Lifeblood (Everlife #2)

Lifeblood (Everlife #2)

Gena Showalter




chapter one



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“Tribulation reveals your greatest strength...or greatest weakness.”

—Troika

Present day

Sand in the hourglass falls, one grain at a time...time...one second bleeds into two...three... I try to piece together my fragmented thoughts. A difficult task. My mind is hazy, my thoughts blurred. Four...

A fact clicks into place. Numbers are my greatest obsession; they always tell a story, and they never lie.

Five...five...five. The numeral gets trapped in my head, set on constant repeat. Click. Five minutes and fourteen seconds ago, I died.

Whoa. I’m dead?

I must be. My heart no longer beats, and my lungs are deflated. I can’t breathe. I need to breathe. Sweat beads on my nape and trickles down my spine, and yet my limbs remain ice-cold.

Calm. Steady. Though my body is wrecked, my spirit lives on. This is a new beginning. A new life.

Calm? Seriously? From now on, I’ll have zero second chances. Zero do-overs. Everything I do will matter: every word I say, every action I take, every person I befriend and every enemy I slay will positively or negatively affect me. No ifs, ands or buts.

Welcome to the Everlife.

The words whisper on the wind, and a quiet ring erupts in my ears. In seconds, the volume cranks to high. I cringe. My bones vibrate, and a light tap registers against my ribs. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. Bang, BANG!

I gasp, taking my first breath, the real me awakening at last. My chest cools, and my lungs fill. I can breathe again. I’m dead, but still I live.

Arise! Arise and shine!

Another whisper drifts on the wind...or a voice is speaking inside my head.

I’m dead and crazy?

Inside, I wither and return to my default setting: counting. Six...seven...

Click. Seventeen! I’m seventeen years old. I was born on the tenth day of the tenth month at 10:10 a.m., and I died on the eleventh day of the eleventh month at 10:14 a.m.

1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 0 + 1 + 4 = 10

The work of Fate, some would say. Wrong! Fate is a myth, an excuse, a way to cast blame. While we might have a divine purpose, not everything that happens is through divine intervention. Our actions change the course of our lives for good or for ill.

We are the final authority.

My present is the sum total of decisions made in my past—my own decisions, and even those made by the people around me. We are accountable...count...eight, nine... Ten!

Click, click. My name is Tenley Lockwood. “Ten” to my friends.

5 + 5 = 10. A representative of two equal parts.

The last piece of the puzzle snaps into place. Two realms in the Everlife—Troika and Myriad—are currently locked in a fierce, brutal battle.

Troika fought to save my Firstlife while Myriad strove to end it. Myriad proved successful. My body lies on a blood-drenched street in the heart of LA.

Congrats, Myriad. You won a battle. You won’t win the war.

With my last breath, I pledged my allegiance to Troika, evermore, and I have no regrets. I value Firstlife. I like rules and enjoy structure. I understand every punishment is meant to teach rather than harm.

I’m a Troikan now, born anew in blood and violence. A soldier in a war as old as time. I’ve become enemies with people I’ve never met as well as people I know and love.

I’ve become enemies with Killian, a top Laborer in Myriad.

Killian! His name is a ragged cry from the depths of my soul. I’d say we dated, but dated is too mild a word. I craved him like a drug...and yet I still chose Troika over Myriad.

Home sweet home. Something I’ve never really had.

I’m supposed to hate him, but every fiber of my being flinches at the thought. I will never harm him. He means too much to me.

“Is she dead?” A harsh, unfamiliar voice claims my attention. “Did she make covenant with Troika?”

“Aye and aye.” The husky Irish lilt I recognize, and relief is a cool cascade. Killian never left my side!

I want to see him so badly, I shake.

“Sucks to be you,” Unfamiliar continues. In the distance, I hear the clink-clank of dueling swords. “Now that Madame Bennett is dead, you fall under Zhi’s command. When he learns you failed to recruit the Lockwood girl, he’ll mount your head at the end of a pike.”

Relief gives way to distress. Killian is in danger. Because of me. I need to help him, have to help him, but though I try to stand, I’m stuck, walled in. Useless!

What’s the problem? My outer casing is dead, any ties to my spirit now broken. I should be able to ghost out, yes?

“Leave.” Menace drips from Killian’s command. “Protect our kinsmen from the Troikans.”

“So you can kill Lockwood before her spirit escapes her body and collect the bounty on your own? No.”

Bounty?

Buzzing noises erupt. Flames crackle. Smoke fills the air, sharp and pungent.

There’s a pained gasp. A hard thump.

“Stay down,” Killian spits.

He just attacked Unfamiliar?

Why would he harm his brother-by-realm to save an enemy? Why would he risk punishment?

The answer is simple: he wouldn’t, except for me, only ever for me.

I vacillate between melting and rallying. Get free, protect Killian.

When he had the chance to seal the deal and convince me to make covenant with Myriad, he urged me to follow my heart instead. We’d both known I belonged in Troika. To him, my needs had been more important than his wants, a reward or a penalty.

He sacrificed his happiness for mine, but I failed to do the same for him. What kind of maybe, maybe not, girlfriend am I?

My final moments replay inside my head. Sloan Aubuchon, once my enemy, then my friend, then my bitter enemy, nailed me with a poisoned spear.

I hate him more than I love you, she told me.

Him. Dr. Vans, the monster who oversaw every facet of our torture at Prynne Asylum, a “home” for wayward teens.

Myriad vowed to help Sloan punish Vans. If she made covenant with them and murdered me. She agreed to both.

Her treachery cuts as deeply as the spear. Granted, Vans did terrible things to her. Things no one should ever have to endure. But his behavior does not excuse hers. In her quest for vengeance, she became his mirror image, betraying my trust the way he betrayed hers.

Consequences were immediate. Killian yanked the spear out of me and, to protect me from further harm, impaled her.

Another reason he will be punished. I’ve got to help him.

I punch and kick, but even still, I make no progress.

“Where is she, Killian?” A new voice registers. This one is easy to recognize, too. “Where are you hiding her?”

Deacon, a TL. My friend. He’s always reminded me of a die-hard warrior of old, his sense of honor as much a part of him as muscle and brawn.

If anyone can free me, it’s Deacon.

“Over here,” Killian croaks. “She’s already...it’s too late to save...”