Lifeblood. Gena Showalter

He’s—”

      “Archer’s brother. Yeah.” I shift, uncomfortable again. “I met him when I first arrived.”

      “Oh.” She traces a fingertip along the rim of her plate. “He’s tutoring me. He—”

      The restaurant is silent, her voice booming. Her cheeks darken. I glance to the entrance and do a double take. My stomach sinks.

      Elizabeth is here, and there’s a tall dark-haired guy at her side.

      She glares at me, and I lift my chin. If she wants to use me as a punching bag, fine. Go for it. Pain for pain. I’m willing, and I won’t fight back. I deserve it. But I also won’t be cowed.

      Kayla trembles, as if she’s the one on the receiving end of Elizabeth’s vitriol. Confrontation of any kind is difficult for her. In Many Ends, she had recoiled from almost every fight.

      “Either the Myriad supporter goes,” Elizabeth announces, “or I go. Take your pick. But I suggest you choose wisely. One of us will help you. The other will stab you in the back.”

      Murmurs erupt. All eyes focus on me and narrow. Heat sears my cheeks, and I’m sure my color matches Kayla’s. Lobster red.

      “I choose you,” Reed tells me. “I’ll always choose you. You saved my life.”

      I’m overcome with gratitude. Problem is, I know Elizabeth will make life miserable for him. “No,” I say. “Choose her.” Nausea churns in my gut as I stand. “She’s—”

      “No way.” Clay stands beside me, and Reed quickly follows suit. Kayla, too.

      My sense of gratitude grows. “Sit down, you guys,” I mutter, but they remain in place.

      Killian would have laughed in Elizabeth’s face, maybe flipped over a table after flipping her off and then he would have told her to go, because he would be staying.

      Archer would have apologized with heartfelt regret and left without inciting an incident.

      I miss my boys.

      “I’ll go. This time,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster. “My actions led to Archer’s death, and I take full responsibility. I accept punishment.”

      “Liar.” Elizabeth hisses, “You expect forgiveness.”

      Her companion watches us with enigmatic eyes. I can’t read his thoughts.

      “One day, yes. I hope for forgiveness.” Can I ever forgive myself? “Archer taught me the value Troika places on the act...and it is an act, a decision rather than a feeling.” I hold up my hand and shout, “A round of second chances, everyone. On me.”

      Elizabeth glowers at me.

      Having made my point, I stride past her. She balls her fists, clearly debating the merits of hitting me. In the end, she opts to stand down. Smart.

      I don’t start my fights, but I always finish them.

      I make it out of the building without incident, my friends on my heels.

      “I wish you’d stayed,” I tell them.

      “All for one, and one for all,” Clay replies.

      Kayla snorts. “So we’re the Four Musketeers now?”

      “Nah. I vote we call ourselves the Reed Raiders.” Reed wiggles his brows.

      “No way.” Clay flexes his biceps. “We’re the Clayminators.”

      “I’m on board for the Kayniacs,” Kayla says.

      “If we’re called anything but a nerd herd, I’ll be surprised,” I say with a laugh. “Besides, when someone threatens us, we just have to say, Do not make us count to Ten. Bad guys will run away, crying for their mommies.”

      Chuckles abound.

      My amusement doesn’t last long, however. As we head to my apartment, I throw a furtive glance over my shoulder. Nothing and no one is there, but I feel as if my troubles are following me.

      And why wouldn’t they? They’re chained to my ankles, bricks I’ve been dragging behind me for years.

       chapter five

      “There is power in consistency.”

      —Troika

      At seven sharp the next evening, Meredith arrives at my doorstep. I’ve almost forgotten my encounter with Elizabeth.

      Almost.

      I spent the rest of the day holed up in my apartment, watching video feed of Jeremy and even Meredith, who visited him and Levi. Clay, Reed and Kayla spent an hour with me before they had to rush off to their classes. I’d asked questions about HART and their methods of operation, secretly brainstorming ways to stop the war with Myriad.

      We gathered people from both realms and encouraged everyone to list their grievances so that changes could be made, preventing future clashes, Reed had said. But the powers that be always stepped in and stopped the proceedings.

      He’d given me an idea, and I’d come up with steps one, two and three of what I’m sure will be a Ten-part plan.

      Set a meeting with Elizabeth, allowing her to list her grievances with me. Win her over—and everyone else in the process. Convince Troikans that war with Myriad isn’t in our best interest.

      You know, easy stuff.

      Maybe I’ll host a Myriad Lovers Anonymous party.

      T + M = TuisM

      Tuism: the practice of putting the interests of another before one’s own.

      When the letters T and M are replaced by their numerical equivalents—20 and 13—they equal 33

      Thirty-three is the atomic number of arsenic, a poison, but it is also the age often associated with the Age of Perfection.

      Thirty-three is the numerical equivalent of AMEN: 1 + 13 + 5 + 14 = 33.

      I’m going to need help with my Tuism. What if I can convince Killian to form an alliance with me? We could—

      What? Convince others to join our cause? Prove Troikans and Myriadians can lo—like each other?

      I tug at my collar. No need to throw words like love around, right? Killian would probably freak.

      Zero! I need to contact him, but I have no way to do so.

      Meredith clears her throat, and I realize I’m standing in the doorway, staring into the distance. My cheeks heat as I motion her inside. She sweeps past me, the scent of orchids fluttering in her wake.

      She’s wearing a formal white robe with black seams. The material conforms to her curves one moment but flows freely the next.

      She holds up a bundle of metal links. “I brought you a dress.”

      That is supposed to be a dress? “You’re kidding, right?”

      “Usually, but never about fashion.” She manhandles me, removing my catsuit and fitting me into the links. A wide smile blossoms. “You are ravishing.”

      “Thank you.” I excuse myself and go into my bedroom, where I strap a kitchen knife to my thigh.

      While I crave peace, I can’t deny I have enemies. I have to be prepared for anything. A lesson I learned inside Prynne.

      Curious about my “ravishing” appeal, I study my reflection. The top of the dress is made of small ovals, one laid over another to give the illusion of feathers. Those faux feathers form a deep V between my breasts before branching into multiple chains braided together and