“My Firstlife is over, but my Everlife is only now beginning.”

With her last living breath, Tenley “Ten” Lockwood made her choice and picked her realm in the Everlife. Now, as the war between Troika and Myriad rages, she must face the consequences.

Because Ten possesses a rare supernatural ability to absorb and share light, the Powers That Be have the highest expectations for her future—and the enemy wants her neutralized. Fighting to save her Secondlife, she must learn about her realm from the ground up while launching her first mission: convincing a select group of humans to join her side before they die. No pressure, right?

But Ten’s competition is Killian, the boy she can’t forget—the one who gave up everything for her happiness. He has only one shot at redemption: beating Ten at a game she’s never even played. As their throw-downs heat up, so do their undeniable feelings, and soon, Ten will have to make another choice. Love…or victory.

Lifeblood

Gena Showalter

To God, my rock, my fortress and my deliverer!

To Naomi at French ’N’ Bookish—Thank you for all you do. Your support and enthusiasm are absolutely priceless!

To Katy Evans and Sarah J. Maas—You guys are such a delight, and so freaking talented! I’m honored to know you.

To my earthly support team, Vicki Tolbert, Shonna Hurt, Michelle Quine and Jill Monroe—You are divine blessings!

To Bryn Collier—You give good promo! Thank you, thank you and a thousand times thank you!

To Siena Koncsol—You, brilliant lady, do so much behind the scenes and I’m so very grateful!

To my editor Natashya Wilson—The time and attention you give to me and my work is so appreciated!

“I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss. I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy. I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”

—CHARLES DICKENS, A TALE OF TWO CITIES

The light Expands and the darkness Narrows

I’ve heard it said your entire life flashes before your eyes as you die. Those words comfort those who have loved and been loved but torment those who have failed and been failed.

I say, when you know where you’re going to spend eternity, celebrate! Death has been defeated. Life forever reigns.

I am proof. My Firstlife is over, but my Everlife is now beginning.

My Light will shine…

The shadows will scatter…and every life will matter…

It’s time to do what I was born to do. It’s time to arise and shine.

Whatever I face—be it war, persecution, hunger, simple threats or my Second-death—I will not be deterred. Night will be replaced by day, and those who cry in the dark will rejoice in the morning.

The day is about to dawn. Time is short. Let the battle begin.

Glossary of Terms excerpted from the Book of the Law

Abrogate—

Without hope, there is no Light.

★ The highest rank of General in Myriad.

★ Rare, none currently in existence.

★ Those who extinguish the Light in others.

Conduit—

Day will forever chase away the night.

★ The highest rank of General in Troika.

★ Rare, only two currently in existence.

★ Those who absorb the essence of sunlight from the Land of the Harvest and direct the beams to Troika.

Covenant—

So you shall say, and so it shall be.

★ Any blood oath agreed upon between two separate parties (i.e. a human and an Everlife realm), legally voided only through court.

★ If covenant terms are broken illegally, a human can be punished and put to death and a spirit can be enslaved.

Everlife—

Where there is no beginning and no end.

★ The afterlife, where Troika and Myriad are in power and at war.

★ Also known as the Unending.

Firstking—

He reigns with mercy and might evermore, evermore.

★ Creator of Troika, Myriad, humans and their home, the Land of the Harvest.

★ Father of the Secondkings: Eron the Prince of Doves, and Ambrosine the Prince of Ravens.

Firstlife—

What is isn’t always what’s supposed to be.

★ A human life (i.e. a spirit encased inside a body).

★ Dress rehearsal for the Everlife.

Firstdeath—

The end is merely the beginning.

★ The demise of a human body.

★ Occurs the moment a spirit cuts ties with its body.

Fused—

Believing a lie does not make it a truth.

★ A Myriadian belief that a spirit is joined to another spirit (or even multiple spirits) after Second-death to be reborn in the Land of the Harvest.

★ Disputed by Troikans.

General—

Learn the way, go the way, show the way.

★ Next in command under the Secondking.

★ Those who oversee specific teams of Leaders, Headhunters, Laborers and Messengers within the realms.

★ Responsible for planning battle strategies and leading armies into war.

Laborer—

Clear the way, make the paths straight.

★ One of six main positions within the realms, directly under Leader.

★ Responsible for returning to the Land of the Harvest to convince select humans to make covenant with their realm of choice.

★ ML, the term for a Myriadian Laborer; TL, the term for a Troikan Laborer.

Land of the Harvest—

We shall sow, and we shall reap.

★ Earth, home to humans.

Leader—

A helpmate is more valuable than diamonds.

★ Assistants to the Generals.

★ Responsible for delegating assignments to all other sub-positions within the realms.

Many Ends—

Ignore your future, pay the price.

★ The realm where Unsigned are imprisoned after Firstdeath.

★ Where happiness goes to die and nightmares come to terrible life.

Messenger—

Harken and deliver the good news.

★ One of six main positions within the realms, directly under Laborer.

★ Responsible for teaching humans about the realms, protecting others from the enemy and chronicling exploits within and without the realm.

Myriad—

Autonomy, bliss, indulgence.

★ The dark realm, ruled by the Prince of Ravens.

★ Magical forests whisper enchanted tales, and secrets lurk in every corner…self-indulgence is revered, and the party never stops…victors are adored and failures are abhorred…emotion always trumps logic.

★ Motto: Might Equals Right.

Penumbra—

In the dark, the blind lead the blind.

★ A disease born and spread in darkness, capable of draining Troikans of Light.

★ Origin and cure unknown.

Realms—

Home is where the heart is nourished or starved.

★ Kingdoms in the Everlife: Troika, Myriad and Many Ends.

Second-death—

Another end, another new beginning.

★ When a spirit is drained of Lifeblood.

★ Myriad believes a spirit is Fused to another spirit(s) in order to return to the Land of the Harvest; Troika believes a spirit enters into the Rest forevermore.

Secondking—

The one you follow decides the roads you take.

★ One of two sons of the Firstking; Eron the Prince of Doves, and Ambrosine the Prince of Ravens.

★ Ruler of a realm.

The Rest—

Peace beyond all understanding awaits.

★ Troikans believe a spirit enters into this state of absolute tranquillity after Second-death, forever separated from the realms…with a few exceptions.

The Resurrection—

And so the dead shall rise again.

★ Once every year, Troika holds a vote; one spirit within the Rest is brought back to spirit-life.

★ The winner must exit the Rest even if he or she wishes to remain.

Troika—

Justice, equality, freedom of choice.

★ The realm of Light, ruled by the Secondking Eron, the Prince of Doves.

★ Untouched by gloom, where hard work isn’t an expectation but a way of life, equality isn’t an ideal but a standard and fear isn’t a treasured friend but a hated foe…logic always trumps emotion…people are governed by a strict set of rules, and violators are punished.

★ Motto: Light Brings Sight.

Unsigned—

Without hope, there can be no joy.

★ A human who fails to make covenant with Troika or Myriad before Firstdeath.

★ Damned to spend the Everlife inside Many Ends.

Veil—

All who enter are welcome.

★ A doorway leading into and out of an Everlife realm.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Dedication

Map

Epigraph

The light Expands and the darkness Narrows

Glossary

Troika

Troika

Troika

Troika

Myriad

Myriad

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Myriad

Myriad

Myriad

Myriad

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Myriad

Myriad

Myriad

Chapter Six

Troika

Troika

Troika

Troika

Myriad

Myriad

Troika

Troika

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Myriad

Myriad

Myriad

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Troika

Troika

Troika

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Myriad

Myriad

Myriad

Myriad

Myriad

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Myriad

Myriad

Myriad

Myriad

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Myriad

Myriad

Myriad

Troika

Troika

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Myriad

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Myriad

Myriad

About Everlife

Copyright

TROIKA

From: L_N_3/19.1.1

To: M_C_4/2.17.12

Subject: Tenley Lockwood

You begged to take over Miss Lockwood’s case, Madame Cordell, and vowed to always—always!—keep me updated on her progress. Since her Firstlife ended by poisoned spear, I have yet to receive a single report. Update me. Now!

Light Brings Sight!

General Levi Nanne

TROIKA

From: M_C_4/2.17.12

To: L_N_3/19.1.1

Subject: Your patience and trust humble me

My apologies for making you wait a whole 6.8 seconds for another report, sir. If you haven’t noticed, my team is a little busy slaughtering Myriadian soldiers—and getting slaughtered in the process. By the way, Archer Prince has experienced Second-death. Not that you asked. I’ve lost track of Tenley and suspect Myriad is hiding her within their shadows. I’m doing my best to locate her, sir.

Light Brings Sight! Maybe consider using yours?

Madame Meredith Cordell

TROIKA

From: L_N_3/19.1.1

To: M_C_4/2.17.12

Subject: Brrring! Brrring! This is your wake-up call

Find her!

And you had better not be crying for Archer. He lived a good life and died a warrior’s death. His name has been added to the Book of New Life, and he’s a candidate for the Resurrection. You just might see him again—and soon!

Light Brings Sight!

General Levi Nanne

TROIKA

From: M_C_4/2.17.12

To: L_N_3/19.1.1

Subject: Please leave a message at the beep

When has “might” ever been good enough?

Light Brings Sight!

Madame Meredith Cordell

MYRIAD

From: Z_C_4/23.43.2

To: R_O_3/2.17.12

Subject: The Conduit

It’s certain. Miss Lockwood has made covenant with Troika. Foolish Madame Bennett! Her actions hurt us all. We appeared immoral and foul, so I can’t blame Miss Lockwood for her choice. My question is: Does Killian Flynn protect Miss Lockwood for our benefit—or theirs?

How would you like me to proceed?

Might Equals Right!

Sir Zhi Chen

MYRIAD

From: R_O_3/2.17.12

To: Z_C_4/23.43.2

Subject: Instructions

You’re right. Madame Pearl Bennett got us into this mess, but I’m happy to report Killian Flynn will get us out. I assure you, his every action is intentional and for our greater good. His mission is critical.

You will tell no one of his motivation. The fewer people who know, the less likely the information will spread, compromising everything he has done and has yet to do. Let today’s battle play out without interference.

And fear not. All is not lost where Tenley Lockwood is concerned. Killian is working his magic to ensure she single-handedly wins the war—for us. Let him do what he needs to do. He knows what’s at stake, and he won’t let us down. He never has before.

Might Equals Right!

General Rosalind Oriana

chapter one

“Tribulation reveals your greatest strength...or greatest weakness.”

—Troika

Present day

Sand in the hourglass falls, one grain at a time...time...one second bleeds into two...three... I try to piece together my fragmented thoughts. A difficult task. My mind is hazy, my thoughts blurred. Four...

A fact clicks into place. Numbers are my greatest obsession; they always tell a story, and they never lie.

Five...five...five. The numeral gets trapped in my head, set on constant repeat. Click. Five minutes and fourteen seconds ago, I died.

Whoa. I’m dead?

I must be. My heart no longer beats, and my lungs are deflated. I can’t breathe. I need to breathe. Sweat beads on my nape and trickles down my spine, and yet my limbs remain ice-cold.

Calm. Steady. Though my body is wrecked, my spirit lives on. This is a new beginning. A new life.

Calm? Seriously? From now on, I’ll have zero second chances. Zero do-overs. Everything I do will matter: every word I say, every action I take, every person I befriend and every enemy I slay will positively or negatively affect me. No ifs, ands or buts.

Welcome to the Everlife.

The words whisper on the wind, and a quiet ring erupts in my ears. In seconds, the volume cranks to high. I cringe. My bones vibrate, and a light tap registers against my ribs. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. Bang, BANG!

I gasp, taking my first breath, the real me awakening at last. My chest cools, and my lungs fill. I can breathe again. I’m dead, but still I live.

Arise! Arise and shine!

Another whisper drifts on the wind...or a voice is speaking inside my head.

I’m dead and crazy?

Inside, I wither and return to my default setting: counting. Six...seven...

Click. Seventeen! I’m seventeen years old. I was born on the tenth day of the tenth month at 10:10 a.m., and I died on the eleventh day of the eleventh month at 10:14 a.m.

1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 0 + 1 + 4 = 10

The work of Fate, some would say. Wrong! Fate is a myth, an excuse, a way to cast blame. While we might have a divine purpose, not everything that happens is through divine intervention. Our actions change the course of our lives for good or for ill.

We are the final authority.

My present is the sum total of decisions made in my past—my own decisions, and even those made by the people around me. We are accountable...count...eight, nine... Ten!

Click, click. My name is Tenley Lockwood. “Ten” to my friends.

5 + 5 = 10. A representative of two equal parts.

The last piece of the puzzle snaps into place. Two realms in the Everlife—Troika and Myriad—are currently locked in a fierce, brutal battle.

Troika fought to save my Firstlife while Myriad strove to end it. Myriad proved successful. My body lies on a blood-drenched street in the heart of LA.

Congrats, Myriad. You won a battle. You won’t win the war.

With my last breath, I pledged my allegiance to Troika, evermore, and I have no regrets. I value Firstlife. I like rules and enjoy structure. I understand every punishment is meant to teach rather than harm.

I’m a Troikan now, born anew in blood and violence. A soldier in a war as old as time. I’ve become enemies with people I’ve never met as well as people I know and love.

I’ve become enemies with Killian, a top Laborer in Myriad.

Killian! His name is a ragged cry from the depths of my soul. I’d say we dated, but dated is too mild a word. I craved him like a drug...and yet I still chose Troika over Myriad.

Home sweet home. Something I’ve never really had.

I’m supposed to hate him, but every fiber of my being flinches at the thought. I will never harm him. He means too much to me.

“Is she dead?” A harsh, unfamiliar voice claims my attention. “Did she make covenant with Troika?”

“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.”

The war still rages, soldiers cutting each other down with fiery swords, shooting each other with laser guns. Shells are disintegrating left and right, the sight devastating.

“I’m staying,” I croak. Running away is cowardly. I am the cause of the battle. I will ensure it ends.

“What do you think you can do, Ten?” Deacon’s grip tightens. “You’re riding an emotional roller coaster right now.”

“How do you—”

“I’ve been where you are. I know the Grid is exposing aspects of yourself you may not like. I also know you cannot help anyone but yourself right now. No speech, no matter how inspired, is going to penetrate the bloodlust currently plaguing these soldiers.” He wrenches me to the side, startling and tripping me.

An arrow soars past me as I flail.

“See!” he shouts. “You’re in danger.”

“Go, Ten. Now!” Killian spins and swings the spear, stabbing a Troikan in the process of sneaking up behind him. “If you’re killed, everything we’ve done to help you will be in vain.”

I should be thrilled he’s avoided injury, but his actions only feed the fury Sloan unearthed. I step toward him, intending to...what? I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t allow him to kill another Troikan, either. These people...they’re my brothers and sisters now.

Whoa. Such affinity for individuals I’ve never met?

Deacon tightens his hold. “I can’t escort you to Troika without your permission. Say yes.”

Free will matters, even in a war zone?

I struggle with duty and desire as more and more Troikans gather around Killian, attacking him en masse. He’s strong and skilled, but is he skilled enough to survive this?

Fear for him—for everyone he’s fighting—leaves me ice-cold.

A group of his comrades rush over to aid him, and I’m as relieved as I am ashamed. The group could harm my people.

More arrows zoom in my direction. Deacon uses a sword to deflect them, saving me from injury. Or worse.

Zero! If I throw myself into the fray, I can help Troika or I can help Killian, but not both.

No need to ponder. I have to help Killian. I recently lost my mom and brother. Earlier today I watched as my dad was gunned down. I lost Archer. I can’t lose Killian, too.

Already lost him...

No. Absolutely not! And yet, hot tears blur my vision and streak down my cheeks. The Grid, whatever it is, has turned me into an emotional wreck.

Forget emotion. I need to act. Now or never.

Now! With a roar, I plow into the chaos. Grunts and groans. Limbs fly, some with purpose, a target in sight, others because they’ve been severed. The scent of blood saturates the air and zings with tension. Determined, I swipe up a sword.

The weapon is ten times heavier than I expected, and my arm shakes as I assume a battle stance.

“Stop,” I shout. “Troikans love, forgive. Let’s walk away and save lives. No one else has to die today.”

I’m ignored. Deacon was right. A speech will never penetrate this blood-haze.

One of the Troikans notches an arrow and aims at Killian. I scream, diving at him, intending to shield him. As weak as I am, I fail to go the distance and hit the ground, useless. Killian doesn’t need my help, anyway. Lightning fast, he uses the spear to block. The arrow pings, falls.

No time for relief. Other soldiers rush at him, trampling me in the process. Combat boots—

Miss me? Yes! I’m in spirit form while the soldiers are in Shells. We’re intangible to each other.

Reeling, I climb to my feet. At warp speed, two other arrows hurl at Killian; he’s fast enough to block both.

Behind him, a Troikan is coming in hot, a Stag aimed.

For a Shell, a Stag is the worst of the worst. A single dart traps a spirit inside its Shell, preventing any sort of mobility and rendering both defenseless.

I have no idea what a Stag will do to a spirit without a Shell, and I don’t care. I put more pep in my step and jump. This go-round, my timing and efforts pay off. The dart flies through me and slows, giving Killian a chance to duck.

Agony sears me, and I scream. Seizing, I drop. Bolts of lightning set all of my organs ablaze.

The girl who pulled the trigger stares at me in horror. She just shot one of her own, and I just saved the enemy.

Her distraction puts her at a disadvantage, allowing a Myriadian to race in and swing a sword. Target: her head.

“Nooo!” Another Troikan shoves her out of the way. The sword slices through his shoulder, removing the arm of his Shell. Lifeblood spurts from the wound.

My horror mirrors the girl’s. Shells and spirits are connected. Is the boy’s spirit now missing an arm?

Above me, Killian whirls his spear, preventing several arrows from finding a new home in my chest. He kicks backward, nailing the Troikan sneaking up behind him.

“I told you to go, Ten.”

I...can’t. I can’t leave him. Part of me fears I’ll never see him again...and what you fear, you welcome into your life. I know it as surely as I know my name.

I try to stand, fail.

He ducks, avoiding the swing of a sword. Remaining low, he takes out his opponent at the ankles.

“If she’s killed today,” he says to Deacon, who is fending off a Myriadian soldier, “I’ll blame you, aye. I’ll retaliate by killing everyone you love.” He is cold, merciless. And he’s not done. He all but spits daggers at me after he clears the crowd around me and helps me stand. “Say yes to Deacon. From this moment on, every death I deliver is on your hands, not mine.”

Contact is just as painful as before, but what’s worse? My sense of disappointment. In his words. In my failure. In what this means for our future.

“Don’t let me go.” My knees are like jelly, yes, but I think the other part of me, the girl who hopes for the best, expects him to whisk me away. No more fighting, no need to choose between a home and a boy a second time.

I couldn’t be more wrong. He holds me up with one arm and uses the other to quickly and brutally stop the next Troikan who challenges him.

My fault.

A contingent of MLs rushes over. Killian defends me from his own people, adding to his list of crimes.

My heart shrivels into a tiny ball of self-recrimination. By staying, I’m doing far more harm than good, aren’t I?

“Yes,” I shout at Deacon. “Yes, yes, yes.”

The TL finishes off his newest attacker, closes the distance and drops his weapon to pull me from Killian’s side and cradle me against his chest.

Killian holds on to my hand as long as possible. I cling to his.

Is this goodbye?

This can’t be goodbye.

Deacon runs. He’s injured, Lifeblood gushing from a wound in his shoulder and soaking his shirt. My shriveled heart aches. I’m not the one who wielded the sword, but I’m the one who placed him in its path.

Never slowing, he says something in a language I don’t know but have heard him use with Archer. A special Troikan language the Myriadians can’t understand.

My gaze locks on Killian. He pauses, the battle forgotten. He’s so beautiful and strong, but he’s haunted. A fallen angel with a thousand and one regrets.

He reaches for me. I extend my hand to him.

A beam of Light slams into me. I blink, and I’m standing atop the parapet of one of the guard towers with Deacon. TLs border us on every side, at the ready. Killian is gone. I swallow a whimper.

No future with Killian. No present with Archer.

“Stop thinking about everything you’ve lost,” Deacon commands, “and start thinking about everything you’ve gained.”

He’s right. This isn’t the time or place to break down. “Is that why you’re so calm about Archer’s death?”

“That, and I know there’s a chance I’ll see him again.”

What? Surely I heard him incorrectly. Archer entered into the Rest. The end.

Questioning him isn’t an option. Myriadians materialize, circling us, shadow-tipped arrows notched...and soon arching through the sky. Troikans use fiery swords to block, and the arrows burn to ash.

As the opposing forces leap together in a vicious tangle of limbs and weapons, Deacon drops me. I crash-land, still too weak to stand on my own. Scowling, he yanks a small vial hanging from his neck and throws it at me.

“Every drop,” he insists.

I uncork the top, already knowing what swirls inside. Liquefied manna, everything a spirit needs to heal and thrive. The sweet scent teases me. I drain the contents.

Deacon stabs an ML, turns, and stabs another.

I begin to strengthen.

Two MLs rush at Deacon in unison. He throws himself at the taller one. I roll to my back and kick out my legs, knocking the shorter guy’s ankles together. Deacon is there to finish him off before hefting me to my feet.

“Time to go.”

No way! “I’m racer-ready. Let’s stay and help.”

“You’re that eager to die again?”

Hey! “I’ve got skills.” Both Killian and Archer worked with me before—

My shoulders hunch as a sense of dejection pierces me.

“You have zero skills,” Deacon says, merciless. “Right now you’re like an infant. All you can do is cry and crap your pants. So...” He turns, stabs an incoming ML. “If Her Majesty is ready to continue her travels...”

How can he stand to help me? Archer was his best friend, and I put him in the line of fire by requesting a Troikan army be sent to save Killian, who still defends Myriad despite being beaten by his bosses, and Sloan, who secretly had already made covenant with the enemy.

Archer wasn’t just a Laborer, sent to the Land of the Harvest to protect his human charges. He wasn’t just a negotiator of covenant terms or a guide for those who had signed with Troika. He was a man of great integrity, honor and kindness. A rarity. A hero in a time when villains are the norm.

Archer loved me when I was unlovable. Time and time again he could have disrespected me with a lie. It would have been easier for us both. Instead he told the truth, no matter how painful. He abandoned a centuries-old feud with his greatest enemy to help me. In the end, he died taking a blow meant for me.

The hunch in my shoulders deepens. “Yes,” I say softly. “Let’s go.”

Deacon slings an arm around my waist. We dematerialize in a blaze of Light and reappear—

I inhale sharply. We’re standing in the center of a crystal bridge. Before us is a crimson-colored waterfall framed by a wall of glistening ruby geodes. The layered sediment resembles feathers; those feathers stretch out on both sides, creating the illusion of wings. Framing those wings are stones of topaz, jasper and beryl.

The architecture is stunning, far too perfect to be man-made or even nature-made. Intelligent creation.

Firstking-made, then?

There are no Troikans or Myriadians here. No battles. Just me and Deacon and the cool kiss of mist on my cheeks. A scent sweeter than manna—sweeter even than Killian—permeates the air.

“Now that we’re alone...” Deacon gets in my face, snapping, “Your first day in the Everlife, you aided Myriad. You protected the guy who was killing my soldiers. Soldiers who risked their lives to save you.”

I look away from him, unable to meet his gaze. Shame is a deluge inside me, and my confidence crumbles like a condemned building. “Killian killed his own soldiers, too. He—”

“You’re still protecting him!” Deacon bellows.

I bow my head. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. If you could go back, you’d do it all over again.” His tone flattened, but even worse, his words were dead-on. “I told you there’s a chance Archer will come back to us, and there is. A very small chance. Every year, the names of the people who die are placed in the Book of New Life. Troikan citizens vote for a slain spirit to exit the Rest. It’s called the Resurrection. But we lost a Conduit this year, too. Conduits always win.”

My hopes lift...and crash. “Maybe we can convince everyone to vote for Archer instead?” I love the big goof with all my heart. I want more seconds, days, weeks with him. I want years! Decades! “We can do anything if we—”

“Put our heads together? Work hard enough? Have faith?” He sneers at me. “Unsuccessful people work themselves into the grave every day. And have faith in what, Ten? Ourselves? Last time I checked, neither one of us had the ability to perform a miracle.”

I wither, part of me wishing I could blame Fate for our predicament. If everything happened for a reason and our actions couldn’t change what’s coming, I wouldn’t have to carry the blame. But every decision matters, leading down a specific road, and I know it.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask. “Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

“Don’t bother.” Still he shows me no mercy. “What you do tomorrow doesn’t change what you did today.”

Sorrow floods me, drowns me, and I wrap trembling arms around my middle.

At both the best and worst of times, my mind does one of two things: obsesses over numbers or drafts a poem.

Guess what I do now?

I am Ten, the completion of a cycle. Composed of two numbers. One and zero. One: solitary. Without companionship. Zero: neither a negative nor a positive, just a whole lot of nothing...like my status right now.

Ten out of ten people hate me right now.

Ten out of ten people will die during their lifetime.

The two most popular numbers in the world are three and seven. 3 + 7 = 10. Three is known as the trinity...or troika. Spirit, soul and body. Seven is often called the perfect number. Seven continents, seven layers of skin—three main layers, with four others in between—and seven colors in a rainbow. Seven notes of sound. Seven dimensions and directions—two opposite directions for each dimension, plus the center...the static...the one that never changes.

Everything has changed for me.

Deacon scrubs a hand down his face. “At least the battle in the Land of the Harvest ended the moment you cleared the guard tower.”

“I’m glad.” There would be no more deaths because of decisions I made. Not today, at least.

He stares at me for a long while. “Here’s what is going to happen. I’m taking you into Troika, where your family and friends are waiting to greet you. You’ll spend a week exploring the realm, getting to know the land and the people, and you’ll attend a welcome party for those who recently experienced Firstdeath. Then you’ll begin your training.”

I’m to become a General. Actually a Conduit, the highest type of General. I’m supposed to save my realm from the horrors of Myriad’s darkness.

There are six main positions in Troika—General, Leader, Headhunter, Laborer, Messenger and Healer—with hundreds of sub-positions under each.

Six positions, just as there are six fundamental virtues: love, wisdom, truth, goodness, mercy and justice.

“Through it all,” he adds, “you’ll stay away from me. I can’t stand the sight of you.”

Sandpaper rubs my throat raw. “Very well.” I owe him. I’ll respect his wishes—even if I’m currently losing respect for him. Troikans praise the merits of forgiveness and lament the hazards of retaliation. Two reasons I picked the realm. Two reasons I forsook Killian.

Am I a fool?

And did I really just think the word Troikans rather than we? I sigh. I’m part of the family, even if I feel alone.

Not that feelings are reliable. Feelings rarely provide a realistic picture, and often lead to destruction. I have to act on my heart-knowledge: what the heart understands, even if the mind—or logic—doesn’t.

Hello, spiritual law. With Sloan, I acted on my feelings. What I dished, I’m now eating. Today’s chef is Deacon.

Ann-nn-nd my shoulders roll in a little more. If left unchecked, my feelings can be a weapon more dangerous than a gun or a knife. They can send me sprinting down the wrong path and put me in the wrong place at the wrong time. They can hold me in darkness, blinding me to Light. They can make me soar one moment, and send me crashing the next. I must rise above. Must do what’s right even when everything around me is wrong.

I won’t forget again.

Deacon waves at the waterfall. “This is the Veil of Wings. The only way into Troika. Troikans can pass through without worry. If a Myriadian tries, he will burn to ash.”

Tremors shake me. Message received. If I attempt to bring Killian inside, I’ll kill him.

The weight of my decision to stand with one realm and rise against the other...to put everything I have, everything I am, into a single cause...to abandon the boy willing to kill for me, even willing to die for me...suddenly assails me. Panic crawls from the ashes of my despair, and slays my calm.

I try to distract myself with a poem.

Happiness is not obtainable

And I will never believe that

Love and Light will lead the way

Again and again, I’ve been shown that

Pain and darkness always win

It is a lie that

Happiness and joy are a choice

The truth is

There’s no way out of the abyss.

I will never be convinced that

“Something better this way comes.”

“You just have to fight the good fight.”

Actually

I will say—

“Even worse is on the way.”

Because there’s no way that

We can escape the abyss.

So depressing! I flip the script and repeat the poem, starting at the bottom and working my way up. A new ray of hope dawns.

I cling to it. Right now, it’s all I have.

“See the mist billowing from the waterfall?” Deacon asks. “It’s part of the Veil and wraps around the entire realm. There’s nowhere a Myriadian can safely enter.” He marches across the bridge, never once glancing back to ensure I follow.

Resigned, I trail after him. Time to see my eternal home. Time to meet the people I’ll be sharing an Everlife with. My new family. The ones I’ll be fighting to protect.

But a single question haunts me as I step underneath the spray of water.

I picked them...but what if they don’t pick me?

MYRIAD

From: K_F_5/23.53.6

To: R_O_3/2.17.12

Subject: I’ll go ahead and pat myself on the back

Consider Tenley Lockwood bagged and tagged. She trusts me implicitly, and she wants to be with me. Maybe she already regrets her covenant with Troika. The problem is, she’s going to spend the next year holed up inside Troika, training. That is twelve months—or fifty-two weeks—before she’s sent to the Land of the Harvest on assignment. Twelve months I won’t get to see her or talk to her. Fifty-two weeks I won’t get to “work my magic,” as you like to say.

How am I supposed to convince her to spy for us? Unless…can you trick Troika into sending her on assignment sooner?

Never mind. My apologies for suggesting the impossible. I’ll work my magic in a year, as promised.

Might Equals Right!

ML, Killian Flynn

MYRIAD

From: R_O_3/2.17.12

To: K_F_5/23.53.6

Subject: Never doubt me

I’m a General, Mr. Flynn. The best of the best. I can do anything. Mark my words: you will see Miss Lockwood sooner rather than later. I’ll make sure of it.

In the meantime, you’ll be training our newest recruit. Miss Aubuchon strikes me as resourceful young woman, willing to go the extra mile to get a job done.

Also, you’ve been assigned to a new Leader. Report your progress with Miss Aubuchon to Sir Zhi Chen. Report your progress with Miss Lockwood to us both.

Might Equals Right!

General Rosalind Oriana

MYRIAD

From: K_F_5/23.53.6

To: R_O_3/2.17.12

Subject: Is that a tear in my eye?

Thank you for gifting me with such an honor. I foresee zero problems training Sloan, the girl I just murdered. (Let me know if I need to explain sarcasm to you.) Elena and Charles are my Flankers/trainees. Adding a third is overkill, don’t you think?

Considering my recent successes, I have a favor to ask you. Before Madame Pearl Bennett died, she visited the Hall of Records to discover who is Fused with my mother, and where the girl is living in the Land of the Harvest. Will you look into Madame Bennett’s notes? I’d be grateful.

I’m sure I’ll do a better job with Miss Lockwood if I’m focused on her, and only her.

Might Equals Right!

ML, Killian Flynn

MYRIAD

From: R_O_3/2.17.12

To: K_F_5/23.53.6

Subject: Aren’t you adorable?

Next time you threaten me—however overtly—I’ll have you returned to the Kennels.

Elena and Charles have been reassigned. As for your mother, I’ll be happy to share her name with you…as soon as you do what you promised with Tenley Lockwood. That is our way. You help me, I help you.

Might Equals Right!

General Rosalind Oriana

chapter three

“Humility is your protection from self-deception. Pride is your defeat.”

—Troika

I’m bathed in liquid sunshine and bliss. The water doesn’t soak me or even dampen my clothing; it goes through me, somehow cleansing me from the inside out and, for one sublime moment, washing away my problems. Peace settles over me. There’s no room for fear or melancholy.

I breathe in deeply...exhale slowly...and savor every second.

I’m certain Killian will overcome whatever obstacles are thrown into his path. He’s smart. Brilliant, actually. And I’m ecstatic for Archer. He’s entered into the Rest. Who wouldn’t enjoy a permanent vacation from war? I’m confident I’ll overcome my own obstacles and quickly acclimate to my new circumstances...new structures, studies, traditions and people.

I’m not worried about my parents, who are Myriad loyalists, living in the other realm...hating me?

Maybe, maybe not. Before taking her final breath, my mother reconciled with me. My father cursed me before his. No matter. My peace endures. My worth isn’t measured by his feelings for me. I am who I am, and my worth is my worth. Life is that simple and that complicated.

I’m not even worried about the frigid cold I experience whenever Killian touches me. We’ve become two halves of a whole, and we’ll find a way to be together.

A hard weight slams into me from behind and knocks me forward. I stumble, coming out the other side of the waterfall, my precious peace instantly replaced by worries and concerns, my warmth by cold and my hope by despair. Tremors ignite in my belly and quickly spread through the rest of me.

Deacon, despite his dislike of me, helps steady me as a guy who looks to be my age emerges from the Veil.

“Sorry, sorry,” the guy says with a slight British accent. “Absolutely my fault, yeah. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

He has dark blond hair and amber eyes—one of which is ringed with black. He’s been in a fight. The battle we just left?

Guilt pricks at me.

There’s something familiar about him, but I’m too jumbled by my wayward emotions to solve the puzzle. Despite the bruising, he’s pretty enough to make a storybook princess weep with envy. At roughly five foot ten, he’s not much taller than me. However, the breadth of his shoulders allows him to engulf me.

His gaze slides to Deacon, and I realize I’ve been staring at him in silence. “New recruit?” he asks, amused, and my cheeks heat.

“Yes,” Deacon replies, his voice tight. He pats the guy on the shoulder and seems to fortify himself for an uncomfortable conversation. “There’s something you need to know, Victor. Archer is...he’s been...”

Victor holds up his hand and releases a heavy breath. “I’ve been told, but I refuse to mourn. I’ll be too busy fighting for his return.”

Victor winks at me. “Welcome home, newbie. You’re going to love it here. Come by my apartment later, and I’ll personally make sure of it.”

Deacon gives the guy’s chest a light punch. “The sexual harassment seminar is going well, I see.”

A grinning Victor salutes him before focusing on me. “I’m late for a debriefing or I’d stay and get to know you better. I know, I know. You’re devastated. When you come by—you did agree to visit me, right?—I’ll dry your tears.” He rushes off.

“Is everyone I meet going to make me feel like I fell off the ugly tree and hit every branch?” I ask.

“Spirits are flawless. There isn’t a can of dog food in the bunch.”

Good to know. “So who was that?”

“Victor Prince. Archer’s younger brother. They shared a special bond.”

Archer’s brother? Guilt slashes me, until I’m nothing but confetti.

Why didn’t he curse at me? Or rail? Why didn’t he demand I leave the realm forever? Something! Instead, he invited me over for, I’m guessing, a little light flirting.

Oh...zero. He must not know about my involvement in Archer’s death.

I wish the ground would open up and swallow me.

“Behold.” Deacon waves his arm to indicate the path Victor just took. “Troika.”

My gaze follows the line of his finger, a drumroll going off in my head to herald the moment of truth. Is Troika as lovely as Archer promised, or the scorched apocalyptic wasteland Killian disdained?

I can’t... I don’t... I wasn’t prepared for this. The beauty before me is far lovelier than Archer described. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. A gold brick wall frames an arched entrance created from pearl; the exquisite design is broken only by the Troikan symbol, which is carved into three separate locations.

Past the open archway is a thriving metropolis both fantastic and futuristic, with buildings of every shape and design, some made with a chrome-like substance, some with crystals. Interspersed throughout are castles and other buildings straight from the pages of a storybook. Cinderella would so approve; with the dewy foliage ascending many of the ramparts, Snow White wouldn’t miss her woodland cottage and the prince wouldn’t need Rapunzel’s hair to climb to the top.

I marvel as flowers bloom in a sky of clear, dappled water. We’re under an ocean? No. Realization: we’re under the Veil of Wings! Rose petals fall, twirling lazily through the air.

A ray of sunlight dances from a sun I cannot see. I reach out...only to still. The Troikan symbol in the center of my palm sparkles. Awed, I turn my arm. The numbers sparkle, as well.

“So many changes,” I mutter.

“You were living in an imperfect and tainted world,” Deacon says. “Physical bodies reflect that. Spirits do not.”

He ushers me past the pearl archway. A wall of mist parts in the center, revealing seven smaller archways, each made with a different precious gem and attached to a different—massive—tube.

“These are Gates,” he explains. “There are seven major cities within the realm, and every Gate leads to a different one. You’ll want to learn the transport system as soon as possible.”

He takes my hand and leads me into a tube made of diamonds.

Those diamonds vanish in a blink, replaced by a searing display of fireworks. I’m cognizant of the fact that I’m still standing, still walking, and yet I feel as if I’ve been sucked into a vacuum. The array of lights blurs, whizzing past me, and a wave of dizziness causes me to sway.

With Deacon’s help, I remain upright. The lights begin to fade, the diamond tube reappears. We step onto a gold brick street, surrounded by chrome-and-crystal buildings, no longer on the edge of the realm but in the middle of it. Thousands of people surround us. Male, female. Young, old. Well, not too old. No one tops thirty-five, I’d guess. There’s a beautiful mix of colors and races, and yet they are one people. Different, but exactly the same: priceless.

Due to virtual reality tours I’ve taken through Myriad, I know their citizens wear clothing compatible with the era they lived in as a human. I’ve seen everything from Victorian ball gowns to loincloths. The same is not true for Troikans.

“Everyone is wearing a catsuit or robe,” I say. “Why?”

“The robes are ceremonial. Needed for certain jobs,” Deacon replies. “The suits are lightweight armor. The material protects us against certain weapons. We must always be ready for attack.”

How...sad for us.

A clatter of voices hits my awareness, each light and cheerful. Smiles and laughter abound. No one seems to mind the threat Deacon described.

Envy cuts through me. Have I ever been so carefree?

First I was a girl sheltered by her parents, protected from any outside influence. Then I was a girl tortured at Prynne. Then I was a girl meant to save one realm and destroy the other. Always I was a means to an end. Until Killian and Archer transitioned from Laborers to friends.

Speaking past the lump in my throat, I ask, “How did we move from one location to another in mere seconds?”

“We’re spirits, no longer bound by physical laws. The Gates allow us to travel at the speed of Light.”

I struggle to process such an impossible revelation. The precise value of the speed of Light is 299,792,458 meters per second.

2 + 9 + 9 + 7 + 9 +2 + 4 + 5 + 8 = 55

5 + 5 = 10

Stop counting! Deacon has moved on. I rush after him, trailing him through the crowd. Despite a seeming preoccupation with each other, the couples and families remain highly aware of those around them, and no one bumps into anyone else. Everyone is courteous, offering a genuine “Please” and “Thank you” whenever warranted.

Various perfumes scent the air, blending harmoniously with the fragrance of roses. Multicolored petals continue to rain from the sky.

Deacon enters a crystal building, whisking through a door of mist. The decor is breathtaking, the ceiling like a midnight sky filled with vibrant stars. The walls are aglow with hues plucked straight from a rainbow, and every piece of furniture—from dinner tables and chairs to sofas and coffee tables—extends from massive trees that have grown through the floor, as if carved from branches still attached to the trunks.

A woodland forest inside a building. This is where impossible meets miracle.

When the identity of the occupants registers, I come to an abrupt stop. People I knew and loved in Firstlife, and even family I never actually met.

There is my grandmother Meredith; since my parents disowned her before I was born, I’ve only ever seen her in pictures. She is so beautiful. Though she experienced Firstdeath in her forties, she now appears twenty-five, her skin unlined, her pale hair without a single strand of gray.

Mom once told me about the adventures she and her mother had. How they’d spent every weekend at homeless shelters to care for the less fortunate.

My palms sweat. Am I a disappointment to her?

Meredith is speaking with Clayton “Clay” Anders. Clay and I met and bonded at Prynne. During our escape, we trekked through ice-covered mountains and got caught in an avalanche.

I shudder. Clay and Sloan were swept to the edge of a cliff, terrified out of their minds, and I had to make a split second decision. Who to save first. At the time, Sloan was Unsigned, while Clay had a secure future with Troika.

I picked Sloan, pouring what little energy I’d had into pulling her to solid ground first. I hadn’t wanted her sent to Many Ends, a realm of horrors and pain, to be tortured for eternity.

In the end, I hadn’t had enough time to save Clay, too, and I regret—

No. Absolutely not. I don’t regret. Yes, Sloan later betrayed me. Yes, Clay died too young. Considering the circumstances, I made the right call. I gave an Unsigned girl a chance Clay didn’t need. She made the wrong choice afterward, and the fault is hers alone.

And look at Clay now. My hand flutters over my heart to contain a starburst of joy. He’s thriving!

I spot General Levi Nanne, as handsome as ever in an immaculate pin-striped suit—no armor for him?—his dark hair brushed back from his chiseled features. He’s holding Jeremy, my infant brother, and I squeal.

Jeremy is my little miracle. To protect the Everlife from overcrowding, the Land of the Harvest is strict about population control. Women are sterilized after giving birth to their first child. If someone heals and a second pregnancy occurs, the child is given to a childless family. If no family is found, the child is placed in an orphanage. If the orphanages are overcrowded, the child faces elimination.

My mother had Jeremy in secret. She died soon afterward, poisoned by Madame Pearl Bennett, and Jeremy died only minutes later; Mom had unwittingly shared the poison with him when she fed him.

Some of my happiness deflates.

Let go of the past, march into the future.

I don’t recognize anyone else in the group, but I sense they are my blood relatives, ancestors who fought for me from behind the scenes during all the years of my Firstlife.

“Ten!” Clay catches sight of me and rushes over. I meet him halfway and throw my arms around him, clinging to him. With a laugh, he swings me around. “What did Zero say to Eight?”

At the asylum, he’d always greeted me with a number joke.

As I kiss his cheek, tears burn my eyes. My voice wobbles as I reply, “Hey! Nice belt.”

He chuckles. “I’m never going to stump you, am I?”

“Not in any lifetime, my friend.”

He tweaks my nose. The others join us, and I’m passed around like a hot potato.

By the time I make it back to Clay, his smile is gone. Sorrow peers at me. “You had so much more to do. You died too soon, Ten.”

My chest constricts. “So did you, my friend. So did you.” I lean my head on his shoulder. “Did Marlowe make it into Troika?” Please, say yes. Please.

Marlowe Dillinger is another of my Prynne friends. The sweetest, gentlest girl I’ve ever met. She ended up at the asylum because she stole money from her mother to—horror of horrors—pay for groceries.

She signed with Troika, hoping to escape the asylum. Her mom refused to spring her, and soon after, a guard sneaked into her cell to—

My mind shies away from the horrors she endured. The next morning, the girl with a heart of gold killed herself. Maybe she voided her contract, maybe she didn’t. I’m unclear about the fine print.

Clay flinches. “I’m told suicides are decided on a case by case basis. Hers... She’s in Many Ends.”

Fresh tears well, but I blink them back. No more crying. Marlowe’s Firstlife sucked, and guaranteed her Everlife is worse. It’s not fair. But I will find a way to free her and all the others trapped inside Many Ends. I will! My determination will never wane.

“I know a little boy who is eager to say hello,” Levi says, claiming my attention.

I give Clay another hug before stealing my little brother from the General. “Zero! He’s changed.”

Levi beams with pride, his love for the boy obvious. “He grows stronger every day.”

Jeremy Eleven Lockwood. The last time we were together, he was missing patches of hair. His cheeks were sunken in, and his swollen lips had turned blue as he’d struggled to breathe. Now he has a headful of curls the same shade of cobalt as mine. His peaches-and-cream complexion speaks of health and vitality, and his eyes...they sparkle like precious gems, mesmerizing me. Like me, one of his eyes is blue and the other is green. Though he’s only a few weeks old—spirits age just like humans, until reaching the Age of Perfection—both eyes regard me with intelligence and adoration.

A look I’ve received from only two other people: Killian and Archer.

Zero! I’m crying again, and I can’t stop. Have I become the world’s biggest sissy?

One of my tears splashes on Jeremy’s cheek, and he giggles. He wraps his chubby little fingers around one of mine and brings it to his mouth for a toothless nibble.

“We’re together forever now, baby bro.” A vow from my innermost being.

—Forever—

“Ye—” I shake my head. A little boy’s voice just whispered through my mind as surely as the wind had whispered earlier. Surely my brother didn’t...surely he can’t...

But maybe he can? New world, new rules. I don’t yet know what’s possible and what’s not. There’s no reason to stress over anything. One, I’ll figure things out. Two, if I ask, I’ll be given a cryptic answer that generates even more questions, guaranteed. That is Levi’s MO. And three, I’ve got bigger problems than my brother maybe, maybe not, speaking to me telepathically.

Namely: How can I help free the people of Many Ends without Archer’s and Killian’s help?

Everything always comes back to my guys, doesn’t it. And why not? Killian was my rock, the one who helped me stand when I wobbled. Archer was my guide. He showed me the way I should go every time I floundered.

Who else do I have? Clay is as new to this life as I am. I have family I don’t know, and I’m hated by the ones I do. I’m a soldier in a war I don’t fully understand.

Oh, I know the story: the Firstking created Troika for his son Eron, the Prince of Doves, and Myriad for his son Ambrosine, the Prince of Ravens. Afterward, he created the Land of the Harvest and the humans who populated it—humans allowed to choose the realm where they would ultimately live.

One decision. An eternity of joy or regret.

But it wasn’t long before Ambrosine plotted to destroy Eron, determined to rule both realms.

What I don’t know is why the different citizens loathe each other. Or why, exactly, they decided to go to war. Were they simply following the orders of their kings?

Why can’t we create friendships—relationships? If Troika and Myriad ever cease-fire, I can more easily save the people in Many Ends.

The portal to the realm of eternal horrors is hidden inside Myriad. But I can no longer enter Myriad...

I must find a way.

I could ask Killian to enter for me. And get him caught, punished or killed.

Not an option. If I can help Troika and Myriad reach a truce, I can enter Myriad again. Maybe. Possibly. I like my odds.

Levi pats my shoulder. “Guess what, lucky girl? I’m overseeing your training, and I’m giving you homework on your first day. Take a moment to boo and hiss if you’d like. No? Fine. Memorize the Book of the Law, write the words on your heart and see.”

“Uh, care to finish your sentence? See what?” And how am I supposed to write words on my heart?

He winks at me, code for figure it out for yourself, dummy.

Fine. I arch a brow at him. “Please tell me the book is only a single page long, and part two of my assignment isn’t literal.”

Another wink.

Great!

“So sorry we’re late,” a familiar voice says. “Class ran over.”

Excitement blooms as Kayla Brooks and Reed Haynesworth make their way through the throng. I met short, pale-haired Kayla and tall, dark-haired Reed in Many Ends. My first saves.

But not my last!

Like too many others, Kayla and Reed died too young. She’s only eighteen, and he’s a whopping nineteen.

Troika has been good to the pair. They glow.

In their Firstlife, they were Unsigned, refusing to choose a side and fight in a war they didn’t understand. Instead, they joined HART. Humans Against Realm Turmoil.

They died when protestors bombed HART headquarters.

Had their deaths occurred before the age of sixteen, they could have entered either Troika or Myriad without problem. Anyone under sixteen—the Age of Accountability—has no ties to Many Ends, even if they are Unsigned.

Later, when the spirit-child reaches the AoA, he can choose to forsake whichever realm he’s been living in and enter the other.

I’m not sure how much time Reed and Kayla spent in Many Ends before I showed up...once, twice, three times. Third time is the charm. We escaped together, forever changing the course of our Everlives; that’s how I know the captives can be freed. There’s a secret Gate or Veil or whatever inside Myriad—where we ended up.

“Hey, guys.” I grin as I embrace them. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“A word of warning, my friend.” Reed gives me a pitying look. “You’ve already made adversaries here. You’re being blamed for the loss of several TLs.”

My heart cracks down the center and leaks acid. “I made mistakes. I’ll deal with the consequences.”

“You’re a new spirit in a new world,” Levi says, and sighs. “None of us had a perfect start, and anyone who casts stones will have to deal with me.”

The show of support both elates and depresses me. I don’t want people to pretend to like me, fearing they’ll get into trouble if they don’t.

Jeremy waves his arms and kicks his legs in a bid for freedom. I’ve never been around babies, so I’m not sure what to do. My unease must show, because Levi gathers him close. In thanks, my brother upchucks all over his tie.

“Slob goblin.” Levi laughs and gives Jeremy’s butt a gentle tap. “That’s what you are, isn’t it, young man?”

Jeremy farts.

My grandmother moves to my side and nudges me with her shoulder. She’s my mom’s mom, strong but elegant, even regal, and up close she’s more than beautiful. She’s absolutely stunning. A gold catsuit makes her luminous from head to toe.

“I’m glad you finally saw the Light,” she says.

Light Brings Sight is our realm’s battle cry.

“Should I call you Granny?” I tease. “Or maybe Gran Gran?”

She snorts. “You refer to me by either name, and I’ll put you over my knee to paddle the Light right out of you.”

You can’t take the old lady sass out of the young spirit, I see.

“Why don’t you call me Meredith,” she suggests, tugging on a lock of my blue hair.

“Sure. But I’m going to creep myself out every time I do it,” I admit. “You aren’t supposed to be so...”

“Hot?” She fluffs her glossy waves. “Just wait till you meet my mother—your great-grandmother—Hazel.”

Curious, I scan the sea of faces. “Is she here?”

“No, she’s out on an assignment. The job never sleeps.”

To my knowledge, only two positions ever really leave the realm. “She’s a Laborer, then? Or a Messenger?”

“Laborer. And a very good one.”

So she works with human souls while I’ll be working with Light. I’m supposed to absorb sunlight—which is more than just heat and illumination, I’ve been told—and direct the beams to Troika.

“And you are...what?” I ask.

“A Leader. I serve directly under Levi as one of his many assistants.”

Meaning she’s a step above a Laborer, and her official title is Madame. “Cool. But I kind of outrank you, right?” I say with a smile.

Another snort. “Honey, you outrank us all. Or rather, you will. You’ve got a lot to learn first. Here’s proof.” Moving too swiftly for me to track, she secures her leg behind my knee and gives me a push.

I topple to my butt, air leaving my lungs in a single heave. Before I can catch my breath, I’m lumbering to my feet. Never stay down!

Her eyes gleam with pride. She motions to my right arm with a tilt of her chin. “Have you decoded your Key yet?”

Only then do I realize I’m rubbing the numbers branded into my flesh. “Uh—no. I haven’t. How am I supposed to decode my... Key? What Key?”

She ignores my questions. “You will. Until then, the Grid will provide an invisible link between you and every other Troikan. We’re all tied together, an army of millions with one true heart. Draw on our strength and peace.”

I imagine the heart of Troika beating inside my chest, keeping me alive while my own weeps over losing Killian and Archer. “Why do I need to decode my Key?”

She shows me her right arm, where the words Faith, Hope and Love are etched. “When you do, you’ll be able to open locked doors within the Grid.”

Uh... “Why are the doors locked?”

“The information stored behind them is more than your puny brain can currently comprehend.”

Puny brain? “How kind you are, Grandmother.” I bat my lashes at her. “Your Key is three common words. Mine is a sequence of numbers with no rhyme or reason.”

“Oh, there’s a rhyme and reason all right. I had to do three things I’d never done before. Believe in myself, expect good things to happen to me and love the people around me, whether I felt like loving them or not. Easier said than done.”

“I don’t understand. You used to take my mother to homeless shelters.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. I did what I did under duress. It was my husband, your grandfather, who so faithfully served others.”

My grandfather Steven. A man I’ve never met. “Where is he?”

“Out on assignment with Hazel. He’s eager to meet you.” She blows me a kiss before strolling away.

A woman I’ve never met takes her place at my side, clutching my hands and gazing at me with pleading eyes. My heart knows something my mind doesn’t: she’s a blood relation from my father’s side.

“My daughter,” she says. The hem of her robe sways at her feet. “Please. You have to help her.”

My stomach churns as if I’ve swallowed a mix of batteries and broken glass. “Help your daughter with what?”

“She is Unsigned. You will understand her better than most. You can convince her to choose Troika. She needs you—”

Deacon to the rescue! He wraps an arm around the woman’s shoulders and whispers what I assume are words of comfort. She pales but nods, and he ushers her away. I watch them with wide eyes, wishing I knew more about this realm, my abilities, my responsibilities—or anything useful, really. Wishing I could help her, even though I can’t seem to help myself.

I look to Levi and say, “How can I help her daughter choose Troika? I’m not a Laborer.”

“You must crawl before you can walk.”

Someone save me. “Thank you, Confucius.” I really hate cryptic-speak.

“You’ll be trained for every job here,” he continues. “Through trials of your own, you’ll better understand the people only you are to aid.”

Great. Wonderful. But no pressure, right?

Levi waves Clay over. “Escort Ten to her new apartment. She’s had a long day and could use a bit of rest.”

My own apartment...an actual home. I’ve been without a home for over a year. The asylum was simply a building where I received a cot and three hots.

I say goodbye to the others, and Clay leads me outside. The crowd has thinned considerably. I’m so busy marveling at new sights, I have no idea how he gets me inside another tube.

The sides blaze and blur, and once again I experience the sensation of being sucked into a vacuum, only to step out a few seconds later into a maze of wildflowers. Fruit and nut trees are in full bloom, heavy with their bounty. Wisteria trees arch overhead, creating a ceiling of lavender petals.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“The Capital of New.”

I nod, pretending I know what that means.

We clear the garden and come to a street peppered with homes from every era, from Egyptian pyramids to futuristic spaceships. When Clay stops in front of a Gothic cathedral, a chill sweeps over me.

Trepidation? Awe? I’m not sure!

“This,” he says, “is where the most elite trainees live, no matter their field of study. You’re on the top floor and, because you’re so precious—” he snickers as he air-quotes the word “—you get me as a next-door neighbor. There are eight others on our floor. A mix of Messengers, Laborers and Healers.”

I try to speak, I do, but all I manage are unintelligible sounds. The beauty astounds me. Up top are two towers with pointed pergolas, between them a crocket and a gable. A massive oval window consumes the center. Glistening in the sunlight are stained-glass windows interspersed with wrought iron twisted in the shape of a tree of life.

Clay presses two fingers under my jaw to help me close my mouth.

I noticed the brand on his wrist—three interlocking circles—and finally find my voice. “Have you decoded your Key?”

“Not yet,” he grumbles.

I bump him with my shoulder. “Is it wrong how happy I am that we’re in the same boat?”

“Yes! You should encourage me to kick your butt.”

We share a laugh and enter the cathedral. The occupants range in age, anywhere from sixteen to twenty. Some smile at me while others frown. A few scowl.

I distract myself, studying the magnificent architecture. Above every doorway are triptychs—paintings divided into three separate panels. Along every wall are marble columns, intricate mosaics—again in patterns of three—and murals. Above the farthest is a magnificent frieze ceiling with three tiers.

When we turn a corner, an elaborate staircase looms ahead. Both guys and girls race up and down. Again I receive a mixed bag of reactions.

I try to ignore the guy with the darkest glower. When I hear Killian’s name whispered, I wonder if everyone’s anger has more to do with my affiliation with a Myriadian than my actions on the battlefield.

“So coeds live here. Do we train here, too?” I ask.

“Nope. You’re going crap yourself when you find out where we do train.”

I snort. “Should I go ahead and order adult diapers?”

“The sooner the better.”

I catch a glimpse of Victor, who is speaking with a pretty redhead. The two are wrapped up in each other and don’t notice me. Then my gaze catches on a familiar face. The girl from today’s battle. The dark-haired one who shot me with a dart when I dived in front of Killian.

She spots me, too, and stops in the middle of the staircase to glare at me.

I swallow a groan.

“That,” Clay says, “is Miss Elizabeth Winchester. She’s a bit of a wild card. Only speaks to a select group of people, but defends our weaker members with shocking ferocity.”

“She’s a trainee, right?” Meaning we’re on equal footing? Come on, throw me a bone.

Nope, no bones today. A trainee wouldn’t have gotten the green light to fight.

Clay confirms my suspicions, saying, “She’s a new graduate. She’ll be moving to a house soon. Until then, you might want to wear your armor. If looks could kill...”

I can’t recover from a bad first impression. I can only work harder, do more and prove I’m better, wiser, stronger than I was before.

Am I better, wiser and stronger, though? I’m a girl with both feet in Troika and pieces of a broken heart in Myriad with Killian.

“Don’t worry,” Clay says. “One day, everyone will get behind you.”

Yes. Let’s just hope they aren’t holding daggers in each hand.

Head high, I ascend the staircase.

When I reach Elizabeth, she grabs my arm and softly grates, “Watch out, Numbers. I owe you big-time, and I always pay my debts. Plus interest.”

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 fizzes 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 of 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...

My heart skips a beat. I’m a hypocrite. As bad as the people who spied on me. “Can the Eye—”

“No,” she interrupts.

“You don’t even know—”

“Don’t I?” She arches a brow. “You aren’t the first newbie I’ve shown around, and you all ask the same things.”

Okay, yeah. She probably knows what I plan to ask. Disappointed, I change the subject. “I haven’t seen any animals. Are pets allowed in the realm?” I’ve always wanted a dog or a cat, but my parents flat-out refused.

“Oh, baby, the animals!” Clay slings an arm around my shoulders. “There’s a sanctuary in the Capital of New. Animals are allowed anywhere, anytime, but they usually prefer to stay in the sanctuary or visit the Sanatorium where Healers work. You’re welcome to visit either place.”

My brow furrows. “Why do animals prefer the sanctuary? Why don’t they live with families?”

Meredith snorts. “Why don’t you ask the animals? They’d love a chance to fill you in.”

Is she implying the animals...talk? No, surely not. But...maybe? How cool would a talking dog or cat be?

I see you has manna, hooman. I has no manna. Give me your manna.

We stroll down the sidewalk and enter another Gate, this one posed between two buildings. I hardly notice a change in my surroundings before we exit. Or rather, try to exit. A mammoth crowd blocks our path.

“This,” Meredith says, ramping up the volume in order to be heard over the crest of murmurs, “is the Temple of Temples, where the Secondking lives. There are three separate parts. The courtyard is located on the east side and opens to the Waft of Incense. The Waft of Incense—or WoI—leads to the Great Throne, where Eron presides.”

“And when the Firstking visits Troika, he stays here,” Clay adds, his tone wishful.

He wants to meet the Firstking, doesn’t he?

I’ve seen both kings only once before, when Archer allowed me to view Troika through his eyes.

A twinge of grief causes me to hiss. “How often does the Firstking visit?”

“Once a month.” Light flashes on the brands in the center of her palms. Frowning, she taps one, and a text message appears, hovering just over her hand. She sighs.

When she cants her head toward the Gate, I understand it’s time to go. We enter, returning to the House of Secrets. Next stop—my apartment. The tour is over.

“Something wrong?” I ask her.

“Nope.” She offers no more, and I decide not to press. I’m a newbie with, like, zero clearance.

However, I decide to ask questions about the realm while I have the chance. “Where does the Secondking’s fiancée live?” I got a glimpse of Princess Mariée, and she is more exquisite than the realm itself, her hair as pale as a lily of the valley, her cheeks as pink as a rose, her eyes as blue as the clearest ocean. “How long have they been engaged? And why is she called princess when she’s not yet married into the royal family? Are there other princesses here?”

Clay becomes waxen, disconcerting me.

Meredith wilts like a flower in summer heat. “Mariée is missing. I mean, we know she’s here—and alive—because she’s the other Conduit and her Light continues to shine through the Grid, but no one has seen or heard from her since your Firstdeath. Otherwise she would be overseeing your tour and training herself.”

I rub the galloping pulse at the base of my neck. If she’s out of commission, I’m needed now, not later.

But no pressure, right?

Am I wheezing? I think I’m wheezing.

“And no, there are no other princesses,” my grandmother adds, probably to distract me from a possible panic attack. “The title denotes her engagement. After marriage, she’ll become known as Secondqueen. Oh! They’ve been engaged for almost two thousand years.”

I nearly choke on my tongue. “Um, that doesn’t seem like an excessive wait time to you?” Like, put a ring on it already and lock that baby down.

“When you live forever, two thousand years is nothing. They say they’ll seal the deal after we’ve won the war.” A lock of my hair twirls in a sudden burst of wind, and she reaches out to shift the strands between her fingers. “What about you and your...boyfriend?”

“We are a classic example of it’s complicated.”

And yet, if he appeared in Troika right now, I’d pull him into a hidden corner and kiss the air from his lungs. I miss him as I’d miss a limb. He’s one of my favorite things.

Two people rush past us, their conversation snagging my attention. I cling to the distraction with all my might. They are speaking... Russian, I’m pretty sure, reminding me of the special Troikan language. “Where can I go to learn Troikan?”

“Nowhere,” Meredith says. “You’ll learn it when you use your Key and not a second sooner.”

Another light flashes on her brands. She checks the new message and stiffens. “Apparently I’m taking too long. We need to go.” Steps quick, she ushers us to the first Gate we exited.

As soon as we reach the Capital of New, she kisses my cheek and says, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven. I’m your date to the welcome party.” She rushes off, disappearing inside another Gate.

“You ready to go home, Number Girl? No? Good, didn’t think so. We’re going to have some fun.” Clay returns me to the woodland wonderland.

Reed and Kayla are seated at a table in back, looking at ease and without a care. The other tables are occupied by people I’ve never met...people who notice me and terminate their conversations. Silence descends.

I shift from one booted foot to the other. War is daunting, but this is worse.

Reed frowns. I gulp. Will he pretend not to know me?

“I should go,” I whisper.

A second later, Reed waves us over.

In a show of solidarity, Clay takes my hand and leads me to our friends.

“—Archer,” I hear someone say.

“I know. She’s the reason he’s dead,” another replies.

The heat drains from my face.

My choice, my consequences.

Before my stay at Prynne, my parents decided everything for me. At Prynne, Dr. Vans did all the deciding. What I ate, what I wore, who I spoke with. When I finally claimed the reins of control, I crashed and burned. Archer paid the price.

He had a life here. A family. People who counted on him. Because of me, they lost him.

I want to shout, “We can bring him back in the Resurrection! Spread the word. Vote for Archer.” But I don’t know anything about the others in the running. Maybe these people hope to bring back a beloved family member.

“I should go,” I repeat. I’m linked to these people through the Grid, so, I don’t just feel the white-hot ping of their stares; I feel the sickening burn of their dislike.

How can I end the war between realms when I can’t convince people predisposed to like me to actually like me?

Buck up. Find a way. The end result matters. Failure isn’t an option. My mom lives in Myriad, along with family I never had the chance to meet. And then there’s Killian, of course.

“We stay.” Clay squeezes my hand. “What has six wheels and flies?”

I’m in no mood for a joke—so what better time to make one? “What else? A garbage truck.”

He shakes a fist at the ceiling. “One day I’m going to stump her.”

As we take our places at the table, Reed offers us a piece of manna from his plate. Clay accepts, but I shake my head. If I swallow a single bite, it will come right back up, guaranteed.

“So what is today’s special?” Clay asks.

“Strawberry and honey,” Kayla replies. “The best yet.”

Okay. We’re clearly in a manna restaurant. Curiosity gets the better of me. “Who farms the manna? And how, exactly, do we pay for it?”

“There’s an agricultural section here in the Capital of New.” Reed taps his palm, types into the Light glowing over his hand, and a map appears in the center of the table. He points to a long sweep of pastureland. “Agronomists, a subdivision of Laborer, plant and harvest the crops.”

His ease with Troikan technology gives me hope. He hasn’t been here long, but look at everything he’s mastered.

“As for money,” Kayla says, “trainees are given a weekly allowance for necessities.”

Reed snorts. “An allowance you hoard, afraid the money will stop coming. When are you gonna realize this place isn’t like the Land of the Harvest.”

Kayla hmphs and flattens her hand on the side of the table. A Light flashes through her brand, and three beeps ring out. “There. I just paid for a fresh round of manna. You’re welcome.”

Sure enough, a waitress—another subdivision of Laborer—soon arrives with a smile and a plate of strawberry and honey manna.

“May you be ever enlightened,” she says before moving off.

Kayla offers me a bite before polishing off two pieces. “If you’d arrived five minutes earlier, you could have met Victor Prince. He’s—”

“Archer’s brother. Yeah.” I shift, uncomfortable again. “I met him when I first arrived.”

“Oh.” She traces a fingertip along the rim of her plate. “He’s tutoring me. He—”

The restaurant is silent, her voice booming. Her cheeks darken. I glance to the entrance and do a double take. My stomach sinks.

Elizabeth is here, and there’s a tall dark-haired guy at her side.

She glares at me, and I lift my chin. If she wants to use me as a punching bag, fine. Go for it. Pain for pain. I’m willing, and I won’t fight back. I deserve it. But I also won’t be cowed.

Kayla trembles, as if she’s the one on the receiving end of Elizabeth’s vitriol. Confrontation of any kind is difficult for her. In Many Ends, she had recoiled from almost every fight.

“Either the Myriad supporter goes,” Elizabeth announces, “or I go. Take your pick. But I suggest you choose wisely. One of us will help you. The other will stab you in the back.”

Murmurs erupt. All eyes focus on me and narrow. Heat sears my cheeks, and I’m sure my color matches Kayla’s. Lobster red.

“I choose you,” Reed tells me. “I’ll always choose you. You saved my life.”

I’m overcome with gratitude. Problem is, I know Elizabeth will make life miserable for him. “No,” I say. “Choose her.” Nausea churns in my gut as I stand. “She’s—”

“No way.” Clay stands beside me, and Reed quickly follows suit. Kayla, too.

My sense of gratitude grows. “Sit down, you guys,” I mutter, but they remain in place.

Killian would have laughed in Elizabeth’s face, maybe flipped over a table after flipping her off and then he would have told her to go, because he would be staying.

Archer would have apologized with heartfelt regret and left without inciting an incident.

I miss my boys.

“I’ll go. This time,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster. “My actions led to Archer’s death, and I take full responsibility. I accept punishment.”

“Liar.” Elizabeth hisses, “You expect forgiveness.”

Her companion watches us with enigmatic eyes. I can’t read his thoughts.

“One day, yes. I hope for forgiveness.” Can I ever forgive myself? “Archer taught me the value Troika places on the act...and it is an act, a decision rather than a feeling.” I hold up my hand and shout, “A round of second chances, everyone. On me.”

Elizabeth glowers at me.

Having made my point, I stride past her. She balls her fists, clearly debating the merits of hitting me. In the end, she opts to stand down. Smart.

I don’t start my fights, but I always finish them.

I make it out of the building without incident, my friends on my heels.

“I wish you’d stayed,” I tell them.

“All for one, and one for all,” Clay replies.

Kayla snorts. “So we’re the Four Musketeers now?”

“Nah. I vote we call ourselves the Reed Raiders.” Reed wiggles his brows.

“No way.” Clay flexes his biceps. “We’re the Clayminators.”

“I’m on board for the Kayniacs,” Kayla says.

“If we’re called anything but a nerd herd, I’ll be surprised,” I say with a laugh. “Besides, when someone threatens us, we just have to say, Do not make us count to Ten. Bad guys will run away, crying for their mommies.”

Chuckles abound.

My amusement doesn’t last long, however. As we head to my apartment, I throw a furtive glance over my shoulder. Nothing and no one is there, but I feel as if my troubles are following me.

And why wouldn’t they? They’re chained to my ankles, bricks I’ve been dragging behind me for years.

chapter five

“There is power in consistency.”

—Troika

At seven sharp the next evening, Meredith arrives at my doorstep. I’ve almost forgotten my encounter with Elizabeth.

Almost.

I spent the rest of the day holed up in my apartment, watching video feed of Jeremy and even Meredith, who visited him and Levi. Clay, Reed and Kayla spent an hour with me before they had to rush off to their classes. I’d asked questions about HART and their methods of operation, secretly brainstorming ways to stop the war with Myriad.

We gathered people from both realms and encouraged everyone to list their grievances so that changes could be made, preventing future clashes, Reed had said. But the powers that be always stepped in and stopped the proceedings.

He’d given me an idea, and I’d come up with steps one, two and three of what I’m sure will be a Ten-part plan.

Set a meeting with Elizabeth, allowing her to list her grievances with me. Win her over—and everyone else in the process. Convince Troikans that war with Myriad isn’t in our best interest.

You know, easy stuff.

Maybe I’ll host a Myriad Lovers Anonymous party.

T + M = TuisM

Tuism: the practice of putting the interests of another before one’s own.

When the letters T and M are replaced by their numerical equivalents—20 and 13—they equal 33

Thirty-three is the atomic number of arsenic, a poison, but it is also the age often associated with the Age of Perfection.

Thirty-three is the numerical equivalent of AMEN: 1 + 13 + 5 + 14 = 33.

I’m going to need help with my Tuism. What if I can convince Killian to form an alliance with me? We could—

What? Convince others to join our cause? Prove Troikans and Myriadians can lo—like each other?

I tug at my collar. No need to throw words like love around, right? Killian would probably freak.

Zero! I need to contact him, but I have no way to do so.

Meredith clears her throat, and I realize I’m standing in the doorway, staring into the distance. My cheeks heat as I motion her inside. She sweeps past me, the scent of orchids fluttering in her wake.

She’s wearing a formal white robe with black seams. The material conforms to her curves one moment but flows freely the next.

She holds up a bundle of metal links. “I brought you a dress.”

That is supposed to be a dress? “You’re kidding, right?”

“Usually, but never about fashion.” She manhandles me, removing my catsuit and fitting me into the links. A wide smile blossoms. “You are ravishing.”

“Thank you.” I excuse myself and go into my bedroom, where I strap a kitchen knife to my thigh.

While I crave peace, I can’t deny I have enemies. I have to be prepared for anything. A lesson I learned inside Prynne.

Curious about my “ravishing” appeal, I study my reflection. The top of the dress is made of small ovals, one laid over another to give the illusion of feathers. Those faux feathers form a deep V between my breasts before branching into multiple chains braided together and wrapped around my waist, the ends cascading to create an ankle-length skirt.

The entire ensemble should weigh a hundred pounds or more, but it’s as light as a cotton T-shirt. Even more astounding, I have full range of motion.

I wish Killian were here. He would look me over slowly and say, “Nice dress. Now take it off.” And I would laugh a throaty laugh to mask my shivers of need. I would ache to be in his arms.

I do ache.

Where is he at this precise moment? What’s he doing? Who is he with?

I dreamed about him again last night, and I’m still raw. I felt the soft brush of his lips a split second before he vanished like morning mist.

I can’t shake the feeling he needs me. That we need each other.

What if he’s in some kind of trouble? What if he’s trying to reach me, desperate for my help?

What if he’s trapped in the Kennels?

I shudder. The Kennels are Myriad’s number one choice for punishment. Cage is stacked upon cage, a different spirit locked inside each one. Men and women, boys and girls. Age doesn’t matter. Everyone is degraded, cramped and starved.

I cover my eyes, as if I can somehow block the horrific image.

I have to find a way to contact Killian.

Head high, I rejoin Meredith. “Will everyone be dressed like this?” Good. I sounded normal, breezy.

In lieu of an answer, she says, “Oh, honey bunny. You have to dress for the job you want, not the job you have.”

“Then I should wear a calculator.” If I’d had a longer Firstlife, I’d planned to get an accounting degree.

“Tsk-tsk. Your nerd is showing.”

“And your old lady is showing.”

We share a smile, but I notice the merriment doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Upon closer inspection, I notice the lines of tension bracketing her mouth.

Considering her reaction to yesterday’s message, something bad has happened behind the scenes.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Madame.” I use my most authoritative tone. “That’s an order from your exalted superior.”

Her tension lessens, and she snorts. “You want to know? Fine. You’re going to be briefed, anyway.”

I am?

“Myriad has been guarding a girl they’ve already signed as if she’s...well, as important as you. And she just might be. There are rumors she’s infected with...” She shudders as she leans in to whisper a single word, “Penumbra.”

I flip through mental files, find no reference. “What is—”

She slaps a hand over my mouth and shakes her head, her eyes wide as saucers.

All right, all right. I hold my hands up, all innocence. Top secret topic. Got it. “Why don’t we call it the Bra?”

Her hand falls away, a half smile teasing one side of her mouth. “The Bra is a highly contagious disease we’ve only ever dealt with in rumor-form. There has never been a breakout. Half our population believes it’s a scare tactic while the other half believes it’s a time bomb waiting to blow. Humans are, supposedly, the only ones susceptible, but the infected can develop the abilities of an Abrogate.”

Abrogate—the highest rank of General in Myriad. My counterpart. I draw Light—or rather, I will—and Abrogates drain it.

“Which camp are you?” I ask.

“Time bomb. The Book of the Law predicts the worlds as we know them will one day end. What better way than this? But that’s another story for another time.”

Maintaining a neutral expression requires a massive effort. The worlds are going to end? This is the first I’ve heard of any upcoming disasters!

What makes you think the changes will be disastrous?

The disembodied voice I heard the day I died, springing from the back of my mind. This is the Grid. My link to the heart of Troika. I’m certain now.

Deep breath in, out. “If the worlds as we know them change, they could change for the better.” Like...peace could be achieved.

Her head cants to the side. “Very true. But because we’ve never dealt with this disease, we have no definite cure. However, we are certain Conduits are the key. If Pen—the Bra is total darkness, then the Light must chase it away.”

Cold fingers of dread creep down my spine. With Princess Mariée MIA, Troikan powers that be will look to me for Penumbra containment, won’t they? No wonder I’ll be debriefed.

I’m supposed to save us. Me. All by my lonesome.

I’m not ready.

I’ll never be ready. But I’m going to help, anyway.

“What causes a...Bra outbreak?” I ask. “Why can’t other Troikans wield the necessary amount of Light?”

“Have you heard of Torchlight?” When I shake my head no, she adds, “For us, Light is power. Our version of electricity. If a spirit is hit with too much electricity, his body shuts down. Torchlight is the spiritual equivalent.”

Stomach cramp. There’s so much I don’t know—so much I need to know if I’m going to survive. “This war,” I say with a sigh. “The realms have been fighting for centuries. Do people even remember why they’re fighting?”

“Of course. Right versus wrong. Values versus anarchy.” She nudges my shoulder, saying, “Speaking of fights. I heard about your run-in with Elizabeth.”

Recruit my grandmother to my peace plan—strike one. “She’s angry with me. And I get it. I do. But I don’t want to fight her. I don’t want to fight anyone. Why can’t we all just get along?”

“Easy. If we don’t fight for what’s right, we’ll be overpowered by what’s wrong.”

Okay. Strike two.

She checks a wristwatch she isn’t wearing and gives me a gentle shove toward the door. “Enough chatter. We should go.”

“Fine,” I grumble.

We exit my apartment. The hallway overflows with trainees just hanging out and talking. Most are wearing armor while a few are draped in robes. Everyone stops whatever they’re doing to bow...to Meredith?

Ooo-kay. Here, we are all equals in terms of love and respect, but this is a show of respect for her position as Leader. The fact that I’m with her—or maybe the threats Levi voiced last night have spread like wildfire—earns me a handful of smiles and even more waves. No one glares at me. A few girls gaze at my dress with longing.

We take two Gates to the Temple of Temples. There’s a crowd, but this one is much thinner, allowing me to note details previously missed. The courtyard teems with an abundance of roses in an array of colors. No petal is dry or withered, no leaf droops. The stems have no thorns.

The next chamber is the Waft of Incense, and I suddenly understand the reason for the name. A heavenly fragrance saturates the air. With every breath, I’m certain I’m inhaling pure life.

Fourteen men and women stand before the gold brick wall guarding the entrance. I scan each face, taking the measure of my peers, and scout out every possible exit.

Work now, relax later.

The fourteen represent a mix of nationalities and appear to be average Troikans, but they are the only ones wearing turquoise robes with short metal links sewn into the shoulders. Levi is among them.

Fourteen, a multiple of seven. A double portion. In numerology, it means deliverance from pain, problem and panic.

Long ago, when people married, they celebrated the wedding feast for fourteen days.

To the right of the fourteen, eight people form a line. Eight is the atomic number of oxygen. Meredith and I take a spot at the end, making us nine and ten. How appropriate.

“Spine straight, shoulders squared,” she says as we make our way forward. “You’re about to meet our mighty Generals.”

Nervousness pricks at me. Will I be rejected or welcomed?

When we reach the front, Meredith takes care of introductions. Just when I think I’ll never be able to remember their names, the Grid kicks in. Agape, Ying Wo, Tasanee, Bahari, Mykhail, John, Spike, Alejandro, Marcos, Jane, Chanel, Luciana, Shamus and of course, Levi. They hail from all over the globe, and they welcome me as they welcomed everyone, with genuine warmth and affection. I’m hugged, patted and teased about my obsession with numbers.

“You’re going to do good things here,” Alejandro tells me. I kinda sorta want to stare at him for the rest of eternity. He is beauty personified. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. The poster boy for perfection.

“I hope so,” I say. I really do.

I’m practically floating as Meredith escorts me into the courtyard, where she introduces me to the eight who stood in line with me. The other newbies.

Eight—looks like the symbol for infinity. A stop sign has eight sides. With me, we are nine. According to yoga, a human body has nine doors—two eyes, two ears, the mouth, two nostrils, and the openings for...um, waste removal and the one for procreation. A cat has nine lives. Happiness is found on cloud nine.

The newbies are Raanan—the guy who’d accompanied Elizabeth to the manna restaurant—Fatima, Winifred, Nico, Rebel, Hoshi, Sawyer and Clementine. They, too, come from all over the globe. Thankfully the Grid allows us to understand each other, no matter the language we speak.

At six—and a half, foot stomp—Fatima is the youngest, killed in a house fire. At seventy-three, Nico is the oldest. I feel like such a creep for thinking this but...he’s hot.

To my delight, I’m not the only one with odd hair. Clementine has pink ringlets, Nico’s mass of curls are fire-engine red and Hoshi’s straight-as-a-pen locks are the color of plums, dark with purple undertones.

Everyone but Raanan offers an enthusiastic greeting; he remains mute, his expression contemplative. Despite him, I’m relieved by my easy camaraderie with the others, considering we are strangers. Strangers in a strange land flock together, I guess.

“By the way some of the others have been talking about you,” Fatima says with an innocent grin, “I expected you to have horns, fangs and a forked tail.”

“I know, right?” Rebel, who is fourteen, playfully elbows the little girl in the side. “I’m actually megadisappointed.”

Raanan frowns as Hoshi and Clementine jump up and clap.

“He’s here!” Clementine squeals. “Someone pinch me. No, don’t! If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”

“I’ve been praying for another glimpse of him,” Hoshi admits.

I glance over my shoulder to discover...Victor Prince. He’s involved in a deep conversation with a girl I’ve never met, and he hasn’t yet noticed his admirers.

My good mood deflates like a balloon with a hole. Days have passed since Archer’s death. My sweet, lovable Archer.

I haven’t begun to heal.

I miss you every minute, every second

Are you near? Hope no longer beckons.

I want to sob, but here, now, I can only kneel.

Emptiness is the only thing I feel.

Tell me, please, how I’m supposed to go on.

For the rest of eternity, you, Little “Bow” Peep, are gone.

Has grief erased Victor’s optimism? I’ve heard no more talk about the Resurrection. How can we convince others to vote for Archer? Do we even try?

Soft music drifts through the air. A live band plays amid the wealth of roses. Their instruments, like so many other things in Troika, are different than what I’m used to seeing, and the sounds...oh, wow, the sounds! The melody is hauntingly beautiful. My ears tingle. Tears well in my eyes.

“Have you ever heard anything so exquisite?” Winifred stares at the band with dreamy eyes.

“Excuse us, everyone. I’m going to steal Ten away.” With an arm snaked around my waist, Meredith herds me toward the Great Throne room, even though the door is closed.

“Why—” I spot the Secondking to the right of the doors, speaking with a man and woman.

His violet robe is the most ornate I’ve ever seen, the seams bound together with gold thread, the hem glittering as if soaked in Lifeblood. He’s tall, his face plain, but his eyes...they are bluer than a morning sky, brighter than a sapphire and lovelier than a blue jay.

The man and woman notice our approach and take a step back, clearing our path. My mouth dries, and my insides perform a series of flip-flops. I’m about to meet Troika’s king. In person.

Don’t trip. Don’t spit when you speak. Oh, zero, how’s my breath?

Meredith bows, and I clumsily do the same.

He smiles at us, and I would swear the sun just rose over the entire realm. Plain? No, this man is the definition of beautiful. “I’m pleased you chose Troika, Tenley.”

He knows my name! And though he spoke only six words, I jolt as if I just consumed an entire smorgasbord of manna. I’m electrified from the inside out. “Thank you...” Eron? Too casual. Great King? Perhaps too formal, considering our surroundings. Dang it, what’s the proper way to address him? “Majesty.”

He inclines his head. One point for Ten. I nailed it.

So...is now a good time to mention my thoughts on the war?

As if reading my mind, Meredith urges me away. As I huff and puff with irritation, she says, “A party is not the time for politics.” She stops in front of the pair who spoke to the Secondking before us.

“This,” Meredith says, “is my mother. Your great-grandmother Hazel. She’s a Laborer.”

My eyes widen with surprise and pleasure. I should have guessed. Hazel is petite and blonde, just like Meredith, with a similar regal bearing. But...how is my dark-haired mother part of their familial line?

Hazel tsks at her daughter. “What have I told you about playing Barbie with the new recruits?” Her voice reminds me of a lullaby: soft, sweet and calming.

Meredith snorts. “You said to wait for you so you could play, too.”

Hazel nods and looks me over, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “I hope you don’t expect me to call you Ten. I refuse to refer to my great-granddaughter as a number. I’ll call you Blue.”

She refuses to call me a number, even though it’s my name, but she’s fine with a color? I take a page from Clay’s book and pat the top of her head. Only family can get away with such illogical logic.

“I’m good with Blue. How about I call you Meemaw?”

“Yes!” She fist-pumps the sky. “Meemaw it is.”

“And this,” Meredith says with a laugh, “is Steven, your grandfather. He’s a Laborer, though a different subset. He harvests manna.”

Steven smiles and shakes my hand. He’s on the tall side with clear Native American roots. “So wonderful to meet you, Tenley.”

“Call me Ten. Or Blue,” I add with a wink. I wonder if he and my grandmother are still married.

What the heck. I go ahead and ask.

“During a human marriage, two bodies are bound together, not two spirits.” She pats Steven on the shoulder. “Upon Firstdeath, the bond is voided. But no worries. We’re best friends now.”

With her gaze on something—or someone—behind us, Hazel frowns. “What is she doing here?” Annoyance drips from her tone. “Only friends and family of the newbies received invitations.”

Foreboding rushes through me, a river without a dam. I turn...and spot Elizabeth. Great!

She whispers something to the freckled redhead at her side, and the two glare at me before making their way to Nico, Raanan and Sawyer, who have congregated in a corner.

“She’s distantly related to Raanan.” Meredith wags a finger in her mother’s face, and I begin to understand why she’s a Leader. “And we’re happy she’s here, aren’t we? We hope she has fun. Right? Right! Because we love our fellow Troikans, no matter what.”

Well. Raanan’s silent treatment now makes sense.

“Right,” Hazel grumbles. “Happy. Fun. Love.”

I catch sight of Clay, Reed and Kayla as they enter the courtyard, and a spark of happiness ignites. “Over here!”

They spot me and rush over. Before I dole out hugs, they notice Meredith and bow their heads in greeting. Hazel and Steven receive handshakes.

Clay wiggles his brows at me. “Hey, baby. You must be the square root of negative one, because you can’t possibly be real.”

I bark out a laugh.

Meredith rolls her eyes. “Your pickup lines need serious work, Clayton.”

“So you keep telling me.” His smiles widens as he focuses on her. “But that wasn’t a pickup line. This is. On a scale of one to ten, you’re a nine...and I’m the one you need.”

She throws back her head and laughs with delight.

Whoa. Full stop. Did eighteen-year-old Clay just try to pick up my grandmother? Gross! Killian, at least, is nineteen and only a year and a half older than me.

Killian...

Forget contacting him. I want to see him, breathe him in. I want to touch, hug and kiss him. I want his skin pressed against mine, without a flicker of pain. And the desires do not spring from my crush on him. Not entirely. I think... I think the Grid is trying to tell me I’m not supposed to be here without him.

Impossible. Right? The Troikan Grid would never welcome a Myriadian.

Still my heart cries, Killian.

There are seven letters in his name. The numerical equivalent is 11 + 9 + 12 + 12 +9 + 1 + 14 = 68

68 is a code meaning “put it back,” while 86 is a code meaning “remove it.”

Kayla waves a hand in front of my face and says, “If your plan is to discourage Elizabeth from seeking revenge by making yourself look miserable, mission accomplished.”

“I miss Killian,” I confess softly. She’s never met him, and I’m glad. Before me, he slept with his assignments. His method of choice. The quickest and easiest way to convince a girl to make covenant with Myriad, desperate to stay with him.

What can I say? The boy gives good romance.

At first, I feared I was just another number to him (har har). Just another conquest to be won. But he willingly entered the Kennels for me in order to buy me more time, so I could make a decision about my future in peace. He disobeyed his Leader’s orders to hurt me, protecting me instead. Finally, he urged me to make covenant with Troika, despite the war.

How can I ever doubt his affections for me?

“You won’t be allowed to leave the realm for a year,” Kayla tells me. “You have to complete your training first.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the girl who arrived with Elizabeth approaches our circle—sans Elizabeth—and zeros in on Clay.

If she thinks to strike at me by hurting my friend...

He’s a good guy with a good heart, and I will play Ten Ways To Die if her intentions are anything but honorable.

After a few minutes of back and forth teasing, the two wander off. I’m tempted to follow, but Clay looks so happy. I let him go without comment, and the conversation behind me snags my attention.

“—so excited to make my first kill.” I recognize Clementine’s voice.

“I know!” Hoshi replies. “Those Myriadians are going dooown.”

They talk about ending a life as if it’s easy, as if there are no consequences. I know better. I’ve killed before. A guard at the asylum sneaked into my cell, expecting a good time. I choked him with his own belt. Another guard beat inmates for attempting to escape. I stabbed him in the gut.

Both were acts of self-defense, and yet I haven’t been able to wash the dark stains from my soul.

Soon I’ll be expected to slaughter entire armies.

Sweat beads over my nape, even as my insides chill.

Victor moves to my side, handsome in a white robe with black embroidery. He shakes hands with everyone in our group. Kayla brightens when he kisses her knuckles.

He winks at me. “You want to dance, New Girl?”

Overjoyed by his ease with me, I nod. Only as he draws me away do I notice no one else is dancing. “Wait,” I begin.

“Nope. No take-backs.” He swings me around and tugs me against him, catching me and laughing. “This is happening.”

He looks so much like his brother I can’t help but soften against him.

“How do you like Troika so far?” he asks.

I scan the sea of faces for Elizabeth, but she’s nowhere to be found. Kayla is frowning at me. When she notices my gaze, she spins away.

Odd. “The land or the people?” I ask Victor.

“I’ll take that to mean you love the land but want to throat-punch some of the people.” He flattens a hand on my shoulder and the other at my lower back, careful not to delve anywhere he shouldn’t. “Here’s what you don’t know. One of the soldiers Killian killed—Elizabeth was dating him.”

Oh...zero. My shoulders roll in. “How do I earn her forgiveness?”

“If forgiveness has to be earned, it isn’t forgiveness.”

A high-pitched scream assaults my ears, and panic sweeps through the crowd.

“Help,” a girl shouts. Young Fatima? “Help them! Please!”

Another newbie rushes past me, a look of terror on her face.

“It’s all right.” A guy chases after her. “It’s not what it seems.”

I wrench from Victor’s arms and dart in the opposite direction, closing in on the still-screaming Fatima. She’s on the floor, curled into a ball, staring ahead as if she’s just come face-to-face with her worst fear. Multiple people attempt to comfort her.

“What—” I spot the reason for her upset and cry out.

Killian. Killian is here. He’s chained to a column, his feet engulfed in flames, his features contorted in agony. He screams. Clay is chained to the column next to him, his feet also engulfed by flames. He jerks at his bonds to no avail.

As I sprint over, three facts occur to me. 1) Not a single General, Leader or Laborer is concerned for the boys. 2) The flames emit zero heat. 3) The air is fresh, no hint of burning leather or flesh.

However, there’s no time to ponder the reasons. No time to waste with a debate about whom to save first. Clay is Troikan. Any soldier here will happily rush to his aid. No one but me will free Killian.

I unsheathe the knife discreetly hidden under my skirt and slide the rest of the way across the marble pathway to stop behind Killian. I reach for the lock on his chains and—

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