Lifeblood (Everlife #2)(41)
Might Equals Right!
Sir Zhi Chen
chapter nine
* * *
“Without love, action is meaningless.”
—Troika
The word heartache loops through my mind, and I shake my head to dislodge it. Everyone has a story, and I will be the author of mine. Every day begins with a blank page. Today, I will fill my page with hope and hustle. One hundred percent, nothing held back.
In fact, I’ll begin my new story right now.
The girl who is special to Killian Flynn is going to save the day. She steps through the Veil of Wings.
I trek under the spray of crimson water, the droplets raining over me. Peace and Light encompass me. I breathe in...out... I’m still moving forward, knowing the others are behind me, and then—
I fall.
There’s no time to scream or flail. One moment I’m whooshing across an expanse of blazing stars, pulled by a force I can’t control, the next I’m standing in front of a quaint little farmhouse in Texas with a wraparound porch, shuttered windows and a tin roof.
My heart pounds as if I’ve run a race. I did it. I returned to the Land of the Harvest.
A thousand details flood my awareness at once, big and small. In the corner, a basket of strawberries rests at the feet of an ancient rocker. A wealth of pecan trees casts clusters of shade. I can see the individual pieces of bark on the trunks, every grain on the rocker, and the threads used to weave the basket. I can hear the creaking of the rocker as gusts of wind blow, the chirp of grasshoppers and locusts, the scamper of feet as squirrels run for cover.
Encasing the entire farmhouse and surrounding forest is a dome of jellyair—a faint blue Light that sparkles with diamond dust, just like our sky, keeping Myriadians out. Myriadians can’t even see what’s behind the Light, and if they try to walk through it, they will burn to ash.
My vision blurs, sand blowing into my eyes. I blink rapidly to clear the Shell’s lenses.
The wind brushes against me, and the sensation is...odd, as if it hits a wall, and I feel only the vibration of impact. Also, I have no perception of hot or cold. I remain the perfect temperature, outside factors inconsequential.
Birds chirp, but unlike the other noises—nope, the other noises, too—the sound is muted, giving me the impression I’m hearing an audio recording on low.
I sniff...and smell nothing. Are earthly fragrances somehow filtered out through the Shell?
Clay grins from ear to ear as he takes a post on the left side of the porch. Victor moves to the far right.
Elizabeth marches to the door. —Try not to mess this up.—
Her voice drifts from the Grid, filling my mind. I’ve learned not to react when Troikans speak to me without moving their mouths. —I never try. I do.—
—Funny.—She opens the door. Hinges squeak.
I enter behind her. Inside, there’s a couch, two recliners, an ottoman and a coffee table. Everything is utilitarian.
Elizabeth crosses her arms and watches a human pace.
The human. Dior Nichols in the flesh. The woman who won Archer’s heart. The beauty used as rope in the tug-of-war between Archer and Killian.
From her file, I know her mother is black, her father white. Dark hair frames a baby-doll face, with a small nose and adorable, Cupid’s bow lips. Humans might come with flaws, but she’s pretty close to perfect. Her skin is a few shades lighter than her hair, and her eyes are a few shades lighter than her skin, almost gold.
But Levi is right. I can see the disease. Shadows slither across her cheeks, down her neck. They are thin, almost like veins...only filled with what looks to be toxic sludge. I don’t think she’s aware of them; otherwise she would be screaming or maybe even setting herself on fire.
How did she become infected?
“Who’s the girl?” she asks Elizabeth.
“I’m—” I begin.
“She’s no one,” Elizabeth interjects, flicking a narrowed glance my way. “She’s here to observe.”
Oops. Gonna zip my lips now.
Dior continues to pace, unaware a Messenger keeps pace beside her. A boy I’ve never met. Through Levi, I know he’s one of the best, hand-chosen by the Generals.
He’s in spirit form, and he whispers to Dior, “Firstlife is an opportunity. The past is the past. You have a bright future. Do not fear. Fight for what you want.”
Having trained with Victor and Clay, I know Dior doesn’t hear the words but somehow internalizes them, as if she’s just had an idea. She chooses whether to follow it or discard it.
I’m tempted to introduce myself to him, but I don’t want to interrupt him. Or freak out Dior. She has no idea he’s here.
“Why are you here?” Dior demands. “Has the court date been set?”
“No. I’m sorry.” Elizabeth looks genuinely remorseful.
Dior stops to glare at her. “Why? What’s the holdup? I don’t want to spend the Unending in Myriad.”
The Unending. Another term for the Everlife, used by humans more than spirits.
“I told you Myriad would contest the trial, and I was right. They have. Meanwhile, we need to prepare you for the hardships to come.”
Elizabeth’s gaze zings to mine. —Too many fail. The process is difficult, with both realms examining and cross-examining the defector. All the while scenes from the human’s life play over a screen for everyone in court to see. If she’s not ready, she’ll crumble and we’ll suffer a loss.—