I’ll kill her myself before I allow that to happen. Then I’ll kill your mother.

I, too, make promises rather than threats.

MYRIAD

From: K_F_5/23.53.6

To: P_B_4/65.1.18

Subject: Your Inner Bitch Is Showing

What I remember? Nine Generals died in a single battle. Yes, your daughter was among them, but she was like a sister to me. Nothing more. She isn’t the one Fused with Ten Lockwood. I’d know it; I’d feel it.

I don’t.

And I will sign Ten. Now leave me alone and let me work.

Chapter twelve

“Your Firstlife sets the stage for your Second.”

—Troika

I motor through the mountain town, sticking to the shadows, Sloan on my heels. I’m a girl on a mission. (1) Avoid detection. (2) Acquire shelter. (3) Regroup.

By the time we reach the bed-and-breakfast, situated in what looks like a miniature nuclear power plant, my feet throb and my back aches. While the other buildings are box-shaped with three tiers and crumbling stone, this one is tall and round, like a cooling tower, steam wafting from the top.

Inside, lavender-scented warmth envelops me and I check number one off my list. Murals cover the walls, a summer garden here, a spring meadow there. The carpet is a stunning shade of green, made to resemble the softest grass. There are people milling around a small kitchenette that offers free tea and cookies.

Sloan pushes her way forward and snags one of the cookies. She pops the entire thing in her mouth—and gags. “Oh, gross. This is the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

“You must be a Myriadian, then,” says the woman next to her, and judging by the derision in her tone, I’d wager she’s the chef. “They wouldn’t know a good thing if it bit them.”

“I’m currently Unsigned.”

The woman steps away from Sloan as if the girl has a contagious disease. “A clear indication you have poor taste. My cookie is packed with nutrition.”

“Hate to break it to you, but nutrition is just another word for feces.”

I leave the two to their argument and close in on the old lady manning the back counter. When I ask to speak with the owner, she gives me a tsk-tsk.

“You wanting a piece of him? Don’t try to deny it. Girls just can’t seem to keep their hands off his goods and services.” Mirth glows in her pretty dark eyes, making her appear slightly younger than her two million years—or however long she’s lived. With her stooped shoulders and heavily wrinkled skin, I’m not sure I’ve ever met an older human. “Mr. Brando deserves to be treated with respect, he does.”

“I’ll be respectful, promise. I’m...” I lower my voice, whispering, “Archer sent me.” There’s no need to use my own name. “I’d like a room.” Among other things.

She doesn’t ask for any other information but holds out her weathered hand in silent demand for money. I offer one of the coins the Laborer gave me. An Amethyst geode, cut to the size of a quarter. The deep purple glints in the light, and there’s a crown engraved in the center. This came from Troika, and it’s worth more than most people make in a year.

“Is that... It is! We’re rich,” Sloan says, coming up to my side. She stares at the old woman. “That coin better cover dinner, too. A feast fit for two queens. And clothes. We definitely need clothes.”

Another tsk-tsk. “You’ll get what you get and you’ll like it, you will.”

At least we’ll get, and I’ll be able to check off number two on my list.

“In the morning,” the woman adds, “you might or might not get a visit from the owner.” She smiles with another hearty dose of mirth. “I’m sure he’ll see you either way.”

* * *

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. Seven ladies dancing, ignore their sweet romancing. Six seconds to hide, up, up, and you’ll survive. Five times four times three, and that is where he’ll be. Two I’ll save, I’ll be brave, brave, brave. The one I adore, I’ll come back for.

As I toss and turn, unable to sleep, Loony Lina’s song plays through my head. A silly rhyme we recited while holding hands and spinning in a circle. As soon as we uttered, “The one I adore, I’ll come back for,” we collapsed on the floor and giggled. But Loony Lina’s giggles had always turned into sobs.

I’m sorry you had to die, especially so horribly, she’d say. I missed you.

Always she’d spoken in past tense about events that had never happened. Loony Lina. So much older than me, but not any wiser.

I’m not dead, I’d tell her. I’m right here with you.

When I turned thirteen, my dad stopped letting her come around. He stopped talking about her completely, in fact, as if she no longer existed. And anytime I asked about her, the subject was abruptly changed.

Another conversation rises to the forefront of my mind.

You didn’t become an accountant, silly. The lost dream that never should have been a dream, she’d said. So sad.

At the time, becoming an accountant hadn’t even been on my radar.

“What do I become?” I’d asked.

“A somebody!”

A somebody...like a Conduit or an Abrogate?

Finally, morning sunlight pushes through the window. I give up trying to snooze and ease upright, scrubbing a hand over my eyes. A new day. A new trial to face.

I frown when I notice the digital note glowing above the nightstand.

Ten,

In case you ever want to strangle Archer.

Yours,

Killian

He snuck into the room, and I failed to detect him.

I jerk my hand through the light, and the words vanish. Two leather wrist cuffs rest on the nightstand, each with a small metal hook in the center. When I tug the hooks, a wire extends, forming a...garrote.

Zero! The bracelets are perfect for me. Absolutely perfect. I owe him...the way I owe Archer, who saved me from the cold. I admit the truth at last, even though I don’t like it.

I anchor the leather beauties in place and pad through the room, a garden paradise just like the lobby. Portraits of roses hang on the walls. Wildflowers are sewn into the comforter, and lilies are woven throughout the emerald green carpet.

In the bathroom, I shower, blow-dry my hair and brush my teeth. Instead of putting my clean body in dirty clothes, I slip into one of the robes I find in the closet. By the time I’m finished, Sloan is awake.

“Hate mornings,” she mumbles. “And afternoons. And evenings.”

As she showers, I order breakfast and—giving it another shot—new clothes. Everything arrives an hour and a half later, but Sloan still hasn’t emerged from the bathroom.

I knock on the door. “You okay in there?”

“Fine, fine,” she says. The door swings open. Like me, she’s wearing a robe. She’s tense, her cheeks pale, but she brightens when she spies breakfast. “Food!”

The meal consists of eggs, bacon, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, everything straight from a can and absolutely delicious. In my old life, I would have rather starved.

In my old life, I was stupid.

When there’s nothing left, I rub my full belly. “How are you feeling?”