Firstlife. Gena Showalter

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СКАЧАТЬ just can’t resist the opportunity to stick out her leg to trip Bow. But Bow is a freak of nature. She jumps over the obstacle and kicks back, hooking Sloan’s ankle between her feet and ripping the girl out of her chair.

      As Sloan goes down, her elbow slams into her tray. Food pours over her head, and as she shrieks, the rest of the cafeteria grows quiet. Finally a chuckle cuts through the shock, and it’s like a starting bell. The rest of the room explodes into squawks of laughter.

      Bow doesn’t grin over her triumph; she frowns. Once again wishing she’d handled things differently? “I’m sorry,” she calls over her shoulder.

      What a conundrum she is. Smart, with sharply honed protect-yourself-at-any-cost instincts. But she also has a deep-seated need to soothe others.

      When we find a table, she stares at me, intent. “Listen. Things are different now. Things you won’t understand. You have to trust me, and you have to keep me nearby from now on. No matter what. Okay? All right? I’ll see to your safety. If you’ll let me.”

      “You can’t see to my safety.” No one can. “There are too many threats.”

      “Dude. I’ve already proved otherwise, and yet still you doubt me?”

      “And,” I continue as if she hasn’t spoken, “I don’t want you to try. I mean it. You’ll only get yourself into trouble.”

      “Ten—”

      “No. No arguments.” I may be confused about my future, but I’m not confused about my present. I’ll never place my well-being in the hands of someone else. Once, I trusted my parents. They sent me here. I trusted James. Since his death, I’ve been stuck with a terrible sense of loss. I trusted Marlowe, who’d been pro-Troika, but ultimately, she was so desperate to leave the asylum and enter the realm, she hung herself. She also abandoned Clay, who loved her.

      Now I don’t know if she’s actually in Troika or Many Ends—if it’s real. Suicide is expressly forbidden by both realms, and it can even render a contract null and void.

      I trusted Clay, too. He managed to stay clean and sober until Marlowe’s death. Afterward, he spiraled, doing I-don’t-know-what to buy “happy” drugs from a nurse.

      His mind roilin’ and boilin’, he asked me to escape with him. Said he’d paid the guards to do what they’d done for James. I’d already lost my boyfriend and couldn’t bear the thought of losing another friend, so I turned him down and begged him to give me time to figure out a better way.

      The next day, he was gone.

      That was three months ago. Where is he? Free? Or was he caught? Is he somewhere within these horrible walls?

      Sometimes I think I hear screams rising from my concrete floor.

      “That boy...he’s Myriadian, you know,” Bow mutters.

      She says Myriadian with the same inflection she might use with cancer. Does she hate him just because he signed with the other realm? “Have you ever heard of HART?”

      “Humans Against Realm Turmoil? Yep. They like to protest the war between the realms in front of the House of Myriad, the House of Troika, and the White House.”

      “Right.” From my History of the Worlds class, I know their ultimate goal is a treaty between the realms and the Land of the Harvest. I also know the first members got together soon after the realms revealed themselves...again.

      Apparently, the realms did the whole “Hi, we’re here and we’re real” a few times over the ages, but humans—being human—romanticized the truth. Myriad has been called everything from Valhalla to Mount Olympus, while Troika was once known as Paradise. Then, around the 1500s, both realms began to insert themselves into everyday human existence, drawing us out of the dark ages.

      “Why?” Bow asks, her tone cautious.

      “Well, I’m wondering why members of the realms haven’t agreed to a peace treaty. Or, you know, just hugged it out. I’m wondering why you hate a boy just because he’s different. Or because he’s hurt you for some mysterious reason. You Troikans claim you’re all about forgiveness, right?”

      “Forgiving someone isn’t the same as letting him crap all over me. Dude. Have you ever heard the Myriad pledge of allegiance? We won’t rest until Troika is nothing but ash in the wind of eternity. Also, the HART campaign is ridiculous. Light and darkness cannot coexist. A house divided cannot stand.” She pushes her tray to the middle of the table, as if she’s lost her appetite. “We’d be a two-headed beast, and we’d consume ourselves.”

      Speaking of consumption, she’s eaten so little since her arrival I’m beginning to worry about her health.

      “Distract me,” she says.

      “Eat,” I reply.

      “No. Distract me,” she repeats.

      “Want me to sing and dance for you?” I ask drily.

      “Yes!”

      “No way, no how. Not happening.”

      “Fine.” She sighs with disappointment. “Just... I don’t know, talk to me. Tell me something about your life before the asylum.”

      I don’t want to share details about myself, but I also don’t want her to starve, and it’s now clear she requires motivation. “I’ll give a nugget or two, but only if you eat everything on your tray.”

      “Are you kidding? It’s gross and—”

      “Trust me, you need the vitamins.”

      “Fine.” With a grimace, she returns the tray to its proper place. “Now talk.”

      Where to begin? It seems like an eternity since I’ve revealed even a minor detail about my history. “I attended a Myriad-endorsed private school.”

      She waits for me to say more. I don’t. She gives her tray another push.

      I scowl at her. “What do you want to know?”

      “How about your studies?”

      “Besides the usual courses?” Easy. “The inner workings of the realm.” Those classes were taught by Messengers, people responsible for spreading the word about the realm they loved.

      Mostly, I’d been fascinated by the daily life of spirits. Unlike us, they have no need to sleep. They eat only one meal a day, a single piece of manna. A honeycomb-like wafer. Anyone under the age of eighteen attends school to learn more about their realm and its leaders. Kids are also taught the skills they’ll need for whatever job they’ll one day be assigned.

      Everyone over the age of eighteen works an assignment nonstop until completion—even if the assignment takes years. Like undercover cops.

      Bow swallows a bite of slop and grimaces. “What about your friends?”

      “They were sheltered, like me.” The answer leaves me without hesitation, as if I’m already used to sharing. “We could hang out together, but only with a parent or Laborer in view. We weren’t to get behind СКАЧАТЬ