Lifel1k3 (Lifelike #1)(107)
“I don’t think you want to be here when they start getting back up,” she warned. “And I don’t think you want Gabriel finding Ana first. He’s going to look for her, you know. And when he finds her …”
Ezekiel tensed at that. Eyes narrowing a fraction at the implied threat. He stared at her hard, an unspoken question on his lips. She could see his fear that he already knew the answer. He looked to the door Lemon and Cricket had left by. Agony shining in his gaze as he turned back to the not-girl he’d never loved.
“This isn’t over,” he said.
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “No, it really isn’t. But next time we meet?” She raised her hand to his face, her touch as gentle as first kisses. “I don’t think it’s going to turn out the way you want it to.”
She let her hand fall away. Her feelings along with it. Letting the rage wash her clean. He lingered a moment longer. Perhaps thinking of a burning garden. Of a paradise lost. And then he turned, limping across the battered bridge, into the sunlight waiting beyond. She watched him go, forcing himself with every step. She wondered if this was the finale he’d expected. If he’d ever get the ending he wanted. If he’d ever be a real boy.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. “My beautiful liar.”
And he was gone.
CODA
He woke in darkness.
The cold-copper taste of old blood on his lips. The bird-brittle crack of broken bones beneath his skin. Emergency lighting bathed the walls the color of bleeding, and he groaned, trying to rise to his feet.
He’d fallen, he remembered. So very far.
“Gabriel.”
He looked up and saw her, silhouetted against the light. An angel, beautiful and bright, the burning globe behind her framing a halo of blond about her head. His bleeding heart surged inside his broken chest, and for a moment, he thought it had all been a dream. That he’d never lost her. That she was here with him now.
He spoke, his voice full of terrible love and terrible fear.
“… Grace?”
She leaned in closer, offering her hand. And he saw her face then. Saw his mistake. Saw a dead girl, sure and true. But not the one he dreamed of. She was tall, a little gangly, boots too big and cargos too tight. Sun-bleached blond hair was undercut into a tangled fauxhawk. Her sharp cheekbones were smudged with blood and dirt, illuminated by the flare of the emergency globes.
Her right eye socket was empty, a single bloody tear crawling down her cheek. The side of her head was matted with red, her fingers, too, as if she’d torn something out of her skull. He could see the glint of metallic bone under her skin, and he realized, breath catching in his throat, that the hole was slowly knitting closed.
It was just about the right shape for a nasty exit wound.
“You never lied to me, Gabriel,” she said. “For all your faults, you never did that.”
“Ana?” he asked, bewildered.
“No, brother,” she replied.
Her smile was a razor blade.
“My name is Eve.”
She took his hand in hers.
“And we have so much work to do.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not be what it is without the following astonishing droogs:
My wonderful and courageous editor, Melanie Nolan. Your insight and faith never cease to amaze me. I’ll make a sci-fi nerd of you yet.
My band of fearless beta readers: Laini Taylor, Lindsay “LT” Ribar, Caitie Flum, and, especially, my partner in crime, Amie Kaufman, who has been bugging me to finish this book since she read the first chapters back in 2013. Long and slightly uncomfortable hugs must also go to Beth Revis, Marie Lu, and Kiersten White for reading it early and saying nice things about it. I love you guys. Thank you thank you thank you.
Many thanks to my crew at Random House/Knopf—Barbara Marcus, Judith Haut, Sam Im, Karen Greenberg, Ray Shappell, John Adamo, Aisha Cloud, Alison Kolani, Artie Bennett, Amy Schroeder, Alison Impey, Stephanie Moss, Ken Crossland, Jenny Brown, and everyone else who works so tirelessly behind the scenes. Huge props must also go to Anna McFarlane, Radhiah Chowdhury, Jessica Seaborn, Kristy Rizzo, Victoria Brown, Eva Mills, and all the crew at my Australian publishers, Allen & Unwin, for making me feel so at home, and to all my publishers around the world.
My secret agents, Josh and Tracey from Adams Lit. Thank you for breaking all the right thumbs and inviting me into your home and your literary family. Keep pounding!
All the bookstagrammers, bloggers, and vloggers across the globe who’ve supported my work—there are far too many of you folks to name, but please understand I see all you do for me. For the fan art and the reviews, the pimping and the tattoos (!!!), I am so grateful for your passion, energy, and love. You turn my flint-black heart into flint-black goo.
The artists who inspire me, particularly in the creation of this beast—Bill Hicks (RIP, see you down in Arizona Bay), Sam Carter, Tom Searle (RIP) and Architects, Maynard James Keenan and Tool, Oli and BMTH, Chino and the ’Tones, Burton and FF, Ian and the ’Vool, Matt and A7X (RIP Rev), Ludovico Einaudi, Al and Ministry, Trent and NIN, Marcus/Adrian and Northlane, Winston and PWD, Paul Watson, Jeff Hansen and the courageous crews at Sea Shepherd, William Gibson, Ray Kurzweil, Mike Ruppert, Scott Westerfeld, Cherie Priest, Jason Shawn Alexander, Lauren Beukes, Jamie Hewlett and Alan Martin, George Miller, Jenny Beavan, Mike Pondsmith, and Veronica Roth.