Lifeblood

  "Aye and aye." The husky Irish lilt I recognize, and relief is a cool cascade. Killian never left my side!

  I want to see him so badly, I shake.

  "Sucks to be you," Unfamiliar continues. In the distance, I hear the clink-clank of dueling swords. "Now that Madame Bennett is dead, you fall under Zhi's command. When he learns you failed to recruit the Lockwood girl, he'll mount your head at the end of a pike."

  Relief gives way to distress. Killian is in danger. Because of me. I need to help him, have to help him, but though I try to stand, I'm stuck, walled in. Useless!

  What's the problem? My outer casing is dead, any ties to my spirit now broken. I should be able to ghost out, yes?

  "Leave." Menace drips from Killian's command. "Protect our kinsmen from the Troikans."

  "So you can kill Lockwood before her spirit escapes her body and collect the bounty on your own? No."

  Bounty?

  Buzzing noises erupt. Flames crackle. Smoke fills the air, sharp and pungent.

  There's a pained gasp. A hard thump.

  "Stay down," Killian spits.

  He just attacked Unfamiliar?

  Why would he harm his brother-by-realm to save an enemy? Why would he risk punishment?

  The answer is simple: he wouldn't, except for me, only ever for me.

  I vacillate between melting and rallying. Get free, protect Killian.

  When he had the chance to seal the deal and convince me to make covenant with Myriad, he urged me to follow my heart instead. We'd both known I belonged in Troika. To him, my needs had been more important than his wants, a reward or a penalty.

  He sacrificed his happiness for mine, but I failed to do the same for him. What kind of maybe, maybe not, girlfriend am I?

  My final moments replay inside my head. Sloan Aubuchon, once my enemy, then my friend, then my bitter enemy, nailed me with a poisoned spear.

  I hate him more than I love you, she told me.

  Him. Dr. Vans, the monster who oversaw every facet of our torture at Prynne Asylum, a "home" for wayward teens.

  Myriad vowed to help Sloan punish Vans. If she made covenant with them and murdered me. She agreed to both.

  Her treachery cuts as deeply as the spear. Granted, Vans did terrible things to her. Things no one should ever have to endure. But his behavior does not excuse hers. In her quest for vengeance, she became his mirror image, betraying my trust the way he betrayed hers.

  Consequences were immediate. Killian yanked the spear out of me and, to protect me from further harm, impaled her.

  Another reason he will be punished. I've got to help him.

  I punch and kick, but even still, I make no progress.

  "Where is she, Killian?" A new voice registers. This one is easy to recognize, too. "Where are you hiding her?"

  Deacon, a TL. My friend. He's always reminded me of a die-hard warrior of old, his sense of honor as much a part of him as muscle and brawn.

  If anyone can free me, it's Deacon.

  "Over here," Killian croaks. "She's already...it's too late to save..."

  Something hard and warm shackles my wrist. Suddenly I'm steady on my feet, and I can see!

  I gasp, glimpsing the spirit world in operation around me for the first time. Dappled golden sunlight spills from a sky of sapphire silk. Fat clouds sprinkle the land below with a breathtaking rain of diamond dust.

  Realization. They aren't just clouds, but an array of oddly shaped buildings with armed soldiers marching along the parapets.

  A floodgate opens in my mind, releasing a wave of information. They are guard towers, from which humans can be watched and spiritual battles fought. They move between the realms and the Land of the Harvest, and ownership is ever-changing. Winner of every battle determines rights.

  I shake my head, my brow furrowed. I've never been taught about guard towers, and yet I now know all about them? I shouldn't--

  I have been taught. Years ago. At the age of five, I attended a mandatory realm-history class. I had...had... Oh, wow, I'm being bathed by drugging warmth, my senses fogging with the most delectable scents: wildflowers, fruit trees and newly ripened berries. How am I supposed to concentrate? I inhale deeply, savoring.

  "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."