Everlife (Everlife #3)

How sad. A good support system matters. Everyone needs someone who will pick him up when he’s down. Someone to laugh and cry with—someone willing to tell the truth when lies abound.

I squeeze his hand, offering comfort, but he quickly pulls from my grip. Hope fizzles. If he remembered me, I could ask what’s wrong and how I can help. This stranger isn’t interested in revealing his vulnerabilities to me.

Deep breath in, out. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“We’ll walk around, telling everyone we meet about the party. Since this is our honeymoon,” he adds, “I won’t even charge you for my escort duties or party planning.” Eyes glittering with amusement, he nudges my shoulder with his own.

“What’s your normal fee?” I ask.

“You misunderstand. I’ve never given a tour to anyone else. But here, nothing is free. Everything costs.” He leads me forward, and I gasp. Every time we take a step, a stone lifts from the ground to meet us, allowing a smooth descent to the land below. “We work hard for our money, and our time is valuable. We don’t part with a coin or a single second lightly.”

“The people of Troika work hard, too, but gifting is a way of life.” In fact, the giver often looks more joyous than the receiver.

“Ridiculous. The more you give away, the less you have.” We pass a group of teenage boys, and Killian nods in greeting. “Dudes. Party at the beach tonight. Clothing optional. Trust me, you don’t want to miss this. Tell your friends.”

The boys whoop, holler and high-five each other.

The next group we pass is made up of older women dressed in elaborate Victorian gowns. Killian bows and says, “I bid you good morrow, ladies. There’s a gathering at the beach tonight. I hear Victor Prince is hoping to meet a bride.”

Feminine twitters erupt as the ladies hurry on.

Unease pokes at me. He’s telling everyone what he thinks they want to hear. How many times has he done the same to me?

“Give me the lowdown on Myriad.” Facts are facts, and there’s no reason to lie. The more I know about enemy territory, the better chance I’ll have of escaping when the time comes. Or hiding, if it proves necessary.

He nods, saying, “The realm is divided into ten territories. The City of Carnal Delights, or CCD, where we are now. This is also where most businesses are located. They’re open 24/7. Then there’s the Museum of True Wisdom, where dossiers are kept on every citizen, human and even Troikans. There’s the Temple of Unholies, where the Prince of Ravens lives. Although he has a home in every territory.”

“The fortress I saw when we entered…”

“Yes,” he says. “Then there’s the Tower of Absolution, where we train. The Garden of Zen, where speaking is forbidden. The Capital of Bliss, where I live. The Mountain of Vengeance, where the dragons reside, and also where the Kennels are located. The House of Indulgence, where official ceremonies are held. The Center of Learning, where orphans are raised. And finally, the Fountain of Tears, where people go to indulge every emotion to the fullest.”

The differences between Myriad and Troika shouldn’t surprise me. Not even a little. They are night versus day. Logic versus emotion. Ten versus Killian. But I’m surprised, I admit it. The self-indulgence…the carnality… How does anyone get anything done?

We reach a small beach with onyx sand and water the color of a sky at sunset. The scents of salt and coconut, so familiar to me, fill my nose.

Killian calls out another party invitation to the people in the water—they’re the ones with the metal wings. They fly in and out of the surf.

“Compared to Troika, you must have triple the population,” I say.

“More than triple,” he replies. “With every new arrival, the realm expands.”

The name Myriad makes sense. Myriad = countless multitudes.

Having more soldiers doesn’t necessarily equate to having a stronger army, clearly, or Troika would have been conquered long ago.

We walk along the cobbled path for over an hour. Killian continues to tell everyone he sees about the party, or gala, or cheese tasting—whatever seems the most desirable to the people involved—and no one says no.

In Troika, citizens wear either catsuits (armor) or robes, nothing in between. Here, citizens wear whatever they want. Or so I’m guessing. Besides the Victorian ball gowns, I spot scanty togas and punk rock leather. Some men wear kilts, some wear loincloths. Others wear slacks or jeans. A mix of cultures, traditions and fashions.

The party vibe never fades, however. The throng that meanders along the streets, or in the buildings, never thins. Voices rise and blend together; though the volume of all those conversations ebbs and flows, it’s never less than a dull roar.

The skin on the back of my neck prickles. A warning. Something is wrong. Stiff as a board, I search the faces around me. No one seems overly fixated on me, but…my suspicions aren’t laid to rest.

“Still nervous?” Killian asks. Something about his tone… And the flush is back on his cheeks.

“Yes and no.” I check our bond, and find a mixture of guilt, shame, remorse and determination.

Zero! What did he do?

Anger sparks to vibrant life, burning my chest.

Betrayed, the shadows whisper, throwing fuel on the fire.

Stop, just stop. I don’t know what he’s done. Whatever it is—however big or small—there’s still time to reverse it.

I must continue my course: Seduction. Maybe, if I make my husband want me, desire will prompt trust and trust will prompt his memory. I need him to remember me, need him on my side. Before it’s too late.

Another dragon flies past us, casting a massive shadow. The shadows inside me moan with delight, loving it.

Ignore. Stay focused. “You’re a wonderful escort. Totally worth the cost.” I lean my head on Killian’s shoulder and say, “Speaking of cost, how do you guys pay for things?”

He jolts, as if surprised, but he doesn’t dart away.

One step at a time. I must take joy in small victories.

“Credits.” He holds out his arm, and points to his wrist. “We have a chip implanted. Every time I convince a human to sign with Myriad, a certain number of credits are added to my account.” His tone hardens. “When I fail to convince a human to sign with Myriad, I lose a certain number of credits.”

A barbed lump grows in my throat. “How many credits did you lose when I made covenant with Troika?”

“Doesn’t matter. Come on.” He leads me to a small chrome and glass building. Near the closed—and locked— door, he holds his wrist under what I assume is a scanner.

Bingo! The scanner thanks him for paying a credit, and the door unlocks.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We can’t be traced.” Now he leads me inside the building.

Well. He wasn’t kidding when he said everything costs something.

I find myself in— A white-hot blush heats my cheeks. A small bedroom. There are mirrors on the walls and the floor. There’s a vanity-slash-wet bar, complete with mirror and stool, a bed without sheets, and a cabinet filled with individual packets of sheets that are for sale. A desk occupies the far corner, a screen hanging on the wall in front of it. Beyond another door is a bathroom with a shower—and a scanner in order to turn on the water—plus a bin with a sign overhead that reads, Dirty sheets go here.

The door locks behind us.

“This is a love shack,” I blurt out. “A place for a quickie on the go.”

“Also a place to make inquiries. You want to see Dior, don’t you?” He scans his wrist at the wet bar, and a shot glass slides from a cubby in the wall. A spout extends from a different cubby to fill the glass. He downs the shot before sitting at the desk, scans his wrist on a different scanner, and begins to type on the desktop, despite not having any kind of keyboard. Images appear on the screen. “I need to log on to the data system under an alias.”

Interested in the exchange of money, I hold my wrist under the sink’s scanner, but nothing happens.