I smile at her. “Maybe we shouldn’t dig too deep.”

“That’s true.” She sighs, the amusement leaving her with the breath. “Okay, so. Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. I need your advice.”

The reason Killian sent me away? “Shoot.”

“Well, I kinda threw myself at Deacon, and he kinda turned me down.”

“Kind of?”

“He told me he’ll never date anyone outside his realm, and no one in his realm would ever do what I’m planning—the torching, in case you need a reminder—so I sent him away. Then James showed up and I thought, as crappy as he is, maybe he’ll make Deacon jealous and you know, spur the guy into motion. And I know, I know. I’m immature. Whatever.”

“I don’t hear a question.”

“Well, you know how eager I am to avoid Many Ends.”

“I do. And having been there—twice—I can officially give the realm a one-star rating.”

“What! You died? Twice? Why am I just now hearing about this?” She stomps over and slaps my arm. “What was it like?”

“Well, if your worst nightmare and the black plague had a baby, and that baby grew up to marry the boogeyman, and they had a baby, that baby would be Many Ends.”

“Wow.” She plops beside me. “You want to know what’s sad? That’s only slightly worse than I imagined.”

“What are you waiting for?” I asked. “Why haven’t you signed?”

She nibbles on her bottom lip. “Myriad and Troika refuse to give me what I really want.”

“Which is?”

“Vans’s spirit. I hate him more than I love anything else.” In that moment, she reminds me of a live wire—ready to strike the first person dumb enough to touch her. “Troika doesn’t play that way, and Myriad says they can’t get to him, that he died as an Unsigned and ended up in Many Ends.” I can hear the hate in her voice; it’s so thick I figure it must be choking her. “My only real option is to go to Many Ends myself.”

No. I don’t want that for her. “Holding on to the past prevents you from grabbing on to a better future.”

“I don’t care. You don’t know the things he did...”

I reach out and take her hand. Her tremors vibrate into me.

A tap sounds at the window. I share a frown with Sloan before walking over to investigate. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, and yet there’s another tap. I open the pane and lean out.

A boy I’ve never met is dangling from the edge, white-knuckling the ledge.

“Who are you?” I demand.

He meets my gaze and smiles. “Why don’t you take a guess?”

You’ve got to be kidding me. Deacon’s eyes. “What are you doing out there? Come in, come in.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He kicks a leg over the ledge and hoists himself the rest of the way. He plucks the device Killian attached to the pane before shutting the window. “I tried coming in as a spirit first. As you can guess, it didn’t work.”

I glance outside. There are armed men patrolling the backyard and probably the entire property. To keep Troikans away from the party—or me inside it? I draw the white curtains with a flick of my wrists.

“Who the hell are—” Sloan sucks in a breath. “Deacon?”

“The one and only.” He shows off his ripped biceps. “What do you think of the new Shell?”

“It’s...weird.” He’s bald and now that I have a full view of him, I realize he’s mostly naked, his skin nearly translucent, causing him to blend in with his surroundings. His junk is wrapped with a loincloth, making him look like... “This is awesome! You’re a Ken doll.” I laugh.

“I am not.” He glares at me. “And stop staring at my package, perv.”

“Are all Shells so anatomically incorrect?” Sloan asks, and she’s staring harder at his package than I am. “Or is this the real you? Should we call you Microman?”

“Only camo Shells are like this, thank you very much.” He gets real serious real fast. “Once a month there’s a ceremony for those in Troika who are deserving of punishment. The ceremony is about to start, and I’d like you to watch it.”

This. This is why Killian sent me up here. Archer is about to experience the Exchange. He wanted me to see it, to turn my back on Troika once and for all. But...that doesn’t explain why Deacon wants me to see it.

“I don’t understand you,” I say. “What’s your motive for showing me this?”

“You once expressed curiosity about the Exchange. Now you can see it for yourself.” He stalks to the bed and stretches out in the center, and wow, it’s difficult to track him; I manage it only because his iridescent flesh ripples like waves in an ocean. “Come,” he says.

Sloan reaches out and squeezes my hand before taking the spot at Deacon’s left. My knees shake as I close the distance and lie at his right. He types in the light projected from his hand and, just like the time Killian gave me a tour of Myriad, an image appears on the canopy above the bed. An image that begins to expand, until the entire bed is surrounded by the most breathtaking garden I’ve ever seen. There are hanging vines of wisteria, honeysuckle and ivy. The fruit trees are in full bloom, branches heavy with peaches, oranges and lemons.

“Usually we can use cameras to guide you, but cameras are forbidden in this part of the realm. I’m linked to a friend of mine,” Deacon says. “You’re seeing Troika through her eyes.”

“Her?” Sloan waves a hand, as if she doesn’t care. “Whatevs. You two get married and have a million babies.”

The friend is clearly walking, taking us deeper and deeper into the garden. We pass an archway, a patch of wild strawberries and blackberries, and navigate a maze of wildflowers. Someone comes up beside us, a grim-faced girl with freckles on her nose and fire-engine-red curls.

“Don’t want to be late,” she says. “Better hurry.”

We clear the garden and come to a sea of people. No one looks as if they’re over the age of thirty-five. There’s not a gray hair or wrinkle in sight.

“They’re so beautiful,” Sloan says.

“Yes. Only the human body decays,” Deacon replies.

“Why is everyone wearing a robe?” In Myriad, the people wore clothing from what I assume was the era of their Firstlife. But here, almost everyone is draped in a violet robe with gold trim, elaborate and ornate, absolutely stunning. Those who aren’t in violet are draped in red. I count one, two, three...six. Definitely the minority.

“Ceremonial robes,” Deacon says.

Up ahead is a dais and behind the dais a palace, the walls glittering like diamonds, the trim...ah-maz-ing. Sapphires, rubies, emeralds. Topaz, beryl, onyx and jasper, each pure and flawless. Three people exit the palace to stand in the center of the dais. They, too, are dressed in robes, but unlike the others, they also wear crowns.

A tall, strong man consumes the middle. I can’t make out his features. There’s a light behind him—a rainbow, as if he carries it on his back, like a bow and arrow—and it glows so brightly he’s partially obscured.