Firstlife

by Gena Showalter

  A pang of homesickness surprises me. I used to have parents who teased me, and I miss them so badly.

  "We work hard," Killian says. "We play harder. Everyone you see in the tower is off duty. They've either finished a case or they're on vacation." The video pans to the area outside the building, where candlelit lamps illuminate a gorgeous marble sidewalk. The outfits the people wear range from prim-and-proper to mega punk rock. Some of those people are walking while others are...floating?

  No, they aren't floating but riding atop sleek, shiny hovercrafts. Nearby, someone is riding on the back of a lion that's as big as a horse.

  "That's pretty cool," I say.

  "Better than cool, and you know it."

  Inside another building, a party rages. Music blares, and people bump and grind together. A Victorian maiden hangs from a cage. A Goth boy scales the chain dangling from the bottom, picks the lock on the door and slips inside. She rewards him with a kiss, as if he's just won a prize.

  "We could have a lot of fun at a party like this," Killian says softly.

  "We certainly could." The kind of party I dreamed of attending every time my parents demanded I stay home so I wouldn't endanger my life in the big, bad world. "If I'm being honest with you, though, nothing I've seen has changed my mind. I still want time."

  "Don't give up on me. The tour isn't over yet."

  The camera races down, down the street, finally swooping inside another tower. There are multiple columns, each made from a different jewel. Emerald. Ruby. Sapphire. Diamond. The waterfall--an inside waterfall, as if the tower presses up against a mountainside--has an ivory mermaid perched at the top, a shell tipped over and spilling...not water. Liquid gold? The walls are painted with different murals: cherubs on clouds, warriors in battle, a majestic dragon in flight. The couches have floral prints. Every chair frame is carved to resemble a different animal. The floor gleams like a sea of polished pearls.

  The same pearls make up the edges of the hearth, which is the size of my old bedroom. Above it hangs a portrait of the most beautiful male I've ever seen. Golden curls surround flawless features that can't possibly be real. His eyes are vibrant blue and as clear as an ocean in the tropics. A crown rests upon his head.

  There's a smaller portrait to the right of his. One of a woman with hair a darker shade of gold and eyes of burnished copper. She's smiling as if she knows a secret I do not, more mysterious than the one kept by the Mona Lisa.

  On the left of the bigger portrait are one...five...ten...twenty portraits roughly four-by-four in size, so small I can't make out the faces from this distance.

  "Our King and Queen," Killian says with unmistakable awe.

  "The King...he kind of looks like..."

  "Archer. Yes." Bitterness has displaced his awe. "Archer is one of his many sons. One of his biggest disappointments."

  Wait. Stop. Go back. "Archer's dad is the King of Myriad?"

  "A privilege Archer never appreciated."

  Wow! Mind scramble!

  I gasp as a small winged dragon lands on the King's shoulder. "The portrait--"

  "Isn't a portrait but a type of hologram. Like the televisions humans watch."

  Neat! The video zooms into the next room, a dining room as elaborate as the others. The King sits at the head of a long square table, dressed in what looks to be formal military garb. Form-fitting, with medals pinned along the wide expanse of his shoulders. At the sides of the table are nine kids; most look to be under sixteen. Two of the boys--twins--can't be older than thirteen.

  "Meet our Generals. They weren't ready to ascend to their roles, but after their mentors were slaughtered, they had no choice."

  Nine kids...and I'm to be the tenth. The complete cycle. The beginning of the countdown.

  Coincidence? Fate?

  "One day, you'll be seated at this very table."

  I hear awe again... I hear envy. When--if--one day comes, will I hear resentment and bitterness?

  The King stands and walks along the sides of the table, patting each kid on the shoulder. "You do your realm--your King--proud. Together there's nothing we cannot do. No height we cannot reach. No realm we cannot conquer."

  The kids bang their silverware against the table in agreement. Clank, clank.

  "He loves us," Killian says. "Only wants the best for us."

  "And you love him." I'm certain of it.

  He doesn't try to deny it. "Archer befriended me when we were very young, and he invited me to the royal palace on multiple occasions. Despite the King's busy schedule, he always made time for me while I was there."

  A puzzle piece clicks into place. Archer rejected the man Killian clearly wishes was his own father.

  What drove Archer to give up his parents and his realm? And Killian, his friend?

  Just how devastated was Killian when Archer left?

  "I'm surprised he, the son of the King, chose Troika when he reached the Age of Accountability," I say before I start crying.

  "Trust me. We all were."

  The words sound as if they've been pushed through miles and miles of broken glass.

  I take the conversation in a new direction. "Why do you have an accent but the King doesn't?"

  "I spent a lot of time with the director of the Learning Center. What you would call an orphanage." His thumb brushes over my navel, making me shiver. "James grew up in the orphanage, too." His tone is hesitant, and I know he's doing his best to gauge my reaction.

  I'm no longer hurt by memories of James, but... "Show him to me." This is an opportunity I can't pass up. An opportunity for closure.

  "I knew I should have kept my mouth closed," Killian grumbles as the camera pans out. "Curiosity got the better of me."

  We whisk down a darkened street, finally stopping at a pub...going through the door. Dark wood-paneled walls are illuminated by glow rocks that were made to resemble gas lamps. A glass floor offers a view of multiple bedrooms...beds...and the couples writhing on them. I'm about to look away--really--when I spot James. Handsome James, sitting at a table with two other guys. The three are throwing back cold ones and laughing uproariously.

  "Her tits were..." One of the boys kisses pinched fingers, as if he's praising the taste of spaghetti.

  The other two guys--James included--nod in agreement.

  "I know she's signed," my ex-boyfriend says, "but I may arrange a meeting with her, anyway."

  The third guy slaps his arm. "Leave some for the rest of us. I'm still pissed you stole my blonde."

  "What can I say? She likes 'em big."

  Okay. "I'm done," I snap, and the vision fades.

  A thousand different emotions slam through me. The front-runners? Humiliation--such a stupid girl, falling for his act. Incredulity--so desperate for affection I refused to see the truth. Disappointment--people suck. Fury--I let a two-faced lying jerk hold me.

  My taste in boys is seriously screwed up.

  "I'm sorry." Killian's tone is raw with anger and regret. "I'll be killing him shortly."

  "Don't bother. I'd rather James be the author of his own destruction." I roll to my side. "Archer told me about Dior."

  He stiffens as he rolls to his side. Our gazes meet. We're so close. If he were human, I'd feel the warmth of his breath on my skin.

  "Did you steal her to hurt Archer, win her soul, or because you had feelings for her?"

  Resignation darkens his features. "I did it to hurt him and to win her soul. Strike at me, and I strike back twice as hard. But..." He reaches out, smooths a lock of hair from my cheek before lying down again. "I check on her occasionally. She used to laugh. She doesn't anymore."

  Such a tangled web these boys have woven. "There has to be something you can do to help her. Not on Archer's behalf, but hers. She's part of your family."

  He runs his tongue over his teeth. "You could make her freedom a condition of your contract."

  Another manipulation. One so high-handed I'm actually shocked he tried it.

  "All right.
Cuddle time is over. I'm not changing my plan."

  He grabs my wrist to stop me. "Ten--"

  I use one of Archer's moves, swinging my free arm around, slamming my fist into Killian's jaw. When his head turns from the impact, I punch a second time, where the Shell is most vulnerable: the small control panel behind the ear, marked only by the tattoo of a square.

  He goes still, and I know I have one minute, maybe two, before he's able to move again. "Disrupting the connection," Archer called it.

  I stand, and Killian is only able to track me with his gaze. "This really is goodbye," I say, raising my chin.

  "Afraid not, lass." His hand shoots out and latches on to my calf, yanking me off my feet. I tumble backward, landing on a mound of pillows. He's looming over me a second later. "Sign with Myriad."

  "Go to Many Ends. And get off me!"

  "Sign!"

  "Screw you." I push him and climb to my feet under my own steam.

  Before I'm halfway up, he hooks his foot behind my ankles and pushes me back down. "If you're not going to do the smart thing and sign, you need to learn to protect yourself."

  "Archer taught me--"

  "Don't care. He isn't the best. I am." Killian waves a hand over my prone form, all here's your proof. "Lesson one. Always strike your opponent while she--or he--is down."

  I glare at him. "Archer said the exact opposite. I'm supposed to help my enemy up and possibly win a lifelong friend."

  "That's the perfect thing to do. If you want to be stabbed in the back later."

  Maybe. Maybe not. I thought the same thing while living at the asylum. But look at Sloan. At meeting one, we fought. We tried to kill each other. Now we protect each other.

  Killian offers me a hand.

  I hesitate. "I'll let you teach me a few tricks, but that's it. Afterward, I'm gone."

  "Very well. I'll follow."

  Stubborn, frustrating boy! I reach out as if to take the offered hand only to kick out my leg.

  He falls and I somersault on top of him, my knees pinning his shoulders, but he's wily and more agile than I'm expecting. He swings his legs up and under my arms, pushing me to my back. When he crosses his ankles above my head, his calves pressing against my face, I'm effectively caged. He can smother me but opts to bend his knees at my sides and sit up.

  The moment I have the smallest bit of freedom, I sit up, too. He's straddling my waist, which means he keeps the advantage.

  Time to up my game. "Killian." I smile at him, running my hands slowly up his chest.

  He closes his eyes for a moment. "This isn't going to end well for me, is it?" he says, his tone dry.

  "No. It's not." I lock my hands at his nape and use all my weight to fall backward, bringing him with me, bucking my hips midway down to roll him, placing my body on top of his.

  Fingers suddenly fist in my hair and yank me backward. As I fall, I catch a glimpse of black hair and furious features. By the time I land, Elena has a gun aimed at my chest.

  With a roar, Killian launches at her, slamming into her and knocking her to the floor beside me. The gun goes off, but he has a firm hold of her wrist, ensuring the bullet tears through the roof of the tent rather than my flesh.

  He rips the gun from her grip, stands. "You don't touch the girl. Ever."

  "She was attacking you." Elena jumps to her feet. "She could have damaged your Shell."

  "Which sounds like a me problem. She's mine. Mine to deal with. Not yours. Never yours."

  She raises her chin. "She may be yours, but you are mine."

  Killian stares at her for a long while before he laughs. A scary laugh. Then he goes quiet, and that's even scarier. "I'm not. And now I'll prove it."

  He raises the gun and--

  Boom!

  chapter sixteen

  "With us, all things are possible."

  --Troika

  Elena collapses, the bullet striking her between the eyes. No blood spews or leaks from the wound, and by the time she hits the floor, she's self-destructed, nothing but ash floating up, up through the new lunar panel in the tent.

  "How could you..." I begin.

  "She isn't dead. I simply decommissioned the Shell, hit it in a spot that doesn't damage the spirit inside. It's a safety measure for the times a Laborer doesn't have the strength to leave the Shell but must." With barely a pause, he cups my cheeks and adds, "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine." And I am. The cold-blooded murder of a Shell isn't really a big deal in the scheme of things. "I guess she got what she deserved for eating my cake, huh?"

  "The cake. That's your main concern? I don't think I'll ever understand you." He empties the chamber of the gun, tosses the weapon aside and walks a circle around me. A slow prowl. He's a predator who's spotted his next meal. "You could have died tonight. Elena could have pulled the trigger. At this rate, you will die, and soon. Death clearly stalks you. How many signs do you need? Choose Myriad, Ten. Now."

  "What I need is time."

  "You've had time. It's done you no good."

  Dang him! "Have you ever regretted your decision to stay with Myriad?"

  He stops in front of me, saying, "Only once. When I lost Archer." He pinches my chin and lifts, forcing my attention to remain on him. "What do you want, Ten? What can Myriad give you? A purpose? A place to call your own? Vengeance against your parents?"

  "I can have each of those things in this life, on my own."

  "So. You want what you can't find here." He releases me. "You want a guarantee."

  Yes! "I want to not regret my decision forever." Pressure...

  "No one can give you a guarantee."

  "I know!" Growing... "Here, at least, I can tell myself that what happens is temporary. In the Everlife, I can't do that. It's permanent."

  "Until Second-death."

  "Well, I gather it's much, much harder to kill a spirit than a human."

  "Maybe I'll be killed if I fail to sign you."

  Pressure...exploding. Another manipulation. The last one I'll tolerate.

  With a screech, I take a swing at him. He ducks and my arm glides through air. But I'm already drawing back my other arm, already swinging it. This time, I make contact. My knuckles drive into his cheekbone. Pain shoots up my arm and pools in my shoulder as he wipes the Lifeblood from the corner of his mouth.

  "Look at you, giving in to your emotions the way Myriad suggests," he taunts. "Doesn't it feel good?"

  "Felt good," I yell. "Now I'm stuck with a broken hand." And guilt! I always complained about Vans's hair-trigger temper, and today I acted just like him. Guilt is the worst, as much an enemy as fear!

  Killian is gentle as he latches on to my wrist, studies my throbbing hand. "The bones aren't broken, just bruised."

  I draw my arm to my side, my anger far from appeased. "Are you going to be killed if I choose Troika?"

  He sighs. "No. But the fact that you belong in Myriad hasn't changed. It's meant to be."

  Meant to be. Meant to be.

  The words reverberate through my mind, and I go still. For years, my mother told me, We make things happen. Then one day she came home and announced, I was wrong. If it's meant to happen, it will happen. If it's not, it won't.

  She changed her mind, because Myriad changed their stance. Truth evolves, they like to say.

  Even my dad agreed. We learn as we grow.

  While that's certainly true, shouldn't spiritual laws be rooted in a firm, uncompromising foundation?

  Next, I remember what Archer once said to me. Believing in Myriad's idea of fate allows people to shift blame for every travesty, every disaster and every decision to an outside force. It means that, no matter what choice I make, what is meant to be will happen, which ultimately means my choices are inconsequential.

  So...no, I don't believe in fate. No outside force is pulling my strings. I might have been born with a purpose, a divine destiny, but my decisions--even my indecisions--are mine. My actions--and lack of action--are mine. Because, at the end o
f the day, the consequences are mine alone to bear.

  Deacon was right. I had the answer all along. I just didn't want to see it, because I didn't want to have to make the choice I was supposedly fighting to make.

  But okay. All right. I'm learning, and I'm strengthening. I'm also changing. What should never change? The truth. Truth should remain the same, always and forever, a steady base at my feet; otherwise it was once a lie--once a lie, always a lie--and I have nothing concrete to stand on, only sinking sand or gossamer silk that tears at the first sign of pressure.

  That's another point in Troika's favor. They never change what they believe. What's right for one is right for all.

  And Myriad's tiered packages? The ones I once praised? One life should not be more valuable than another.

  Surprise! I like Troika.

  I reel. I reel hard. I've struggled to get to this point for so long, and now I'm here, and it's wonderful but...even in the midst of my revelation, I'm still not ready to pull the trigger and make covenant. Do I really want to war with the people of Myriad?

  There's a thump outside the tent. What the--

  Killian shoves me behind him, again blocking me from possible attack. The entrance swishes to the side and Archer and Deacon stride inside.

  Well. Though I feel as if I've been beaten up inside, I leap forward to stand between the longtime adversaries. "I'm fine, Archer. I don't need a rescue."

  "That's not why I'm here."

  Killian's hands tighten into fists. "You shouldn't be here at all."

  Archer steps toward him, and Killian steps toward him. Deacon grabs hold of Archer, and I flatten my palm against Killian's chest to shove him back.

  "Everyone...just...stay calm."

  The anger drains from Archer as he focuses on me fully. "There's been a new development. Your mother... I'm sorry, love--"

  "Love?" Killian demands.

  "But she's sick," Archer finishes.

  "Sick?" I press my hands against my stomach. "What's wrong with her?"

  A moment passes before he admits, "Baiser de la mort."

  No, no, no, no, no. "Someone poisoned her? Who? How?"

  "I don't know."

  My heart explodes inside my chest again and again, an endless bomb capable of unfathomable destruction. My mom is sick. She's...she's dying. I shouldn't care. The woman paid good money to lock me away, to have torture after torture heaped upon me. In a year, she visited me a total of three times, her work more important than her only child. Only toward the end did she seem to remember my existence.