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“Might Equals Right, eh?”
My derision causes him to tap faster. “One decision can change your circumstances, Miss Lockwood. Just one.”
I smile a little too sweetly at him. “One bullet can change yours.”
The smile he gives me is just as sweet. “Up to this point, I’ve been easy on you. Keep pushing, and you’ll see my worst.” He reaches into his pocket and throws what looks to be a black button at me. A button that hits the floor because I don’t even try to catch it. “Almost forgot. This is from your mother.”
Why would she give me a button?
He leaves at last, locking me inside the room.
My tears long to break free, and my knees long to buckle, but I maintain my tough-as-nails attitude. The cameras...
With a trembling hand, I pick up the button. A flash-scribe, I realize. A way to send a recorded message. Now I’m even more confused. What does the mother who abandoned me, not visiting for seven months, wish to say to me?
Ignoring a swell of eagerness—have to know, now, now, now!—I stuff the device in my own pocket and stumble to Bow to check the fetters for locks. I find none. Good. I can free her, but oh, it’s going to hurt.
What’s a little more pain, right?
The outside of both cuffs is heated, and—I hiss—by the time I press the release button on each one, seven blisters decorate my fingers and palms.
The glow of the metal dwindles, the needles on the inside of each device detaching from bone and ejecting from her skin.
Clink, clink. The cuffs fall away, but she doesn’t wake. I’m glad. I’m not in the mood to deal with her.
With a curse, I tumble onto my squeaky mattress and stare up at the ceiling. Life sucks.
A muted scream suddenly echoes from the floor, and I jolt.
Isn’t Clay, isn’t Clay, isn’t Clay. He’s safe. He made it out.
Will I?
The flash-scribe is practically burning a hole in my pocket, my eagerness overtaking me. I withdraw the device and press my thumb into the top. As soon as my print registers, my mother’s voice fills the cell.
“Hi, Ten. Bet you never expected to hear from me, huh?”
My heart thumps against my ribs, and my gut clenches.
“I know I haven’t come to see you in forever, but there’s a very good reason for that. A beautiful secret. One that’s taught me how to be a mother again. I’m sorry, sweet girl. I’m sorry for everything, and I love you, I really do. Your dad loves you, too, but he’s scared of losing his job and—well. That’s not your problem. We’ll be coming to visit you soon, and it’s my hope we’ll take you with us when we leave.”
Hope flares, only to die a quick death. This is a trick. Has to be.
A baby cries in the background. My mom says, “Shh, shh,” as if there’s a human being with her rather than a television, and I frown. No one under the age of eighteen—besides me—has ever been allowed inside the house. My mom’s rule.
And I get it. She prefers not to look at what she isn’t allowed to have: another kid. She wants one as fervently as I want a sibling—someone to love me unconditionally, just because I’m me, not because of what I can do. But, long ago, the realms made a deal with the human governments. To prevent overcrowding in Secondlife, where spirits can live for centuries, even millennia, there is a one-child-per-family limit during Firstlife. In return, the realms share their advanced technology, like this flash-scribe.
My mom clears her throat. “I’ve got to go, sweetheart. I know I screwed up with you, but I’m going to give my—child a better life. You have my word.”
Why the hesitation before child?
I toss the device across the room. She doesn’t love me. She can’t. And there’s no way my dad even likes me.
Are you sure about that?
A memory takes center stage in my mind. My dad carries me on his shoulders as I stretch my arms overhead, doing my best to capture a star in the sky.
“Almost got it,” he says with a laugh.
My mom claps and calls, “You can do it, sweet girl.”
All right, maybe they loved me once. The emotion has withered. Like my heart.
A moan escapes Bow. A second later, she comes up swinging, panting for breath. Her gaze is far from disoriented as it finds mine.
“Are you okay?”
Her first thought is of my welfare? Even though I did nothing as the guards knocked her around? My guilt returns. “I’m fine. What about you?”
“Fine, no thanks to Killian.”
I remember the way he raced past her. “What’d he do?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She plays with the edge of her blanket. “Vans is right, you know. At least about this. One decision can change your circumstances.”
“I know, but—” Wait. “How do you know what he said?”
“The body—I mean, my body—might have been drugged, but I was still aware.”
How’d she manage that? I’ve been drugged before, and I was out for the count.
“Sign with Troika, Ten.” Those copper eyes beseech me. “You’ll never regret it.”
“Prove it. Give me a guarantee.”
“My word isn’t good enough?”
No. “Why do you want me, anyway? Why do they?”
She inhales deeply, exhales sharply. “Have you ever heard of a Conduit?”
“Yes. Someone or something used as a means of sending something from one place or person to another.”
“Right. And in Troika, a Conduit is the highest type of General, second only to King. Conduits are rare and precious, powerful both here and there. They absorb sunlight from Earth—which is more than just heat and illumination—and direct the beams to the realm. There are whispers about you,” she says, only to go quiet.
“Whispers suggesting I’m a Conduit?” Someone rare and precious? Powerful? I laugh at the absurdity. “Wrong.”
“How do you know?”
“Better question. How do they?”
“Like you, I don’t have all the answers.” She sighs. “Let’s forget the Conduit thing. There’s a lot about you to admire. When you fight, you go balls to the wall. When you believe in something—like your right to choose—you can’t be shaken. You’re too stubborn. And whether you admit it or not, you’ll never be okay with the Myriad way of life, the strong taking from the weak.”
“You can’t know—”
“I can. Because that is what’s happening here, and you hate it.”
“Not every Myriad supporter is like that.” James never took without asking. “Just like not every Troikan is forgiving.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose in a show of fatigue. “Yeah. There’s that. I try to remind myself that everyone has their damage and no one is perfect. Except me.”
At least she didn’t try to deny the problems. “Both realms need a personality makeover.” And the thought of making a difference in one...kind of intrigues me.
“A makeover of any kind requires the proper tools, honey. And talent.”
“Are you saying I’m currently toolless and talentless?”
“Oh, good. You understood.”
We share a smile.
But her amusement doesn’t last long. “Sign with us, Ten, and you’ll be one of mine. I’ll get you out of here.”
“One of yours?”
“My friend. A member of my team. My family. Those I protect, whatever the cost.”
I laugh even though, deep down, a need to belong to someone plagues me. To be cared for and finally, truly loved...to be first rather than last. “Trust me. I’m not someone you want in your family.” I’m bad news. Everything I touch turns to rust. “And let’s be real. You can’t even protect yourself. Not here, not all the time.”
“This?” she says, motioning to herself, then the room around us. “What you see? It’s not even close to reality. Stop trusting your eyes and start listening to your heart. It sees more than you ever will.”
“Heart...as in emotions?” Troika is usually more concerned about law.
“Heart, as in spirit. The real you.”
That’s just it. Who am I? Ten? Or soul-fused with someone else?
My mom once speculated about my “other half.” With the way Myriad is acting, she said, it must be someone powerful.
How do you know I’m Fused? I remember asking.
Everyone is Fused with someone, sweet girl. It’s a way to give those who originally signed with Troika a second chance...a way to give those who signed with Myriad a chance to win more souls.
Before all this, I was pro-Myriad all the way. The fairy tales she wove about an enchanted land where daylight never intrudes and the royal ball never winds down, where candlelit castles are standard housing, and marrying a prince is a very real possibility, enthralled me.
The dirty little secret I kept from her? A part of me has always been Troi-curious.
Is the realm poverty-stricken? Does sunlight always glare? Are the homes basically cardboard boxes? Or is the sun bright and glorious, offering comforting warmth? Does the sweet scent of wildflowers saturate the air?
My (former) TL told me deception is Myriad’s greatest weapon. The hungry wolf hidden by a lamb’s skin. I haven’t heard from him since my incarceration.
To my parents’ consternation, it’s illegal to prevent a Laborer from speaking with a potential candidate if said candidate is willing. No matter the Laborer’s realm.
I’d mostly ignored my TL, not wanting to cause trouble at home...until a friend admitted she’d signed with Troika. In a moment of startling clarity, I’d realized we were—for all intents and purposes—enemies. I would be expected to excise her from my life. Even hate her.
I’d wanted to know why. So I risked chastisement at long last, going to a Troikan center, where humans in need of aid could request a meeting with a TL.
Before we parted, the TL assigned to me asked me a question that cracked through a hard outer shell I hadn’t known I’d erected.
Are you living your parents’ dream...or your own?
I’d scoffed at him then, but that night and every one after, I’d wondered... Why do I believe what I believe? What is truth and what is lie? What is real? What makes me right and so many others wrong? What if I’m wrong?
The wily bastard had planted seeds of doubt in the rich soil of my brain, and the more I searched for answers, the more those seeds were watered...the stronger they grew. Now the leaves are so thick I can’t see past them.
If I’m Fused, I’m not me. I’m part of someone else. Or several someone elses. But if I am me, I alone am responsible for my problems. Who wants to suck that badly?
But the thing I wonder most? Do I have a set fate, or can I change it? In other words...can I mess it up worse?
chapter four (#ulink_81d87860-f4bd-52af-b3f1-f7c487257bac)
“What is isn’t always what’s supposed to be.”
—Troika
I watch him. At lunch and dinner that day, I watch Killian. When he talks to girls, he seems utterly absorbed in the conversation, as if every word spoken is a secret he has to know. And the girls eat it up. He makes them feel special, I can tell. They preen for him. But those girls...they aren’t special to him. I can tell that, too.
He’s too aware of the world around him, his hand never far from his pocket, as if he has a weapon hidden inside. As if he expects to be ambushed at any moment. As if he wants to be ambushed.
Anytime the girl looks away from him—which isn’t often—his gaze finds me. He winks. He knows I’m watching him, and he wants me to know he knows.
His confidence lends him an aura of power and, someone please help me, I admire it.
Later that same evening, Vans does as promised and arranges my “date” with Killian. The doc is upping his game.
First, Nurse Ratched delivers a dress to my cell. A pink sundress. Pink. With ruffles and lace. I grimace. I’ll be the prettiest princess in the asylum.
Her parting words are both a threat (to me) and a triumph (to her.) “You can wear it...or you can go naked. Your choice.”
A red haze descends over my vision. A choice that isn’t really a choice is a violation of my rights.
What rights?
“Wow,” Bow says, looking me over after I’ve changed. “A make-out session would not be out of pity today.”
“Um. Thanks?” I smooth my hands over the ultrasoft fabric. “I feel ridiculous.”
“What’s the occasion?”
