“You might want to reconsider. There are cuts and bruises all over your face, and there’s a lump on your jaw. You, Tenley Lockwood, are currently hideous. You’ll scare all other potential rescuers away.”
“A risk I’m willing to take.”
“Too bad.” He extends a hand to help me up—the very hand that slammed a blade into Bow’s chest. I crab walk backward, but he sighs and follows me. “I’m going to help you, lass, and that’s that.”
Zero! With every inch I gain, my bleeding wrist screams anew. Finally I stop. I have no other option, my body refusing to cooperate. Moving did me no good, anyway. “I’m a mess. How are you so...fine?”
He chuckles. “I’m fine, am I?”
Not going to respond to that. “You have no cuts, bruises or lumps.” His short dark hair is slightly rumpled. The flecks of blue in those eyes of molten gold are glowing with different degrees of menace despite his amusement. “Just thirteen streaks of blood.”
In the ancient past, thirteen steps led to the gallows. A hangman’s noose has thirteen knots. At thirteen, children are considered teenagers.
No wonder the number thirteen is hated worldwide. If there were thirteen months in a year, the thirteenth would probably be called Helluary.
“Counted, did you?” Killian crouches in front of me, his determination only growing. “I’ve noticed your affinity for numbers. A little obsessive, a lot cute.”
“I’ve noticed your affinity for cold-blooded murder.” He’s not going to distract me or win me over. Answers followed by escape. That’s my plan and I’m sticking to it.
He isn’t the least bit abashed. “Hardly. The mountaineers were self-defense, so they don’t count. Archer—Bow—is still alive.”
The lack of blood...the sparkling liquid...those clear eye sockets...the electrodes under her skin...
“Impossible,” I say, but there’s a tremor in my voice.
“Trust me. You’ll see him again.”
“Him? Are you trying to tell me Bow is—was—a guy named Archer?”
“I’m not trying to tell you anything, lass. I’m simply stating facts.”
However improvable, I think... I think there’s truth to what he’s saying. Bow isn’t Bow...and maybe Bow isn’t dead. “How will I see her—him—again? In the Unending? And why did you stab him?”
Show her who you really are...
“A thousand different reasons.” He shrugs. “At the top of the list—I knew it’d feel good.”
Irritation is like a bull with horns, ram, ram, ramming my calm facade. “Victors are adored and failures are abhorred, right?”
He ignores my dry tone and nods. “Exactly.”
“Meanwhile, you have no idea how wrong you are. Victors can be hated.”
The bull with horns begins to ram him, I think. He snaps, “Your precious Bow is my enemy.”
“No. She’s—”
“A Troikan Laborer.”
The statement echoes between us. “Im-impossible.” Right? “I touched her, and she never protested. Never accused me of committing a crime.”
“Think, lass. Why would the law exist if not to hide those who wish to pass as a human? When undercover, a Shell is allowed to touch whomever he or she desires. Have to blend in, don’t you know.”
The coolness of Bow’s skin...just like the coolness of James’s skin...and the coolness of Killian’s.
I lick my lips. “Are you a Myriad Laborer?” No, no. He can’t be. He’s not a Shell.
Shells can’t have sex with humans. Can they? And yet, he’s bragged about his conquests.
He eyes me intently as he says, “What do you think?”
“Are you?” I insist, bordering on desperation now.
“What. Do. You. Think?”
“Just tell me!”
He stretches out his hand. “Just touch me. Then you tell me.”
I give a violent shake my head. Touch him? No way, no how. Not ever again.
He smiles without humor. “I like you, lass. I shouldn’t, but there’s something about you. You’re smart, and you make me think. Now use your brain and figure this out, because we both know you’re not going to believe anything I tell you.”
My hand flies to my heart and rubs. What did I know beyond any doubt? “You love Myriad. You were able to give me a virtual tour unlike any other. Dr. Vans paid you to target me, but you killed him.”
“Oh, yes, I most certainly did kill him,” he says. “With relish. But he wasn’t paying me. He had nothing I prized.
Easy to say, hard to prove. “How do you know his mind-set if you weren’t working for him?”
“I wired the entire building and listened to his every conversation. As soon as I tapped into your final torture session, I began looking for you. He thought it was okay to hurt you, to use my actions against you. I taught him the error of his ways.”
A violent gust of wind blows between us, so strong it sends me skidding into the base of a tree. Air bursts from my lungs, my bruises screaming in protest.
My gaze looks past Killian. I have no idea what to say to him.
Is he or isn’t he?
I lumber to my feet. My teeth chatter as I trip around him and crouch beside Big. He’s the smallest of the three and, even better, his clothing has sustained the least amount of damage, despite Killian’s best efforts. There are only a few drops of blood on his coat. I remove it with quivering fingers. My wounds protest as I shove my arms through the holes and pull the hood over my head.
“Stealing clothes from a corpse?” Killian sounds impressed. “That’s pretty hard-core, yeah?”
“You planned to do it.”
“Yes, but I’m actually hard-core.” His accent has changed. No, not changed, not really, but the more intently I listen, the more I detect accents from different parts of the world.
Branches snap, though neither of us moved. Is someone out there? One of the kids from the institution? One of the guards? Another mountain man? I shudder, sway. And zero! Dizziness is knocking on the door of my mind.
I do my best to focus as a large shadow slips over the leaves, moving slowly, a mere inch at a time. Gnarled fingers of dread creep down my spine. I’m not sure how much fight I have left.
“Killian,” I whisper. “Someone’s coming.”
His scowl is dark, a promise of violence. “I know. Tell him to stay away from us.”
Him? “Who’s out there?” An inmate?
“Tell him he’s not wanted here.”
A guard? “Words won’t do any good. We have to—”
“In this case, words are all you need.”
All I need. Not him? Though I don’t understand, I lift the knife he used on Bow. “We’re armed. Don’t come any closer.”
“You can do better than that, lass. Tell him you want nothing to do with him.”
Why? Something about this situation is wrong, I feel it in my frozen bones, so I say nothing else.
“Very well. I’ll work with what I’ve got.” Killian clasps my wrist and drags me away. “Let’s get you to a safe place.”
The shadow follows us, but maintains the same distance, as if he won’t—or can’t—come any closer.
“A risk I’m willing to take.”
“Too bad.” He extends a hand to help me up—the very hand that slammed a blade into Bow’s chest. I crab walk backward, but he sighs and follows me. “I’m going to help you, lass, and that’s that.”
Zero! With every inch I gain, my bleeding wrist screams anew. Finally I stop. I have no other option, my body refusing to cooperate. Moving did me no good, anyway. “I’m a mess. How are you so...fine?”
He chuckles. “I’m fine, am I?”
Not going to respond to that. “You have no cuts, bruises or lumps.” His short dark hair is slightly rumpled. The flecks of blue in those eyes of molten gold are glowing with different degrees of menace despite his amusement. “Just thirteen streaks of blood.”
In the ancient past, thirteen steps led to the gallows. A hangman’s noose has thirteen knots. At thirteen, children are considered teenagers.
No wonder the number thirteen is hated worldwide. If there were thirteen months in a year, the thirteenth would probably be called Helluary.
“Counted, did you?” Killian crouches in front of me, his determination only growing. “I’ve noticed your affinity for numbers. A little obsessive, a lot cute.”
“I’ve noticed your affinity for cold-blooded murder.” He’s not going to distract me or win me over. Answers followed by escape. That’s my plan and I’m sticking to it.
He isn’t the least bit abashed. “Hardly. The mountaineers were self-defense, so they don’t count. Archer—Bow—is still alive.”
The lack of blood...the sparkling liquid...those clear eye sockets...the electrodes under her skin...
“Impossible,” I say, but there’s a tremor in my voice.
“Trust me. You’ll see him again.”
“Him? Are you trying to tell me Bow is—was—a guy named Archer?”
“I’m not trying to tell you anything, lass. I’m simply stating facts.”
However improvable, I think... I think there’s truth to what he’s saying. Bow isn’t Bow...and maybe Bow isn’t dead. “How will I see her—him—again? In the Unending? And why did you stab him?”
Show her who you really are...
“A thousand different reasons.” He shrugs. “At the top of the list—I knew it’d feel good.”
Irritation is like a bull with horns, ram, ram, ramming my calm facade. “Victors are adored and failures are abhorred, right?”
He ignores my dry tone and nods. “Exactly.”
“Meanwhile, you have no idea how wrong you are. Victors can be hated.”
The bull with horns begins to ram him, I think. He snaps, “Your precious Bow is my enemy.”
“No. She’s—”
“A Troikan Laborer.”
The statement echoes between us. “Im-impossible.” Right? “I touched her, and she never protested. Never accused me of committing a crime.”
“Think, lass. Why would the law exist if not to hide those who wish to pass as a human? When undercover, a Shell is allowed to touch whomever he or she desires. Have to blend in, don’t you know.”
The coolness of Bow’s skin...just like the coolness of James’s skin...and the coolness of Killian’s.
I lick my lips. “Are you a Myriad Laborer?” No, no. He can’t be. He’s not a Shell.
Shells can’t have sex with humans. Can they? And yet, he’s bragged about his conquests.
He eyes me intently as he says, “What do you think?”
“Are you?” I insist, bordering on desperation now.
“What. Do. You. Think?”
“Just tell me!”
He stretches out his hand. “Just touch me. Then you tell me.”
I give a violent shake my head. Touch him? No way, no how. Not ever again.
He smiles without humor. “I like you, lass. I shouldn’t, but there’s something about you. You’re smart, and you make me think. Now use your brain and figure this out, because we both know you’re not going to believe anything I tell you.”
My hand flies to my heart and rubs. What did I know beyond any doubt? “You love Myriad. You were able to give me a virtual tour unlike any other. Dr. Vans paid you to target me, but you killed him.”
“Oh, yes, I most certainly did kill him,” he says. “With relish. But he wasn’t paying me. He had nothing I prized.
Easy to say, hard to prove. “How do you know his mind-set if you weren’t working for him?”
“I wired the entire building and listened to his every conversation. As soon as I tapped into your final torture session, I began looking for you. He thought it was okay to hurt you, to use my actions against you. I taught him the error of his ways.”
A violent gust of wind blows between us, so strong it sends me skidding into the base of a tree. Air bursts from my lungs, my bruises screaming in protest.
My gaze looks past Killian. I have no idea what to say to him.
Is he or isn’t he?
I lumber to my feet. My teeth chatter as I trip around him and crouch beside Big. He’s the smallest of the three and, even better, his clothing has sustained the least amount of damage, despite Killian’s best efforts. There are only a few drops of blood on his coat. I remove it with quivering fingers. My wounds protest as I shove my arms through the holes and pull the hood over my head.
“Stealing clothes from a corpse?” Killian sounds impressed. “That’s pretty hard-core, yeah?”
“You planned to do it.”
“Yes, but I’m actually hard-core.” His accent has changed. No, not changed, not really, but the more intently I listen, the more I detect accents from different parts of the world.
Branches snap, though neither of us moved. Is someone out there? One of the kids from the institution? One of the guards? Another mountain man? I shudder, sway. And zero! Dizziness is knocking on the door of my mind.
I do my best to focus as a large shadow slips over the leaves, moving slowly, a mere inch at a time. Gnarled fingers of dread creep down my spine. I’m not sure how much fight I have left.
“Killian,” I whisper. “Someone’s coming.”
His scowl is dark, a promise of violence. “I know. Tell him to stay away from us.”
Him? “Who’s out there?” An inmate?
“Tell him he’s not wanted here.”
A guard? “Words won’t do any good. We have to—”
“In this case, words are all you need.”
All I need. Not him? Though I don’t understand, I lift the knife he used on Bow. “We’re armed. Don’t come any closer.”
“You can do better than that, lass. Tell him you want nothing to do with him.”
Why? Something about this situation is wrong, I feel it in my frozen bones, so I say nothing else.
“Very well. I’ll work with what I’ve got.” Killian clasps my wrist and drags me away. “Let’s get you to a safe place.”
The shadow follows us, but maintains the same distance, as if he won’t—or can’t—come any closer.
