Everlife. Gena Showalter
nothing. Foot stomp.
Maybe I’m supposed to do more than look and speak? But what?
Ugh. I can’t ask anyone for help. If a Troikan discovers a Myriadian currently lurks in our midst, mass panic could ensue.
Okay, so. Coming here was a fool’s mistake. Noted. But where can I go? My apartment was destroyed in the most recent attack, and anywhere else, I’ll be inundated with citizens just like these, desperate to influence my vote.
I’m tempted to open the door to the Rest and ask Archer, Meredith and Levi for advice. But the shadows...
Luciana’s warning rings in my head. What if the shadows now taking up prime real estate inside my head somehow use the bond I share with my friends to sneak into their sections of the Grid?
Can’t risk it. Not until I erect some sort of block.
Once again I fight my way through the crowd. A little more difficult this time around. No matter. I manage to slip through a Stairwell, then a Gate, and finally end up in a scorched—abandoned—manna field, no workers nearby. Raindrops join the flower petals, gently falling from the Veil. Before my eyes, little green buds break through the soil.
I lie upon the earth, the rain a light pitter-patter against my skin, mixing with a warm cascade...of tears? Ugh. I’m married, but I’ve never felt more alone. I’m—
Welcoming pity. A shudder rocks me. I will not feel sorry for myself. If I do, I’ll weaken. Pity will only drain my hope and leave me empty.
Now is the time to rise and shine and fight for what’s right.
I have too much to do to sulk.
First up, Killian’s liberation. End goal: freedom from war.
Loyalty, passion, liberty.
Strength. Clarity.
Light.
Yes! I close my eyes and open a door in the Grid, unleashing a flood of Light. As shadows hiss and run, I do my best to erect a mental block before concentrating on my bond to Killian—
Suddenly I’m six years old. I’m perched on my knees, my stomach empty and twisted with hunger, my skin caked in dirt. I ran away from the Learning Center weeks—months?—ago. No one wants me, fine. I can make it on my own, and I’ll prove it.
Or so I thought.
I gasp, realizing I’m in Killian’s head, reliving one of his memories.
Two men stand behind him, ensuring he’s locked in place as a well-dressed man paces directly in front of him, back and forth, back and forth. One of those men is holding a wafer of ambrosia and yelling at Killian, furious that he tried to steal food from him. Him, an exalted General.
Finally the General stops and glares at Killian with cruelty and calculation in his dark eyes. “You want this, boy?” He shakes the ambrosia in Killian’s direction, making sure he smells the sweetness. His mouth waters, and his gums ache.
“Beg me for it.”
Killian shakes his head no, refusing to beg. Even now, pride rules him.
Motions exaggerated for effect, the General takes a bite of the wafer. Little crumbs fall to the floor, and Killian whimpers. When he reaches out, the man on his left stomps on his hand.
A cry of pain from Killian—and me. Hot tears continue to pour down my cheeks.
The memory plays on, the General reaching for the whip hanging on the wall. Killian stays put, still staring at the crumbs.
With a nod from the General, the guards rip away Killian’s shirt.
“Soon,” he says, unfurling the whip, “I’ll take you back to the Learning Center, where you belong. Until then, you’re going to beg me, as ordered. That, I promise you.”
The scene goes dark, and, even as I sob, I question why I’m not allowed to witness what happened next.
No doubt the answer is simple. It would have broken me.
I had tae beg for scraps as a child, simply to survive. I’d rather die than beg for anything.
So badly I want to wrap my arms around him, around the boy he used to be and the man he became. I want to protect him from the past, present and future. I want to know why he’s forgotten me, but I’m learning more about him.
Something Luciana said nags at me. Love is not a feeling, but a choice. In that, I agree with her. But I wonder...
What if Killian lost his memories because he must choose to be with me without having feelings for me?
Will he?
More determined to find him by the second, I brace and pursue our bond...
A new memory takes shape. Killian stands in front of a mirror, naked. Gloriously, exquisitely naked. He’s only seventeen years old, yet muscle sculpts him. His skin is bronzed, mostly free of tattoos but littered with scars.
Why didn’t those scars heal? He should have regenerated.
A girl crouches behind him. She has short, dark hair, pale skin, elfin features and a slender build. She’s wearing a black tank top and a pair of barely-there panties, and it’s clear the two have just had sex.
Envy pricks me. Envy and anger, with a dash of hurt. This boy is my husband, and this girl is seeing him at his most vulnerable. Seeing him in ways I haven’t. Not yet, anyway. Her memories of him belong to me!
At least I recognize her. Erica used to Flank Killian, chronicling his exploits. Then she helped him help me, and Myriad locked her in the Kennel.
Another item for my To Do list. Find her and set her free.
I turn my attention to the small but luxurious room. The bed is covered by a plush black comforter while a fuzzy white blanket drapes the foot. A matching circular rug surrounds the bed. Softness when you lie down, softness when you stand up. The walls are painted black, except for the mirrored one. Several frames hang throughout. Empty frames. Once they contained holographic images of Killian and Archer, but Killian deleted them after Archer defected, then saved the frames as a reminder. You can count only on yourself.
The dresser is hand-carved in the shape of a dragon, wings extending from the sides to act as bookshelves.
“Let me get this straight,” Erica says as she tattoos his calf. “You want a map of Myriad to cover your entire body—just because. Isn’t that taking realm loyalty a little too far?”
“There is no such thing as too far, baby. Besides, the tattoos will cover my scars,” Killian replies, accent-less.
Doesn’t feel comfortable enough to be his true self with Erica? And baby? Gross!
I have a direct line to his thoughts, but he isn’t thinking about the accent. Only about using the map to keep track of all the things he plans to hide inside the realm, how Erica will never know. No one will know, no matter how hard or often they study the images inked into his skin. Can’t read a map without a key.
His mind is the key.
He’ll hide weapons, money used in Myriad, Troika and even the Land of the Harvest, and extra supplies of ambrosia, just to name a few. That way, if ever he loses his home or earns a punishment that strips him of his possessions, he won’t have to start over. Not again.
My heart clenches in my chest, seeming to bump against broken ribs. The other tattoos he’s asked Erica to add... He’s lost so much, and wants to honor what he loves and misses with the whole of his being. His mother, his friendship with Archer. The car he’d kept in the Land of the Harvest because he’d never gotten to drive in Firstlife, until some punk kids had stolen it from him. Ashley, the foster sister who died. Even Madame Pearl Bennett, Ashley’s mother.
Pearl adopted him, offering him a family, only to return him mere days after Ashley’s death.
What