Firstlife (32 page)

In a flash of light, Archer appears beside his friend. He's pale, his lips drawn tight.

“Pearl is planning a public execution,” I say.

Archer nods. “Word has been sent to all Troika. Killian and Sloan are scheduled to die bright and early in the morning.”

“Myriad, as terrible as they are, will never allow Pearl to kill an Unsigned human in public,” Deacon says. “It's bad for business.”

“Sloan,” Archer replies, his voice sad, “signed with Myriad a few hours ago. Her spirit now belongs to them.”

Deacon closes his eyes, his shoulders slumping.

My friend signed with my enemy. And they
are
my enemy. They are hurting those I love, planning to do worse.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling as though I'm partly to blame for Sloan's decision. I should have spent more time with her at the party, should have discussed our futures in more detail.

But really, what good would I have done her? She saw the Exchange, same as I did. She knew the great value Troika places on all life.

Still. I love her, and I'm not going to watch her die. “Gather your troops,” I say. “We're going after them.”

They don't hop to, but pause to share a look.

“What?” I demand.

“You know Killian and Sloan belong to Myriad.” There's remorse in Archer's voice, and that's a step in the right direction, but he still sucks right now.

“They are people, regardless of their realm. If you won't help them—won't help me—fine. I'll save them on my own.”

“And you'll be walking into a trap,” Archer says. “Word of the execution was sent to us simply to draw you out of hiding. That's Pearl's MO, as she's proved. Here, at least, you're safe. She can't get to you.”

“I don't care.”

I stalk to my room to bag up the weapons I've collected. A few daggers, an Oxi, a Stag, two kitchen knives. That done, I strap on my leather bracelets.

When I turn, Deacon is leaning against my door frame. “All right, you've talked me into it. I'm going with you. For Sloan, not for Killian.”

I'll take what help I can get, however I can get it. “What about Archer?”

“Let me tell you something, little girl. Troika has legions of armies, but every single one is otherwise engaged, especially now that we're down to only one Conduit. These armies are stationed throughout your world and our own. They fight to protect a race of people who do not see them or even think to thank them. They have very little time off—if any at all. They work tirelessly. They're injured often. They don't need more to do.”

“I commend them,” I say, even though I don't know why he's telling me all this. “What about Archer?” I repeat.

“He went to ask the King for an army.”

chapter twenty-seven

“You have a Secondlife, but not a second chance. Choose wisely.”

—Myriad

That night, Deacon and I head for the spa to set up shop. We're about a mile away when we come to a roadblock, Myriad Shells on patrol. We backtrack with every intention of reaching the designated area from the other direction, only to find another roadblock. An attempt to sneak past it will either prove really stupid or really smart.

Thing is, once we're out for the count, we're out. The end.

Eventually, we decide to back off. Pearl planned for everything, placing her people everywhere. On top of buildings. At every entrance and exit of every road and building within a one-mile radius. She's serious about my capture. Or rather, my murder. By killing me and sending me to Many Ends, she's certain Ashley will one day get another chance to enter Myriad. She's desperate, and that desperation is going to be her downfall. I can't sink to the same level.

I have to stay calm. Stay ready.

We return to the safe house to wait out the night, pacing, pacing...until finally morning dawns, the execution scheduled to begin in less than an hour. As soon as we see Killian and Sloan, Deacon is going to do the beam-me-up-Scotty thing, transporting me straight to the scene of the crime. He tries to talk me out of going that route, but I'm determined. Even when he tells me the human body always has a poor reaction to traveling from one point to the other in only a blink. Whatever. I'm willing to risk a little motion sickness.

Reporters from all over the world are on the scene. Video feed dominates every wall in the living room, the projections offering us a panoramic view of the festivities, and we watch as the street fills with a sea of humans wanting to witness the horrific event. It's as if this is nothing but a game.

Public executions aren't held often, but they are held and they are legal. Realms are allowed to punish signees who violate contracts as they see fit. Because Secondlife is a sure thing, the deaths aren't considered terribly serious.

I've seen three in my lifetime, and I remember my parents throwing popcorn at the screen.

Come on, come on.
We're already armed for the most brutal of combat—I'm wearing half the weapons that were in my bag. All I could hold. There's a time for peace, and there's a time for war.

Threaten my loved ones, and it's war. No question.

Deacon's mouth curls in distaste. “Everyone looks so excited.”

He's right. No matter which direction the camera pans, smiles abound. Someone even brought a beach ball to toss around the crowd.

Where is Archer? Why hasn't he returned?

Cheers suddenly erupt along with whistles and catcalls. Tensing, I scan the walls, circling the room until I find the source of the merriment. At last, Killian and Sloan are dragged to the “stage,” the plateau at the top of the marble steps in front of the spa.

I'm expecting them, but the sight still horrifies me. I take a moment to study the scene.

The gold collar is still wrapped around Killian's neck, trapping his spirit inside the Shell. A Shell that is now utterly flayed, flaps of skin hanging by threads. He is a beautiful but morbid sight, covered in so much Lifeblood he looks as if he's bathed in glitter. His tongue...his tongue has been cut out—I know because it's pinned to his shirt. His wrists are shackled to fetters even now being anchored to the columns beside him, his ankles bound to fetters on the ground.

His body forms an X. The Roman numeral for ten.

X marks the spot.

One of Sloan's eyes is swollen shut. There's blood matted in her hair and caked around her nose and mouth. She cried so much and so hard, her face is swollen, tear tracks having left welts on her cheeks. She, too, is shackled with fetters to form an X.

A third person is dragged onto the plateau, and I gasp. My father's head is down and though he's uninjured, his arms are fettered behind his back. His dark hair is rumpled, and tears stain his cheeks.

He's placed a few feet away from Pearl, who looks like an angel. She's wearing a ceremonial robe like the Troikans', though hers is as white as snow, her pale hair falling to her waist in perfect waves.

Just then I'm struck by a truth so real it might as well be a bolt of lightning: there is no greater evil than the one that cloaks itself in virtue.

Pearl doesn't waste any time. She lifts a gun, aims and squeezes the trigger. The loud boom causes the crowd to go quiet. My dad's body jerks, and he collapses. “This man attempted to cheat his contract, and such behavior will never be tolerated.”

Another gasp escapes me, and my hands fly up to cover my mouth. My dad lands on the ground and stays down, his eyes open but unfocused, a quarter-size hole leaking blood between his eyes. Nausea churns in my belly, and my knees begin to knock.
He's dead
. My father is dead. Just. Like. That.

Tears begin to pour down my cheeks. I might not have liked the man, and he might have tried to kill me—this might be what he deserves—but the little girl I used to be still loved him. That little girl will always love him.

“I'm so sorry, Ten.” Deacon gives my shoulder an awkward pat, as if he doesn't know how to offer comfort. “I had no idea she had your father.”

My hands fall to my sides and fist. Meanwhile, the crowd cheers as if she's said something amazing.

Pearl peers into the camera and smiles. “If you sign with Troika, they die.”

She's speaking directly to me. She knew I'd be watching, because she'd taken great pains to spread the word this morning.

The cheers from the crowd grow louder. I think I hear a few shouts of protest.

Oh, yes. I do. Multiple people are holding HART signs that read What If You're Next? Stop the Madness!

Pearl holds up her hand in a bid for silence and finally addresses the masses. “I come to you with a heavy heart.” Her voice—now soothing—drifts through the living room. “Myriad's love for you is boundless and as always we want only the best for you. Yet here I stand, admitting we failed you. The two traitors beside me were welcomed into our fold only to betray us—betray
you
—to Troika, the enemy intent on our destruction.”

A chorus of “boo” erupts.

She places her hand over her heart. “These two tried to hurt you, my people, my family, and that will never be tolerated. I will always fight for you—fight for what's right for you, what's best. Today, the traitors will face my wrath. Their attempts to harm those under my protection will end.”

Cheers again.

Fools! How can they not see the villain she is?

Who am I kidding? I missed it for years.

She looks straight into the camera, as if she's peering straight into my soul. “We will proceed...unless anyone wishes to raise an objection?”

“We go now,” I tell Deacon. “We can't wait for Archer any longer.”

He doesn't protest, and I'm grateful. “All you have to do is survive, Ten. She won't hurt them as long as you're breathing.”

By that reasoning, I should stay here. But we both know that isn't an option. If I do, Pearl
will
hurt Killian and Sloan.

“I'll survive,” I vow. Whatever it takes.

He wraps his arms around me—but nothing happens.

I frown. “Are you sure this will work?”

“Of course. Shells were patterned after human bodies. I'm waiting for you to close your eyes.”

Please. I'm not missing a moment of this. I've been to Many Ends; I can handle anything. “Go!”

Bright, blinding light basically incinerates my corneas. The foundation is ripped out from under me, and I'm thrown like a baseball across a field, the world around me nothing but a blur. I'm—

“Here,” Deacon says.

I hear gasps of surprise, but it takes me a moment to focus. My stomach churns, erupts. I hunch over and spew out my guts. More gasps, only these are laced with disgust. There's a patter of footsteps as people rush to get away from me and my gross.

As I straighten, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, the world comes into view. Deacon landed us right in front of the plateau, just a step below Pearl. His Oxi is already aimed. He fires.

Three Myriad Shells rush from the sidelines to form a wall in front of Pearl, the blast nailing the guy in the middle, the air around him suddenly smoky. He tries to wave away the fumes as his comrades jump away from him, leaving him to decay. Clumps of his hair fall from his head, and his skin begins to age rapidly, wrinkles appearing, spreading, digging deeper.

The guy on his right shoots him between the eyes and the Shell explodes into ash.

Click. Click. Click.

I don't have to look to know that every Shell in the audience is now aiming a weapon at me. Are bullets in the chambers, or darts? Does she want to kill me right from the start, or try one more time to convince me Myriad is better than Troika?

I keep my attention on Killian. He's shaking his head no, his golden eyes—those beautiful eyes—beseeching me.
Leave. Don't do this.

A part of me dies at seeing such a strong boy so helpless.

“I'm here to bargain,” I call and his head falls forward in defeat.

Four seconds pass before Pearl steps forward, her chin high. Four types of blood. Four horsemen of the apocalypse. Four stages in a human Firstlife: conception, birth, life and finally death.

I'm going to deliver her Second-death.

“The time for bargains has passed.” She nods at her men. “Hobble her.”

Hobble, not kill. She is confident she has the edge.

As a thousand explosions ring out, Deacon whisks me away on a beam of light. I'm blinded for a moment, and my stomach rebels the second we land—directly behind Pearl.

I retch all over Deacon's boots, not that anyone notices. Or hears. Shells and humans are too busy toppling from the blasts. Without us there to take the blows, they end up shooting each other.

Deacon raises the Oxi, the barrel aimed at the back of Pearl's head, but she didn't earn the title of Leader by sitting behind a desk.

She senses him and ducks, spins, a Stag palmed from a pocket in her robe. As she fires off a shot of her own, Deacon shoves me out of the way and vanishes, and the dart embeds in the building behind me. I waste no time, unsheathing a dagger and tossing it. The tip slices through her wrist, her version of muscle clenching and unclenching, forcing her to drop the weapon.

A
pop, pop
sounds at my left. Sharp pain erupts in my neck, electric pulses shooting through me, making me jerk, rendering me useless. Pearl smiles as she pulls the blade from her wrist, then nods in thanks to the Shell who pegged me full of darts.

Can't have failed so easily. So quickly.

She walks toward me, saunters really, pep in every step. She's proud of herself, even a little giddy. My gaze scans... Deacon is fighting a crowd of Myriad soldiers. A split second after he disappears, they disappear. A split second after he reappears, they reappear, the battle never pausing. Someone is always punching, throwing elbows or knees.

“Help,” I manage to gasp.

“Yes, help her,” Pearl calls. How smug she sounds. “Anyone?”

Deacon glances my way and appears behind Pearl a second later, but that's what she wanted him to do—draw out and conquer. She dives low when he swings at her and as she rolls, she nails him with a dart.

He drops, his body twitching.
No, no, no
.

My fault!

No.
Her
fault. She stands, giving me another of those smug smiles, my dagger still in her hand. “You were right, you know. You can't be Fused with my Ashley. Which means we were wrong about the other Generals. We have to be wrong.”

Other Generals? Plural? “Wrong about what?”

She ignores me, saying, “I'm supposed to bring you in if at all possible. I don't think it's possible.”

The darts send electric pulses through every muscle in my body. It's agony. Worse than anything Vans ever put me through. Before Many Ends, it would have overwhelmed me, and I might have tapped out.

My trials were my darkest hours, but now I'll use them as the foundation of my triumph.

As Pearl raises the dagger, I push through the pain. My determination is unparalleled, the sun stroking over me, seeping into me...strengthening me? I manage to kick out my leg, knocking her feet out from under her. She falls, crash landing on a step. The pain grows worse, but my determination grows with it, the sun continuing to stroke me, warming me from the inside out. I'm able to reach up and yank the dart out of my neck.

She and I stand in unison, facing off. Another dart—two, three, four—sink into my flesh, and I drop to my knees. But only for a second. Only long enough to pull out each one and stand again.

Surprise and fear darken in her eyes. “You shouldn't... No one should... How...”

The sun continues to stroke me as I bend down and pluck out the darts in Deacon. I keep my eyes on Pearl. “Your pride dragged you here while my determination carried me. I'm a force to be reckoned with, and today is the day of your reckoning.”

Backing away from me, she shouts, “Kill them! Kill Killian and Sloan.”

A moment of surprise. She's flipped the script and changed her game play. I was the ultimate target, but because she's at a disadvantage—despite the army surrounding her—she's determined to strike at me any way possible.

I cast a panicked look at Deacon, who is still recovering. He's gone a second later, reappearing in front of Sloan while I dive for Killian. Shots ring out as blinding white lights appear all over the plateau, all through the street, even in front of Killian and Sloan. Shells! An army from Troika!

Archer stops the shots from hitting Killian. Or rather, his sword does. In one hand, he holds a sword of mesmerizing blue-white fire. The one I've asked him about, the handle actually growing from his palm. In his other hand, he holds a shield, and with a crisscross motion of his arms, he either burns the darts and bullets—
everything
fired his way—or blocks them. Nothing gets past him. He remains unharmed, Killian saved from Second-death.