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chapter five

“There is power in consistency.”

—Troika

At seven sharp the next evening, Meredith arrives at my doorstep. I’ve almost forgotten my encounter with Elizabeth.

Almost.

I spent the rest of the day holed up in my apartment, watching video feed of Jeremy and even Meredith, who visited him and Levi. Clay, Reed and Kayla spent an hour with me before they had to rush off to their classes. I’d asked questions about HART and their methods of operation, secretly brainstorming ways to stop the war with Myriad.

We gathered people from both realms and encouraged everyone to list their grievances so that changes could be made, preventing future clashes, Reed had said. But the powers that be always stepped in and stopped the proceedings.

He’d given me an idea, and I’d come up with steps one, two and three of what I’m sure will be a Ten-part plan.

Set a meeting with Elizabeth, allowing her to list her grievances with me. Win her over—and everyone else in the process. Convince Troikans that war with Myriad isn’t in our best interest.

You know, easy stuff.

Maybe I’ll host a Myriad Lovers Anonymous party.

T + M = TuisM

Tuism: the practice of putting the interests of another before one’s own.

When the letters T and M are replaced by their numerical equivalents—20 and 13—they equal 33

Thirty-three is the atomic number of arsenic, a poison, but it is also the age often associated with the Age of Perfection.

Thirty-three is the numerical equivalent of AMEN: 1 + 13 + 5 + 14 = 33.

I’m going to need help with my Tuism. What if I can convince Killian to form an alliance with me? We could—

What? Convince others to join our cause? Prove Troikans and Myriadians can lo—like each other?

I tug at my collar. No need to throw words like love around, right? Killian would probably freak.

Zero! I need to contact him, but I have no way to do so.

Meredith clears her throat, and I realize I’m standing in the doorway, staring into the distance. My cheeks heat as I motion her inside. She sweeps past me, the scent of orchids fluttering in her wake.

She’s wearing a formal white robe with black seams. The material conforms to her curves one moment but flows freely the next.

She holds up a bundle of metal links. “I brought you a dress.”

That is supposed to be a dress? “You’re kidding, right?”

“Usually, but never about fashion.” She manhandles me, removing my catsuit and fitting me into the links. A wide smile blossoms. “You are ravishing.”

“Thank you.” I excuse myself and go into my bedroom, where I strap a kitchen knife to my thigh.

While I crave peace, I can’t deny I have enemies. I have to be prepared for anything. A lesson I learned inside Prynne.

Curious about my “ravishing” appeal, I study my reflection. The top of the dress is made of small ovals, one laid over another to give the illusion of feathers. Those faux feathers form a deep V between my breasts before branching into multiple chains braided together and wrapped around my waist, the ends cascading to create an ankle-length skirt.

The entire ensemble should weigh a hundred pounds or more, but it’s as light as a cotton T-shirt. Even more astounding, I have full range of motion.

I wish Killian were here. He would look me over slowly and say, “Nice dress. Now take it off.” And I would laugh a throaty laugh to mask my shivers of need. I would ache to be in his arms.

I do ache.

Where is he at this precise moment? What’s he doing? Who is he with?

I dreamed about him again last night, and I’m still raw. I felt the soft brush of his lips a split second before he vanished like morning mist.

I can’t shake the feeling he needs me. That we need each other.

What if he’s in some kind of trouble? What if he’s trying to reach me, desperate for my help?

What if he’s trapped in the Kennels?

I shudder. The Kennels are Myriad’s number one choice for punishment. Cage is stacked upon cage, a different spirit locked inside each one. Men and women, boys and girls. Age doesn’t matter. Everyone is degraded, cramped and starved.

I cover my eyes, as if I can somehow block the horrific image.

I have to find a way to contact Killian.

Head high, I rejoin Meredith. “Will everyone be dressed like this?” Good. I sounded normal, breezy.

In lieu of an answer, she says, “Oh, honey bunny. You have to dress for the job you want, not the job you have.”

“Then I should wear a calculator.” If I’d had a longer Firstlife, I’d planned to get an accounting degree.

“Tsk-tsk. Your nerd is showing.”

“And your old lady is showing.”

We share a smile, but I notice the merriment doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Upon closer inspection, I notice the lines of tension bracketing her mouth.

Considering her reaction to yesterday’s message, something bad has happened behind the scenes.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Madame.” I use my most authoritative tone. “That’s an order from your exalted superior.”

Her tension lessens, and she snorts. “You want to know? Fine. You’re going to be briefed, anyway.”

I am?

“Myriad has been guarding a girl they’ve already signed as if she’s...well, as important as you. And she just might be. There are rumors she’s infected with...” She shudders as she leans in to whisper a single word, “Penumbra.”

I flip through mental files, find no reference. “What is—”

She slaps a hand over my mouth and shakes her head, her eyes wide as saucers.

All right, all right. I hold my hands up, all innocence. Top secret topic. Got it. “Why don’t we call it the Bra?”

Her hand falls away, a half smile teasing one side of her mouth. “The Bra is a highly contagious disease we’ve only ever dealt with in rumor-form. There has never been a breakout. Half our population believes it’s a scare tactic while the other half believes it’s a time bomb waiting to blow. Humans are, supposedly, the only ones susceptible, but the infected can develop the abilities of an Abrogate.”

Abrogate—the highest rank of General in Myriad. My counterpart. I draw Light—or rather, I will—and Abrogates drain it.

“Which camp are you?” I ask.

“Time bomb. The Book of the Law predicts the worlds as we know them will one day end. What better way than this? But that’s another story for another time.”

Maintaining a neutral expression requires a massive effort. The worlds are going to end? This is the first I’ve heard of any upcoming disasters!

What makes you think the changes will be disastrous?

The disembodied voice I heard the day I died, springing from the back of my mind. This is the Grid. My link to the heart of Troika. I’m certain now.

Deep breath in, out. “If the worlds as we know them change, they could change for the better.” Like...peace could be achieved.

Her head cants to the side. “Very true. But because we’ve never dealt with this disease, we have no definite cure. However, we are certain Conduits are the key. If Pen—the Bra is total darkness, then the Light must chase it away.”

Cold fingers of dread creep down my spine. With Princess Mariée MIA, Troikan powers that be will look to me for Penumbra containment, won’t they? No wonder I’ll be debriefed.

I’m supposed to save us. Me. All by my lonesome.

I’m not ready.

I’ll never be ready. But I’m going to help, anyway.

“What causes a...Bra outbreak?” I ask. “Why can’t other Troikans wield the necessary amount of Light?”

“Have you heard of Torchlight?” When I shake my head no, she adds, “For us, Light is power. Our version of electricity. If a spirit is hit with too much electricity, his body shuts down. Torchlight is the spiritual equivalent.”

Stomach cramp. There’s so much I don’t know—so much I need to know if I’m going to survive. “This war,” I say with a sigh. “The realms have been fighting for centuries. Do people even remember why they’re fighting?”

“Of course. Right versus wrong. Values versus anarchy.” She nudges my shoulder, saying, “Speaking of fights. I heard about your run-in with Elizabeth.”

Recruit my grandmother to my peace plan—strike one. “She’s angry with me. And I get it. I do. But I don’t want to fight her. I don’t want to fight anyone. Why can’t we all just get along?”

“Easy. If we don’t fight for what’s right, we’ll be overpowered by what’s wrong.”

Okay. Strike two.

She checks a wristwatch she isn’t wearing and gives me a gentle shove toward the door. “Enough chatter. We should go.”

“Fine,” I grumble.

We exit my apartment. The hallway overflows with trainees just hanging out and talking. Most are wearing armor while a few are draped in robes. Everyone stops whatever they’re doing to bow...to Meredith?

Ooo-kay. Here, we are all equals in terms of love and respect, but this is a show of respect for her position as Leader. The fact that I’m with her—or maybe the threats Levi voiced last night have spread like wildfire—earns me a handful of smiles and even more waves. No one glares at me. A few girls gaze at my dress with longing.

We take two Gates to the Temple of Temples. There’s a crowd, but this one is much thinner, allowing me to note details previously missed. The courtyard teems with an abundance of roses in an array of colors. No petal is dry or withered, no leaf droops. The stems have no thorns.

The next chamber is the Waft of Incense, and I suddenly understand the reason for the name. A heavenly fragrance saturates the air. With every breath, I’m certain I’m inhaling pure life.

Fourteen men and women stand before the gold brick wall guarding the entrance. I scan each face, taking the measure of my peers, and scout out every possible exit.

Work now, relax later.

The fourteen represent a mix of nationalities and appear to be average Troikans, but they are the only ones wearing turquoise robes with short metal links sewn into the shoulders. Levi is among them.

Fourteen, a multiple of seven. A double portion. In numerology, it means deliverance from pain, problem and panic.

Long ago, when people married, they celebrated the wedding feast for fourteen days.

To the right of the fourteen, eight people form a line. Eight is the atomic number of oxygen. Meredith and I take a spot at the end, making us nine and ten. How appropriate.

“Spine straight, shoulders squared,” she says as we make our way forward. “You’re about to meet our mighty Generals.”

Nervousness pricks at me. Will I be rejected or welcomed?

When we reach the front, Meredith takes care of introductions. Just when I think I’ll never be able to remember their names, the Grid kicks in. Agape, Ying Wo, Tasanee, Bahari, Mykhail, John, Spike, Alejandro, Marcos, Jane, Chanel, Luciana, Shamus and of course, Levi. They hail from all over the globe, and they welcome me as they welcomed everyone, with genuine warmth and affection. I’m hugged, patted and teased about my obsession with numbers.

“You’re going to do good things here,” Alejandro tells me. I kinda sorta want to stare at him for the rest of eternity. He is beauty personified. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. The poster boy for perfection.

“I hope so,” I say. I really do.

I’m practically floating as Meredith escorts me into the courtyard, where she introduces me to the eight who stood in line with me. The other newbies.

Eight—looks like the symbol for infinity. A stop sign has eight sides. With me, we are nine. According to yoga, a human body has nine doors—two eyes, two ears, the mouth, two nostrils, and the openings for...um, waste removal and the one for procreation. A cat has nine lives. Happiness is found on cloud nine.

The newbies are Raanan—the guy who’d accompanied Elizabeth to the manna restaurant—Fatima, Winifred, Nico, Rebel, Hoshi, Sawyer and Clementine. They, too, come from all over the globe. Thankfully the Grid allows us to understand each other, no matter the language we speak.

At six—and a half, foot stomp—Fatima is the youngest, killed in a house fire. At seventy-three, Nico is the oldest. I feel like such a creep for thinking this but...he’s hot.

To my delight, I’m not the only one with odd hair. Clementine has pink ringlets, Nico’s mass of curls are fire-engine red and Hoshi’s straight-as-a-pen locks are the color of plums, dark with purple undertones.

Everyone but Raanan offers an enthusiastic greeting; he remains mute, his expression contemplative. Despite him, I’m relieved by my easy camaraderie with the others, considering we are strangers. Strangers in a strange land flock together, I guess.

“By the way some of the others have been talking about you,” Fatima says with an innocent grin, “I expected you to have horns, fangs and a forked tail.”

“I know, right?” Rebel, who is fourteen, playfully elbows the little girl in the side. “I’m actually megadisappointed.”

Raanan frowns as Hoshi and Clementine jump up and clap.

“He’s here!” Clementine squeals. “Someone pinch me. No, don’t! If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”

“I’ve been praying for another glimpse of him,” Hoshi admits.

I glance over my shoulder to discover...Victor Prince. He’s involved in a deep conversation with a girl I’ve never met, and he hasn’t yet noticed his admirers.

My good mood deflates like a balloon with a hole. Days have passed since Archer’s death. My sweet, lovable Archer.

I haven’t begun to heal.

I miss you every minute, every second

Are you near? Hope no longer beckons.

I want to sob, but here, now, I can only kneel.

Emptiness is the only thing I feel.

Tell me, please, how I’m supposed to go on.

For the rest of eternity, you, Little “Bow” Peep, are gone.

Has grief erased Victor’s optimism? I’ve heard no more talk about the Resurrection. How can we convince others to vote for Archer? Do we even try?

Soft music drifts through the air. A live band plays amid the wealth of roses. Their instruments, like so many other things in Troika, are different than what I’m used to seeing, and the sounds...oh, wow, the sounds! The melody is hauntingly beautiful. My ears tingle. Tears well in my eyes.

“Have you ever heard anything so exquisite?” Winifred stares at the band with dreamy eyes.

“Excuse us, everyone. I’m going to steal Ten away.” With an arm snaked around my waist, Meredith herds me toward the Great Throne room, even though the door is closed.

“Why—” I spot the Secondking to the right of the doors, speaking with a man and woman.

His violet robe is the most ornate I’ve ever seen, the seams bound together with gold thread, the hem glittering as if soaked in Lifeblood. He’s tall, his face plain, but his eyes...they are bluer than a morning sky, brighter than a sapphire and lovelier than a blue jay.

The man and woman notice our approach and take a step back, clearing our path. My mouth dries, and my insides perform a series of flip-flops. I’m about to meet Troika’s king. In person.

Don’t trip. Don’t spit when you speak. Oh, zero, how’s my breath?

Meredith bows, and I clumsily do the same.

He smiles at us, and I would swear the sun just rose over the entire realm. Plain? No, this man is the definition of beautiful. “I’m pleased you chose Troika, Tenley.”

He knows my name! And though he spoke only six words, I jolt as if I just consumed an entire smorgasbord of manna. I’m electrified from the inside out. “Thank you...” Eron? Too casual. Great King? Perhaps too formal, considering our surroundings. Dang it, what’s the proper way to address him? “Majesty.”

He inclines his head. One point for Ten. I nailed it.

So...is now a good time to mention my thoughts on the war?

As if reading my mind, Meredith urges me away. As I huff and puff with irritation, she says, “A party is not the time for politics.” She stops in front of the pair who spoke to the Secondking before us.

“This,” Meredith says, “is my mother. Your great-grandmother Hazel. She’s a Laborer.”

My eyes widen with surprise and pleasure. I should have guessed. Hazel is petite and blonde, just like Meredith, with a similar regal bearing. But...how is my dark-haired mother part of their familial line?

Hazel tsks at her daughter. “What have I told you about playing Barbie with the new recruits?” Her voice reminds me of a lullaby: soft, sweet and calming.

Meredith snorts. “You said to wait for you so you could play, too.”

Hazel nods and looks me over, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “I hope you don’t expect me to call you Ten. I refuse to refer to my great-granddaughter as a number. I’ll call you Blue.”

She refuses to call me a number, even though it’s my name, but she’s fine with a color? I take a page from Clay’s book and pat the top of her head. Only family can get away with such illogical logic.

“I’m good with Blue. How about I call you Meemaw?”

“Yes!” She fist-pumps the sky. “Meemaw it is.”

“And this,” Meredith says with a laugh, “is Steven, your grandfather. He’s a Laborer, though a different subset. He harvests manna.”

Steven smiles and shakes my hand. He’s on the tall side with clear Native American roots. “So wonderful to meet you, Tenley.”

“Call me Ten. Or Blue,” I add with a wink. I wonder if he and my grandmother are still married.

What the heck. I go ahead and ask.

“During a human marriage, two bodies are bound together, not two spirits.” She pats Steven on the shoulder. “Upon Firstdeath, the bond is voided. But no worries. We’re best friends now.”

With her gaze on something—or someone—behind us, Hazel frowns. “What is she doing here?” Annoyance drips from her tone. “Only friends and family of the newbies received invitations.”

Foreboding rushes through me, a river without a dam. I turn...and spot Elizabeth. Great!

She whispers something to the freckled redhead at her side, and the two glare at me before making their way to Nico, Raanan and Sawyer, who have congregated in a corner.

“She’s distantly related to Raanan.” Meredith wags a finger in her mother’s face, and I begin to understand why she’s a Leader. “And we’re happy she’s here, aren’t we? We hope she has fun. Right? Right! Because we love our fellow Troikans, no matter what.”

Well. Raanan’s silent treatment now makes sense.

“Right,” Hazel grumbles. “Happy. Fun. Love.”

I catch sight of Clay, Reed and Kayla as they enter the courtyard, and a spark of happiness ignites. “Over here!”

They spot me and rush over. Before I dole out hugs, they notice Meredith and bow their heads in greeting. Hazel and Steven receive handshakes.

Clay wiggles his brows at me. “Hey, baby. You must be the square root of negative one, because you can’t possibly be real.”

I bark out a laugh.

Meredith rolls her eyes. “Your pickup lines need serious work, Clayton.”

“So you keep telling me.” His smiles widens as he focuses on her. “But that wasn’t a pickup line. This is. On a scale of one to ten, you’re a nine...and I’m the one you need.”

She throws back her head and laughs with delight.

Whoa. Full stop. Did eighteen-year-old Clay just try to pick up my grandmother? Gross! Killian, at least, is nineteen and only a year and a half older than me.

Killian...

Forget contacting him. I want to see him, breathe him in. I want to touch, hug and kiss him. I want his skin pressed against mine, without a flicker of pain. And the desires do not spring from my crush on him. Not entirely. I think... I think the Grid is trying to tell me I’m not supposed to be here without him.

Impossible. Right? The Troikan Grid would never welcome a Myriadian.

Still my heart cries, Killian.

There are seven letters in his name. The numerical equivalent is 11 + 9 + 12 + 12 +9 + 1 + 14 = 68

68 is a code meaning “put it back,” while 86 is a code meaning “remove it.”

Kayla waves a hand in front of my face and says, “If your plan is to discourage Elizabeth from seeking revenge by making yourself look miserable, mission accomplished.”

“I miss Killian,” I confess softly. She’s never met him, and I’m glad. Before me, he slept with his assignments. His method of choice. The quickest and easiest way to convince a girl to make covenant with Myriad, desperate to stay with him.

What can I say? The boy gives good romance.

At first, I feared I was just another number to him (har har). Just another conquest to be won. But he willingly entered the Kennels for me in order to buy me more time, so I could make a decision about my future in peace. He disobeyed his Leader’s orders to hurt me, protecting me instead. Finally, he urged me to make covenant with Troika, despite the war.

How can I ever doubt his affections for me?

“You won’t be allowed to leave the realm for a year,” Kayla tells me. “You have to complete your training first.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the girl who arrived with Elizabeth approaches our circle—sans Elizabeth—and zeros in on Clay.

If she thinks to strike at me by hurting my friend...

He’s a good guy with a good heart, and I will play Ten Ways To Die if her intentions are anything but honorable.

After a few minutes of back and forth teasing, the two wander off. I’m tempted to follow, but Clay looks so happy. I let him go without comment, and the conversation behind me snags my attention.

“—so excited to make my first kill.” I recognize Clementine’s voice.

“I know!” Hoshi replies. “Those Myriadians are going dooown.”

They talk about ending a life as if it’s easy, as if there are no consequences. I know better. I’ve killed before. A guard at the asylum sneaked into my cell, expecting a good time. I choked him with his own belt. Another guard beat inmates for attempting to escape. I stabbed him in the gut.

Both were acts of self-defense, and yet I haven’t been able to wash the dark stains from my soul.

Soon I’ll be expected to slaughter entire armies.

Sweat beads over my nape, even as my insides chill.

Victor moves to my side, handsome in a white robe with black embroidery. He shakes hands with everyone in our group. Kayla brightens when he kisses her knuckles.

He winks at me. “You want to dance, New Girl?”

Overjoyed by his ease with me, I nod. Only as he draws me away do I notice no one else is dancing. “Wait,” I begin.

“Nope. No take-backs.” He swings me around and tugs me against him, catching me and laughing. “This is happening.”

He looks so much like his brother I can’t help but soften against him.

“How do you like Troika so far?” he asks.

I scan the sea of faces for Elizabeth, but she’s nowhere to be found. Kayla is frowning at me. When she notices my gaze, she spins away.

Odd. “The land or the people?” I ask Victor.

“I’ll take that to mean you love the land but want to throat-punch some of the people.” He flattens a hand on my shoulder and the other at my lower back, careful not to delve anywhere he shouldn’t. “Here’s what you don’t know. One of the soldiers Killian killed—Elizabeth was dating him.”

Oh...zero. My shoulders roll in. “How do I earn her forgiveness?”

“If forgiveness has to be earned, it isn’t forgiveness.”

A high-pitched scream assaults my ears, and panic sweeps through the crowd.

“Help,” a girl shouts. Young Fatima? “Help them! Please!”

Another newbie rushes past me, a look of terror on her face.

“It’s all right.” A guy chases after her. “It’s not what it seems.”

I wrench from Victor’s arms and dart in the opposite direction, closing in on the still-screaming Fatima. She’s on the floor, curled into a ball, staring ahead as if she’s just come face-to-face with her worst fear. Multiple people attempt to comfort her.

“What—” I spot the reason for her upset and cry out.

Killian. Killian is here. He’s chained to a column, his feet engulfed in flames, his features contorted in agony. He screams. Clay is chained to the column next to him, his feet also engulfed by flames. He jerks at his bonds to no avail.

As I sprint over, three facts occur to me. 1) Not a single General, Leader or Laborer is concerned for the boys. 2) The flames emit zero heat. 3) The air is fresh, no hint of burning leather or flesh.

However, there’s no time to ponder the reasons. No time to waste with a debate about whom to save first. Clay is Troikan. Any soldier here will happily rush to his aid. No one but me will free Killian.

I unsheathe the knife discreetly hidden under my skirt and slide the rest of the way across the marble pathway to stop behind Killian. I reach for the lock on his chains and—