Lifeblood

Page 4

 
My actions can make or break us.
“You do, and I will,” I say, lifting my chin. “I’ll prove it.”
He gives a hard shake of his head. “Don’t be putting yerself in danger on my behalf, lass. I’d rather you hate me and live than lo—like me and die. Deacon,” he calls. “She’s ready.”
Deacon appears at my side. “Time to go.” He takes my hand, and my spirit welcomes the connection, Light always a complement to Light. I warm rather than freeze—the way I should have done with Killian. The way I used to do with Killian.
What have I done?
Deacon appears to be my age, though he’s infinitely older. He’s black and beautiful, his dark hair shorn to his scalp, his green eyes pulsing with the very heartbeat of summer. His nose is a smidge too long and his mouth a smidge too thin, but neither matters. He looks like the bad boy he likes to accuse Killian of being: rough, tough and totally buff.
He’s wearing a black leather vest with small silver blades pretending to be buttons. His matching leather pants have five zippers on each leg.
5 + 5 = 10
Wait. I saw him only minutes before I died, and he was wearing a white robe with white trim. My brow furrows with confusion. Changing clothes during the heat of battle isn’t impossible, but also isn’t likely.
The answer rides a newly installed train track through my mind—the mysterious Grid, I suspect—and I rub my temples. His spirit was encased in a Shell that he has since shed.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” he says, “we’re in the middle of a combat zone. You are weak, vulnerable. We need to get you to safety now.”
Leave? I shake my head. He wants to separate me from Killian.
Good idea. Sworn enemy, remember?
Once, these two boys worked together to save me from a madwoman, but Archer was the go-between. Deacon and Killian will never work together again, will they? They will never fully trust each other. One realm can’t trust the other. Too many betrayals litter the past.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. I won’t abandon my friends when they need me most. I peer at Killian. “I’ll stay. I’ll help.”
“Help?” He sneers at me. “Don’t kid yerself, lass. Ye’ll get hurt, and I’ll be forced to watch. You are no longer mine to protect.” His bitterness creates an invisible wall between us. He turns and slips inside his Shell. “Go! Before it’s too late.”
No longer mine...
The pain I felt before? Nothing compared to this. “I’m sorry.” I did this. I broke us—broke him. The boy who risked his life to save mine.
Help him, help Troika. Two needs. One will always negate the other.
“An apology without a change in behavior is worthless.” He doesn’t glance in my direction. “Prove you mean yours and leave.”
My determination to remain only strengthens. I will prove my affection for him by saving him from my realm.
I stand my ground and prepare to fight, scanning my surroundings. Oh...zero. I swallow hard.
Countless spirits and Shells who fought to either rescue or kill me are in pieces. Death should not be pretty, but the sight is as glorious as it is sickening. Lifeblood glitters in the sunlight, turning war into a twisted fairy tale.
During my Firstlife, I had trouble differentiating between humans and Shells. Now? I can tell with a single glance. Shells are dense with a plastic-like appearance I never before noticed. They are like life-size dolls. I can pick out the spirits and humans; spirits are luminescent and human flesh is dull. I can even tell who is Troikan and Myriadian. Troikans are the sunrise, a dawning illumination, while Myriadians are the sunset, a herald of darkness.
Light versus shadow. Bright versus gloom.
Those who haven’t been chopped to bits are still locked in a gruesome battle. Grunts and groans blend with the pop of breaking bones and the gurgle of warriors choking on blood, creating a horrific sound track. My hand covers my mouth.
“You’re not going to like this next part, lass.” Killian grabs hold of a spear. The one Sloan used to kill me—the one still lodged in her lifeless chest.
He yanks. The weapon exits her body, taking pieces of rib with it. “After Firstdeath, most spirits remain trapped inside the body until freed by another spirit.” He reaches into her torso, his fingers ghosting through her flesh. He yanks—
And there she is, the real Sloan. For a moment, rage overwhelms me. Behold, my betrayer! She looks the same, and yet completely different. The model-pretty blonde has morphed into an exquisite, incomparable beauty with hair as white as snow and lips as red as wine.
She killed an innocent human. She should be as haggard on the outside as she is on the inside.
My hands ball into fists. I can end her, the way she ended me. I can destroy her Everlife before it begins. Does she truly deserve a second chance?
Do you?
The question drifts through the train track in my mind, startling me.
Sloan gazes at the world around her with wide eyes the color of a morning sky. She’s distracted and unaware of the danger. There’s no better time to strike...
I’m going to do it, I decide. I don’t care if I deserve a second chance or not. Don’t care if my actions make me a hypocrite and contradict my beliefs.
What’s wrong with me?
I don’t care about that, either. I wrench free of Deacon and take a step toward her. Black shadows rise from the ground, covering her feet...her calves...her thighs. Pain twists her features.
“Help me.” She reaches for me with a trembling hand.
I stop abruptly.