Ends is home to the Unsigned who experience Firstdeath, as well as monstrous beings with a single goal: kill everyone. Spirits are hunted and killed in the most horrific ways. Again...and again. Because, once a spirit “dies” in Many Ends, it comes back to life, ready for round two...three...four...
Four, the number for stability, order and justice. A strong foundation, considering there are four sides in a square. Four cardinal directions—north, south, east, west. Four seasons to complete a year—winter, spring, summer, fall. Four winds, and four phases of the moon.
Four is the only numeral spelled with the same amount of letters as its numerical value.
Focus. I believe the spirits trapped inside Many Ends come back to life, but my theory hasn’t yet been proven.
Another uncertainty? Killian’s mother, Caroline, and my friend Marlowe could be there. But here’s the thing. Neither Caroline nor Marlowe were Unsigned. Caroline made covenant with Myriad years before, only to experience Second-death within days of reaching the realm. Marlowe made covenant with Troika, only to void it when she committed suicide. Different people, different policies.
Myriad claimed Caroline’s spirit Fused with the spirit of a newborn infant the day of her death, but I think they lied. I think all Myriadians wind up in Many Ends, like all Troikans wind up in the Rest.
If people knew, they might not sign with Myriad. Falsehoods and propagandas keep business booming.
I need to save the damned, and I can. I know I can. Not because I’m special. Please. I’m just a girl who can navigate Many Ends’ treacherous labyrinth better than most, because I’ve been there.
A shudder of dismay rocks me.
“I hope you weren’t thinkin’ of me just then, lass.” Killian lifts my hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles, sending tingles down my spine.
“Are you kidding? The great Killian Flynn only ever makes girls shiver with desire.”
“Or vibrate with anger.”
I’m smiling as I nod. “That’s fair.”
The ring on his thumb glints in the firelight, warming my heart. After my grandmother Meredith experienced Second-death, I was presented with a token of remembrance. A gun-ring with six-round cylinders, 2mm pinfire. A gorgeous piece of weaponry and a fashion statement. My most prized possession.
I could think of no better gift to give to Killian when he gave me a hand-carved pendant in the shape of pi. Infinite possibilities rest within the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter; every possibility for every life. A number without end. Convert letters to numbers, and they, too, can be found within pi. Meaning, every number with any meaning—from our birthdays to the date we die—and every word ever spoken, every word that will be spoken, exist within pi.
“I love you” becomes 9 + 12 + 15 + 22 + 5 + 25 + 15 + 21 = 619.
Or as Killian says:
I = one letter.
Love = four letters.
You = three letters.
143, 10.
Even now, the pendant hangs from a string of leather around my neck, both beautiful and useful. Whenever I’m in trouble, I can press the center, and my location will be sent to Killian’s comm. He can find me in an instant and help.
Now, we’re going to help each other and intertwine our futures with an unbreakable covenant.
What if, despite this, I’m unable to enter Myriad?
Zero! The doubt devil surfaces, and swarms of others follow. Will my Light hurt him? Will his darkness harm me? Will we weaken or strengthen each other? Will our covenants to the realms be voided? What if, after this, neither of us can return home?
Firstlife was a dress rehearsal. Now the curtain is up, and we’re performing in front of a live studio audience. Every word, action and decision comes with a consequence. There are no second chances to right our wrongs. No do-overs.
I’ve been told I’ll turn the tide of the war, somehow, some way. What if my bond to Killian turns the tide in Myriad’s favor?
Maybe I should back out. Except...every fiber of my being suddenly screams in denial. Both realms have reached a boiling point. Every day innocents are slaughtered. Something has to change, and fast. This is our best shot at peace. Our only shot. And really, I want to save Myriad just as much as I want to save Troika. I shouldn’t put one realm above the other.
Face it. If I back out now, fear wins and everyone loses.
I will not make decisions based on “what if.” I will do what’s right, always. Because, in the end, I’m the only one who has to live with my regrets.
Doubt devils can suck it.
Killian squeezes my hands. “Yer paler by the second, lass. There’s still time tae back out.” His accent—a mix of Irish, Scottish, and I have no idea what else—is thicker than usual, his voice low and husky, and irresistibly sexy. “I doona want you feelin’ pressured.”
“I just... I wish we could speak with other inter-realm couples. We aren’t the first Troikan and Myriadian to fall in love. We can’t be.” Though we’ve searched high and low, we’ve found no one else. Either the others are in hiding...or dead.
He stiffens, as if he’s expecting a devastating blow. “We can put this ceremony on hold and continue searchin’.”
And end up right where we are, perhaps far too late. “We’re doing this. I’ll share my Light with you, and you’ll share your darkness with me. I’ll pass through the Veil of Midnight.” The doorway that leads into Myriad freezes Troikans to Second-death. But I’m about to become half-Myriadian. Maybe. Probably. Fingers crossed.
He is far from comforted. “If yer only doin’ this for your mother...”
Mom is locked in the Kennels, a prison in Myriad. I’m going to find and free her, so she can defect to Troika to raise my little brother, Jeremy. “She’s one of many reasons,” I say.
He relaxes, but only slightly. “Yer only seventeen years old. We can revisit the bond in a few decades, yeah?”
Decades? I inhale deeply, drawing in the familiar and beloved scent of peat smoke and heather. His scent. A new wave of calm flows over me, as warm and sweet as honey. “I’m almost eighteen, and you’re only nineteen. So what? We’ve lived, died and lived again. I’m not going to wait to fight for what’s right, and I’m certainly not going to wait to claim you.”
“I doona want ye doin’ something you’ll regret.”
His accent has reached maximum thickness. Aka sweet, mouthwatering molasses. Meaning his emotions are engaged and running rampant, and I’m melting as my blood heats. “How could I regret a miracle?” I ask.
One dark brow arches as his incredible eyes glitter. “Explain.”
“There are over one hundred billion galaxies. And counting! There are incalculable universes, two realms in the Unending, two sub-realms, nine planets
