“So she didn’t get a fancy house or car. So what? There’s more to life.”

“You don’t understand. She’s in medical school right now, but even then, if she saves the life of a Troikan loyalist, she earns a penalty in Firstlife and Everlife. There’s nothing I can do to help her.”

What Killian did...yeah, it was bad. There’s no getting around that fact. But he’s not the same Killian. Firstlife didn’t mean anything to him back then. Now he’s learning to value human life. Why else would he put himself in harm’s way to save me?

“Can you get her out of her contract?” I ask. “What about court?”

“I begged her to demand a day in court, but she’s too afraid of the repercussions of losing.”

“I’d like to meet her.” Somehow I’d like to help her.

“I’ll arrange it.” He straightens, waves a hand over the weapons. “Now. Where would you like to start?”

“I don’t know what half those things are.”

“This is an Oxi.” He holds up one of the guns. “With a single blast, it causes Shells to decay.”

And what if I misfire and hit myself? “No, thanks.”

“This one, the Stag, shoots darts that, when embedded in a Shell, trap the spirit inside it and shut down mobility. This is a shield with rotating razors at the edges.”

“What about a sword of fire?” I’ve heard they are the ultimate spiritual weapon.

“I can wield a sword of fire. You cannot.”

Bummer.

“So. Back to your choices. There’s also a dagger, a—”

“That. A dagger.” I’ll go with what I know. For now.

“Very well.” He swipes up one of the daggers. “Lesson one.”

I blink, and something cold and sharp is pressing into my neck, Archer directly in front of me. “You... How...”

“Distraction kills as surely as this blade,” he says. “Concentrate.”

Now I smile sweetly at him. “Cockiness kills as surely as this knife.” I use the tip of my weapon to give his berries a little pat.

He barks out a laugh. “Touché. Or should I say testies?” Backing up a few steps, he says, “Let’s do this again. This time, when I lift the blade, block with your right arm and stab me with your left.”

“Really stab you or just—”

But he’s in front of me a second later, the blade at my neck.

He huffs with disappointment. “Again.”

We spend the next several hours training. He isn’t gentle, but he isn’t overly rough, either. He shows me the most vulnerable spots on a human as well as a Shell, then comes at me with the dagger, with his fists, with well-aimed kicks. My still-healing body aches and shakes, but I don’t let it slow me down. I like this. I need this. And Archer is good about explaining how he was able to knock me down and how I can prevent it from happening again.

When we decide to quit for the day, I’m sweaty and shaky. I collapse on the ground, letting the warm sun caress my exposed skin. And I have a lot of exposed skin. For the first time in over a year, I’m wearing a tank top and shorts.

He walks to my side, his shadow covering me. “I’ve asked our Watchers to find out who ordered the plane crash, but they haven’t found the answer.”

Watchers. No need to ask what that job entails. “I don’t recall a Watcher on the list of Everlife jobs.”

“They fall under the subdivision of Scout.”

So much to learn. So much to keep straight.

I open my mouth to respond, but a motion at my left catches my attention and I turn—and gasp.

Killian is alive, and he’s outside the jellyair!

Chapter fifteen

“Without us, you have nothing.”

—Myriad

I run. Archer calls my name, his tone exasperated but not angry. If Killian is here, it means one of two things. The Troikans lost the battle in the sky or my TL allowed my ML to get close. My guess? Archer logged in a request.

I think—hope—he sees me as more than a conquest. Well, a possible conquest. I hope he sees me as a friend.

“You are such a pain,” he shouts. “You know that, don’t you?”

Oh, yes. He sees me as a friend.

I’m grinning as I pass through the jellyair. A shower of warmth. A silken caress. Then I’m standing in the gloom of darkness, fat gray clouds hanging in an onyx sky, trees knocked over from the earlier tornado. Locusts are singing and crickets are chirping. A frog croaks. A breath of wind rattles tree branches together, causing leaves to dance.

Anticipation uncoils inside me, but Killian is already gone. I spin one way then the other, finding no sign of him. Dang it! Where is he? I know he couldn’t see me through the jellyair, but surely he wouldn’t leave.

“Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”

I do another spin and find myself facing a short black girl. What she lacks in stature she makes up for in curves, and her face...wow! She looks like a living doll with big brown eyes that are heavily lashed, heart-shaped lips that are even now pulling tight in a snarl, and round cheeks.

“I gotta say,” she adds after scanning me up and down, “I expected you to have a third boob or something.”

A boy steps up beside her. He’s the taller of the two, but not by much, and leanly muscled. He’s Asian and beautiful, his dark hair dyed red at the ends and styled in a mohawk.

He gives me the same up-and-down scan. “You must be wearing your jealousy goggles, E, because I can totally see her appeal.”

“Now would be a good time for introductions,” I say. Both kids have Myriad brands on their wrists. Are they here to finish what the plane crash started?

“Or?” the girl asks with a tinkling laugh.

I think she’s a Shell, but I need to touch her to be sure. “Or I prove the way to a person’s heart is through their ribs.”

She smirks at the boy. “Dibs! I get to use that threat the next time we’re up against Ts.”

“Ten.” Killian steps into my line of sight, and my heart leaps. “You’re here.”

The girl has a similar reaction, I think. Her features soften, and the rise and fall of her chest quickens.

Acid-tipped daggers scrape at my insides. Are the two romantically involved?

Killian’s gaze remains locked on me, intense and blazing. “Ten, I’d like you to meet Charles, my Flanker, and Elena.”

Elena. “You are Sloan’s Laborer.”

“I’m also your worst—”

“Enough.” Killian takes my hand, the scent of peat smoke and heather delighting my senses—I’m like an addict who just got a fix. He leads me into a palatial tent. “Dinnae be disturbin’ us,” he says over his shoulder.

The walls are made of jewel-toned scarves, and there are faux-fur blankets and plush pillows scattered around the floor. A small circle of fist-sized stones rests in the center, light glowing from each, illuminating the entire tent. A large wooden tub consumes the far left corner, steam rising from the water.

“Is this a Myriadian safe house?” I ask.

“Merely a temporary camp. Troikans can enter, if they so foolishly choose.”