amount. One hundred degrees Celsius, the boiling temperature of pure water at sea level. The sum of the first ten odd numbers. (1 + 3 + 5 + 7 + 9 + 11 + 13 + 15 + 17 + 19 = 100)
Any lingering fear finally drains, my physical reactions returning to normal. Good, that's good. I pick up the pace, going another two hundred steps. Two hundred--bicentennial. The Latin word for this number, ducenti, also means "to the leading man." Numerologists claim this particular number signifies insufficiency.
The ground shakes again, harder than before, throwing me off balance. I topple to my butt, pain vibrating through me. Dang it! How many battles are the realms going to fight today?
I shamble to my feet and resume my counting. Two hundred and fifty...two hundred and seventy-five...three hundred--a triangular number and the sum of a pair of twin primes: 149 + 151. A perfect score in bowling. The number of Spartans famous for fighting an army of two hundred thousand Persians.
At step three hundred and eighty-one, I wind through a tangle of trees. The ground is slippery, but my boots have a thick rubber frame with metal studs on the soles, helping me remain steady.