Lifeblood (Everlife #2)(26)

I’m considering forgoing sleep for the rest of my Everlife.

Today, no visitors come knocking on my door, and I’m glad. So far, all I’ve done is anger and upset the people I’m supposed to protect. I haven’t done anything right.

I’m Ten, the rarity. Ten, the necessary ingredient for victory. Ten, the special one. But...what if Levi and Archer and everyone else got it wrong? What if I’m not special? What if I’m the necessary ingredient for failure?

Dejected, I plop onto the couch. The Book of the Law appears, glowing just in front of me, all, ta-da, here I am, the answer to your problems. As if.

I’m not in the mood to read, but I decide to do it, anyway. Knowledge is power. Maybe I’ll do a better job here.

If you forget all else, remember this: love is always the answer. Love your realm. Love your people. Love yourself. This is right. This is good. Only when you choose love are you living in Light.

My number brands throb as I turn to the next page. Someone needs to remind the rest of the realm about choosing love!

Other people are not the source of your problem. Your own thoughts are your—

I flip the page.

Let this word take root inside the rich soil of your heart so that, when a storm comes—and it will—you have something firmly planted to hold on to.

Enough! This isn’t helping.

Frustrated, I press a series of buttons on the miracle remote and the book vanishes. Another series of buttons and a detailed map of Troika materializes on the ceiling.

I discovered the map last night and memorized the locations of the Gates. Besides the seven main Gates leading to different cities within the realm, there are multiple smaller Gates—Stairwells—for travel within each specific city. Every city is hundreds of thousands of square miles.

I decided to spend quality time with a favorite pastime: counting. On the map, only sixty-six trees are marked—thirty-nine on one side and twenty-seven on the other. Why?

Sixty-six is the atomic number of dysprosium, a lanthanide. A lanthanide is any series of fifteen metallic elements, often collectively known as the rare earth elements.

Fifteen is a triangular number: 1+2+3+4+5=15

Thirty-nine is the atomic number of yttrium. Equal to three trimesters, the length of a human pregnancy.

Twenty-seven, the atomic number of cobalt. The number of bones in the human hand. The number of “cubies” in a Rubik’s cube.

Boom!

My front door bursts open, wood splinters flying. Three masked assailants march inside my apartment, and I jackknife into a sitting position, my mind and heart racing.

Fight-or-flight?

The intruders can’t be Myriadians; Myriadians can’t pass through the Veil of Wings.

Is the trio planning to throw me out of the realm?

Fight!

As the intruders approach, I kick the vase perched on the coffee table. It nails Middle Man in the face. He’s tall and muscled and the porcelain explodes into fragments; he grunts, stumbling backward.

I roll to the floor, flowing under the table, and jump to my feet on the other side. Leftie—who was diving for me—smacks into the couch and plops onto the table.

I rush into the kitchen, but Rightie catches me before I can grab a knife, wrapping strong arms around my waist and holding me prisoner. No matter how hard I struggle, I’m unable to break free.

No. No! The other two grab my ankles to help cart me out of the apartment. I buck and flail and shout for help. This is no time for pride. Whatever they have planned for me, I won’t make it easy.

Apartments doors open. Three trainees peek out to see what’s going on. The only male pales and retreats. One of the girls—Winifred—steps into the hall.

Leftie shoots her with a Dazer, and she freezes. Jerk! I know the spirit stun gun causes no pain or lasting harm, but he’s left a young girl vulnerable.

And why the heck wasn’t the Dazer used on me?

Maybe I’m going to be tortured before I’m thrown out?

Fear claws at me, but still I fight. The last girl in the hall—Elizabeth, who needs to move her butt out of the trainees’ section—watches my abduction with an air of amused satisfaction. The fear morphs into fury.

“Have fun, Numbers,” she calls. “I know I am.”

There’s no sign of Clay, my next-door neighbor. It’s early. He’s here, and he has ears; no way he’s missed the commotion. Has he washed his hands of me?

I deserve this.

Go ahead, guys. Take me away.

I’m carried into the elevator. Soft music drifts from overhead speakers.

I should have nutted up and gone to see Clay last night. Instead I took the coward’s way out and avoided him. I should have apologized on my knees. He’s my best friend. I should have explained the reason for my choice.

He should have...given me the benefit of the doubt?

Is it wrong of me to think so? Maybe. The problem is, someone else’s response—supposed or otherwise—should never dictate my actions. Isn’t that what I claim to believe?

Dang it! I’m going to escape, and I’m going to tell him how much he means to me.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. As I’m hauled into the lobby, I spring into action, bucking and kicking with every ounce of my strength.

“Can you just be still for a second?” a familiar voice grumbles.

Hold up. Clay?