“Is that so?” In a lightning-fast move, he grabs her wrist and rotates her so that her back presses against his chest and her cheek against the icy, rocky wall. “Let me tell you what I’d rather do.”
“Don’t harm her,” I shout, rushing over.
He lets her go in an instant, holding up his hands, palms out, and my relief is palpable.
A scowling Sloan pivots, pointing the shank at him once more.
“No,” I say, moving between them. “Put the weapon away, Sloan. He’s not here to hurt me.”
He yanks me behind him, safeguarding me from the shank. As if she’d hurt me now. Still. The protective gesture is—freaking—endearing.
I’m so sick of the word!
“Enough, you two. Please.” I wait until both nod before leaving them to their own devices and entering the cave.
There’s someone checking something under the plane.
“Hello,” I call, a sense of unease sliding over me. I’m not sure why. Kind of reminds me of the fear I experienced when I ran from Killian, and yet I’m not fearful. Just wary.
Are Messengers from Troika here, attempting to guide me?
“I thought I heard voices out there.” An unfamiliar man closes the hatch and strides over to greet me. He’s tall with gray hair and craggy skin. “You must be my newest cargo.”
“Yes.” I extend my hand for one reason and one reason only, and it’s not to be friendly. We shake, and I conclude he’s human rather than a Shell, his skin calloused and warm. He’s also an Unsigned, his hands and wrists free of brands.
But...my unease only grows stronger. I ignore it, determined to leave this place.
“Where are we headed?” Killian asks, his voice devoid of emotion.
“I’ve got enough fuel to take you anywhere you want to go.”
“Hawaii,” I say, making a split-second decision. I’ll be far from LA—and my parents—but close to water.
“It’s settled then,” the pilot says. “Go ahead and board and we’ll take off.”
Chapter thirteen
“Reality exists within the scope of your senses. If you feel it, it’s real.”
—Myriad
We’re in the air fifteen short minutes later. The aircraft is small and the flight is bumpy, and I’m laid bare by a certainty I’d rather not face: I’m afraid of heights. Well, afraid of falling.
The way Clay fell...
I shudder.
“Cold?” Killian asks. He’s perched in the seat next to mine, toying with the ends of my hair. “Or frightened?”
“Screw you,” I mutter. Why can’t I be like Sloan? She’s as happy as a boss in the copilot seat.
Fear hinders, never helps. Look past it.
“I can distract you,” he says. “Or we can sit in silence.”
“I pick silence.”
“Very well.”
True to his word, he says nothing for hours. Despite my annoyance, I manage to nap for several more. But, after I wake up, another hour slips by as I shift uncomfortably and visualize the many ways to die in a plane, I finally admit the cold-shoulder treatment is only hurting myself.
I give up, saying, “Earn your keep. Do something to distract me.”
His chuckle is warm, not the cold thing I expect. “Dance, monkey, dance?”
“Good. You understand.”
“How about we negotiate terms for your covenant?”
Why not? I’m a little curious and a lot desperate. “All right. Tell me what, exactly, Myriad is willing to offer me.”
He goes still. “You’re serious?”
I swallow a snort. “Yes. I’m serious.”
As if he’s afraid I’ll change my mind, he rushes to say, “Your contract will last your Second-death. We will ensure your Firstlife is filled with fame and riches that far surpass anything your parents ever achieved, and in your Everlife, you’ll be given a place of honor inside the palace, as well as any other home you desire. If you want it, you get it, even if it’s occupied. You will never lack for anything. You will have servants, and you will answer only to our King.”
“I have no desire for fame and riches.” I’ve already experienced the heavy cost of each. “And I don’t want to steal someone’s home.”
I think I’ve surprised him again. He regards me quizzically. “Name your desire then. Your wish is my command.”
No way I’ll tell him about the beach house. I want to buy it with my inheritance and owe no one. “What about a job?”
“As an Abrogate, you’ll need to train for other positions. Messenger. Laborer. Scout. Leader. The more you know about each, the better Abrogate you’ll be.”
“But...how do you even know I’m an Abrogate?”
“For starters, you’re Fused with a General.”
He drops the news as if I’m supposed to coo with excitement. Thing is, I’m not even slightly startled. I should have guessed this was always about the spirit I’m supposedly Fused with, not me.
“Again I ask how you know—beyond any doubt.”
A slight pause. “We...don’t. We can only guess, but all our Generals were wiped out at once, and their Second-death coincided with your birth.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure my birth coincides with a lot of Second-deaths.”
“Yes, but your spirit glowed through your skin. That only happens when a soul is Fused with one of the more powerful positions.”
“Or, as Troikans believe, the soul is a Conduit.” At least, I’m guessing.
He gives a formal nod.
“Abrogates are Generals, and Generals are decisive, right? They make battle plans. They lead the masses. They aren’t torn about a major decision. Like me.”
“You don’t know what Generals are. You’ve never spoken to one.” He pauses. “Would you like to? I can arrange a meeting.”
Again curiosity gets the better of me. “Yes. All right. But only if you answer one more question for me.”
“Anything.”
I lick my lip, a small tremor moving through me. “Do you like me, or am I just a job to you?”
He grapples for a response, finally settling on, “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
No, they aren’t. “Do. You. Like. Me?”
“I...do,” he says and scowls, as if the admission is painful. Maybe it is. Friends have the power to hurt you in ways enemies never can.
He curses suddenly and throws a glance over his shoulder to the seat in back. “Enough! Leave us.”
My eyes go wide. “Someone’s here?”
He faces me again, his expression stony. “No.”
Word games. “Who was here?”
“One of my Flankers.” He flicks his tongue over an incisor. “Before you ask, Flankers are a subdivision of Laborer. They follow me to chronicle my exploits.”
One, I’d had no idea he had a tail. And two, someone actually chronicles his exploits? Like he’s what, a knight of the days of old with a troubadour?
I laugh at him—I can’t help it—and soon, he’s laughing with me.
When we hit a particularly nasty bump, I gasp. He winds an arm around my shoulders and I let him, offering no protest. I even lean against him of my own volition, resting my head in the hollow of his neck, where the scent of peat smoke and heather soothes me.
“Don’t harm her,” I shout, rushing over.
He lets her go in an instant, holding up his hands, palms out, and my relief is palpable.
A scowling Sloan pivots, pointing the shank at him once more.
“No,” I say, moving between them. “Put the weapon away, Sloan. He’s not here to hurt me.”
He yanks me behind him, safeguarding me from the shank. As if she’d hurt me now. Still. The protective gesture is—freaking—endearing.
I’m so sick of the word!
“Enough, you two. Please.” I wait until both nod before leaving them to their own devices and entering the cave.
There’s someone checking something under the plane.
“Hello,” I call, a sense of unease sliding over me. I’m not sure why. Kind of reminds me of the fear I experienced when I ran from Killian, and yet I’m not fearful. Just wary.
Are Messengers from Troika here, attempting to guide me?
“I thought I heard voices out there.” An unfamiliar man closes the hatch and strides over to greet me. He’s tall with gray hair and craggy skin. “You must be my newest cargo.”
“Yes.” I extend my hand for one reason and one reason only, and it’s not to be friendly. We shake, and I conclude he’s human rather than a Shell, his skin calloused and warm. He’s also an Unsigned, his hands and wrists free of brands.
But...my unease only grows stronger. I ignore it, determined to leave this place.
“Where are we headed?” Killian asks, his voice devoid of emotion.
“I’ve got enough fuel to take you anywhere you want to go.”
“Hawaii,” I say, making a split-second decision. I’ll be far from LA—and my parents—but close to water.
“It’s settled then,” the pilot says. “Go ahead and board and we’ll take off.”
Chapter thirteen
“Reality exists within the scope of your senses. If you feel it, it’s real.”
—Myriad
We’re in the air fifteen short minutes later. The aircraft is small and the flight is bumpy, and I’m laid bare by a certainty I’d rather not face: I’m afraid of heights. Well, afraid of falling.
The way Clay fell...
I shudder.
“Cold?” Killian asks. He’s perched in the seat next to mine, toying with the ends of my hair. “Or frightened?”
“Screw you,” I mutter. Why can’t I be like Sloan? She’s as happy as a boss in the copilot seat.
Fear hinders, never helps. Look past it.
“I can distract you,” he says. “Or we can sit in silence.”
“I pick silence.”
“Very well.”
True to his word, he says nothing for hours. Despite my annoyance, I manage to nap for several more. But, after I wake up, another hour slips by as I shift uncomfortably and visualize the many ways to die in a plane, I finally admit the cold-shoulder treatment is only hurting myself.
I give up, saying, “Earn your keep. Do something to distract me.”
His chuckle is warm, not the cold thing I expect. “Dance, monkey, dance?”
“Good. You understand.”
“How about we negotiate terms for your covenant?”
Why not? I’m a little curious and a lot desperate. “All right. Tell me what, exactly, Myriad is willing to offer me.”
He goes still. “You’re serious?”
I swallow a snort. “Yes. I’m serious.”
As if he’s afraid I’ll change my mind, he rushes to say, “Your contract will last your Second-death. We will ensure your Firstlife is filled with fame and riches that far surpass anything your parents ever achieved, and in your Everlife, you’ll be given a place of honor inside the palace, as well as any other home you desire. If you want it, you get it, even if it’s occupied. You will never lack for anything. You will have servants, and you will answer only to our King.”
“I have no desire for fame and riches.” I’ve already experienced the heavy cost of each. “And I don’t want to steal someone’s home.”
I think I’ve surprised him again. He regards me quizzically. “Name your desire then. Your wish is my command.”
No way I’ll tell him about the beach house. I want to buy it with my inheritance and owe no one. “What about a job?”
“As an Abrogate, you’ll need to train for other positions. Messenger. Laborer. Scout. Leader. The more you know about each, the better Abrogate you’ll be.”
“But...how do you even know I’m an Abrogate?”
“For starters, you’re Fused with a General.”
He drops the news as if I’m supposed to coo with excitement. Thing is, I’m not even slightly startled. I should have guessed this was always about the spirit I’m supposedly Fused with, not me.
“Again I ask how you know—beyond any doubt.”
A slight pause. “We...don’t. We can only guess, but all our Generals were wiped out at once, and their Second-death coincided with your birth.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure my birth coincides with a lot of Second-deaths.”
“Yes, but your spirit glowed through your skin. That only happens when a soul is Fused with one of the more powerful positions.”
“Or, as Troikans believe, the soul is a Conduit.” At least, I’m guessing.
He gives a formal nod.
“Abrogates are Generals, and Generals are decisive, right? They make battle plans. They lead the masses. They aren’t torn about a major decision. Like me.”
“You don’t know what Generals are. You’ve never spoken to one.” He pauses. “Would you like to? I can arrange a meeting.”
Again curiosity gets the better of me. “Yes. All right. But only if you answer one more question for me.”
“Anything.”
I lick my lip, a small tremor moving through me. “Do you like me, or am I just a job to you?”
He grapples for a response, finally settling on, “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
No, they aren’t. “Do. You. Like. Me?”
“I...do,” he says and scowls, as if the admission is painful. Maybe it is. Friends have the power to hurt you in ways enemies never can.
He curses suddenly and throws a glance over his shoulder to the seat in back. “Enough! Leave us.”
My eyes go wide. “Someone’s here?”
He faces me again, his expression stony. “No.”
Word games. “Who was here?”
“One of my Flankers.” He flicks his tongue over an incisor. “Before you ask, Flankers are a subdivision of Laborer. They follow me to chronicle my exploits.”
One, I’d had no idea he had a tail. And two, someone actually chronicles his exploits? Like he’s what, a knight of the days of old with a troubadour?
I laugh at him—I can’t help it—and soon, he’s laughing with me.
When we hit a particularly nasty bump, I gasp. He winds an arm around my shoulders and I let him, offering no protest. I even lean against him of my own volition, resting my head in the hollow of his neck, where the scent of peat smoke and heather soothes me.
