Everlife Trilogy Complete Collection: Firstlife ; Lifeblood ; Everlife

by Gena Showalter

  CHAPTER FOUR

  * * *

  “Pride will carry you when you’re weak.”

  —Myriad

  Clay shows me around my new apartment. He’s beaming, excited to explain the ins and outs, and I try to concentrate on him, I really do, but…

  Elizabeth’s warning echoes inside my head. She called me Numbers. As if she knows me. Until today, we’ve never interacted. Someone who does know me must have told her about my obsession with numbers. Who? And what else was mentioned?

  “Are any of my friends buddies with Elizabeth?” I ask, interrupting whatever tale Clay was spinning about a remote control.

  He sighs and pats the top of my head. “As a suspected Conduit, you’ve been a topic of conversation among the masses for weeks. A lot of people know a lot about you. Messengers and Laborers—other than Archer—used to watch over you, protecting you, and when they returned to the realm, curious people asked questions.”

  My hands fist so tightly, my nails cut into my palm. Those Messengers and Laborers had been in spirit form. They had seen me, but I hadn’t seen them. Now everyone I come across—strangers!—could know intimate details about my life. Embarrassing details.

  Maybe I’ll hole up here and never leave.

  “If you’ll show me the apartment again,” I grate, “I’ll pay attention this time.”

  He laughs. “I knew I’d lost you. All right. Thus begins the tour, take two.”

  He steers me to the front door and spreads his arms to indicate the small hallway leading to the living room. “This is your foyer.”

  I follow him through the rooms, attuned to his every word. What I learn: my new home is a diminutive but extravagant space, fully furnished with many of the creature comforts I was denied while locked in Prynne, and one bedroom. There’s a cool hologram capable of following me anywhere, showcasing footage of newborns and new arrivals, promotional announcements, giveaways hosted by everyday average citizens, and Laborer interviews.

  In those interviews, TLs talk about the humans they’ve most recently signed and any victories achieved in the Land of the Harvest. I wonder how many times I’ve been mentioned. A thought I do not allow myself to explore further. I’ll rage.

  The holograms are incredibility lifelike; the people appear to be inside my apartment.

  Does Killian live like this?

  “Take a seat on the couch,” Clay says, his eyes twinkling.

  Ooo-kay. As soon as I obey, a glowing book pops up in front of me, and I gasp.

  “Go ahead.” Clay does his best impression of an evil queen slash drug dealer and mimes what he wants me to do. “Touch it. You know you want to…”

  I reach up. When my fingertip meets the illumination, the page flips. I huff and jerk back.

  He laughs with delight. “Read.”

  I scan a page, and the numbers on my arm tingle. Actions matter. Always. You are at the helm of your Everlife just as you were for your Firstlife. Take responsibility for your decisions. Be kind. You never know the details of another person’s life. The pain they’ve suffered.

  “Wait! This is the Book of the Law, isn’t it?” A manual about the Troikan way of life.

  “Sure is.”

  Excited, I read on. You are a treasure, a gift. There’s no one like you. There are people in the world only you can help. Don’t feel worthy? Just remember, no matter how far you’ve fallen, you can rise again. You can rise stronger. Your past weak link can be turned into tomorrow’s strength.

  I’m trembling as I flip to the next page. We have an enemy, and only one enemy. The Prince of the Ravens. Fight him, for he seeks your destruction. Never surrender. You—we—are the Light of the world.

  “All right, all right. That’s enough for now.” Clay helps me stand, and the book vanishes. “Your tour isn’t over.” But even as he speaks, he gives me a little push.

  “Hey.” I fall back onto the couch, the book reappearing.

  Laughing, he helps me stand a second time, and the book vanishes. Well, okay then. There’s an easy on-off switch.

  “This,” he says, holding up the fancy remote before passing it to me, “is your new favorite thing. It controls the holograms.” This is made of metal and shaped in the Troikan symbol. The buttons are dispersed over the three outer leaves, while the center cutout allows a comfortable grip. “You can turn it on and off at will or watch a different hologram on every screen. You’ll probably want to leave it running day and night. Levi told me you have a special link to Jeremy’s nursery.”

  “What?” I thrust the remote back into his hands. “Show me.”

  With the press of a few buttons, the image on the nearest wall changes to reveal an empty room with a crib, rocking chair and a basket filled with toys.

  “Dang, I’m good.” Clay grins. “You should probably leave another screen on, as well. You don’t want to miss the giveaways.”

  The giveaways. Need a brand-new hand-carved table? So-and-so just finished one, and he can’t wait to gift it to you. Want a brand-new ceremonial robe sewed from authentic Victorian muslin? So-and-so just completed one, and she would love to gift it to you.

  There has to be a catch, right? Or is this true kindness in action? Giving without expecting anything in return. The way Killian endangered his future to secure mine. The way Archer gave his life to save mine.

  I rub my aching chest and say, “I don’t need anything.” Nothing materialistic, anyway.

  As a distraction, I fiddle with the remote control and soon discover I can change the color of any wall or program an automatic change of sheets on the bed. Neat.

  “You even have a treadmill.” Clay motions to a portion of wall with strategically placed silver bulbs to fit my exact height and weight. Those bulbs rotate and vibrate every time I come near. “After you’ve run or walked at least five miles, the machine becomes a massager.” He messes with the metal joints.

  A small portion of the wall detaches from both the ceiling and floor, remaining hinged at the center while tilting to a steep incline. The rollers spin, creating the aforementioned treadmill. Up top are two handholds.

  “Exercise is your friend,” he states.

  “If you said extra fries, you’re right.”

  He snorts and drags me into the bedroom. The bed is small, a twin, but the mattress is as soft as clouds and cools or heats automatically, according to my body temperature. A door in back leads to a private bathroom. Inside is a sink, toilet and shower with settings to program a “gentle summer rain” or a “torrential downpour.”

  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 fizz
es 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 o
f 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…