Firstlife

“Better question. How do they?”

“Like you, I don’t have all the answers.” She sighs. “Let’s forget the Conduit thing. There’s a lot about you to admire. When you fight, you go balls to the wall. When you believe in something—like your right to choose—you can’t be shaken. You’re too stubborn. And whether you admit it or not, you’ll never be okay with the Myriad way of life, the strong taking from the weak.”

“You can’t know—”

“I can. Because that is what’s happening here, and you hate it.”

“Not every Myriad supporter is like that.” James never took without asking. “Just like not every Troikan is forgiving.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose in a show of fatigue. “Yeah. There’s that. I try to remind myself that everyone has their damage and no one is perfect. Except me.”

At least she didn’t try to deny the problems. “Both realms need a personality makeover.” And the thought of making a difference in one...kind of intrigues me.

“A makeover of any kind requires the proper tools, honey. And talent.”

“Are you saying I’m currently toolless and talentless?”

“Oh, good. You understood.”

We share a smile.

But her amusement doesn’t last long. “Sign with us, Ten, and you’ll be one of mine. I’ll get you out of here.”

“One of yours?”

“My friend. A member of my team. My family. Those I protect, whatever the cost.”

I laugh even though, deep down, a need to belong to someone plagues me. To be cared for and finally, truly loved...to be first rather than last. “Trust me. I’m not someone you want in your family.” I’m bad news. Everything I touch turns to rust. “And let’s be real. You can’t even protect yourself. Not here, not all the time.”

“This?” she says, motioning to herself, then the room around us. “What you see? It’s not even close to reality. Stop trusting your eyes and start listening to your heart. It sees more than you ever will.”

“Heart...as in emotions?” Troika is usually more concerned about law.

“Heart, as in spirit. The real you.”

That’s just it. Who am I? Ten? Or soul-fused with someone else?

My mom once speculated about my “other half.” With the way Myriad is acting, she said, it must be someone powerful.

How do you know I’m Fused? I remember asking.

Everyone is Fused with someone, sweet girl. It’s a way to give those who originally signed with Troika a second chance...a way to give those who signed with Myriad a chance to win more souls.

Before all this, I was pro-Myriad all the way. The fairy tales she wove about an enchanted land where daylight never intrudes and the royal ball never winds down, where candlelit castles are standard housing, and marrying a prince is a very real possibility, enthralled me.

The dirty little secret I kept from her? A part of me has always been Troi-curious.

Is the realm poverty-stricken? Does sunlight always glare? Are the homes basically cardboard boxes? Or is the sun bright and glorious, offering comforting warmth? Does the sweet scent of wildflowers saturate the air?

My (former) TL told me deception is Myriad’s greatest weapon. The hungry wolf hidden by a lamb’s skin. I haven’t heard from him since my incarceration.

To my parents’ consternation, it’s illegal to prevent a Laborer from speaking with a potential candidate if said candidate is willing. No matter the Laborer’s realm.

I’d mostly ignored my TL, not wanting to cause trouble at home...until a friend admitted she’d signed with Troika. In a moment of startling clarity, I’d realized we were—for all intents and purposes—enemies. I would be expected to excise her from my life. Even hate her.

I’d wanted to know why. So I risked chastisement at long last, going to a Troikan center, where humans in need of aid could request a meeting with a TL.

Before we parted, the TL assigned to me asked me a question that cracked through a hard outer shell I hadn’t known I’d erected.

Are you living your parents’ dream...or your own?

I’d scoffed at him then, but that night and every one after, I’d wondered... Why do I believe what I believe? What is truth and what is lie? What is real? What makes me right and so many others wrong? What if I’m wrong?

The wily bastard had planted seeds of doubt in the rich soil of my brain, and the more I searched for answers, the more those seeds were watered...the stronger they grew. Now the leaves are so thick I can’t see past them.

If I’m Fused, I’m not me. I’m part of someone else. Or several someone elses. But if I am me, I alone am responsible for my problems. Who wants to suck that badly?

But the thing I wonder most? Do I have a set fate, or can I change it? In other words...can I mess it up worse?

chapter four (#ulink_81d87860-f4bd-52af-b3f1-f7c487257bac)

“What is isn’t always what’s supposed to be.”

—Troika

I watch him. At lunch and dinner that day, I watch Killian. When he talks to girls, he seems utterly absorbed in the conversation, as if every word spoken is a secret he has to know. And the girls eat it up. He makes them feel special, I can tell. They preen for him. But those girls...they aren’t special to him. I can tell that, too.

He’s too aware of the world around him, his hand never far from his pocket, as if he has a weapon hidden inside. As if he expects to be ambushed at any moment. As if he wants to be ambushed.

Anytime the girl looks away from him—which isn’t often—his gaze finds me. He winks. He knows I’m watching him, and he wants me to know he knows.

His confidence lends him an aura of power and, someone please help me, I admire it.

Later that same evening, Vans does as promised and arranges my “date” with Killian. The doc is upping his game.

First, Nurse Ratched delivers a dress to my cell. A pink sundress. Pink. With ruffles and lace. I grimace. I’ll be the prettiest princess in the asylum.

Her parting words are both a threat (to me) and a triumph (to her.) “You can wear it...or you can go naked. Your choice.”

A red haze descends over my vision. A choice that isn’t really a choice is a violation of my rights.

What rights?

“Wow,” Bow says, looking me over after I’ve changed. “A make-out session would not be out of pity today.”

“Um. Thanks?” I smooth my hands over the ultrasoft fabric. “I feel ridiculous.”

“What’s the occasion?”