Firstlife by Gena Showalter

rotates slowly, reluctantly. “By the way, victory is victory. I end up on top, not the bottom.”
    â€œOn top of what? The pile of heartbreak and suffering you leave in your wake?”
    He opens his mouth, closes it with a snap—and falls.
    I catch him, but he’s heavy, heavier than I expected. He keeps falling, taking me with him. We hit the ground and he laughs, then I laugh. We remain on the floor in a tangle of limbs.
    â€œI’m beginning to think,” I say, “Might Equals Right should mean the strong are tasked with the protection of the weak, because the strong aren’t always strong and the weak aren’t always weak. Everyone stumbles. And one day, when you stumble—and you will—you’ll need someone to help you stand. Will there be anyone eager to do so, or will there be a line of people hoping to kick you while you’re down?”
    His amusement does a disappearing act. Abracadabra...gone! He glares at me. “I’m done with this topic.”
    The words are thrown at me. The same words I’ve thrown at Bow every time she’s hit a nerve; I know I’ve reached him, whether he’s willing to admit it or not.
    â€œOkay, I’m going to break my own rule and discuss the realms.” I stretch out over the floor, more comfortable with him than I should be. And I can’t blame the alcohol. Stupid game! Killian caught me when he could have let me fall. “What made you side with Myriad?”
    He leans back on his elbows, watching me warily. “There are too many reasons to list in a single evening.”
    â€œGive me the highlights, then.” When he shakes his head, I say, “The top ten? Top two?”
    â€œWhy bother? My reasons won’t affect your decision.”
    â€œSo? Tell me anyway. I’m curious.” What remains unsaid: about you.
    He gaze heats, as if he heard what I didn’t speak. “One. I’m more at ease in the dark. Two, Troika claims soul-fusion is a lie, but I know it’s real.”
    Excitement turns the wine I’ve ingested into champagne—or what I imagine is champagne—the potent brew suddenly bubbling and effervescent in my veins. “You have concrete proof? Even though no other spirits have seen it happen and, from what I gather, the only way the people in Myriad know who’s Fused with whom is through guesstimates, matching the deaths in the realms with the births here.”
    â€œI don’t have to see to believe. I’m sometimes pulled in two different directions.”
    I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t, and my excitement fizzles.
    Treading carefully, remembering his mother, I say, “I’m often pulled in two different directions, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m Fused. It means I’m divided, the potential for good and evil running through my heart.”
    He scowls at me. “Someone who refuses to see the truth will accept the lie.”
    Well. That’s kind of deep for a boy who presented himself as a shallow he-slut. Also, it’s kind of true. “Someone who accepts the lie will never see the truth.”
    â€œI have to be Fused. My mother has to be Fused.” His accent is thicker. “ That is the truth.”
    Poor boy, I think again. He’s holding on to his hope with everything he’s got. “I hope you’re right,” I say and I mean it.
    He nudges my hip with his foot. “Half the things that come out of your mouth make me want to punch a wall, and the other half make me want to kiss you...and only sometimes to shut you up.”
    I reel. He wants to kiss me? “I gather you don’t like someone mucking around in your head.”
    â€œIs that what you’re doing?”
    â€œNot intentionally. Maybe.” His pretty eyelashes throw shadows over his cheeks, but the flicker of candlelight spilling from the table continually chases the darkness away with beams of