“Why?”
“Less questions. More actions.”
Suspicious, I ask, “Are you going to get in trouble for this?” To be technical, I’ve been cleared to work only with humans infected with Penumbra.
He rolls his eyes. “Do you really think I’d send you out without clearance?”
Answering a question with a question. A way to mislead?
No, not Levi. He wouldn’t. He’s too straightforward.
I race off and sure enough, I find my Shell waiting at the Veil of Wings, the pimples brighter than ever. Whells are strapped under a leather coat with slits under the arms for easier weapon removal. On one finger is a Whell for Meredith’s ring-gun.
I anchor my spirit inside, fly through the lovely rush of crimson water—such peace—and zoom to...a dark alley, where I’m standing in the only ray of moonlight. In front of me, at the entrance of the alley, humans stroll along a lamplit sidewalk. My sudden appearance has gone unnoticed. Perfect!
I exit, my gaze scanning...scanning...there! My heart leaps with excitement and love. Killian is seated at a table at an outdoor café.
The woman across from him is plump and lovely, with rosy cheeks and a wealth of freckles.
Two birds, one stone.
The streets are cobbled, the buildings around me rich in history and detail. Ancient trees consume the cityscape, adding a delightful country charm.
The hostess asks me if I’d like a table. In French. I understand her, just as I understand the people in Troika, even though I’ve never learned the language.
I open my mouth to respond in kind, but English slips out. I close my eyes and concentrate on the Grid, where a stream of knowledge flows. Like a thought, but softer. A gossamer thread.
“Mademoiselle?” A hand on my shoulder. “Est-ce que tout va bien?”
Is everything all right?
I focus on her. She’s human, and she’s Troikan. As her hand falls away from me, I see the brand in the center of her palm.
“Oui.” In fluent French, I tell her I’m here to meet guests who have already been seated and try not to jump up and down. Too cool!
I don’t wait for her reply, but maneuver through the tables. As I sit between Killian and Brigitte, the ground shakes. The people around me huff and puff with confusion and fear, but I know a Buckler has just been set in place.
Killian, who is far from surprised by my sudden appearance, arches a brow, anger darkening his beautiful eyes. He hasn’t forgiven me for taking Javier, I see. Tough. I blow him a kiss.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, again in perfect French.
Brigitte frowns, puzzled by the interruption.
Win her. Win him. Try not to alienate.
I hear the ghost of Levi’s voice in my head. Don’t try, Miss Lockwood. Do.
Right. Brigitte doesn’t know I’m a Shell. She thinks I’m human. Probably thinks Killian is, too.
“I’m his girlfriend,” I say and hike my thumb in Killian’s direction.
“Ah. She’s the one you were telling me about,” she says to him.
He talked about me? To a human? What the heck did he tell her?
“She is,” he says, his tone brusque.
At least he didn’t deny it. I pat his hand and wink. “We’re working through our problems, aren’t we, sugar bear? I’ll never give up on our love, and I’ll never give up on you, no matter how naughtily you behave.”
His jaw drops, and he sputters. “You continue to endanger yourself, so I will be spanking you at my earliest convenience.”
I swallow a laugh. “Not that. Anything but that.” I bat my lashes at him.
Brigitte looks between us, a little dazed.
All right. Let’s get down to business, shall we? I decide on a course of action and say, “Killian is a Myriad loyalist, but we’re working on that. He’s probably been promising you the world, and hopefully you’re skeptical because you’ve heard the horror stories about the girl who signed with Myriad without reading the fine print. She was a med student, and her contract stated she couldn’t help a Troikan supporter without severe punishment.” I wave my hand through the air for emphasis, and I know I’m coming across as a whirlwind, but time isn’t exactly my friend. “But again, you’ve probably heard this, so there’s no need for me to repeat it.”
Her mouth flounders open and closed. “I haven’t.” She leans away from Killian, saying, “Tell me about the fine print.”
“There will be no fine print in your contract.” Killian crosses his arms over his chest, and though he directs the words to her, his gaze remains hot on me.
“Are you sure about that?” In an effort to maintain my “human” facade, I pick up his mug and drink—and fight to hide a shiver. I taste the bitterness of coffee, the sweetness of sugar and feel the warmth of the liquid as it settles in the Shell’s version of a stomach. “With Troika, the contract is the same for everyone.”
“I’m sure. And a boilerplate isn’t a reason to brag,” he says, his gaze now locked on my lips. His pupils expand, black swelling over blue-gold.
“How are you sure?” Tingling now, I shift in my seat. “And a boilerplate removes any hint of favoritism.”
“Myriadians aren’t governed by a strict set of rules meant to control our behavior. If we want something, we take it. We follow our heart wherever it leads us. And favoritism isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
“It is when you’re not the favored one,” I say, and I swear he regards me with pride. “In Troika, anyone who asks receives help. We love. We forgive. We feed you when you’re hungry. We help you pay your bills. We are the family you always wished you had.”
“Less questions. More actions.”
Suspicious, I ask, “Are you going to get in trouble for this?” To be technical, I’ve been cleared to work only with humans infected with Penumbra.
He rolls his eyes. “Do you really think I’d send you out without clearance?”
Answering a question with a question. A way to mislead?
No, not Levi. He wouldn’t. He’s too straightforward.
I race off and sure enough, I find my Shell waiting at the Veil of Wings, the pimples brighter than ever. Whells are strapped under a leather coat with slits under the arms for easier weapon removal. On one finger is a Whell for Meredith’s ring-gun.
I anchor my spirit inside, fly through the lovely rush of crimson water—such peace—and zoom to...a dark alley, where I’m standing in the only ray of moonlight. In front of me, at the entrance of the alley, humans stroll along a lamplit sidewalk. My sudden appearance has gone unnoticed. Perfect!
I exit, my gaze scanning...scanning...there! My heart leaps with excitement and love. Killian is seated at a table at an outdoor café.
The woman across from him is plump and lovely, with rosy cheeks and a wealth of freckles.
Two birds, one stone.
The streets are cobbled, the buildings around me rich in history and detail. Ancient trees consume the cityscape, adding a delightful country charm.
The hostess asks me if I’d like a table. In French. I understand her, just as I understand the people in Troika, even though I’ve never learned the language.
I open my mouth to respond in kind, but English slips out. I close my eyes and concentrate on the Grid, where a stream of knowledge flows. Like a thought, but softer. A gossamer thread.
“Mademoiselle?” A hand on my shoulder. “Est-ce que tout va bien?”
Is everything all right?
I focus on her. She’s human, and she’s Troikan. As her hand falls away from me, I see the brand in the center of her palm.
“Oui.” In fluent French, I tell her I’m here to meet guests who have already been seated and try not to jump up and down. Too cool!
I don’t wait for her reply, but maneuver through the tables. As I sit between Killian and Brigitte, the ground shakes. The people around me huff and puff with confusion and fear, but I know a Buckler has just been set in place.
Killian, who is far from surprised by my sudden appearance, arches a brow, anger darkening his beautiful eyes. He hasn’t forgiven me for taking Javier, I see. Tough. I blow him a kiss.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, again in perfect French.
Brigitte frowns, puzzled by the interruption.
Win her. Win him. Try not to alienate.
I hear the ghost of Levi’s voice in my head. Don’t try, Miss Lockwood. Do.
Right. Brigitte doesn’t know I’m a Shell. She thinks I’m human. Probably thinks Killian is, too.
“I’m his girlfriend,” I say and hike my thumb in Killian’s direction.
“Ah. She’s the one you were telling me about,” she says to him.
He talked about me? To a human? What the heck did he tell her?
“She is,” he says, his tone brusque.
At least he didn’t deny it. I pat his hand and wink. “We’re working through our problems, aren’t we, sugar bear? I’ll never give up on our love, and I’ll never give up on you, no matter how naughtily you behave.”
His jaw drops, and he sputters. “You continue to endanger yourself, so I will be spanking you at my earliest convenience.”
I swallow a laugh. “Not that. Anything but that.” I bat my lashes at him.
Brigitte looks between us, a little dazed.
All right. Let’s get down to business, shall we? I decide on a course of action and say, “Killian is a Myriad loyalist, but we’re working on that. He’s probably been promising you the world, and hopefully you’re skeptical because you’ve heard the horror stories about the girl who signed with Myriad without reading the fine print. She was a med student, and her contract stated she couldn’t help a Troikan supporter without severe punishment.” I wave my hand through the air for emphasis, and I know I’m coming across as a whirlwind, but time isn’t exactly my friend. “But again, you’ve probably heard this, so there’s no need for me to repeat it.”
Her mouth flounders open and closed. “I haven’t.” She leans away from Killian, saying, “Tell me about the fine print.”
“There will be no fine print in your contract.” Killian crosses his arms over his chest, and though he directs the words to her, his gaze remains hot on me.
“Are you sure about that?” In an effort to maintain my “human” facade, I pick up his mug and drink—and fight to hide a shiver. I taste the bitterness of coffee, the sweetness of sugar and feel the warmth of the liquid as it settles in the Shell’s version of a stomach. “With Troika, the contract is the same for everyone.”
“I’m sure. And a boilerplate isn’t a reason to brag,” he says, his gaze now locked on my lips. His pupils expand, black swelling over blue-gold.
“How are you sure?” Tingling now, I shift in my seat. “And a boilerplate removes any hint of favoritism.”
“Myriadians aren’t governed by a strict set of rules meant to control our behavior. If we want something, we take it. We follow our heart wherever it leads us. And favoritism isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
“It is when you’re not the favored one,” I say, and I swear he regards me with pride. “In Troika, anyone who asks receives help. We love. We forgive. We feed you when you’re hungry. We help you pay your bills. We are the family you always wished you had.”
