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chapter three

“There is no supposed to be, only what is.”

—Myriad

There’s a line in the hallway. As I take my place at the tail, Bow rushes up behind me, apologizing. I ignore her. As usual, some kids are sent to the gym to “lose a few pounds,” and some are sent to the commons to “lose a little crazy.” In either case, the time is considered a preclass “warm-up.”

Also as usual, I’m sent to the commons.

A guard oinks at Bow and pushes her toward the gym. For the first time, she sidesteps him and tries to follow me.

I remember her warning. You have to keep me nearby from now on.

She’s that worried about New Guy?

The guard—I call him Colonel Anus—grabs her. At the moment of contact, she spins, raising the arm he’s holding and also cradling it against her chest while rotating her wrist, putting her palm just under her chin. She uses her other hand to latch on to the meaty part of his palm. Then she steps back, twisting his wrist.

He drops, hitting the floor with a thud, his arm now positioned behind his back.

Girl has even more skills than I realized. I’m impressed.

“I’m staying with my roommate today. Get used to the idea.” She drops Anus’s arm and steps on the back of his head to pass him. His nose slams into the floor, and he wails with pain. The problem? He has a friend I’ve named Ben Dover. Ben launches into action, grabbing Bow by the hair and yanking. She flails as she falls backward.

“Chubby girls don’t get to spend their mornings chatting about their problems.” He spits at her when she lands. “The treadmill is your best friend.”

“Well, my fist is your worst enemy.” She kicks out and nails him between the legs. “And my foot. Yeah, I probably should have mentioned my foot.”

He loses his breath as he drops to his knees.

She sits up and draws back her elbow, clearly planning to knock out his teeth. New Guy runs past her before she can act and she goes still, as if her mind has clocked out for a smoke break. Did he do something to her? By the time she’s all systems go, the guard has swallowed the nuts she drilled into his throat and reentered the game. He easily dodges her next blow and throws one of his own, popping her in the jaw.

A loud crack rings out.

As Bow crashes, other inmates move out of the way. Including me.

I want to help her, and I will—when I can actually do some good. Know when to strike and when to wait. Or hurt.

Two other guards and a nurse—a woman I affectionately refer to as Nurse Ratched—enter the fray.

Nurse Ratched pulls a syringe from the pocket of her lab coat. “A special cocktail for a special girl.” Bow is held down and stuck in the neck. Her entire body begins to twitch, but she remain conscious. Most other kids pass out when they’re drugged.

Guilt fills me. Could I have done something?

She would have done something for me.

“Show over.” Nurse Ratched, another Russian, glares at me as if I’m at fault. “Move along. Now!”

No other choice. Well, no other intelligent choice. I head to the commons alongside the others. I’m trembling as I sit in my assigned circle in the back of the room, where chairs without cushions have been nailed down.

New Guy shoves someone aside to take the spot next to me. That someone—a boy named Hank—protests until New Guy gives him a hard thump to the throat. While Hank gasps for air, New Guy gifts me with that slow predator’s grin.

I breathe him in: peat smoke and heather. Exotic, with a hint of musk, and I swear it’s like I’ve just been transported to the British Isles after a rainstorm.

His eyes...they’re as bright as the sun I haven’t seen in over a year, and they are the most mesmerizing shade of gold with flecks of crystalline blue.

In one, there are five flecks. In the other, three.

Five. The number of our senses. Sight, sound, touch, taste and smell.

Three. A trinity. We have a spirit, soul and body.

In an octave, the fifth and third notes create the basic foundation of all chords. How appropriate. Those eyes have somehow made my blood sing. Or I’m simply malnourished and on edge, and my brain is overcompensating.

Yeah. That.

This close, I can almost count New Guy’s individual lashes. They are long, spiky and jet-black...and I’m staring at him, I realize.

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to do,” I say.

“And knocking over my chair was?” His voice is low and husky with a slight Irish lilt, and it’s almost as smoky as his scent. “Let’s do the introduction thing so my heartbeat will finally calm down. I’m Killian. And you are stunningly beautiful.”

Before he’s finished delivering the (clearly) practiced line, I’m already building walls. “I think you mean I’m attitudinal.”

“Definitely not. But now I’m certain you’re irresistible.”

“I think you mean unsuitable.”

“Or adorable.”

Oh, crap. Are we flirting? “All right. Enough.”

The corners of his lips twitch. “Are you playing hard to get, lass? It’s never happened to me before, so I need clarification.”

“I’m not playing anything. And I’m impossible to get.”

He rubs his hands together with something akin to glee. “Well, then. Challenge accepted.”

I open my mouth to protest, but my gaze lands on his wrists. Myriad brands. They are the loveliest I’ve ever seen, the links slanted rather than rounded, creating languid eyes. And up close like this, the tattoos on his forearms appear to be Technicolor. They are spectacular, but there are too many to count without a more intense study.

I want to do a more intense study.

And...there’s something odd about the images. Something more than simple aesthetics. The arrangement, maybe? There are lines through the skull with tears of blood. More lines through the cracked and crumbling moon, with pieces falling into the stars. Are they telling a story? Like hieroglyphics?

“Into tattoos, lass? Well, I’m happy to offer you a private unveiling later.”

My cheeks flare with heat. I duck my head to hide the reaction.

I’m not usually into tattoos, no. Even though I have one myself. A small rendition of planet Earth on the back of my neck. I was fifteen when I got it—snuck out with my friends in my first real act of rebellion—but I’m not sure why I thought a globe was “a perfect expression of my turbulent emotions, and something I’ll never regret.”

“You’re still staring,” he says.

I grind my teeth. “Where are you from?” Like the staff, inmates hail from all over the world. I’m a native of Los Angeles, where the House of Myriad resides—where my dad wields a massive amount of power. The laws he helps push through affect both humans and spirits.

My mother is an artist in high demand. Her paintings of Myriad always sell at auction.

I sometimes wonder what the two have told their friends about my absence. Boarding school? Rehab? Or the truth?

“Where do you want me to be from?” Killian rasps.

Irritation sparks. “Why are you here?” I always ask the newcomers, even though I rarely receive an answer. Bow, Marlowe and Clay are the exceptions.

He shrugs. “Would you believe I saw something I wanted and decided to come in and get it?”

My blush returns, and I lament the fairness of my skin. Not to mention my inability to hide even the slightest reaction. Most of all, I lament his effect on me. “Let me guess. You wanted the five-star cuisine? The frequent whippings? The voyeuristic staff?”

Nonchalant, he drapes his arm over the back of my chair. “Perhaps it was your friend. What’s she calling herself these days?”

His odd phrasing throws me. “Her name is Bow, if that’s what you mean.”

“Bow.” He laughs, low and intimate. “An archer uses a bow and arrow. How cute.”

Again, I’m thrown. “What’s the deal between you two?”

“She’s a bitch, and she can’t be trusted. Don’t worry, though.” He leans close enough to graze the tip of his nose against my ear. “I’ll protect you.”

I jerk away, severing contact.

“Are you afraid of me? I’m disappointed.” Killian pouts at me. “Where’s the firecracker who once choked a guard with his own belt?”

I don’t have to wonder how he obtained his info. In here, the gossip train never stops running. I’m sure he heard about my punishment, too.

“I’m not afraid of you. I just don’t like to be touched without first granting permission.” I meet his gaze dead-on, a clear challenge. “And if you want an introduction to the firecracker, I can arrange it. She’s a little ticked you called her roommate a bitch.”

He accepts the new challenge with eagerness. “Yes, please. With a cherry on top of me.”

He’s laughing at me, isn’t he? He’s even relaxed enough to twirl a lock of my hair around his finger, the black strands a lovely contrast to the bronze of his skin.

I slap his hand away. “You’re positive? She’s heartless.”

“You’re only whetting my appetite, lass.”

Not just laughing, but mocking. It makes my next action easier. “Don’t forget. You begged for this.” I punch him in the throat, a quick jab that causes him to gasp for breath he isn’t able to catch. Payback for Hank. The action should stop...whatever this is.

I smile at him. “Just so you know, even an animal in a cage can strike back.”

He recovers swiftly and—shocker—returns my smile with one of his own. His amusement appears genuine and, dare I believe it, tinged with a bit of respect.

He opens his mouth to reply, but Sloan glides into the empty seat beside him and pats his chest. She doesn’t appear to enjoy the connection, but she doesn’t end it, either. “Hey there, sugar bear.” She gives him a patented I’m-not-wearing-any-panties wink but it, too, seems faked. “I thought I’d save you the trouble of asking around for my info. I’m Sloan Aubuchon.”

His attention never leaves me. “No, thank you, lass. I’m only interested in Ten.”

His accent is thicker now, pure seduction, but the sweet words are actually a threat. I sense it. Too bad for him, I’m far from cowed. He has no idea the horrors I’ve endured. I’m not a wilting flower. Not anymore.

“Ten kisses from me?” she asks.

“To you,” I tell him, “I’m Tenley.” What’s in a name? Only everything. Nicknames allow an intimacy I don’t want to share with him.

“Or you can call her Nutter,” Sloan says, helpful as ever. “Everyone else does.”

His gaze rakes over me. “For the size of your balls, or the nutty goodness of your taste?”

Through gritted teeth, I say, “Do you require another introduction to the firecracker?”

He’s smiling as Dr. Vans enters the room.

Quiet descends over the circle as the most hated male in the asylum sits in the only cushioned chair. His narrowed gaze finds Sloan, and he pats the empty seat next to him. The one always saved for her.

She raises her chin and remains in place.

I don’t like the way he’s looking at her. I lean into his line of sight, claiming his attention with my glare. He runs his tongue over his teeth before looking away from me.

He’s a tall, lean man in his late thirties. His short brown hair is always meticulously styled, his clothes impeccably tailored underneath his lab coat.

“Are you protecting your enemy?” Killian asks me. “Lass, you’re getting more interesting by the second.”

“You mean I’m getting more bristling,” I mutter.

“More riveting.”

Dang, he’s quick.

“All right, everyone. We have a new member of our family. Please stand and tell the group three facts about yourself, Mr.—” Dr. Vans glances down at his notebook “—Flynn.”

Killian stands without hesitation. “I hear it’s best to picture your audience in their underwear.” He winks down at me. “Nice choice.” As the other kids chuckle, he adds, “I enjoy long walks on the beach, swimming in the ocean and surfing. I used to have a weakness for blondes, but I have a feeling that part of my life is over.”

He surfs? Seriously?

What are the odds?

A brunette on the other side of the circle fans her face. Sloan signs call me.

Vans notices and scowls at her.

“Also,” Killian adds, “I’m a Myriad boy through and through. If you give me an hour, I’ll convince you to sign in the first five minutes, and we can spend the rest of our time celebrating your decision.”

I give him a thumbs-down.

Hank raises his hand and, with challenge in his eyes, says, “I accept. Your cell or mine?”

“Like you could handle me, boy-o.” Killian sits.

“I like your enthusiasm, Mr. Flynn. Perhaps Ms. Lockwood needs to spend quality time with you.” Vans makes a notation in his book. “Yes. I’m already sold on the idea. I’ll make the arrangements.”

I bite my tongue to stop a shout of negation. Of course Vans wants to pair me with a Myriad loyalist.

How would Killian, my parents or even Bow like it if I actively tried to convince them to join the world of the Unsigned?

I drum my fingers against my chin. “I think quality time with Mr. Flynn is exactly what I need...to finally push me in Troika’s direction.”

Killian snorts, as if he knows I’m bluffing.

Vans purses his lips but doesn’t reply directly. “All right, everyone. I’m here to listen to any problems you’ve been having. Talk to me. Help me help you make your stay here more enjoyable.”

More enjoyable for him. For us? More agonizing.

As different kids list their grievances—things I’ve heard a thousand times before—I distract myself with the childhood song that’s never far from my mind.

Ten tears fall, and I call...nine hundred trees, but only one is for me. Eight times eight times eight they fly, whatever you do, don’t stay dry.

“—don’t like that you’re still alive, Vanniekins.” Sloan runs a fingertip down each cheek, mimicking tears. “Let me remedy the problem?”

An-n-nd as usual, he moves on without chastising her.

Seven ladies dancing, ignore their sweet romancing. Six—

“—spiders in my room,” a girl bursts out, as if she can’t hold in the words a second longer. She shudders with revulsion.

Dr. Vans makes a notation.

Oh, honey. You have no idea what you’ve done. Next time she’s due for punishment, she’ll find thousands of hologram spiders in her room. Her mind will think they’re real, and she’ll willingly peel the skin from her body to remove the critters.

“You have to send someone to remove them,” she adds. “I can’t go another night—”

“Shut up,” I snap. Cruel to be kind. “Pretending to be afraid of spiders is—”

“I’m not pretending.”

Fool! She doesn’t get it.

Sooner rather than later, she will. She’ll remember this moment and cry.

Dr. Vans focuses on me, his dark eyes narrowing. “Miss Lockwood, you seem eager to speak. Do you have any complaints about your treatment?”

I pretend my middle finger is a tube of lipstick and apply a first and second coat. I’ll never willingly offer ammunition to be used against me. He knows this.

Still he says, “I’ll give you five seconds to voice your biggest complaint. Continue to remain silent, and I’ll be forced to penalize you.”

Finally. The sword I feel poised at my neck every second of every day will slash, and I’ll experience the next round of torture.

I become the sole focus of every person in the room, but I keep my eyes on Vans.

“One,” he says.

“I think I’m going to barf every time I look at your face.” How’s that?

“Only a legitimate complaint will be heeded, Miss Lockwood.”

“Excellent. I was completely serious.”

“Two. Three.”

“She would like the guards to keep their hands to themselves,” Killian says. To pull attention from me? “I know I would. I’m more than a piece of meat.”

I kind of admire his balls. Figuratively! Only figuratively!

“Miss Lockwood?” Vans prompts.

I raise my chin in a mimic of Sloan. Denying him is one of my favorite indulgences. My hope is that, at the end of his life, when he’s lying in his sickbed, choking on his own vomit—a girl can dream—he’ll look back and bemoan the fact that I’m his biggest failure.

“Four, five,” I say with a smirk.

Sloan shakes her head at me, all bless your stupid heart. Maybe I should’ve played along. All I had to do was complain about something I hate, or lie about something I hate, but the truth is too important to me. I hate lies almost as much as I hate Vans. The worst of the worst lie. I won’t emulate them, even to save myself from a boatload of grief.

A few inmates snicker. This enrages Vans, who leaps to his feet. He motions to Ben Dover and Colonel Anus with a tilt of his chin. “Take her.”

Killian jumps up and steps in front of me, shocking me. He frowns at me over his shoulder, as if he’s in shock, too, then he scowls at the guards. “She stays. I’m not done talking with her.”

He, a stranger, is...guarding me? And he’s doing it even after I refused to guard Bow. Way to rock my world.

I stand and give him a nudge into his chair. “Don’t worry about me,” I whisper. I don’t want him hurt on my behalf. “Worry about yourself.”

He glares but remains silent as Colonel Anus takes my left arm and Ben Dover takes my right. I’m hauled to my room. Bow is there already and she’s still in a drugged sleep, but now she’s on her bed, her wrists and ankles shackled to the posts with cuffs that glow more brightly than a lamp. Aka fetters.

Vans enters the room behind me. My stomach churns, as if it’s trying to make butter from bile, but I swallow back pleas for mercy. This man has none.

I’m held immobile as he paces in front of me. “Ten, Ten, Ten,” he says and sighs heavily. “Ever the troublesome child. Why do you force me to hurt you?”

“Your choice. Your actions. Don’t try casting blame on me.”

“This isn’t the way I like to treat my patients, but I’m willing to do whatever proves necessary to save you from the Realm of Many Ends...or an eternity as a Troikan slave.”

“You are Unsigned.” He must be. “I’ve heard you tell other kids you’ll do anything to save them from eternity as a Myriad drone, one of countless souls overpopulating a dying realm.”

He shrugs. “What’s right for one isn’t right for another.”

No. No! He has an answer for everything and though this one sounds good, I cringe as if he scraped his fingernails over a chalkboard. There has to be absolute right or there isn’t absolute wrong.

This place is wrong.

This man is wrong. He misleads and misdirects without regret, caring more about a monetary payoff than the long-term health of the kids under his “care.”

Troika would tell me to forgive him.

Myriad would probably tell me to attack without mercy.

That. I like that. Strike before he can strike at me.

With a roar, I lunge at him. The guards hold me in place, squeezing my shoulders so roughly the joints nearly pop out of place. Pain lances through me, and for a moment, I see stars. I don’t care. I struggle with all my might, desperate to reach my target.

“Did you get your degree at Discount Psychology?” I throw at him. “You only make half a difference and even then it’s a bad one.”

Direct hit! A muscle flexes in his jaw.

Two other guards enter the room. D-bag and Titball. How sad. No Comrade Douche today.

“Perfect timing,” Vans says, gloating now.

Both males carry a bucket of water and a rag. They stop in front of my blood-covered wall and dip the rags in the water—

Understanding dawns, and I gasp with horror. Not my calendar. Anything but my calendar. Those numbers have been the only constant in my life. My only friend. I can’t lose another friend.

“Apologize for insulting me. On your knees,” Vans says. “I’ll think about forgetting your behavior today.”

I actually consider it. My numbers...they aren’t just my friends but my only diversion from the horrors of the asylum. My only real hope. Through them, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. My next birthday...and my ultimate escape.

But. There’s always a but with me, isn’t there? I won’t be able to live with myself if I give this man—this travesty of a human being—what he wants. Because, if I do, the light at the end of the tunnel will no longer be so bright.

I lock my knees, remaining on my feet.

“Very well.” He nods, almost anticipatory.

The guards begin to wash the lines away, and my horror is renewed and redoubled.

Not ready to say goodbye. “Stop. Please. You have to stop!” I kick out my legs, but I’m jerked out of striking distance. “You have no right to destroy my property!”

They continue washing, and my emotional pain cuts worse than any physical pain I’ve ever endured. Flesh heals. The soul can fester.

“If you don’t want to lose anything else you value, Miss Lockwood, you need to leave Prynne. And soon. All you have to do is sign with Myriad,” Vans says, and the guards pause. “Nothing has ever been easier.”

A crimson drop of water trickles down the wall. A bloody tear. My beautiful calendar is dying, and with a single word I have the power to save what’s left of it. How can I not just say—the—word.

Say yes. Yes, yes, yes.

See? It isn’t difficult.

The word bubbles up... “No,” I end up saying. “No, I won’t sign.”

What is wrong with me?

Vans vibrates with rage, but quickly manages to calm himself. “I know that isn’t what you planned to say, Miss Lockwood. Last chance. Sign with Myriad.”

Moonlight...castles...and one day, a return to the Land of the Harvest, Fused with another soul...living out my fate...

Might Equals Right.

Sunlight...wildflowers...an eternity of Rest after I fulfill my covenant duties...my mistakes my own...

Light Brings Sight.

Right now, I would rather know the truth—who is right and who is wrong? I would rather not ruin my future. As I’ve learned, the wrong decision can lead down a road with more bumps and slumps than I’m equipped to handle—can cost far more than I’m willing to pay.

“I won’t,” I grit out between clenched teeth. I can’t allow a momentary pain to eclipse an eternal decision. Feelings are fleeting, no matter how earth-shattering they seem; they never last, always change. A covenant is forever.

Vans curses at me. D-bag and Titball return to work. I go still and quiet, watching as every precious line disappears.

When there’s nothing left, the group leaves, though Vans pauses in the doorway to say, “I want to be your advocate, Miss Lockwood, and yet you insist on making me your enemy.”

“You insist.” My eyes burn with tears. I blink away, refusing to give this man the satisfaction of knowing he broke me. “I simply oblige you.”

He taps his fingers on the door frame, the only indication his irritation hasn’t faded. “Perhaps one day Myriad will decide they don’t want you, after all. Kind of like your parents decided they didn’t want you, yes?”

A sharp pain nearly slices open my chest. Vans knows just how to wound for maximum damage. “Has torture ever worked for you?” I ask, but I already know the answer. I’ve noticed the fast turnaround. Most kids stay only a month or two.

“More often than not.”

“Might Equals Right, eh?”

My derision causes him to tap faster. “One decision can change your circumstances, Miss Lockwood. Just one.”

I smile a little too sweetly at him. “One bullet can change yours.”

The smile he gives me is just as sweet. “Up to this point, I’ve been easy on you. Keep pushing, and you’ll see my worst.” He reaches into his pocket and throws what looks to be a black button at me. A button that hits the floor because I don’t even try to catch it. “Almost forgot. This is from your mother.”

Why would she give me a button?

He leaves at last, locking me inside the room.

My tears long to break free, and my knees long to buckle, but I maintain my tough-as-nails attitude. The cameras...

With a trembling hand, I pick up the button. A flash-scribe, I realize. A way to send a recorded message. Now I’m even more confused. What does the mother who abandoned me, not visiting for seven months, wish to say to me?

Ignoring a swell of eagerness—have to know, now, now, now!—I stuff the device in my own pocket and stumble to Bow to check the fetters for locks. I find none. Good. I can free her, but oh, it’s going to hurt.

What’s a little more pain, right?

The outside of both cuffs is heated, and—I hiss—by the time I press the release button on each one, seven blisters decorate my fingers and palms.

The glow of the metal dwindles, the needles on the inside of each device detaching from bone and ejecting from her skin.

Clink, clink. The cuffs fall away, but she doesn’t wake. I’m glad. I’m not in the mood to deal with her.

With a curse, I tumble onto my squeaky mattress and stare up at the ceiling. Life sucks.

A muted scream suddenly echoes from the floor, and I jolt.

Isn’t Clay, isn’t Clay, isn’t Clay. He’s safe. He made it out.

Will I?

The flash-scribe is practically burning a hole in my pocket, my eagerness overtaking me. I withdraw the device and press my thumb into the top. As soon as my print registers, my mother’s voice fills the cell.

“Hi, Ten. Bet you never expected to hear from me, huh?”

My heart thumps against my ribs, and my gut clenches.

“I know I haven’t come to see you in forever, but there’s a very good reason for that. A beautiful secret. One that’s taught me how to be a mother again. I’m sorry, sweet girl. I’m sorry for everything, and I love you, I really do. Your dad loves you, too, but he’s scared of losing his job and—well. That’s not your problem. We’ll be coming to visit you soon, and it’s my hope we’ll take you with us when we leave.”

Hope flares, only to die a quick death. This is a trick. Has to be.

A baby cries in the background. My mom says, “Shh, shh,” as if there’s a human being with her rather than a television, and I frown. No one under the age of eighteen—besides me—has ever been allowed inside the house. My mom’s rule.

And I get it. She prefers not to look at what she isn’t allowed to have: another kid. She wants one as fervently as I want a sibling—someone to love me unconditionally, just because I’m me, not because of what I can do. But, long ago, the realms made a deal with the human governments. To prevent overcrowding in Secondlife, where spirits can live for centuries, even millennia, there is a one-child-per-family limit during Firstlife. In return, the realms share their advanced technology, like this flash-scribe.

My mom clears her throat. “I’ve got to go, sweetheart. I know I screwed up with you, but I’m going to give my—child a better life. You have my word.”

Why the hesitation before child?

I toss the device across the room. She doesn’t love me. She can’t. And there’s no way my dad even likes me.

Are you sure about that?

A memory takes center stage in my mind. My dad carries me on his shoulders as I stretch my arms overhead, doing my best to capture a star in the sky.

“Almost got it,” he says with a laugh.

My mom claps and calls, “You can do it, sweet girl.”

All right, maybe they loved me once. The emotion has withered. Like my heart.

A moan escapes Bow. A second later, she comes up swinging, panting for breath. Her gaze is far from disoriented as it finds mine.

“Are you okay?”

Her first thought is of my welfare? Even though I did nothing as the guards knocked her around? My guilt returns. “I’m fine. What about you?”

“Fine, no thanks to Killian.”

I remember the way he raced past her. “What’d he do?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She plays with the edge of her blanket. “Vans is right, you know. At least about this. One decision can change your circumstances.”

“I know, but—” Wait. “How do you know what he said?”

“The body—I mean, my body—might have been drugged, but I was still aware.”

How’d she manage that? I’ve been drugged before, and I was out for the count.

“Sign with Troika, Ten.” Those copper eyes beseech me. “You’ll never regret it.”

“Prove it. Give me a guarantee.”

“My word isn’t good enough?”

No. “Why do you want me, anyway? Why do they?”

She inhales deeply, exhales sharply. “Have you ever heard of a Conduit?”

“Yes. Someone or something used as a means of sending something from one place or person to another.”

“Right. And in Troika, a Conduit is the highest type of General, second only to King. Conduits are rare and precious, powerful both here and there. They absorb sunlight from Earth—which is more than just heat and illumination—and direct the beams to the realm. There are whispers about you,” she says, only to go quiet.

“Whispers suggesting I’m a Conduit?” Someone rare and precious? Powerful? I laugh at the absurdity. “Wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“Better question. How do they?”

“Like you, I don’t have all the answers.” She sighs. “Let’s forget the Conduit thing. There’s a lot about you to admire. When you fight, you go balls to the wall. When you believe in something—like your right to choose—you can’t be shaken. You’re too stubborn. And whether you admit it or not, you’ll never be okay with the Myriad way of life, the strong taking from the weak.”

“You can’t know—”

“I can. Because that is what’s happening here, and you hate it.”

“Not every Myriad supporter is like that.” James never took without asking. “Just like not every Troikan is forgiving.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose in a show of fatigue. “Yeah. There’s that. I try to remind myself that everyone has their damage and no one is perfect. Except me.”

At least she didn’t try to deny the problems. “Both realms need a personality makeover.” And the thought of making a difference in one...kind of intrigues me.

“A makeover of any kind requires the proper tools, honey. And talent.”

“Are you saying I’m currently toolless and talentless?”

“Oh, good. You understood.”

We share a smile.

But her amusement doesn’t last long. “Sign with us, Ten, and you’ll be one of mine. I’ll get you out of here.”

“One of yours?”

“My friend. A member of my team. My family. Those I protect, whatever the cost.”

I laugh even though, deep down, a need to belong to someone plagues me. To be cared for and finally, truly loved...to be first rather than last. “Trust me. I’m not someone you want in your family.” I’m bad news. Everything I touch turns to rust. “And let’s be real. You can’t even protect yourself. Not here, not all the time.”

“This?” she says, motioning to herself, then the room around us. “What you see? It’s not even close to reality. Stop trusting your eyes and start listening to your heart. It sees more than you ever will.”

“Heart...as in emotions?” Troika is usually more concerned about law.

“Heart, as in spirit. The real you.”

That’s just it. Who am I? Ten? Or soul-fused with someone else?

My mom once speculated about my “other half.” With the way Myriad is acting, she said, it must be someone powerful.

How do you know I’m Fused? I remember asking.

Everyone is Fused with someone, sweet girl. It’s a way to give those who originally signed with Troika a second chance...a way to give those who signed with Myriad a chance to win more souls.

Before all this, I was pro-Myriad all the way. The fairy tales she wove about an enchanted land where daylight never intrudes and the royal ball never winds down, where candlelit castles are standard housing, and marrying a prince is a very real possibility, enthralled me.

The dirty little secret I kept from her? A part of me has always been Troi-curious.

Is the realm poverty-stricken? Does sunlight always glare? Are the homes basically cardboard boxes? Or is the sun bright and glorious, offering comforting warmth? Does the sweet scent of wildflowers saturate the air?

My (former) TL told me deception is Myriad’s greatest weapon. The hungry wolf hidden by a lamb’s skin. I haven’t heard from him since my incarceration.

To my parents’ consternation, it’s illegal to prevent a Laborer from speaking with a potential candidate if said candidate is willing. No matter the Laborer’s realm.

I’d mostly ignored my TL, not wanting to cause trouble at home...until a friend admitted she’d signed with Troika. In a moment of startling clarity, I’d realized we were—for all intents and purposes—enemies. I would be expected to excise her from my life. Even hate her.

I’d wanted to know why. So I risked chastisement at long last, going to a Troikan center, where humans in need of aid could request a meeting with a TL.

Before we parted, the TL assigned to me asked me a question that cracked through a hard outer shell I hadn’t known I’d erected.

Are you living your parents’ dream...or your own?

I’d scoffed at him then, but that night and every one after, I’d wondered... Why do I believe what I believe? What is truth and what is lie? What is real? What makes me right and so many others wrong? What if I’m wrong?

The wily bastard had planted seeds of doubt in the rich soil of my brain, and the more I searched for answers, the more those seeds were watered...the stronger they grew. Now the leaves are so thick I can’t see past them.

If I’m Fused, I’m not me. I’m part of someone else. Or several someone elses. But if I am me, I alone am responsible for my problems. Who wants to suck that badly?

But the thing I wonder most? Do I have a set fate, or can I change it? In other words...can I mess it up worse?