Not knowing what else to do, I thread the open fetter through the collar, letting the outer heat soften the metal. I then thread through the wire in my wrist cuff and begin to saw with all my might. The wire was the only thing that made any headway with the Myriad locks, so why not the collar, too? Sparks fly, metal shavings raining down. Killian grimaces. It’s burning him, but it can’t be helped. I keep going, and finally the collar falls to the ground in pieces, freeing him from bondage.
“Now! Ash his Shell,” I tell Archer. Set his spirit free!
He swings around to face me, the sword raised and ready—but he never renders the blow. His body jerks and his eyes go wide as three arrows cut through his back and peek out his chest.
Chapter twenty-eight
“If you don’t stand for what’s right, who will?”
—Troika
A scream of denial splits my lips. Archer is still jerking, as if his spirit is struggling to escape the Shell but can’t.
I glance up at the person who did this to him. Not a person, a monster. Pearl grins at me as she lowers her bow.
She did this. And she will pay.
“N-no,” Archer says.
One word, but I realize I’m allowing hatred for Pearl to pull my strings—allowing her to pull my strings. That’s Myriad’s way. Not my way. A road leading to an end I don’t want.
Forget her. I squeeze Archer’s hand. He’s more important. I’ll guard him from another attack, even at the cost of my own life.
Pearl reaches back and slides an arrow from the pouch now hanging over her shoulder, but she doesn’t have time to aim. A sword of fire cleaves her head from her body, killing her.
I feel nothing. Not even relief. As her head soars down the steps, her body topples, revealing a panting Deacon behind her.
“Archer needs Lifeblood,” I tell him. “Now!”
He takes a step forward, but Myriad soldiers are so enraged by the death of their Leader, they release their human shields to race up the steps and attack Deacon en masse. He herds them to the bottom of the steps, away from Archer.
How am I supposed to save him?
Sloan is free on the other side of the plateau, at least, leaning against a column and crying. She can’t help me, either.
I focus on Archer and the arrows, accidentally jarring him, and the hum of a motor erupts. He arches his back, bellowing in agony.
“Can’t move arrows...blades in shaft...drip poison...every time you pull.” Killian’s voice! He rolls to his side, facing us. He’d been drinking Lifeblood from one of the fallen soldiers, his mouth glittering. His tongue is already growing back, his skin weaving back together. “He needs Lifeblood.”
“I know! But no one has any to spare and—” Wait! I do. I have Lifeblood. I’m not just a body. I’m a spirit. “Killian, how do I get my spirit out of my body without dying and going to Many Ends?”
“You don’t.” His voice is stronger now. “You can’t.”
“I must! If I don’t share my Lifeblood with Archer, he’ll die.”
Killian inhales sharply, his features tortured. “I’ll give you ten seconds, no more. The moment your spirit leaves your body, your body will die. It won’t revive until your spirit returns, and the longer you’re separated, the less chance there is it has the strength to accept your spirit when you attempt to return unless you’re flooded with Lifeblood, but as you can see, it’s in short supply right now.”
I don’t understand how he thinks he can give me ten seconds. Then his Shell goes still, the eyes clearing. He’s gone? But—
An invisible hand clutches my heart in a vise grip. I’m yanked forward—no, not my body, I realize a second later, but my spirit. Suddenly I’m crouched before Killian. The real Killian.
Only a split second passes as I look at him, though it seems like an eternity. So beautiful... Muted sunlight shines over him, chasing away the dark shadows trying desperately to cling to him, and my breath catches. His hair is jet-black silk, the locks long enough to hang over his brow, the perfect frame for features that have been chiseled by a master. His eyebrows are just as black and the perfect thickness. His eyes, those golden eyes with the crystalline flecks, are pure male aggression, intense...perfect. His perfect blade of a nose leads to the perfect shadow of stubble. His top lip is the same plumpness as his bottom lip, the two a perfect pair. His skin is a perfect bronze, as if it’s been painted on by perfect brushstrokes.
Perfect. Yes. That’s what he is. Perfection made flesh. Or spirit.
Scars wrap around his neck like a boa, but there are tattoos strategically placed to mask them. More lines and stars. They are raised, seemingly alive. I reach for him, and see that parts of me are glowing. The beams are muted, but there, as if I’m shedding the same shadows clinging to Killian.
“One,” he says. He has hold of my shoulder, but slides his grip to my wrist. He’s the one keeping me from returning to Many Ends, isn’t he? “Two.”
Zero! The countdown.
I turn to Archer—who is aglow, even through the Shell, so bright my eyes tear. One by one, I rip out the arrows. He flops around like a gutted fish, too weak to bellow again. I look around for a weapon, realize I couldn’t touch one anyway. Like to like. I’m spirit right now, not tangible to the Land of the Harvest.
I bite into my wrist, actually tearing into my flesh like a dog with a bone.
“Six,” Killian says, his grip on me tightening.
“Just a little longer!” I place my wrist over Archer’s mouth. My Lifeblood pours into him, slides down his throat as strength drains from me. I glance up, at the battle, and what I see takes my breath away.
I see Shells, and I see spirits. It’s the battle between the spirits that is the most brutal. Spirits aren’t just on the ground; they’re in the air, hovering as they fight. Swords of blue fire against swords of red fire. I don’t have to wonder who is Troikan and who is Myriadian. The Troikans seem to absorb sunlight while a dark film covers the Myriadians.
These men and women...they aren’t just sun against moon but truly light versus dark. I tried to have the best of both worlds, while doing to others what I hated others for doing to me. Pushing my own agenda. I wanted peace. They didn’t. My choice versus theirs, when I only had half the story. Even now I realize there’s so much about the realms I don’t know.
“Nine.”
“Wait!” I say. “Please. Just a little longer. He needs more—”
“Ten.” Killian is merciless, yanking me backward and basically stuffing my spirit back into my body, and I’m too weak to stop him.
I gasp as spirit and body connect, my first thought of Archer. I scan his Shell. Despite my Lifeblood, his flesh isn’t yet repairing itself.
“Archer,” I say, my chin trembling.
“Okay. It’s okay.”
No! There has to be something else I can do. There just has to be. “Deacon!” I shout.
Archer gasps in a breath, blinks open his eyes. He blindly reaches for my hand, and his fingers curl weakly around mine.
Our gazes meet, and tears refill my eyes, only to splash upon his cheek.
“The Rest,” he says and gives me a smile I will never forget. Satisfied. Content. He’s lived a good life. “Finally.”
“Now! Ash his Shell,” I tell Archer. Set his spirit free!
He swings around to face me, the sword raised and ready—but he never renders the blow. His body jerks and his eyes go wide as three arrows cut through his back and peek out his chest.
Chapter twenty-eight
“If you don’t stand for what’s right, who will?”
—Troika
A scream of denial splits my lips. Archer is still jerking, as if his spirit is struggling to escape the Shell but can’t.
I glance up at the person who did this to him. Not a person, a monster. Pearl grins at me as she lowers her bow.
She did this. And she will pay.
“N-no,” Archer says.
One word, but I realize I’m allowing hatred for Pearl to pull my strings—allowing her to pull my strings. That’s Myriad’s way. Not my way. A road leading to an end I don’t want.
Forget her. I squeeze Archer’s hand. He’s more important. I’ll guard him from another attack, even at the cost of my own life.
Pearl reaches back and slides an arrow from the pouch now hanging over her shoulder, but she doesn’t have time to aim. A sword of fire cleaves her head from her body, killing her.
I feel nothing. Not even relief. As her head soars down the steps, her body topples, revealing a panting Deacon behind her.
“Archer needs Lifeblood,” I tell him. “Now!”
He takes a step forward, but Myriad soldiers are so enraged by the death of their Leader, they release their human shields to race up the steps and attack Deacon en masse. He herds them to the bottom of the steps, away from Archer.
How am I supposed to save him?
Sloan is free on the other side of the plateau, at least, leaning against a column and crying. She can’t help me, either.
I focus on Archer and the arrows, accidentally jarring him, and the hum of a motor erupts. He arches his back, bellowing in agony.
“Can’t move arrows...blades in shaft...drip poison...every time you pull.” Killian’s voice! He rolls to his side, facing us. He’d been drinking Lifeblood from one of the fallen soldiers, his mouth glittering. His tongue is already growing back, his skin weaving back together. “He needs Lifeblood.”
“I know! But no one has any to spare and—” Wait! I do. I have Lifeblood. I’m not just a body. I’m a spirit. “Killian, how do I get my spirit out of my body without dying and going to Many Ends?”
“You don’t.” His voice is stronger now. “You can’t.”
“I must! If I don’t share my Lifeblood with Archer, he’ll die.”
Killian inhales sharply, his features tortured. “I’ll give you ten seconds, no more. The moment your spirit leaves your body, your body will die. It won’t revive until your spirit returns, and the longer you’re separated, the less chance there is it has the strength to accept your spirit when you attempt to return unless you’re flooded with Lifeblood, but as you can see, it’s in short supply right now.”
I don’t understand how he thinks he can give me ten seconds. Then his Shell goes still, the eyes clearing. He’s gone? But—
An invisible hand clutches my heart in a vise grip. I’m yanked forward—no, not my body, I realize a second later, but my spirit. Suddenly I’m crouched before Killian. The real Killian.
Only a split second passes as I look at him, though it seems like an eternity. So beautiful... Muted sunlight shines over him, chasing away the dark shadows trying desperately to cling to him, and my breath catches. His hair is jet-black silk, the locks long enough to hang over his brow, the perfect frame for features that have been chiseled by a master. His eyebrows are just as black and the perfect thickness. His eyes, those golden eyes with the crystalline flecks, are pure male aggression, intense...perfect. His perfect blade of a nose leads to the perfect shadow of stubble. His top lip is the same plumpness as his bottom lip, the two a perfect pair. His skin is a perfect bronze, as if it’s been painted on by perfect brushstrokes.
Perfect. Yes. That’s what he is. Perfection made flesh. Or spirit.
Scars wrap around his neck like a boa, but there are tattoos strategically placed to mask them. More lines and stars. They are raised, seemingly alive. I reach for him, and see that parts of me are glowing. The beams are muted, but there, as if I’m shedding the same shadows clinging to Killian.
“One,” he says. He has hold of my shoulder, but slides his grip to my wrist. He’s the one keeping me from returning to Many Ends, isn’t he? “Two.”
Zero! The countdown.
I turn to Archer—who is aglow, even through the Shell, so bright my eyes tear. One by one, I rip out the arrows. He flops around like a gutted fish, too weak to bellow again. I look around for a weapon, realize I couldn’t touch one anyway. Like to like. I’m spirit right now, not tangible to the Land of the Harvest.
I bite into my wrist, actually tearing into my flesh like a dog with a bone.
“Six,” Killian says, his grip on me tightening.
“Just a little longer!” I place my wrist over Archer’s mouth. My Lifeblood pours into him, slides down his throat as strength drains from me. I glance up, at the battle, and what I see takes my breath away.
I see Shells, and I see spirits. It’s the battle between the spirits that is the most brutal. Spirits aren’t just on the ground; they’re in the air, hovering as they fight. Swords of blue fire against swords of red fire. I don’t have to wonder who is Troikan and who is Myriadian. The Troikans seem to absorb sunlight while a dark film covers the Myriadians.
These men and women...they aren’t just sun against moon but truly light versus dark. I tried to have the best of both worlds, while doing to others what I hated others for doing to me. Pushing my own agenda. I wanted peace. They didn’t. My choice versus theirs, when I only had half the story. Even now I realize there’s so much about the realms I don’t know.
“Nine.”
“Wait!” I say. “Please. Just a little longer. He needs more—”
“Ten.” Killian is merciless, yanking me backward and basically stuffing my spirit back into my body, and I’m too weak to stop him.
I gasp as spirit and body connect, my first thought of Archer. I scan his Shell. Despite my Lifeblood, his flesh isn’t yet repairing itself.
“Archer,” I say, my chin trembling.
“Okay. It’s okay.”
No! There has to be something else I can do. There just has to be. “Deacon!” I shout.
Archer gasps in a breath, blinks open his eyes. He blindly reaches for my hand, and his fingers curl weakly around mine.
Our gazes meet, and tears refill my eyes, only to splash upon his cheek.
“The Rest,” he says and gives me a smile I will never forget. Satisfied. Content. He’s lived a good life. “Finally.”
