mountain. I know Archer joins us when we stop to rest, but not Killian. Archer explains we’re hidden from the ML, but I don’t respond. I don’t care. I know we stop a second time so Sloan and I can eat, but I don’t know where we are or what I put in my stomach.
“—going to be okay?” Sloan asks.
“She’s strong,” Archer replies.
Strong? Me? I’m not. I’m the weak link. I let my friend die—but I’m not the only one to blame.
Flames of wrath spark, melting some of the numbness.
“You didn’t save Clay.” I shake my head, blink and meet Archer’s copper gaze head-on. Melting... “You promised to be there for him, to be his family, his brother, to help him when he needed you. Well, he needed you!”
Archer flinches. His Shell is damaged, but nothing like before, the flesh—or whatever it is—once again in the process of weaving back together. “I can do a lot of things, Ten, but I can’t be everywhere at once, and I can’t override free will.”
Melting...gone! “Are you saying Clay chose to die? I assure you, he didn’t. He begged me to save him.” He begged me, and I failed him. My tears return, my chin trembling.
“He begged you, but didn’t ask me.”
I’m about to punch him when he adds, “I’m saying this is my fault, not the fault of my realm. I was told Killian neared, and I wasn’t to engage. I disobeyed, and my new brother died because of it. I’m saying I chose to engage my enemy rather than call for reinforcements, a fact that will haunt me for the rest of my days. A mistake I’ll never make again. I’m saying you had two options, and you did the right thing.”
“I let my friend die,” I say slowly, softly. “That will never be the right thing.”
“He’s not in any pain. He’s happy, preparing for his homecoming.”
I try to picture Clay smiling. I just see him lying in a pool of his own blood.
“I would have found myself in Many Ends,” Sloan says, wrapping her arms around her middle. “Have you ever...visited?”
We’re seated inside another four-by-four square, but I take no comfort in the warmth. I deserve the cold.
“No. I’ve tried,” Archer tells her. “We hear the screams of the people inside, and we’ve even attempted to follow spirits through the veil, but we’re always blocked.”
Sloan shudders, and maybe she even rethinks her no-realm stance.
“If there’s a way for one to enter,” I say, my tone now hollowed out, “there’s a way for others to enter.”
“You would think so, yes.” He stands, lifts his hand, the star in his palm glowing. He types inside the light, saying, “Come. We have four more miles to traverse.”
The walls around us fade, and the cold sweeps in.
We remain silent as we hike, and I’m glad. My mind is churning. Like Sloan, I’m one of the Unsigned. If I die right now, I’ll end up in Many Ends, most likely exchanging one torturous existence for another. But...
Maybe that’s better than the alternative.
Archer failed to rescue Clay. Strike one, Troika.
Killian’s actions led to the avalanche that put Clay in danger in the first place. Strike one, Myriad.
My parents. Enough said. Strike two, Myriad.
Rules that prevent TLs from saving a human life without being asked. Strike two, Troika.
We make it to the little town Archer mentioned about two hours after sunset. Heaters mounted to the tops of silver poles line the streets and illuminate our path with a soft red glow. Golden light shines from a multitude of box-shaped buildings carved into the side of the mountain. Every building is connected through some type of tunnel. There are no windows, no real personality.
Archer stops as the light in his hand flares. He moves into a shadowed corner to type.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Responding to a message from my leader.”
Jellyair creation..munication between Earth and a realm. What else can the device do?
“I have to make him understand...”
Archer’s frustration is clear, and I’m suddenly glad the cell phone implanted behind my ear was deactivated the day I arrived at Prynne. Vans hoped to make me feel isolated. Trapped. His mistake. If I can’t be reached, I can’t be tracked or ordered around.
“While you’re wasting our time,” Sloan says, batting her lashes at him, “would you be kind enough to tell us where we are?”
“The Urals.” His typing speed increases, his fingers jabbing at invisible keys.
The Urals. A mountain range that runs through western Russia. My mind whizzes back