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chapter two

“Take comfort. Our laws are the same yesterday, today and forever.”

—Troika

Bow laughs, which I don’t understand. My temper is a bear that’s just been poked with a stick. I don’t like threats. And I especially don’t like waiting to deal with threats. Yet, she’s amused.

“Come on,” I mutter, dragging her down the hall despite my physical discomfort.

There are multiple doorways, each painted puke green. The walls are medicine-tray gray, and the floors are some type of soil-your-pants brown. I know this for a fact. Last week, a guard threatened a new guy with castration and all hell broke loose...just like his bowels.

“Thank you for having my six.” Bow bumps shoulders with me, only to mumble an apology when I wince. “Yeah, I could have taken her down, no problem, but you still put yourself on the line.”

“Don’t thank me. Just keep your head on a swivel and your insults to a minimum. I don’t want to mop up your remains.”

Her grin slips a little. “I didn’t enjoy lashing out at her. Sloan has some pretty big baggage. But her general nastiness triggered my inner bitch. I didn’t even know I had an inner bitch! But yeah, okay, I should have handled the situation differently.”

“How do you know about her baggage?”

“Uh, perhaps I misspoke. I mean, who doesn’t have baggage, right?”

True. We all arrive with a couple carry-ons.

We pass through the commons, where our classes usually take place. There’s no escaping high school, even here. There are plush leather couches and three different circles of chairs—which makes sense. (1) Thought, (2) word and (3) deed, the sum total of human capability.

Around the corner and through a wide set of double doors is the cafeteria. A colorless, utilitarian room with a sea of tables and benches that have been bolted down. The male inmates are already seated, eating from trays.

As Bow and I take our place at the end of the buffet line, I narrow my focus to the nitty-gritty. The number of inmates in the room: one hundred females versus ninety-seven males. It’s uneven. I don’t like uneven. The scales should always be balanced.

There are twenty guards—ten males, ten females—one “good guy” for every ten “bad guys.” Despite the fact that outside these walls there’s a Laborer from both Troika and Myriad for every one hundred humans, there are no Laborers here.

“Are you mathing?” Bow asks. “You look like you’re mathing. Well, here’s an equation I think you’ll like. There are roughly two billion people in the world, and twenty million Laborers. With those kind of odds, I never should have been assigned to stay in your room.”

“Are you hinting life is a zero-sum game? You won, and I lost.”

She snorts. “You basically won the lottery, and you know it.”

“Or, your guardian paid extra to pair you with an Unsigned, preferably one with a Myriad background.” Which is actually counterproductive to Dr. Vans’s goal in my case. But when has the man ever resisted a bonus?

“Hey, look at you! Pretty and smart.”

“And hungry,” I grumble.

As we edge our way to the front of the line, multiple conversations take place around us.

“—too bad. I called dibs.”

“—did you hide them? Tell me!”

“—don’t allow Myriad scum near me.”

How many of these kids are pro-Myriad? How many are pro-Troika? How many are Unsigned?

Bow clearly hasn’t gotten the memo. Talking about the Everlife is forbidden. Well, only with each other. Dr. Vans’s way of avoiding a riot inside these walls, I guess.

I deduced Sloan is Unsigned, which wasn’t exactly hard to do considering she’s said “I’d rather be a queen in Many Ends than a drone in the realms” countless times.

Okay, not countless. Twenty-three.

“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Bow tells me. “Let’s get to know each other better.”

“No, thanks.”

She persists. “How were you introduced to the realms?”

“The usual way.” Since public schools aren’t allowed to lean one way or the other, only private schools, children are told stories by biased parents. Also, different facilities offer virtual tours but, depending on who’s running them, the tours are always skewed.

My aunt Lina is my dad’s crazy twin sister who, I’ve been told, suffers from polyfused disorder, meaning the older spirit (supposedly) Fused to hers is strong enough to gain control of her body. When she isn’t acting like a giggly ten-year-old who speaks in the past tense, she works for A Look Beyond, a tour company owned by Myriad.

I’ve seen night-kissed castles overflowing with orchid gardens. Bustling cityscapes with stone and metal skyscrapers intermixed with nightclubs and spas, everything connected by sleek silver bridges and tunnels illuminated by wrought-iron, dragon-shaped lamps. Vibrant white-sand beaches with a moonlit view of ruby, sapphire and emerald coral.

A bit of high-tech flare topped with old-world charm.

There’s something for everyone, Aunt Lina likes to say on her sane days. On her insane days? The light bled into the darkness and the darkness died... I didn’t want to die.

On the other hand, Troika’s version of Myriad is frightening. Darkness pervades. Darkness so thick it oozes over your skin like motor oil. There’s field after field of dead trees, the limbs gnarled, the bark dripping crimson—bleeding. Any birds able to survive the lack of sunlight cry rather than squawk. The city is overcrowded, everyone packed as tight as pickles in a jar, and the beaches resemble life-size litter boxes.

Myriad’s version of Troika is no better. Apocalyptic wastelands scorched by an unforgiving sun.

As a child, I was desperate to avoid Troika...until I heard my Troikan Laborer’s description: dappled sunlight falling over intricate gardens, wildflowers and rainbows. A thriving metropolis both fantastical and futuristic, with palatial country estates and chrome-and-glass buildings in a variety of shapes and sizes.

“You might want to stop mentioning the realms,” I finally say. “It’ll get you punished.”

She pushes out a breath. “Fine. I’ll talk about something else. Something fascinating. Like the food. I’m pretty sure it’s going to look the same coming out as it does going in.”

She isn’t wrong. “If you want a change of menu, the bugs in our room are always an option. Side note. Spiders taste like shrimp and cockroaches taste like greasy chicken.”

“Okay, I now want to gag and hug you at the same time.” She thinks for a moment, releases a dreamy sigh. “Maybe I’ll have dessert snuck in.”

“Good luck with that.” Others have tried. Others have failed. “You’ll be caught and—”

“Punished. Yeah, yeah. I know.”

We’re both given a tray. As we search for a table, a group of boys gives Bow a once-over. Snickers abound.

I stiffen, but Bow winks at them as we claim the empty table to their right.

“I think I heard the guards say her name’s Bow,” one of them says, not even trying to be quiet.

“It fits—unlike her uniform. Fatty Bow Batty,” another mutters, spurring outright laughter from his friends.

Bow ignores them and stirs her slop as if she hasn’t a care. She’s short and big-boned, a little plain, but she’s a person with feelings.

I find myself snapping, “Integrity matters more than size, dreg.” A derogatory name for someone neither realm wants.

He blows me a kiss. “Why don’t you come sit on my lap, Nutter? I’ll show you just how sizable I am.”

Innuendos are always on the menu at Prynne, and I usually overlook them. Today, my fingers tighten around my spoon. We aren’t given forks or knives, ever. Not that it matters. I can do bad, bad things with a spoon.

I glare at him and say, “Do you like having a tongue?”

He sticks his out and wags it at me.

I don’t want to fight him—I’m too sore—but I will. If I lose, I lose, but at least I’ll leave an impression.

Bow pats my hand. “Forget about him, Sperm Bank. He doesn’t yet understand the outside is a shell for all of us. My beauty is on the inside, where it never fades.”

She can’t be this nice. She just can’t be.

The boys return to their conversation, whispering among themselves, pretending what almost happened didn’t almost happen.

“Plus,” Bow adds, “he isn’t even close to my type.”

“Which is?”

She wiggles her brows. “Female.”

Ah. Got it.

We lapse into silence. I remain aware of the people around us, always on alert, as I clean my tray. Gotta stay as strong as possible. Bow merely picks at the meal. One day soon, hunger will get the better of her and she’ll be thankful for the slop.

One of the boys is trying to snag a bite off his friend’s tray as we stand.

“Touch my food and die.” The friend’s snarl is pure menace.

“Here. You can have mine,” Bow says.

The boy scowls at her. “Mind your own business, cow.”

Trust no one. Question everything.

She shrugs, unaffected. “Your loss.”

I’m not sure where to lump her in my mental files. Too good to be true? The real deal? Worth emulating? Or to be disregarded?

As we file out of the cafeteria, I’m sent to the commons for early morning therapy of the mind—have to get my day started right, I mentally sneer—and Bow is sent to the gym for early morning therapy of the body.

Sloan shoves another girl out of the way to claim the chair next to me. “You need to put your roommate on a shorter leash.”

Going to pretend we didn’t threaten each other? Fine.

“I’m not her keeper,” I say. Her actions, her consequences.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sloan snaps. “In this place, your roomie should be your best friend. She’s the one who’s going to watch your back when yours is bruised.” With a smirk, she presses on my shoulder, drawing a hiss from me. “Like now.”

I bat her arm away, which only makes my pain worse. “I don’t need your advice.” Trust no one...

“Obviously you do. Word is, Vans will be gone tonight. Two guards have decided there’s no better time to retaliate against you for choking their friend.”

I stiffen. The choking incident happened four months ago, and the memory still haunts me. The guard in question snuck into my room. He thought I should earn his goodwill. I thought differently.

He left in a body bag.

I didn’t enjoy killing him, even in self-defense, but I also didn’t feel more than a few twinges of remorse. I’ve endured one too many beatings, or maybe I’ve witnessed one too many murders. Kids killing other kids. Guards killing kids. Vans killing James. We’re desensitized fast. Here, it’s survival of the fittest.

Guess Myriad and I agree on something. Might Equals Right.

“Thanks for the warning,” I say, my stomach beginning to churn. I’m not ready for another battle. Not one of this magnitude. I’m not strong enough.

Doesn’t matter. I have to find a way.

She scowls at me. “I didn’t do it for you. The more prepared you are, the better your chances of killing two more of Vans’s men.”

Bloodthirsty girl. As always. “Also the better my chances of spending another thirty days in the pit, giving you a chance to strike at Bow without my interference, eh.” The pit is a frigid hole in the basement where the only source of water is a rusty tap, and a bucket is the only piece of furniture.

“Hey. It’s a small price to pay.”

“Of course you’d think so. You’ve never spent any time down there.”

“Not for lack of trying!”

I can’t argue with that. I’ve often wondered why she’s singular to Vans. Is she sleeping with him?

I’ve heard rumors about girls earning special privileges with their bodies. I’ve also heard about girls being threatened with harsher punishments if they refuse. Even the thought fills me with rage.

From time to time, a guard has propositioned me. I said no, flat out, every time. I’ve never had sex and my first time won’t be a freaking business transaction. In my old life, some of my friends had often hit-it-and-quit-it, and it hadn’t taken me long to notice most grumbled with disappointment while only a rare few sighed dreamily.

The loss of my virginity is a memory I’m going to carry into my Secondlife and dang it, I’m going to be one of the ones who sighs dreamily.

“You boning the boss?” I ask her.

Color blooms in her cheeks. Embarrassment? Shame? Both? She jumps up and snarls at me. “Oh, go to Many Ends, dreg!”

“And leave these luxurious accommodations? Nah.”

She flounces off and chooses a new seat.

I remain on a razor’s edge of calm through therapy...my different classes...lunch...and finally dinner. No one strikes at me, but all the guards are a little too nice. They smile every time I pass. They ask if I need help with anything.

That night, after Bow and I are locked in our cell, our lights out, I rush to cover the camera with a sheet—just in case—and gather my stash of shivs made from spoons and toothbrushes, hidden behind a stone in the wall.

No one tells me to remove the sheet, a sign in and of itself. The guards don’t want anyone to record what’s going to happen, and they can blame me for the lack of feed, maybe even claim I hurt myself in an attempt to incriminate them. Not that they’d get into trouble for hurting me.

“What’s going on?” Bow demands.

I explain the situation. She waves a hand through the air, unconcerned.

“You won’t need those,” she says. “I’ve got this. You can sit back and simply enjoy the show.”

As if.

I move to the side of the door, taking a sentry position. With a sigh, Bow does the same.

One hour ticks into another, but I remain in place. I’ve done this kind of vigil before, during the realm riots that occurred in my front yard.

My dad is a senator in the House of Myriad, responsible for ensuring Myriad-friendly laws are passed and Troika-friendly laws aren’t.

Sometimes when a hot-button issue arose—like Myriad’s desire to supersede the human government—Troikan protesters congregated on our lawn, threw rotten food at our doors and windows and screamed vitriol. I just had to wait for it to end.

The stress is the biggest obstacle. My limbs shake. My stomach twists. Sweat drips down my spine. At least I’m not cowering.

I’ll never cower again.

“You sure they’re coming tonight?” Bow asks, as blasé as ever.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Sloan could have lied to me. Her version of payback, I suppose. Although keeping us frazzled tonight so we’re useless tomorrow isn’t exactly her MO. She likes to use shivs of her own.

Finally the doors slide open. I tense, ready to strike. Four men wearing black masks march into the room.

They know where we’re hiding. The two men in front swing their arms to deliver a brutal punch. One to each of us.

I’m slower than usual, so I fail to duck in time. I take a fist to the center of the chest, my heart skipping a beat...then another...before leaping into a too-fast rhythm. Bow manages to duck just fine, grab her guy by the arm and, using her elbow as a hammer, break his radius. As he howls with pain, she kicks out her leg, nailing my guy in the torso, causing him to double over.

I act quickly, slamming my knee into his nose. He goes down as another guy dives on me, knocking me down. Upon impact, agony consumes me. I can barely breathe, my lungs flattened, stars winking behind my eyelids.

Get up! I have to win this.

I try without success. Meanwhile, I hear a rustle of clothing, the crunch of other bones breaking...another howl of pain. Dragging sounds. A feminine grunt.

A shadow falls over me. I hold out my hands to ward off—

“It’s okay,” Bow says. “It’s just me.”

Relieved, I sag against the cold, hard floor.

“The men are out for the count and now in the hall.”

Good, that’s good. Guess she had this, after all.

Maybe I can trust her a little?

No, no. Must resist the urge. Despite what Sloan said—despite Bow’s actions—no good can come from an alliance. We’re too different, and with Bow’s support of Troika, she’ll turn on me soon enough.

“I guess we’re even,” I manage to say. I had her back with Sloan, and she had mine with the guards. I got the better end of the deal, but that’s not a me problem.

“Wow. You are one tough Nutter to crack. And that’s not a compliment.”

“I used to be nice,” I tell her. My version of an apology, I suppose. “I was even shy.”

I don’t miss the girl I used to be; she’s a stranger in so many ways. She was scared and weak.

With a strength that baffles me, Bow picks me up and carries me to my bed. She gently lays me across the mattress, saying, “What you need is—”

“Do not say light.”

“Fine. A distraction from your troubles. Want to make out a little?” There’s a teasing note in her tone. “This would be a pity session, nothing more. You may be female, but you’re still not my type. You’re way too mouthy. Oh! I know! I can teach you better uses for your—”

“Shut. Up,” I say, trying not to laugh. Laughing will only make the hurt worse.

“Is that a soft no?”

“Hard no. I’m currently in a relationship.”

She arches a brow. “You have a boyfriend?”

“No.” Miss you so much, James. “I’m dating myself.”

Bow snorts. “You want my advice? Break up with her. She’s no good for you.”

“Hey!”

“Well, it’s true. Right now her priorities are seriously screwed up.”

* * *

The next six days are surprisingly good. Well, as good as can be expected in a place as vile as Prynne.

The four guards were culled from the pack. Dr. Vans says they just up and disappeared, but that can’t be true. He never punishes his men. I think the bastards are recovering in the medical ward. I just don’t know why Bow and I haven’t been punished.

I mean, we’ve been fed three squares every day, we haven’t been singled out during any of our classes, and Sloan hasn’t attacked us.

It’s the little things.

My biggest complaint? Most of Bow’s conversations begin with “If you sign with Troika, you’ll...”

Discover the true meaning of joy.

Know peace for the first time.

Have access to the best advisors in the world.

Make friends who will always have your back.

Pick one. Pick all. Gimme. But too bad for her, Myriad makes the same promises.

I place my newest blood mark on the calendar and straighten with ease. My back is on the mend, my range of motion almost normal.

“Tell me something,” Bow says as she ties her boots. I’m surprised she’s lucid. She spent the entire night threatening the wall. Go away. I’m going to kill you. Oh, yeah? Well, I can definitely hurt you. “Have you met with a new ML lately? A boy? Maybe kinda sorta...handsome.” She gags, as if the word tastes foul. “Maybe he pulled you aside in secret.”

ML—Myriad Laborer. “No. Why?”

She hikes a shoulder in a faux-casual shrug. “I know Myriad’s MO. When a teenage girl refuses to do their bidding, they send a boy they think she’ll like. One who’s supposed to rev her engine.”

“My engine is set to idle, remember? Maybe permanently.” After James... No. Just no.

“Hey. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

My parents would never agree to...

Oh, who am I kidding? They so would.

“I guess it’s better than the alternative.” She stands, stretches her arms over her head and arches her back. “If Myriad ever considers you a lost cause, there’s a good chance they’ll send someone to kill you.”

Same with Troika. There have always been whispers about Laborers who poison the Unsigned to prevent a pledge to the other realm. “One, I’m not close to signing, period. And two, if I die here, Dr. Vans won’t get a bonus.”

The pro? The greedy bastard would take a bullet to save me. The con? It’s just a matter of time before he ramps my torture to the next level.

No matter what’s done to me in the future, I will hold out. I must. I’ll be released on my eighteenth birthday. Though my parents signed with Myriad before my conception, there was a special clause for the birth of a child.

When I came along, their contracts had to be renegotiated. Now their benefits are dependent on my decision. An incentive to raise me the “right” way.

If I haven’t signed with Myriad by the time I’m a legal adult, my parents will lose everything they love more than they ever loved me. Money, prestige. Homes. Cars. Boats. Not to mention the things they were promised in the Everlife.

Bow sighs. “Another day, another breakfast. Or a meal pretending to be breakfast.”

A sense of doom overtakes me, a shadow I’m unable to shake. Bad is coming. Bad is always coming. But since six days have passed without incident—bad is coming soon.

Sounding resigned, she says, “Our cell will open in—”

“Three, two, one,” I finish.

The doors slide apart, and we race into the hall.

Sloan spots me and flips me off. I know she’s pleased four guards are missing, but she’s also ticked about something—clearly—and lashing out.

I look her over and find finger-size bruises around her neck. Someone tried to choke her out. Been there, lived through that.

If I show her an ounce of sympathy, she’ll try to throat punch me. I blow her a kiss.

“Come on,” I say to Bow.

We make our way to the cafeteria, where I count the occupants out of habit. My gaze lands on a boy I’ve never before seen and oh, wow. Okay. He. Is. Gorgeous. Not that I care about a pretty face. Pretty can hide a monster. But I’m not overhyping when I say he’s a living ad for every dream-boy fantasy every girl in the universe has ever had.

He has dark hair that hangs over a stern brow. I can’t make out the color of his eyes, but just like with Bow, I can feel the intensity of them—because they’re locked on me. His nose is straight, perfect, and his lips soft and pink. His jaw is strong and dusted with the shadow of a beard.

He leans back and drapes his tattooed, muscular arms over the tops of the chairs flanking him, and smiles, a slow unveiling of perfect, white teeth.

In moments like this I miss Clay more than usual. He was—is!—such a good judge of character. He can take one look at a new inmate or guard and tell me if they have a heart of gold or one that’s as wrinkled as a prune. We called him the heartalyst.

Where are you, Clay?

“Son of a Myriad-troll.” Bow snarls, taking a step forward, about to move out of line. “How dare he show his ugly face!”

I shackle her wrist in a hard grip to hold her in place.

“Don’t worry,” she says, huffing and puffing. “I won’t break the rules and murder him. I’ll just introduce him to my fists—repeatedly!”

When she continues to struggle, I plant myself in front of her, forcing her to concentrate on me. “Calm down. Now. Or you’ll be dragged out of here kicking and screaming.”

She tries to glare at the boy over my shoulder.

“My TL once said hate is like drinking a vial of poison and expecting it to harm the other person,” I tell her, and she finally settles. “You’re not hurting the guy, only yourself.”

“But...but... I’m justified,” she says with a whine.

“So is everyone else, I’m sure.” As I peer at her, curiosity fills me. “How do you know him? What’d he do to you?”

Stiffening, she turns away. “We’ve crossed paths a time or two. He’s pure Myriad evil, trust me.”

“He can’t be that bad. I’m sure—”

In a flash of motion, she’s facing me again, fisting my shirt, clinging to me, her copper eyes imploring me to understand. “He’s worse than bad. Stay away from him. Okay? All right?”

I dare another glance at “pure Myriad evil.” He’s focused on Bow now, looking her up and down like he’s a predator and it’s finally mealtime. He smiles again, even more slowly, a lot more wickedly, and runs his tongue over his teeth, as if he can already taste her...and he only wants more.

I lose the ability to breathe.

“Move,” the inmate behind Bow commands, giving her a push.

I snap to and toss the girl a scowl that rivals Sloan’s, silently promising violence. Only when she’s staring at her feet do I step forward and accept my tray from a creeper with greasy hair and an even greasier mustache. I’m pretty sure Dr. Vans purposely hires the scourge of the earth to scare us straight.

Bow accepts her tray and shepherds me across the cafeteria, as far away from New Guy as possible. I let her get away with it for only one reason: that stupid curiosity. Along the way we pass Sloan, who just can’t resist the opportunity to stick out her leg to trip Bow. But Bow is a freak of nature. She jumps over the obstacle and kicks back, hooking Sloan’s ankle between her feet and ripping the girl out of her chair.

As Sloan goes down, her elbow slams into her tray. Food pours over her head, and as she shrieks, the rest of the cafeteria grows quiet. Finally a chuckle cuts through the shock, and it’s like a starting bell. The rest of the room explodes into squawks of laughter.

Bow doesn’t grin over her triumph; she frowns. Once again wishing she’d handled things differently? “I’m sorry,” she calls over her shoulder.

What a conundrum she is. Smart, with sharply honed protect-yourself-at-any-cost instincts. But she also has a deep-seated need to soothe others.

When we find a table, she stares at me, intent. “Listen. Things are different now. Things you won’t understand. You have to trust me, and you have to keep me nearby from now on. No matter what. Okay? All right? I’ll see to your safety. If you’ll let me.”

“You can’t see to my safety.” No one can. “There are too many threats.”

“Dude. I’ve already proved otherwise, and yet still you doubt me?”

“And,” I continue as if she hasn’t spoken, “I don’t want you to try. I mean it. You’ll only get yourself into trouble.”

“Ten—”

“No. No arguments.” I may be confused about my future, but I’m not confused about my present. I’ll never place my well-being in the hands of someone else. Once, I trusted my parents. They sent me here. I trusted James. Since his death, I’ve been stuck with a terrible sense of loss. I trusted Marlowe, who’d been pro-Troika, but ultimately, she was so desperate to leave the asylum and enter the realm, she hung herself. She also abandoned Clay, who loved her.

Now I don’t know if she’s actually in Troika or Many Ends—if it’s real. Suicide is expressly forbidden by both realms, and it can even render a contract null and void.

I trusted Clay, too. He managed to stay clean and sober until Marlowe’s death. Afterward, he spiraled, doing I-don’t-know-what to buy “happy” drugs from a nurse.

His mind roilin’ and boilin’, he asked me to escape with him. Said he’d paid the guards to do what they’d done for James. I’d already lost my boyfriend and couldn’t bear the thought of losing another friend, so I turned him down and begged him to give me time to figure out a better way.

The next day, he was gone.

That was three months ago. Where is he? Free? Or was he caught? Is he somewhere within these horrible walls?

Sometimes I think I hear screams rising from my concrete floor.

“That boy...he’s Myriadian, you know,” Bow mutters.

She says Myriadian with the same inflection she might use with cancer. Does she hate him just because he signed with the other realm? “Have you ever heard of HART?”

“Humans Against Realm Turmoil? Yep. They like to protest the war between the realms in front of the House of Myriad, the House of Troika, and the White House.”

“Right.” From my History of the Worlds class, I know their ultimate goal is a treaty between the realms and the Land of the Harvest. I also know the first members got together soon after the realms revealed themselves...again.

Apparently, the realms did the whole “Hi, we’re here and we’re real” a few times over the ages, but humans—being human—romanticized the truth. Myriad has been called everything from Valhalla to Mount Olympus, while Troika was once known as Paradise. Then, around the 1500s, both realms began to insert themselves into everyday human existence, drawing us out of the dark ages.

“Why?” Bow asks, her tone cautious.

“Well, I’m wondering why members of the realms haven’t agreed to a peace treaty. Or, you know, just hugged it out. I’m wondering why you hate a boy just because he’s different. Or because he’s hurt you for some mysterious reason. You Troikans claim you’re all about forgiveness, right?”

“Forgiving someone isn’t the same as letting him crap all over me. Dude. Have you ever heard the Myriad pledge of allegiance? We won’t rest until Troika is nothing but ash in the wind of eternity. Also, the HART campaign is ridiculous. Light and darkness cannot coexist. A house divided cannot stand.” She pushes her tray to the middle of the table, as if she’s lost her appetite. “We’d be a two-headed beast, and we’d consume ourselves.”

Speaking of consumption, she’s eaten so little since her arrival I’m beginning to worry about her health.

“Distract me,” she says.

“Eat,” I reply.

“No. Distract me,” she repeats.

“Want me to sing and dance for you?” I ask drily.

“Yes!”

“No way, no how. Not happening.”

“Fine.” She sighs with disappointment. “Just... I don’t know, talk to me. Tell me something about your life before the asylum.”

I don’t want to share details about myself, but I also don’t want her to starve, and it’s now clear she requires motivation. “I’ll give a nugget or two, but only if you eat everything on your tray.”

“Are you kidding? It’s gross and—”

“Trust me, you need the vitamins.”

“Fine.” With a grimace, she returns the tray to its proper place. “Now talk.”

Where to begin? It seems like an eternity since I’ve revealed even a minor detail about my history. “I attended a Myriad-endorsed private school.”

She waits for me to say more. I don’t. She gives her tray another push.

I scowl at her. “What do you want to know?”

“How about your studies?”

“Besides the usual courses?” Easy. “The inner workings of the realm.” Those classes were taught by Messengers, people responsible for spreading the word about the realm they loved.

Mostly, I’d been fascinated by the daily life of spirits. Unlike us, they have no need to sleep. They eat only one meal a day, a single piece of manna. A honeycomb-like wafer. Anyone under the age of eighteen attends school to learn more about their realm and its leaders. Kids are also taught the skills they’ll need for whatever job they’ll one day be assigned.

Everyone over the age of eighteen works an assignment nonstop until completion—even if the assignment takes years. Like undercover cops.

Bow swallows a bite of slop and grimaces. “What about your friends?”

“They were sheltered, like me.” The answer leaves me without hesitation, as if I’m already used to sharing. “We could hang out together, but only with a parent or Laborer in view. We weren’t to get behind the wheel of a car or even into a car with someone other than the person paid to drive us.” At first, I accepted it. I thought, My parents love me, want me protected. Then came resentment. My parents simply need me alive, whatever the cost.

The day of my sixteenth birthday, after I refused to sign with Myriad, I stole the keys to my mom’s car. I’d never driven before, but autopilot made it effortless. I’d soared, and I’d never had so much fun.

But that kind of fun never lasts, does it?

The next day, I ended up at the asylum, scared out of my mind, shocked and confused.

“Does Troika choose humans the same way Myriad does?” I ask.

“Pretty much. Headhunters monitor people on the earth, searching for a certain trait.”

Headhunter, a subdivision of Leader. “What trait?”

“Willingness.”

“Willingness?” What does that even mean?

“Anyway,” she continues. “Laborers are sent to protect the chosen and then, when the human reaches the Age of Accountability, they negotiate covenant terms and guide the human through the rest of Firstlife. With us, though, covenants are voided if the signer is coerced. With Myriad, a coerced signer must go to court to gain freedom.”

Court? “There’s a way out?” The news gives me hope.

“Yes, but too many lose the case, since the court insists both Troikans and Myriadians attend. The signer often cracks during questioning.”

Well, a little hope.

“Now I know the before-Prynne Ten.” Bow waves her spoon at me. “Tell me about the after-Prynne Ten. What are you going to do when you’re free?”

Reveal who I want to be, rather than who I used to be? That one proves more difficult. “You first.”

“As if you couldn’t guess. I’m going to continue spreading light, and I’m going be the best Troikan Laborer—and the sexiest—in the history of ever.”

I’ve struggled to pick a side for over a year. Here she is, unwavering in her belief. I’ll just pretend I’m not writhing with envy. “How do you know you’ll be a Laborer? There are four other jobs in the Everlife with multiple subpositions under each.”

“I’ve known here—” she taps her fist over her heart “—all my life.”

“And the feeling has never wavered?” Not once?

“Why would it? My position in life—and death—is part of who I am.”

The envy I’m totally not feeling prompts me to say, “Or, fate has decided for you.”

She scoffs, saying, “Don’t get me started on fate! Fate is an excuse, a way to remove blame and therefore guilt for poor decision making. Free choice decides the outcome of your life, not fate.”

Girl makes a good point.

“Why aren’t you branded?” Those who make covenant with Troika are supposed to tattoo a three-point star on the top of each hand—not that everyone does. Those who make covenant with Myriad are supposed to tattoo interlocking jagged lines on their wrists. Again, not that everyone does. It’s supposed to be an outward sign of an inward commitment.

“Oh, no.” She shakes her head. “I answered your question. It’s your turn to answer mine. What are you going to do after the asylum?”

I chew on my bottom lip as my mind whirls. I’ve never voiced my desire aloud, have held the secret close to my heart. “My grandparents left me a trust.” One my parents can’t touch. My grandparents were Troikan, which was how my mom was raised. When she met my dad, she decided Myriad was the place for her. “At eighteen, I’ll be set. I’ll be able to afford a house on the beach.” One with zero neighbors who force me to think about issues I can’t solve. “I’m going to...surf.”

I’ve never been allowed, could only watch other people from the safety of my bedroom. Anytime I asked to do something remotely “dangerous,” I was told I had to wait until I reached the Age of Accountability and signed with Myriad.

Now I crave excitement. The wind in my face, water beaded over my skin.

For some reason, as happiness buzzes in my veins, my gaze is drawn to New Guy.

He’s staring at me again.

Each of my pulse points leaps. Not knowing what else to do, I nod in acknowledgment.

“Wait. Are you eye-screwing him?” Bow demands.

What? “No!”

Somehow he hears our conversation over the chatter around us and calls, “Yes.” Then he winks at me.

I glare at him before I glare at Bow. I might have shared tidbits of my life with her, but that doesn’t mean she knows me or has the right to castigate me. “Do you want me as your enemy, Bow?”

Her jaw drops. “No. Of course not.”

I say nothing else, my point made. I stand and walk away from her...toward New Guy.

He smiles at me, but it’s the wicked one, as if he knows a secret I don’t, and it sets my nerves on edge.

As I pass him, I take a page from Bow’s book, hook my foot around the leg of his chair and yank. The chair topples over, taking him with it.

His surprised laughter follows me out of the cafeteria.