Everlife. Gena ShowalterЧитать онлайн книгу.
her pay. Make them all pay.
“You cannot free a fool from the chains he reveres.”
—Troika
Killian
Pain. Heat. I’m consumed! Flames engulf me from head to toe. If my skin melts from my bones, I’ll scream and I’ll curse and I’ll probably beg for mercy, but I won’t be surprised.
Might not even resist.
Part of me is ready to die. Death will be a relief. I’ll wake up Fused to someone else. Two will become one. But the other part of me fights to live now. The enemy is here. Two Troikan Generals want me dead. I’ll do them no favors. I won’t just survive; I’ll thrive.
As I fight for every labored breath, the Generals talk amongst themselves.
The female: “From what I’ve observed in the past, he’ll revert to the worst version of himself. The more he fights his dark impulses, the better he’ll become...but she’ll begin to deteriorate.”
The male: “Basically, they’re screwed either way. And so are we.”
I focus inward, searching for answers. Where am I? How did I get here, in this condition? I’m a blank slate, and the answers elude me. Emotions do not. A tide of misery, sorrow and grief rises, as if they’ve seethed for months, held back by a dam that no longer exists.
Anger joins the deluge, sparking a fall of acid rain inside my chest. Who can I trust, if not myself? I need my memories.
What did the General say earlier? Myriadians always have a harder time adjusting to the bond. Our Light forcibly attacks their shadows while their shadows gently seduce our Light. However, Troikans have a difficult battle in the end.
Bond?
Truth or lie?
Rays of Light burrow through my skull, shining, shining so brightly. In contrast, shadows wind and twine through my thoughts, memories and even the Grid to...protect me? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, those shadows are quite literally keeping me in the dark.
Bar me from what’s mine? Die bloody.
Kill. Kill! A demand from the shadows. Kill the Light, kill the girl.
Some part of me protests. Embrace the Light, trust the girl.
There are only three people I trust right now. Me, myself and I.
Usually I avoid any hint of illumination. In the Light, destruction awaits. In the dark, indulgence is the name of the game. Today, I rush toward the brightest beams, determined to chase the shadows from my memories. Desperate times, desperate measures. To get something different, you must do something different.
Shadows disintegrate. Not all of them, not even close, but enough. Information unfurls. I have a name—Killian Flynn. An occupation—Laborer. A goal—to please my king. A purpose—save my mother, whatever the cost.
The anger heats, quickly turning to rage. That rage races through my veins, my muscles seeming to plump and tighten on my bones. My skin pulls taut, threatening to rip at the seams. How can I not know more about myself? Why does the information seem...wrong?
On my wrist are the numbers 143, 10 and I have no idea why they’re there. What else has been wiped away with mental Windex?
I need to know more. All. Ignorance isn’t blissful, but dangerous.
Embrace the Light.
The words drift along the Grid, spoken by...me? A softer, gentler version of me, anyway. Confusion plagues me, and my brows furrow. Only a Troikan would suggest I embrace Light rather than fight to extinguish it, but I’m no Troikan. However, my affiliation doesn’t matter right now. I obey.
The risk pays off, new facts crystalizing.
Once an orphan, I became the best ML ever born—it’s not bragging if it’s true. I have won souls no one else could reach. Ice queens, narcissists, the damaged.
For some reason, females like being seduced by me. I like seducing. Give me a challenge, watch me excel.
One of my last assignments was Tenley Lockwood, one of the damaged ones. Used for her station, rejected by her parents. Locked inside an asylum and abused.
I must have failed to win her. I—
Tense up. I remember. I did fail. Miss Lockwood made covenant with Troika, forsaking me, and choosing to be with Archer Prince.
Misery, sorrow, grief—now I know where they come from.
Never good enough...
Kill her!
Be at ease. Resist the darkness.
The chorus inside my head is maddening. A constant tug-of-war. Now, at least, Miss Lockwood is trapped in the circle of my arms. Wait. Miss Lockwood is trapped in the circle of my arms? The real girl, not her Shell. We’re touching, skin to skin, and there’s no pain.
How is there no pain? She’s Troikan. The enemy. I’m Myriadian.
Perhaps we are bonded...
Her back is pressed against my chest, her head twisted to the side, her eyes staring up at me. Are shadows dancing in her irises?
If we were truly bonded, I wouldn’t be resting my blade against her throat. Part of me wouldn’t want to kill her.
Part of me really wants to kill her.
The other part of me...just plain wants her. She’s soft where I’m hard, perfect where I’m flawed, and her beauty takes my breath away. Azure hair cascades around an exquisite and deceptively delicate face. She has a pert nose, angelic cheekbones and a stubborn chin. Her lips are lush, like a ripened apple, and kissable—lickable. What does she taste like?
I force my attention to return to her eyes. The shadows are gone. Perhaps vanquished. Unless I imagined them?
Right now? Anything is possible.
Losing track of my thoughts... Don’t exactly care... One of her eyes is blue and one is green, but both are luminous with love. An emotion never directed at me. It is exquisite.
A pang of...something sears my chest, branding me. Affecting me deeply. Anger, perhaps. Or irritation. Not a deeper attraction and a sharper awareness. We mean nothing to each other, and I won’t have her or anyone thinking otherwise. But anger and irritation fail to explain the intensity of the burn...or the accompanying ache of yearning.
Can’t be yearning. I live by a code: Want nothing, need nothing.
I look away from the girl, and finally, blessedly begin to breathe with more ease.
Must maintain emotional distance. Only moments ago, she said, You cannot trust me. I love you not.
But...why would she warn me of her disloyalty? She strikes me as foolhardy, but not foolish.
“Even I know blackmail isn’t the answer, Luciana,” the big redheaded male says, cutting into my thoughts. His volume is no longer tempered.
“Do you have a better idea?” the brunette demands.
A pause. A sigh. “No, but what happens after Miss Lockwood renders her vote?”
“I’m not sure. We’ll figure it out.”
No longer caught up in the girl, I look over the Generals. Their identities click, for all MLs learn to recognize all Troikan Generals. Shamus leads the strongest, most bloodthirsty army of TLs in Troika’s history. Luciana and her crew are tasked with keeping the peace inside the realm.
Not so good at your job, eh, Luce?
There’s