“No,” Archer says. “No. An offer is made to every child and once made, it remains active until Firstdeath.”

Expression agonized, Clay whispers, “But...you don’t know the things I’ve done.”

“I don’t need to know. Nothing you’ve done can compare to the things I did, and yet, when I was ready, I was welcomed with open arms.”

Hello, intrigue. What did Archer do? He’s so by-the-book, I can’t imagine him purposely breaking a rule.

“I just... I want to make up for my mistakes before I pledge.” Clay scrubs a hand through his hair. “Want to be worthy.”

“Why?” Archer walks over, pats him on the shoulder, clearly surprising him with the forbidden touch. “It’s not necessary, and you never know how much longer you have left in the Land of the Harvest.”

Realization suddenly hits me. Harvest is a farming term, and here, Troika and Myriad reap souls. At the moment, I’m not sure if I’m insulted or flattered.

“I’m young. I’m finally clean. I’ve got time,” Clay says.

Archer’s shoulders hunch in ever so slightly. He’s like a kid who’s just been denied his favorite dessert. “Be careful. No one knows the day or the hour.”

Two Prynne guards approach our well-lit square. Just before they reach us, however, they veer to the left, as if deep, deep inside they know to avoid what their eyes cannot see.

Messengers in action. I can’t see them either, but I can see the result of them.

Surprise! There’s more to the world—worlds—than I ever thought possible.

“Neat.” Clay yawns and stretches.

The yawn is contagious. Despite my earlier rest, I’m operating on nothing but the fumes of an adrenaline surge that has already crashed and burned. The medicine Killian used on me is wearing off, my soreness coming back. I’m also hungry, cranky and weak.

“You’re tired. Both of you.” Archer gives me a pointed look. “I’ll keep you safe. Sleep for once. Don’t fight it.”

Another reminder that he knows more about me than he should. “You should have told me you were a guy before I showered in front of you,” I snap at him.

Unabashed, he says, “You’re in a mood. Is it that time of the month for you, too? Have our cycles finally synced?”

Oh, them be fightin’ words.

I yawn again, my jaw cracking. Okay, fine. Them be fightin’ words tomorrow. “What about Killian? He’ll stop at nothing to find me.” At the mere mention of the boy’s name, my blood heats and crackles like the fire, making me tingle. Foolish! “Or to keep me from signing with you.”

“Killian?” Clay asks.

There’s a flash of resentment in Archer’s copper eyes. “The epitome of Myriad evil. And he can’t see us, either.”

Good. That’s good. Of course.

Archer’s gaze narrows on me. “Have you accepted your importance? Have you realized you’re the final drop of water that causes the cup to overflow?”

Pressure... I turn away from him without saying a word.

Clay blows me a kiss before refocusing on Archer. “How old are you, Mr.—”

“Call me Archer. And I’m nineteen.”

“How long have you been with Troika?”

“I was raised in a realm.”

In “a” realm. The odd phrasing catches my attention, but I let it go. I’m too tired to match wits with him, and besides that, I don’t want his attention returning to me.

“I’ve always known people age in the Unending.” Clay frowns. “But no Laborer I’ve ever seen has looked older than thirty.”

“Unlike physical bodies, spirits are eternal and never decay,” Archer says. “They reach a certain threshold—the Age of Perfection—and freeze.”

Like our Age of Accountability, only better.

My eyelids grow heavy, and I finally give up the battle, stretching out on Sloan’s other side. I’ll catnap. My circumstances have changed, yes, but my mind-set has not. No matter how much I trust Clay and, okay, all right, in this regard I trust Archer, too, I can rely only on myself.

My mental lights go out...

And switch back on—

A needle jabs into my neck, and pain shoots through me. Vans laughs in my face. I try to kick him, but the chains on my wrists limit my range of motion—

“Ten. Ten.”

Hands on my shoulders, shaking me.

“Wake up. Now!”

Danger! Under attack!

My eyelids split open and I jolt upright, swinging my arm.

Sloan ducks, avoiding a punch to the cheek. “Wow. Not a morning person, are we?”

I’m panting, my heart a jackhammer in my chest. I scan my surroundings—the glowing square. Archer stands at the farthest edge, his arms hanging at his sides. Sloan sits at my right, facing me. Clay sits at my left, his knees drawn to his chest, his eyes closed. No enemy lurks nearby. No one’s trying to hurt me.

Calm. Steady. The torture...only a memory.

Sloan, despite her teasing, is pale and trembling, but at least she’s alive.

“What’s wrong?” I reach for my scalpel.

“You were screaming in your sleep. What is this?” She motions to the glowing walls, then points to Archer. “Who is he?”

Right. She missed yesterday’s intros. “That’s Archer.”

“Great. Wonderful. But that bit of info tells me nothing. What is he?”

Looking him over a second time, I notice details I previously missed. He’s as still as death, unblinking, and his eye sockets clear as glass. So. His spirit is no longer inside the Shell. He can leave it at will?

Where did he go?

There are multiple articles of clothing scattered around his booted feet, and it’s clear he took down an entire contingent of guards while we slept.

I start with the most important fact. “He’s on our side.”

“Good. He’s hot,” Sloan says in a stage whisper. Hoping he’ll hear and respond? Then she gives up all pretense of timidity and makes grabby hands. “Yummy yum yum, give baby some sugar.”

I roll my eyes. “You know him better as Bow. The girl you tried to trip at breakfast.”

She blinks in astonishment. “You lie.”

“Oh, and he’s a TL.”

Now she grimaces. “He just lost a few thousand do-me points. I’d say both realms can stuff their values where the sun doesn’t shine, but Myriad would be happy to comply and Troika wouldn’t take offense.”

Her jaded makes my jaded look like a fluffy baby bunny.

She shakes her head, as if dislodging cobwebs. “I think I’m in shock. Mr. Bow Archer is a hot slice of beefcake.”

As Clay stirs, I scan the forest outside the square. So much for sleeping a minute or two. Obviously, I slipped into a coma for hours. The sun is high in the sky and gloriously bright. Trees are still covered in glistening ice, but there are no signs of guards.

“Well?” Sloan brushes the dust from her palms. “What’s the game plan?”

I snap to attention. Right. We need a game plan. “Mine is simple. Eat breakfast. Ditch Archer, avoid Killian.” I’m sick of being pressured. “Oh, and escape the mountain without getting shot. Survive till I’m eighteen.” Maybe I’ll even go to college and study to become an accountant.