Sugar Skulls Page 17

  “No sirens, no helicopters. I don’t hear anything,” Vee murmurs. “Why aren’t they here yet?”

  She’s right. The goddamn sky should’ve fallen down around us, and there’s nothing. I don’t get it.

  Cold wind whips around both of us again, and she shivers. I reach for her, and she takes my hand. I sweep one arm under her legs and carry her back to shore, my eyes darting around us, hoping our shouts didn’t attract any unwanted attention.

  She climbs back up to the warren, adrenaline-exhausted but still strong, and I follow her up, watching her form as she scales the wall. Back inside, we stand together in silence, waiting for the hammer to drop.

  But it doesn’t.

  She holds her elbows, hugging herself. I’d do that for her, but there’s something else I need to do first.

  I dig around in the storage vault and pull out the scanner. “Your nanotech should’ve been pinging sensors far and wide as soon as the grid was broken. Which means …”

  I run the scanner over her wrists, then over her body like a security wand. Nothing. “You’re off-grid.”

  This … this is impossible. Could the Rivitocin have done this? One or two doses shouldn’t have been enough. But six in twenty-four hours?

  I guess the why doesn’t matter. She’s free. Instead of this tiny cell, she has a whole city, hers to see with new eyes.

  Vee looks up at me like it’s Christmas morning, and I’m Santa. “So, we can both go for pancakes?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  M

  Vee pours syrup over her third stack of pancakes, and I can’t help but smile as I watch her dig in with relish. I’m sure after days of protein bars and water, this seems like a feast.

  I polished off my omelet and bacon a good five minutes ago, and now I’m leaning back, trying to enjoy a quiet moment before we venture out in public again. As I sip my orange juice, one elbow perched atop the cheap vinyl booth, I scan our surroundings once more, just for peace of mind.

  A few kids, still in their club gear from last night. A gaggle of tweakers at the counter. A few older guys in jumpsuits, maintenance by the look of it, or janitorial maybe. No one’s paid us any attention since we came in. That’s part of the reason we’re here.

  It’s also not far from the apartment Niko let us borrow. One of my few friends from the old days, and as a housing rep, a handy one to have. With people coming in as new energy sources, moving up to classier digs, and eventually leaving as productive members of society, apartments are always changing hands, and he managed to get us an hour in an empty studio before the new residents arrived.

  The shower was meant as a treat for Vee, but it would have been a shame to waste water with two showers, so …

  Yeah, we made it out with three minutes to spare.

  She catches me looking, her fork poised over the plate, and meets my gaze. For a brief moment, she hesitates, like she’s suddenly realized the absurdity of sharing breakfast in the eye of a hurricane, and I worry that simply being out like this might be too much for her, knowing Damon is looking for her.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” I reach for her free hand and squeeze it to reassure her. “Take a deep breath. I’ve been coming here for a while. We’re in no hurry. You’re allowed to enjoy the food. No one is gonna chase us out.”

  She trades her fork for a coffee cup, still mostly full and heavy on the cream. “I think I’m good. For a few hours at least.” Then, just before taking a sip, I see her smile, seemingly enjoying a touch of the mundane. “Shower and food accomplished, fearless leader.”

  “Very true, plucky sidekick.” I turn my attention to one of the great glass-globe emitters outside, dominating a rooftop across the street. “Hey, let me ask you something.”

  Vee pauses with another forkful halfway to her mouth, despite her earlier statement. “Shoot.”

  “When I came back to the city without nanotech, I heard this … hum. Always in the background, like an air conditioner in summer. A constant rrrmmmmm … Are you hearing anything like that?”

  Vee tilts her head slightly, considering. “During withdrawal, I definitely felt this constant pressure, like rushing water, but I figured that was just my body fighting the applejack. No hum, though. Sorry.”

  “No worries.” The applejack didn’t have the chance to alter her brain chemistry like it did mine, then. I mouth a silent prayer to whoever cooked up Rivitocin.

  Time to switch gears and have a little fun.

  “So where to now? You’ve got the whole city, what do you want to see?”

  She slides around the booth until she’s pressed up against me. It’s comfortable, intimate … easy, even. “You tell me. I know the top-floor clubs, some very high-end restaurants, and the backstage areas of every venue in Cyrene. You can take me anywhere else.”

  I think for a second, and then smile. “There is one place I can guarantee the Sugar Skulls have never spent a single second.”

  Instead of taking another sip of coffee, she tilts her head toward the door. “Lead on, stringbean. I haven’t got all day.”

  V

  There are a thousand playgrounds in the city, and all the ones I know by heart are expensive as fuck. No way Micah would take me anywhere someone might recognize us, anyway. Credits issue aside, we’re not exactly dressed for the All Saints Club or the fusion restaurant at the top of the Tener Building.

  We walk down Hawthorne Street, and I can see the Dome in the distance, the cordoned-off area still swarming with cleanup crew. Even from here, I can tell the damage was mostly superficial, and a good chunk of it was cleaned up during my recovery time in the warren.

  Whatever. All that’s someone else’s problem now.

  We pass boutiques I’ve shut down so I could sort through them without having to deal with the plebs. Everything beyond the glass is brilliant white light, black-clothed staff, freestanding geometric statues, unnaturally shaped couches.

  I’d rather be out on the sidewalk wearing Micah’s clothes. After our shower, I ditched the dirty V-neck and shorts for a pair of his jeans—they mostly fit in the waist, but I had to cuff them up twice—one of his long-sleeved undershirts, and a spare black hoodie. The sleeves keep slipping down over my hands, and I might have dragged my arm through the butter twice at breakfast, but everything smells like his laundry detergent, and under that there’s something warm and definitely male.

  Micah also took a knife to my concert boots, cutting them down to the ankle and covering the white leather with electrical tape so I didn’t have to wear thigh-highs to breakfast.

  Handy guy to have around in a crisis.

  Right now, he’s got his nose pointed toward Mercette Park. It’s one of four in Cyrene, brilliant green squares plunked down like afterthoughts, walled in like prisoners. Speeding past them in the back of the limo, I only caught glimpses of restless trees, branches reflecting the season, pedestrians pouring in and out through the gated archways marked by enormous thrum-collectors.

  Today’s a day of firsts.

  People stream past us, all of them in athletic shoes and the kind of clothes meant for bending and stretching.

  “Something’s happening in the park,” I note as I slip on an old pair of Micah’s sunglasses.

  “Something’s always happening in the park,” he says. The flicker of a smile signals he’s amused by my ignorance. “It’s an energy-for-credits program Corporate uses to keep the kids busy during the day.” Easily sidestepping several people intent on running us down, he weaves in and out of the crowd, not breaking stride or fumbling a single syllable. I follow in his wake, grateful for his fingers laced between mine. “Activities every day that generate easily harnessed energy.”

  I don’t know what I was imagining, but group exercise wasn’t it, and that just shows I’ve been living on the nocturnal circuit too long. “Like what?”

  “It varies between more regimented stuff—calisthenics, martial arts, you know—and group competitions. Obstacle course challenges. An annual p
ark-wide zombie run.”

  I’m not sure what seems more foreign: voluntarily running through the park during the day, or doing it dressed as a zombie. For fun. “That sounds … strenuous.”

  “It’s supposed to be. They’re zombies. It’s life or death, Vee.” He’s teasing, and it’s a wider smile than I’ve seen before. This tiny moment of normalcy really suits him, but I can’t help wondering how long it’s been since he had something normal. “Plus, it’s a great way to stay flush in credits for a couple hours’ effort. A few years ago, Trav and I finished first and second in the obstacle course, two and a half seconds in front of the pack.”

  He gestures toward the east end of the park, away from the gathering crowd. “We sprinted to those sets of high and low bars.” There’s a series of wooden hurdles of various heights and wide enough for two people to jump. More competition, more thrum output, if I had to make a guess. “Up and over the high ones and under the low ones. Piece of cake.”

  I watch Micah relax into the story, his expression and gestures growing more animated. These memories don’t hold any despair or bitterness, just the thrill of movement. The way he’s bouncing a little on the balls of his feet signals a readiness to sprint off to join in the games this morning. I stifle a smile, wondering if he even realizes he’s doing it.

  Describing the next two obstacles, he walks backward with his usual easy grace, and I have all the time in the world to look at him. I can’t help but note the way the light slides over his face and tangles in his blond hair. I’m feeling warm, and not just from the sunshine.

  “The last part, the worst part, was the cargo net. My arms were aching by the time I was halfway up, and that thing sways with every move you or the other guy makes.” Two stories tall, it looms in the distance, hanging from a raised platform with a finish-line banner. It reminds me of a tree house, with a slightly rundown perch for the victor to cheer and gloat from.

  “Trav was first to the top of the net, first to ring the bell and claim victory. But as soon as he did, he turned around to cheer me on. ‘Come on, killer. What’s it gonna be?’” Micah shakes his head softly, as if brushing off the memory. Then he looks up at me and reaches for me, taking my hand again. “The credits we won bought the five of us ten minutes in the zero-g room at Sarabande. It was awesome.”

  “Jax wanted to go there.” No need to say that Damon had nixed the idea so thoroughly that she never brought it up again, not even to bitch about it.

  “Jax … Is that Trouble or Treble?”

  I can’t help but snicker, because I don’t even have to ask what he means. “Trouble. Big trouble. Which makes Sasha your Treble.”

  Micah studies me for a moment, reaching out to touch my cheek. “So, speaking of the band, why the Sugar Skulls?”

  His finger’s still moving, still tracing some kind of pattern on my skin. It takes me a second to realize he’s recreating my makeup from the show at Maggie’s with his fingertip. “It was my idea. Everything Jax came up with was horrifying, and Sasha couldn’t even name the cat. Plus I had this image in my head pretty much from the second I woke up in the penthouse. Roses and skulls. I figured I should take whatever memory that was and run with it—”

  Before I can follow that thought down the rabbit hole, someone slams into me from behind. Stumbling forward, I grab a handful of Micah’s jacket and manage not to go down. I snarl over my shoulder at some dude trying too hard to look edgy. “Why don’t you go suck a bag of dicks?”

  When I turn to look at Micah, his eyes are on the stranger, staring daggers and swords and machetes and all sorts of other pointy objects. Slipping an arm around my waist, he pulls me close to him, away from the guy.

  “Should watch where you step next time. Somebody could get hurt.” Micah’s words are polite enough, but there’s serious bite behind them.

  The guy holds his hands up, muttering apologies through a cheesy smile, claiming it was all an accident. He shuffles off, but Micah watches him until he disappears from view.

  Then Micah turns to me, dialing down the tension in his voice and trying to sound casual. “Hey, do you want to go somewhere a little less … mob scene-ish?”

  “Absolutely.” The day is less bright, the shine rubbed off somehow as I nod and fall in step with him.

  M

  I mentally kick myself as we leave the park. Mercette wasn’t the most brilliant idea—too many people, too little control over the situation—but Vee deserved some sunshine.

  The odds of Ludo just being there by chance: slim to none. Little twerp was following me. Following us. Need to be more careful.

  I keep us moving at a steady pace, not frantic but motivated, just two busy city dwellers with places to go and things to do. Vee squeezes my hand tight, betraying her anxiety, but trusting me to take us somewhere less conspicuous.

  I know just the place.

  A few blocks away, the buildings scrape the sky, and the shadows deepen, creating dark valleys where prying eyes are less likely and far less welcome. This is the Cyrene I know by smell and touch; it’s tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.

  Vee draws closer to me, more baffled than concerned. “Where are we?”

  My carnival barker act is the perfect opportunity to distract her from what happened at the park. I lay it on thick and theatrical: “We’re half a block from one of Cyrene’s most hallowed underground halls of music appreciation. A shrine to every badass lick, kickass chick, and dude most slick. Oh yeah …”

  “Quite the hype-man,” she says through giggles. “How long have you been practicing that?”

  Caught mid-gesticulation, I wobble a bit, then lower my arm sheepishly. “The whole way here. Too much?”

  Leaning close enough to kiss me, she bites my lip lightly. “Just enough.”

  We round the corner hand in hand, and Vee takes in the scene. It’s one long alley, and every square inch of it, from asphalt to bricks twenty feet overhead, is covered in spray-painted tributes to the DJs who stir the drug-addled souls of the Cyrene faithful.

  “Welcome to Taggarty Ave.”

  She follows the painted footprints of gods and monsters as she wanders from piece to piece, angels and devils of musical mastery rendered in a thousand styles, every drip and dab contributing to a visual buffet that could easily explode a lesser observer. TumbleKitty is there, the mistress of sound, and Spunfloss, and Mystikal Mark, and Grimastetia, too, all the remix masters of note.

  Vee glows with delight. Taggarty Ave is hardly a hotspot, and your average glimhead would never find it. It’s meant for us, the ones who boil and burn and soar on sonic candy.

  But when she nears the end of the alley, that’s when she beams, a rhapsody of light. That’s when she sees one of the newest additions to the Ave: a Sugar Skulls piece, the only band on a wall dominated by DJs. Trouble and Treble weave notes like spells over our heads, with Vee front and center, lips parted as she blasts a microphone to pieces with her song.

  No sex, no gimmick, just the music.

  She pulls her hand from mine, letting go for the first time since the park. Reaching out, she stops just short of the wall, fingers outstretched. An inch, maybe two; that’s all that separates her from the art.

  But she’s moved a world, maybe two, away from that life.

  One of the street artists startles her out of her reverie as he touches up the wall behind her with a few dustings of amber aerosol. “Man, you must be a hardcore fan. You even got the mods to look like her.” He gestures toward the tableau.

  “Oh, y-yeah,” Vee stutters, adding a timid, “super … super big fan.”

  Shaken by the near recognition, she takes a tiny step back, not realizing that her face is now right beside the painted tribute, highlighting every similarity. The artist takes a step forward, squinting hard at her.

  I speak up, trying to extract her from the scene without being too obvious. “Pretty girl, dark hair, plus paint fumes? You’re being too kind, man.” I grab her wrist. “Come on, babe, let’s je
t. Dinner plans, right?”

  Recovering quickly, Vee nods and joins my charade. “Oh, totally. Let’s move.”

  I throw an arm around her casually and pull her close, but she can’t help looking behind us one last time at the graffiti blaster, stenciling shooting stars onto a DJ made of the night sky.

  “I know where we can go,” she whispers.

  V

  The Pyxis hasn’t changed much since the ribbon-cutting ceremony. The Sugar Skulls were there that day in full pomp and splendor, and yeah, I had the gold scissors; no one trusted Jax with anything sharp, and Sasha kept trying to hide behind me, tugging at her hair because the styling team cut it so short. The entire time we were inside, Jax bitched that artificial night is “just flicking the damn light switch off,” but there’s more to it than that.

  Makes a good hiding place. That run-in with the street artist rattled me more than I’d like to admit. “Hey, you look like her” is only one step removed from someone taking a good hard look and realizing I am her.

  Paranoia sinks its fangs into me, and suddenly I’m feeling exposed. There are more people up here than I expected, most of them just taking advantage of the late afternoon lull. Groups loll on the grass, some on blankets, others partly hidden by the hedges marking the outer edge of a new interactive labyrinth. A short queue waits their turn to get in, and we make our way past them, shoes crunching through gravel. There are weird animalesque topiaries and deliberately crumbling Greek statues set at intervals on the walkway.

  Probably disguising security cameras.

  I resist the urge to give every one of them the finger. There’s nothing about us that should draw attention, as long as I keep taking Micah’s cues. He’s still moving with easy grace. Not too fast or slow. And somehow managing to do it all without looking like he’s trying. It would be irritating, if I didn’t think it was hot as hell.

  I pull back on his arm hard enough to get a half step ahead of him. “Oh, excuse me, sir.”