Mind porn! I shiver with a sudden burst of excitement.

Maybe by then I’ll have figured out my Everlife.

How do others choose? What seems like a great idea one moment can become a nightmare later on. I know this. I’ve seen pictures of my teenage mother’s new perm—hello frizz. The nap I just had to take in the hammock a few years ago—hello severe sunburn and possible melanoma. The tattoo I got at fifteen—hello planet Earth I can never wash off. And none of those things mean anything in the big scheme of things. This does.

“Sounds good. I’m on board.” She rubs her temples. “And before my brain explodes, I guess I should tell you...thank you? You saved my precious.” She waves a hand to indicate the curves of her body.

“I didn’t save you. He did.” I motion to Archer with a tilt of my chin.

“Oh, thank goodness. I would rather smell like fart for all time than be in your debt for a single minute.”

I snort. “What makes you think you don’t smell like fart?”

Frowning, she lifts her arm, sniffs her pit. I laugh out loud, and she flips me off.

“I don’t,” she says.

A boom, boom, boom sounds, as if fireworks are exploding in the sky. The ground shakes, and Sloan gasps. Normally, we can go months without any kind of sign of violence from the realms. What’s happened the past few days, well, it doesn’t bode well for us, does it?

Things are escalating up there. And where do the realms actually battle, anyway? Spirits bonded to Myriad can’t get inside Troika, and vice versa.

Clay stands and stretches. “I’m going to excuse myself from this particular conversation.” He walks toward Archer, tentative, and glances over his shoulder, his brow furrowed with confusion. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Besides looking good enough to eat?” Sloan joins him at the Shell and reaches out, only to drop her arm just before contact, the no-touch rule ingrained. “No one seems to be home.”

“Those in the Everlife must be able to enter and withdraw from a Shell at will,” I say. Which explains why Archer cursed at Killian in our cell. I couldn’t see the Irish seducer, but he could.

Also explains why I heard their voices at odd times. They were trying to help me...and manipulate me.

My hands curl into tight little balls.

“You’re correct. We can, and we do. Often.” Archer’s voice rings out. “As easily as slipping a hand out of a glove.”

Sloan screeches and stumbles backward.

Clay grins. “I’m suffering from serious Shell envy right now.”

Archer offers Sloan a helping hand, but she shakes her head no, adamant. With a shrug, he steps around her, his otherworldly copper gaze landing on me. “I found a town to the south of us. If we leave now, we can make it before nightfall.”

“I’m not going anywhere just yet.” Maybe I won’t ditch him right away. Maybe I’ll use him the way he used me, let him take me where I want to go. “I have to eat.” My stomach rumbles. I dig through the backpack and hand both Clay and Sloan a can of food. Archer refuses his, reminding me of the time he turned down the protein bar. “You don’t need to eat, do you?”

“Only manna.”

“But you ate the asylum’s slop.” Even mentioned it looked the same going in as it did coming out. “Sometimes.”

“The Shell has a compartment that allows me to ingest and expel at will and—”

“I’m interested in what you’re saying, I really am.” I can’t tear my gaze from my can of chicken. “But I’m actually not hearing anything you’re saying.” Food!

I pop the top, Clay and Sloan following suit, and the scent of hot sauce and blue cheese wafts on the breeze. My mouth waters.

Like savages, we shovel nugget after nugget into our mouths.

I force myself to slow the closer I get to the bottom of the can, but it doesn’t help. Soon the can is empty. Well, zero. One gram of protein per bite, twenty-three bites. Enough fuel to get me through the day? We’ll find out.

Clay rubs his stomach, hot sauce smeared all over his face. “Best meal I’ve had in forever.”

“That’s sad,” Archer says.

“Can we go now?” Sloan says, and she sounds bored. “We’ve got a Laborer to ditch and a mountain to descend.” She bats her eyelashes at Archer, more determined than coy. “Oops. Now we’ve lost the element of surprise. Whatever shall we do?”

Clay shakes his head. “We need Archer. We won’t survive without him.”

Archer stares at me, accusation in his eyes. “You planned to leave me?”

“I did.” And I won’t feel guilty about it. “Then I changed my mind. Now. I need a moment of privacy.” My bladder is demanding serious attention.

I stand on surprisingly steady legs and say, with my head high, “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Once you step out of our square of tranquility, the cold will crash into you.” Archer swoops down and tosses my coat in my direction. “I’d dress first, if I were you.”

Right. I don the coat, gloves, mask and goggles. I’m still wearing my boots, but I exchange them for a better fitting pair found scattered at Archer’s feet.

“Here.” He pulls a necklace out from under his shirt then over his head. A small vial dangles at the end. He closes the distance between us, extends the vial. “Liquefied manna.”

Considering what I just ate for breakfast, my morning breath has to be at DEFCON Five. I angle my face away from him before I say, “You’re giving me spirit food?”

“Yes. Drink it. If you dare.”

The challenge is unmistakable. “Let me guess. I’ll drink it, and I’ll either fall head over heels in love with you or I’ll end up with explosive diarrhea. Punishment for wanting to give you the stinky boot.”

“You should know me better by now.”

Do I detect...displeasure? And dang it, I do feel guilty about this and the whole ditching thing.

I grab the vial before I can talk myself out of it, pop the cork and drain the contents. The liquid is warm and sweet, like melted honey but not as thick, and as it washes through me, I feel hugged from the inside out. My veins begin to tingle, as if my blood is fizzing.

“What’s happening to me?” I demand.

“I’m sure you noticed that I smelled good while living in the asylum. Manna not only nourishes, it cleanses.”

And addicts. More! Gimme!

“This particular variety of manna is found only in Troika,” he adds, and I glare at him. Manipulated again. “Go. Do your thing.” He gives me a little push, and I end up outside the square.

The jellyair appears wet, and yet I emerge on the other side completely dry. And within seconds, I’m close to frostbite. I trudge behind a tree and take care of business. As I’m fastening my pants—my butt stinging from cold slaps of wind—a snap of twigs. My heart stops. I go still.

Danger!

A familiar scent wafts to my nose. Peat smoke and heather... Pure seduction.

Killian? Nearby?

My heart kicks back into gear, beating hard and fast. Did he watch me pee?

My cheeks burn.

To him, I’m nothing but a soul to be won, I remind myself. One soul in a long line of souls. A number.