Firstlife. Gena Showalter

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СКАЧАТЬ complaint? Most of Bow’s conversations begin with “If you sign with Troika, you’ll...”

      Discover the true meaning of joy.

      Know peace for the first time.

      Have access to the best advisors in the world.

      Make friends who will always have your back.

      Pick one. Pick all. Gimme. But too bad for her, Myriad makes the same promises.

      I place my newest blood mark on the calendar and straighten with ease. My back is on the mend, my range of motion almost normal.

      “Tell me something,” Bow says as she ties her boots. I’m surprised she’s lucid. She spent the entire night threatening the wall. Go away. I’m going to kill you. Oh, yeah? Well, I can definitely hurt you. “Have you met with a new ML lately? A boy? Maybe kinda sorta...handsome.” She gags, as if the word tastes foul. “Maybe he pulled you aside in secret.”

      ML—Myriad Laborer. “No. Why?”

      She hikes a shoulder in a faux-casual shrug. “I know Myriad’s MO. When a teenage girl refuses to do their bidding, they send a boy they think she’ll like. One who’s supposed to rev her engine.”

      “My engine is set to idle, remember? Maybe permanently.” After James... No. Just no.

      “Hey. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

      My parents would never agree to...

      Oh, who am I kidding? They so would.

      “I guess it’s better than the alternative.” She stands, stretches her arms over her head and arches her back. “If Myriad ever considers you a lost cause, there’s a good chance they’ll send someone to kill you.”

      Same with Troika. There have always been whispers about Laborers who poison the Unsigned to prevent a pledge to the other realm. “One, I’m not close to signing, period. And two, if I die here, Dr. Vans won’t get a bonus.”

      The pro? The greedy bastard would take a bullet to save me. The con? It’s just a matter of time before he ramps my torture to the next level.

      No matter what’s done to me in the future, I will hold out. I must. I’ll be released on my eighteenth birthday. Though my parents signed with Myriad before my conception, there was a special clause for the birth of a child.

      When I came along, their contracts had to be renegotiated. Now their benefits are dependent on my decision. An incentive to raise me the “right” way.

      If I haven’t signed with Myriad by the time I’m a legal adult, my parents will lose everything they love more than they ever loved me. Money, prestige. Homes. Cars. Boats. Not to mention the things they were promised in the Everlife.

      Bow sighs. “Another day, another breakfast. Or a meal pretending to be breakfast.”

      A sense of doom overtakes me, a shadow I’m unable to shake. Bad is coming. Bad is always coming. But since six days have passed without incident—bad is coming soon.

      Sounding resigned, she says, “Our cell will open in—”

      “Three, two, one,” I finish.

      The doors slide apart, and we race into the hall.

      Sloan spots me and flips me off. I know she’s pleased four guards are missing, but she’s also ticked about something—clearly—and lashing out.

      I look her over and find finger-size bruises around her neck. Someone tried to choke her out. Been there, lived through that.

      If I show her an ounce of sympathy, she’ll try to throat punch me. I blow her a kiss.

      “Come on,” I say to Bow.

      We make our way to the cafeteria, where I count the occupants out of habit. My gaze lands on a boy I’ve never before seen and oh, wow. Okay. He. Is. Gorgeous. Not that I care about a pretty face. Pretty can hide a monster. But I’m not overhyping when I say he’s a living ad for every dream-boy fantasy every girl in the universe has ever had.

      He has dark hair that hangs over a stern brow. I can’t make out the color of his eyes, but just like with Bow, I can feel the intensity of them—because they’re locked on me. His nose is straight, perfect, and his lips soft and pink. His jaw is strong and dusted with the shadow of a beard.

      He leans back and drapes his tattooed, muscular arms over the tops of the chairs flanking him, and smiles, a slow unveiling of perfect, white teeth.

      In moments like this I miss Clay more than usual. He was—is!—such a good judge of character. He can take one look at a new inmate or guard and tell me if they have a heart of gold or one that’s as wrinkled as a prune. We called him the heartalyst.

      Where are you, Clay?

      “Son of a Myriad-troll.” Bow snarls, taking a step forward, about to move out of line. “How dare he show his ugly face!”

      I shackle her wrist in a hard grip to hold her in place.

      “Don’t worry,” she says, huffing and puffing. “I won’t break the rules and murder him. I’ll just introduce him to my fists—repeatedly!”

      When she continues to struggle, I plant myself in front of her, forcing her to concentrate on me. “Calm down. Now. Or you’ll be dragged out of here kicking and screaming.”

      She tries to glare at the boy over my shoulder.

      “My TL once said hate is like drinking a vial of poison and expecting it to harm the other person,” I tell her, and she finally settles. “You’re not hurting the guy, only yourself.”

      “But...but... I’m justified,” she says with a whine.

      “So is everyone else, I’m sure.” As I peer at her, curiosity fills me. “How do you know him? What’d he do to you?”

      Stiffening, she turns away. “We’ve crossed paths a time or two. He’s pure Myriad evil, trust me.”

      “He can’t be that bad. I’m sure—”

      In a flash of motion, she’s facing me again, fisting my shirt, clinging to me, her copper eyes imploring me to understand. “He’s worse than bad. Stay away from him. Okay? All right?”

      I dare another glance at “pure Myriad evil.” He’s focused on Bow now, looking her up and down like he’s a predator and it’s finally mealtime. He smiles again, even more slowly, a lot more wickedly, and runs his tongue over his teeth, as if he can already taste her...and he only wants more.

      I lose the ability to breathe.

      “Move,” the inmate behind Bow commands, giving her a push.

      I snap to and toss the girl a scowl that rivals Sloan’s, silently promising violence. Only when she’s staring at her feet do I step forward and accept my tray from a creeper with greasy hair and an even greasier mustache. I’m pretty sure Dr. Vans purposely hires the scourge of the earth to scare СКАЧАТЬ