скачать книгу бесплатно
A sense of doom overtakes me, a shadow I’m unable to shake. Bad is coming. Bad is always coming. But since six days have passed without incident—bad is coming soon.
Sounding resigned, she says, “Our cell will open in—”
“Three, two, one,” I finish.
The doors slide apart, and we race into the hall.
Sloan spots me and flips me off. I know she’s pleased four guards are missing, but she’s also ticked about something—clearly—and lashing out.
I look her over and find finger-size bruises around her neck. Someone tried to choke her out. Been there, lived through that.
If I show her an ounce of sympathy, she’ll try to throat punch me. I blow her a kiss.
“Come on,” I say to Bow.
We make our way to the cafeteria, where I count the occupants out of habit. My gaze lands on a boy I’ve never before seen and oh, wow. Okay. He. Is. Gorgeous. Not that I care about a pretty face. Pretty can hide a monster. But I’m not overhyping when I say he’s a living ad for every dream-boy fantasy every girl in the universe has ever had.
He has dark hair that hangs over a stern brow. I can’t make out the color of his eyes, but just like with Bow, I can feel the intensity of them—because they’re locked on me. His nose is straight, perfect, and his lips soft and pink. His jaw is strong and dusted with the shadow of a beard.
He leans back and drapes his tattooed, muscular arms over the tops of the chairs flanking him, and smiles, a slow unveiling of perfect, white teeth.
In moments like this I miss Clay more than usual. He was—is!—such a good judge of character. He can take one look at a new inmate or guard and tell me if they have a heart of gold or one that’s as wrinkled as a prune. We called him the heartalyst.
Where are you, Clay?
“Son of a Myriad-troll.” Bow snarls, taking a step forward, about to move out of line. “How dare he show his ugly face!”
I shackle her wrist in a hard grip to hold her in place.
“Don’t worry,” she says, huffing and puffing. “I won’t break the rules and murder him. I’ll just introduce him to my fists—repeatedly!”
When she continues to struggle, I plant myself in front of her, forcing her to concentrate on me. “Calm down. Now. Or you’ll be dragged out of here kicking and screaming.”
She tries to glare at the boy over my shoulder.
“My TL once said hate is like drinking a vial of poison and expecting it to harm the other person,” I tell her, and she finally settles. “You’re not hurting the guy, only yourself.”
“But...but... I’m justified,” she says with a whine.
“So is everyone else, I’m sure.” As I peer at her, curiosity fills me. “How do you know him? What’d he do to you?”
Stiffening, she turns away. “We’ve crossed paths a time or two. He’s pure Myriad evil, trust me.”
“He can’t be that bad. I’m sure—”
In a flash of motion, she’s facing me again, fisting my shirt, clinging to me, her copper eyes imploring me to understand. “He’s worse than bad. Stay away from him. Okay? All right?”
I dare another glance at “pure Myriad evil.” He’s focused on Bow now, looking her up and down like he’s a predator and it’s finally mealtime. He smiles again, even more slowly, a lot more wickedly, and runs his tongue over his teeth, as if he can already taste her...and he only wants more.
I lose the ability to breathe.
“Move,” the inmate behind Bow commands, giving her a push.
I snap to and toss the girl a scowl that rivals Sloan’s, silently promising violence. Only when she’s staring at her feet do I step forward and accept my tray from a creeper with greasy hair and an even greasier mustache. I’m pretty sure Dr. Vans purposely hires the scourge of the earth to scare us straight.
Bow accepts her tray and shepherds me across the cafeteria, as far away from New Guy as possible. I let her get away with it for only one reason: that stupid curiosity. Along the way we pass Sloan, who just can’t resist the opportunity to stick out her leg to trip Bow. But Bow is a freak of nature. She jumps over the obstacle and kicks back, hooking Sloan’s ankle between her feet and ripping the girl out of her chair.
As Sloan goes down, her elbow slams into her tray. Food pours over her head, and as she shrieks, the rest of the cafeteria grows quiet. Finally a chuckle cuts through the shock, and it’s like a starting bell. The rest of the room explodes into squawks of laughter.
Bow doesn’t grin over her triumph; she frowns. Once again wishing she’d handled things differently? “I’m sorry,” she calls over her shoulder.
What a conundrum she is. Smart, with sharply honed protect-yourself-at-any-cost instincts. But she also has a deep-seated need to soothe others.
When we find a table, she stares at me, intent. “Listen. Things are different now. Things you won’t understand. You have to trust me, and you have to keep me nearby from now on. No matter what. Okay? All right? I’ll see to your safety. If you’ll let me.”
“You can’t see to my safety.” No one can. “There are too many threats.”
“Dude. I’ve already proved otherwise, and yet still you doubt me?”
“And,” I continue as if she hasn’t spoken, “I don’t want you to try. I mean it. You’ll only get yourself into trouble.”
“Ten—”
“No. No arguments.” I may be confused about my future, but I’m not confused about my present. I’ll never place my well-being in the hands of someone else. Once, I trusted my parents. They sent me here. I trusted James. Since his death, I’ve been stuck with a terrible sense of loss. I trusted Marlowe, who’d been pro-Troika, but ultimately, she was so desperate to leave the asylum and enter the realm, she hung herself. She also abandoned Clay, who loved her.
Now I don’t know if she’s actually in Troika or Many Ends—if it’s real. Suicide is expressly forbidden by both realms, and it can even render a contract null and void.
I trusted Clay, too. He managed to stay clean and sober until Marlowe’s death. Afterward, he spiraled, doing I-don’t-know-what to buy “happy” drugs from a nurse.
His mind roilin’ and boilin’, he asked me to escape with him. Said he’d paid the guards to do what they’d done for James. I’d already lost my boyfriend and couldn’t bear the thought of losing another friend, so I turned him down and begged him to give me time to figure out a better way.
The next day, he was gone.
That was three months ago. Where is he? Free? Or was he caught? Is he somewhere within these horrible walls?
Sometimes I think I hear screams rising from my concrete floor.
“That boy...he’s Myriadian, you know,” Bow mutters.
She says Myriadian with the same inflection she might use with cancer. Does she hate him just because he signed with the other realm? “Have you ever heard of HART?”
“Humans Against Realm Turmoil? Yep. They like to protest the war between the realms in front of the House of Myriad, the House of Troika, and the White House.”
“Right.” From my History of the Worlds class, I know their ultimate goal is a treaty between the realms and the Land of the Harvest. I also know the first members got together soon after the realms revealed themselves...again.
Apparently, the realms did the whole “Hi, we’re here and we’re real” a few times over the ages, but humans—being human—romanticized the truth. Myriad has been called everything from Valhalla to Mount Olympus, while Troika was once known as Paradise. Then, around the 1500s, both realms began to insert themselves into everyday human existence, drawing us out of the dark ages.
“Why?” Bow asks, her tone cautious.
“Well, I’m wondering why members of the realms haven’t agreed to a peace treaty. Or, you know, just hugged it out. I’m wondering why you hate a boy just because he’s different. Or because he’s hurt you for some mysterious reason. You Troikans claim you’re all about forgiveness, right?”
“Forgiving someone isn’t the same as letting him crap all over me. Dude. Have you ever heard the Myriad pledge of allegiance? We won’t rest until Troika is nothing but ash in the wind of eternity. Also, the HART campaign is ridiculous. Light and darkness cannot coexist. A house divided cannot stand.” She pushes her tray to the middle of the table, as if she’s lost her appetite. “We’d be a two-headed beast, and we’d consume ourselves.”
Speaking of consumption, she’s eaten so little since her arrival I’m beginning to worry about her health.
“Distract me,” she says.
“Eat,” I reply.
“No. Distract me,” she repeats.
“Want me to sing and dance for you?” I ask drily.
“Yes!”
“No way, no how. Not happening.”
“Fine.” She sighs with disappointment. “Just... I don’t know, talk to me. Tell me something about your life before the asylum.”
I don’t want to share details about myself, but I also don’t want her to starve, and it’s now clear she requires motivation. “I’ll give a nugget or two, but only if you eat everything on your tray.”
“Are you kidding? It’s gross and—”
“Trust me, you need the vitamins.”
“Fine.” With a grimace, she returns the tray to its proper place. “Now talk.”
Where to begin? It seems like an eternity since I’ve revealed even a minor detail about my history. “I attended a Myriad-endorsed private school.”
She waits for me to say more. I don’t. She gives her tray another push.
I scowl at her. “What do you want to know?”
“How about your studies?”
“Besides the usual courses?” Easy. “The inner workings of the realm.” Those classes were taught by Messengers, people responsible for spreading the word about the realm they loved.
Mostly, I’d been fascinated by the daily life of spirits. Unlike us, they have no need to sleep. They eat only one meal a day, a single piece of manna. A honeycomb-like wafer. Anyone under the age of eighteen attends school to learn more about their realm and its leaders. Kids are also taught the skills they’ll need for whatever job they’ll one day be assigned.
Everyone over the age of eighteen works an assignment nonstop until completion—even if the assignment takes years. Like undercover cops.
Bow swallows a bite of slop and grimaces. “What about your friends?”
“They were sheltered, like me.” The answer leaves me without hesitation, as if I’m already used to sharing. “We could hang out together, but only with a parent or Laborer in view. We weren’t to get behind the wheel of a car or even into a car with someone other than the person paid to drive us.” At first, I accepted it. I thought, My parents love me, want me protected. Then came resentment. My parents simply need me alive, whatever the cost.
The day of my sixteenth birthday, after I refused to sign with Myriad, I stole the keys to my mom’s car. I’d never driven before, but autopilot made it effortless. I’d soared, and I’d never had so much fun.
But that kind of fun never lasts, does it?
The next day, I ended up at the asylum, scared out of my mind, shocked and confused.
“Does Troika choose humans the same way Myriad does?” I ask.
“Pretty much. Headhunters monitor people on the earth, searching for a certain trait.”
Headhunter, a subdivision of Leader. “What trait?”
“Willingness.”
“Willingness?” What does that even mean?
“Anyway,” she continues. “Laborers are sent to protect the chosen and then, when the human reaches the Age of Accountability, they negotiate covenant terms and guide the human through the rest of Firstlife. With us, though, covenants are voided if the signer is coerced. With Myriad, a coerced signer must go to court to gain freedom.”
Court? “There’s a way out?” The news gives me hope.
“Yes, but too many lose the case, since the court insists both Troikans and Myriadians attend. The signer often cracks during questioning.”
Well, a little hope.
“Now I know the before-Prynne Ten.” Bow waves her spoon at me. “Tell me about the after-Prynne Ten. What are you going to do when you’re free?”
Reveal who I want to be, rather than who I used to be? That one proves more difficult. “You first.”
“As if you couldn’t guess. I’m going to continue spreading light, and I’m going be the best Troikan Laborer—and the sexiest—in the history of ever.”
I’ve struggled to pick a side for over a year. Here she is, unwavering in her belief. I’ll just pretend I’m not writhing with envy. “How do you know you’ll be a Laborer? There are four other jobs in the Everlife with multiple subpositions under each.”
“I’ve known here—” she taps her fist over her heart “—all my life.”
“And the feeling has never wavered?” Not once?
“Why would it? My position in life—and death—is part of who I am.”
The envy I’m totally not feeling prompts me to say, “Or, fate has decided for you.”
She scoffs, saying, “Don’t get me started on fate! Fate is an excuse, a way to remove blame and therefore guilt for poor decision making. Free choice decides the outcome of your life, not fate.”
Girl makes a good point.
“Why aren’t you branded?” Those who make covenant with Troika are supposed to tattoo a three-point star on the top of each hand—not that everyone does. Those who make covenant with Myriad are supposed to tattoo interlocking jagged lines on their wrists. Again, not that everyone does. It’s supposed to be an outward sign of an inward commitment.
“Oh, no.” She shakes her head. “I answered your question. It’s your turn to answer mine. What are you going to do after the asylum?”
I chew on my bottom lip as my mind whirls. I’ve never voiced my desire aloud, have held the secret close to my heart. “My grandparents left me a trust.” One my parents can’t touch. My grandparents were Troikan, which was how my mom was raised. When she met my dad, she decided Myriad was the place for her. “At eighteen, I’ll be set. I’ll be able to afford a house on the beach.” One with zero neighbors who force me to think about issues I can’t solve. “I’m going to...surf.”
I’ve never been allowed, could only watch other people from the safety of my bedroom. Anytime I asked to do something remotely “dangerous,” I was told I had to wait until I reached the Age of Accountability and signed with Myriad.
Now I crave excitement. The wind in my face, water beaded over my skin.
