Everlife. Gena Showalter

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СКАЧАТЬ reel. “Um. Hi.” I’ve never had a conversation with a wolf before.

      Is he my—

      “My human would like to speak with you,” he says.

      Oh. I look behind him, and spot a guy who is vibrating with eagerness, sadness and hope all at once. He’s covered in soot, his clothing torn. Clearly he’s been working to clean up the mess.

      “Please,” he says. “My wife died this year.” He speaks Swahili, a language I’ve never learned; even still, the Grid translates every word in an instant. “I know you haven’t met her, and that most of the realm wants one of the Generals to return, but please. Please! Consider my Fahari. She was the kindest, sweetest, most loving woman ever born.”

      Someone else I’ve never met pushes him out of the way, vying for my attention. “You must vote for—”

      The wolf turns and growls at the newcomer. Newcomer’s eyes widen as his mouth snaps closed.

      Then, tone as calm as can be, Wolf says, “Allow my human to finish his conversation, then you may speak.”

      Guardian animals are amazing.

      Unfortunately, the ferocity of the growl draws everyone else’s attention. Suddenly, those others issue pleas of their own. Well. Word has certainly spread. Tenley Lockwood is the one who will decide who comes back to life, courtesy of the Resurrection.

      A stray thought arises: Am I Tenley Flynn now?

      “I’m sorry,” I announce. I doubt anyone hears me. “I’m in a hurry.”

      I push through the masses. Once I’m standing before the Eye, I search the portal for any hint of darkness inside Troika...with no luck. Zero! I whisper Killian’s name...still nothing. Foot stomp.

      Maybe I’m supposed to do more than look and speak? But what?

      Ugh. I can’t ask anyone for help. If a Troikan discovers a Myriadian currently lurks in our midst, mass panic could ensue.

      Okay, so. Coming here was a fool’s mistake. Noted. But where can I go? My apartment was destroyed in the most recent attack, and anywhere else, I’ll be inundated with citizens just like these, desperate to influence my vote.

      I’m tempted to open the door to the Rest and ask Archer, Meredith and Levi for advice. But the shadows...

      Luciana’s warning rings in my head. What if the shadows now taking up prime real estate inside my head somehow use the bond I share with my friends to sneak into their sections of the Grid?

      Can’t risk it. Not until I erect some sort of block.

      Once again I fight my way through the crowd. A little more difficult this time around. No matter. I manage to slip through a Stairwell, then a Gate, and finally end up in a scorched—abandoned—manna field, no workers nearby. Raindrops join the flower petals, gently falling from the Veil. Before my eyes, little green buds break through the soil.

      I lie upon the earth, the rain a light pitter-patter against my skin, mixing with a warm cascade...of tears? Ugh. I’m married, but I’ve never felt more alone. I’m—

      Welcoming pity. A shudder rocks me. I will not feel sorry for myself. If I do, I’ll weaken. Pity will only drain my hope and leave me empty.

      Now is the time to rise and shine and fight for what’s right.

      I have too much to do to sulk.

      First up, Killian’s liberation. End goal: freedom from war.

      Loyalty, passion, liberty.

      Strength. Clarity.

      Light.

      Yes! I close my eyes and open a door in the Grid, unleashing a flood of Light. As shadows hiss and run, I do my best to erect a mental block before concentrating on my bond to Killian—

      Suddenly I’m six years old. I’m perched on my knees, my stomach empty and twisted with hunger, my skin caked in dirt. I ran away from the Learning Center weeks—months?—ago. No one wants me, fine. I can make it on my own, and I’ll prove it.

      Or so I thought.

      I gasp, realizing I’m in Killian’s head, reliving one of his memories.

      Two men stand behind him, ensuring he’s locked in place as a well-dressed man paces directly in front of him, back and forth, back and forth. One of those men is holding a wafer of ambrosia and yelling at Killian, furious that he tried to steal food from him. Him, an exalted General.

      Finally the General stops and glares at Killian with cruelty and calculation in his dark eyes. “You want this, boy?” He shakes the ambrosia in Killian’s direction, making sure he smells the sweetness. His mouth waters, and his gums ache.

      “Beg me for it.”

      Killian shakes his head no, refusing to beg. Even now, pride rules him.

      Motions exaggerated for effect, the General takes a bite of the wafer. Little crumbs fall to the floor, and Killian whimpers. When he reaches out, the man on his left stomps on his hand.

      A cry of pain from Killian—and me. Hot tears continue to pour down my cheeks.

      The memory plays on, the General reaching for the whip hanging on the wall. Killian stays put, still staring at the crumbs.

      With a nod from the General, the guards rip away Killian’s shirt.

      “Soon,” he says, unfurling the whip, “I’ll take you back to the Learning Center, where you belong. Until then, you’re going to beg me, as ordered. That, I promise you.”

      The scene goes dark, and, even as I sob, I question why I’m not allowed to witness what happened next.

      No doubt the answer is simple. It would have broken me.

      I had tae beg for scraps as a child, simply to survive. I’d rather die than beg for anything.

      So badly I want to wrap my arms around him, around the boy he used to be and the man he became. I want to protect him from the past, present and future. I want to know why he’s forgotten me, but I’m learning more about him.

      Something Luciana said nags at me. Love is not a feeling, but a choice. In that, I agree with her. But I wonder...

      What if Killian lost his memories because he must choose to be with me without having feelings for me?

      Will he?

      More determined to find him by the second, I brace and pursue our bond...

      A new memory takes shape. Killian stands in front of a mirror, naked. Gloriously, exquisitely naked. He’s only seventeen years old, yet muscle sculpts him. His skin is bronzed, mostly free of tattoos but littered with scars.

      Why didn’t those scars heal? He should have regenerated.

      A girl crouches behind him. She has short, СКАЧАТЬ