Her hand darts out and clutches mine, surprising me. “The war...it’s coming here. Trickling, trickling, then comes the flood.”

Present tense. This is the first time I’ve ever heard her use it while in this state. Why now? “What war? The one between Troika and Myriad?”

“You can’t stop it. No one can. The dragon strikes. The lion roars.” Her grip tightens on me. “What happens tomorrow changes everything.”

Tomorrow is the execution? Urgency drives me as I kiss her cheek and mutter, “Thank you.” I rush to the door.

“You died, I cried,” she says.

Back to past tense. Because we’re no longer touching?

I turn and find her pacing again, wringing her hands, her eyes once again staring into the distance. I will help her. Somehow. First, though, I have to help Killian and Sloan.

“Deacon,” I call as I lock the door. “Archer!”

I run toward the living room, heading for the gym, where I last spoke with Deacon, but he meets me in the kitchen. “I think I know where Sloan is, or where she’s going to be, and I’m positive she’s in danger.”

In a flash of light, Archer appears beside his friend. He’s pale, his lips drawn tight.

“Pearl is planning a public execution,” I say.

Archer nods. “Word has been sent to all Troika. Killian and Sloan are scheduled to die bright and early in the morning.”

“Myriad, as terrible as they are, will never allow Pearl to kill an Unsigned human in public,” Deacon says. “It’s bad for business.”

“Sloan,” Archer replies, his voice sad, “signed with Myriad a few hours ago. Her spirit now belongs to them.”

Deacon closes his eyes, his shoulders slumping.

My friend signed with my enemy. And they are my enemy. They are hurting those I love, planning to do worse.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling as though I’m partly to blame for Sloan’s decision. I should have spent more time with her at the party, should have discussed our futures in more detail.

But really, what good would I have done her? She saw the Exchange, same as I did. She knew the great value Troika places on all life.

Still. I love her, and I’m not going to watch her die. “Gather your troops,” I say. “We’re going after them.”

They don’t hop to, but pause to share a look.

“What?” I demand.

“You know Killian and Sloan belong to Myriad.” There’s remorse in Archer’s voice, and that’s a step in the right direction, but he still sucks right now.

“They are people, regardless of their realm. If you won’t help them—won’t help me—fine. I’ll save them on my own.”

“And you’ll be walking into a trap,” Archer says. “Word of the execution was sent to us simply to draw you out of hiding. That’s Pearl’s MO, as she’s proved. Here, at least, you’re safe. She can’t get to you.”

“I don’t care.”

I stalk to my room to bag up the weapons I’ve collected. A few daggers, an Oxi, a Stag, two kitchen knives. That done, I strap on my leather bracelets.

When I turn, Deacon is leaning against my door frame. “All right, you’ve talked me into it. I’m going with you. For Sloan, not for Killian.”

I’ll take what help I can get, however I can get it. “What about Archer?”

“Let me tell you something, little girl. Troika has legions of armies, but every single one is otherwise engaged, especially now that we’re down to only one Conduit. These armies are stationed throughout your world and our own. They fight to protect a race of people who do not see them or even think to thank them. They have very little time off—if any at all. They work tirelessly. They’re injured often. They don’t need more to do.”

“I commend them,” I say, even though I don’t know why he’s telling me all this. “What about Archer?” I repeat.

“He went to ask the King for an army.”

Chapter twenty-seven

“You have a Secondlife, but not a second chance. Choose wisely.”

—Myriad

That night, Deacon and I head for the spa to set up shop. We’re about a mile away when we come to a roadblock, Myriad Shells on patrol. We backtrack with every intention of reaching the designated area from the other direction, only to find another roadblock. An attempt to sneak past it will either prove really stupid or really smart.

Thing is, once we’re out for the count, we’re out. The end.

Eventually, we decide to back off. Pearl planned for everything, placing her people everywhere. On top of buildings. At every entrance and exit of every road and building within a one-mile radius. She’s serious about my capture. Or rather, my murder. By killing me and sending me to Many Ends, she’s certain Ashley will one day get another chance to enter Myriad. She’s desperate, and that desperation is going to be her downfall. I can’t sink to the same level.

I have to stay calm. Stay ready.

We return to the safe house to wait out the night, pacing, pacing...until finally morning dawns, the execution scheduled to begin in less than an hour. As soon as we see Killian and Sloan, Deacon is going to do the beam-me-up-Scotty thing, transporting me straight to the scene of the crime. He tries to talk me out of going that route, but I’m determined. Even when he tells me the human body always has a poor reaction to traveling from one point to the other in only a blink. Whatever. I’m willing to risk a little motion sickness.

Reporters from all over the world are on the scene. Video feed dominates every wall in the living room, the projections offering us a panoramic view of the festivities, and we watch as the street fills with a sea of humans wanting to witness the horrific event. It’s as if this is nothing but a game.

Public executions aren’t held often, but they are held and they are legal. Realms are allowed to punish signees who violate contracts as they see fit. Because Secondlife is a sure thing, the deaths aren’t considered terribly serious.

I’ve seen three in my lifetime, and I remember my parents throwing popcorn at the screen.

Come on, come on. We’re already armed for the most brutal of combat—I’m wearing half the weapons that were in my bag. All I could hold. There’s a time for peace, and there’s a time for war.

Threaten my loved ones, and it’s war. No question.

Deacon’s mouth curls in distaste. “Everyone looks so excited.”

He’s right. No matter which direction the camera pans, smiles abound. Someone even brought a beach ball to toss around the crowd.

Where is Archer? Why hasn’t he returned?

Cheers suddenly erupt along with whistles and catcalls. Tensing, I scan the walls, circling the room until I find the source of the merriment. At last, Killian and Sloan are dragged to the “stage,” the plateau at the top of the marble steps in front of the spa.

I’m expecting them, but the sight still horrifies me. I take a moment to study the scene.

The gold collar is still wrapped around Killian’s neck, trapping his spirit inside the Shell. A Shell that is now utterly flayed, flaps of skin hanging by threads. He is a beautiful but morbid sight, covered in so much Lifeblood he looks as if he’s bathed in glitter. His tongue...his tongue has been cut out—I know because it’s pinned to his shirt. His wrists are shackled to fetters even now being anchored to the columns beside him, his ankles bound to fetters on the ground.