Sugar Skulls Read online

  “I call it the hum.”

  “Okay. My doctors said the hum was a form of tinnitus after the overdose, and that it would fade. But you’ve been hearing it for months.”

  “It doesn’t fade, but it does settle into the background after a while. Took some getting used to.”

  “I can imagine.” He’s interrupted by a beep on the datapad. His eyes scroll across the screen as he reads. “I take it Genevieve didn’t report hearing anything while she was off-grid?”

  I’m thrown off by the swerve in topic. “I … don’t know who that is.”

  “Black hair, hazel eyes, 1.65 meters tall.” Trav’s gaze flicks across the information on the datapad in his hand. “Professional singer. Prone to antisocial behavior and antiauthoritarian outbursts. Recent recipient of unorthodox treatment for an adverse reaction to applejack. Kudos to you for pulling that off, by the way.”

  Genevieve. Another thing she doesn’t remember. “Her name is Vee. And no, she didn’t hear it. What else do you know about her?”

  “A lot. Tough girl. Resilient. Problematic nanotech. Tendency toward hysteria during preparation for memory revision procedures.”

  I tense up and push against the restraints with everything I have. “No, please, tell me you didn’t mind-wipe her.”

  Trav looks almost disgusted by my words. “You’d be fine with her carrying that pain around every second of every day? In her shoes, wouldn’t you want to leave the past behind? The blood, the brutality, the waking nightmare. All that suffering, gone in an instant. It must be so peaceful, starting over. A gift, really.” He hesitates, catching himself.

  That didn’t answer the question. Is he toying with me? Worry washes over me. Releasing the breath I’ve been holding, I wince as my rib reasserts itself into the conversation.

  Reaching up, Trav activates the microphone to start the “official” exam. “Subject C-15 appears to be in quite a lot of pain. Unfortunately, the subject remains awake after multiple doses of tranquilizer, and I suspect any pain meds on hand would have the same negligible effect.”

  He clicks the mic off for a moment. “You’re going to feel every bit of this.” Another click. “Before we scan the subject for any foreign implants, biotech, or other illicit body modifications, we need to get the lay of the land, as it were. Despite the anomalous—and quite miraculous—recovery from his previous misfortune, the subject has suffered some extensive nerve damage, and the severity of any impairment to brain function is unknown.”

  Foreign implants? Biotech? Like I’m a spy, infiltrating the city for some rival company? They don’t know why I came back to Cyrene, why I’m still walking around instead of weighing down a couch or bed at home.

  But Trav must know that’s insane. He knows me …

  He used to, anyway.

  What is all this? Is this for show? Is … is he on my side, after all? I feel adrift here. Nothing to anchor me. Not even my name.

  An assistant steps into view, and Trav points out something on his datapad. The assistant nods once and moves behind me. With my head and neck affixed to the table, my field of vision is limited. Right now, all I see is Trav, picking up where he left off.

  “With such significant scarring in the brain tissue, our less invasive scans will prove ineffectual. We’ll have to employ more direct methods before we can proceed any further. Fisher, I’ll make sure the braces are secure. You get the drill.”

  I writhe, jerking my arms and legs with all my strength, but the restraints don’t budge. “Trav, stop. Please! You can’t—”

  He purposefully steps over to me and slaps a thick adhesive patch on my neck. It stings like a dozen hornets striking at once, and I go silent, lips moving but no sound coming out.

  “There we are. Mechanical paralytic. The barbs work directly on the muscles themselves, no chemicals necessary.” He examines the brace holding my head in place. “Means no more outbursts to distract us from our work.”

  I’m still screaming, screaming for all I’m worth, but no one can hear me. No one at all.

  V

  I’m ready to unload the entire plan on her, but Jax is on board before I get three words out of my mouth. Leaving her rooting through her personal stash of pharmaceuticals, I detour through the kitchen.

  Security is everywhere: in the hall, stationed at each door, blocking the service exit at the back. Taking a page out of Jax’s book, I’m all smiles and giggles and flirty flourishes when I skim past Damon’s private goons. They track every move I make, but that’s the only response I get as I grab the necessary supplies from the fridge and head toward Sasha’s room.

  She avoided most of the party, pleading a headache and ducking out early. All the lights in her room are out, so it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. There’s a huddled lump in the bed sniffling with misery, and I home in on that, peace offering in hand.

  “Hey, sweetie.” I peel the blanket back far enough to reveal her pitiful, tear-stained face and Little Dead Thing curled up in her lap. “I brought cookie dough.”

  She moves over with a miserable sort of gulp. All the fire burning her up in the limo has faded down to embers, smothered by the heavy air in the room, her memories of the Redheaded Mini, the torment of not knowing where she is or how she is or what will happen next.

  I can sympathize.

  The next thing I know, Sasha’s crying her heart out against my shoulder. “God, Vee, I’m so sorry.” Hiccup, cough, sniff. “I didn’t want to do it, I swear …”

  Appalled by the emotional fireworks, Little Dead Thing abandons both of us with a hiss. I put my arms around Sasha and let her get it all out, too fired up and focused on Micah to join her in a weepfest.

  “It’s all right,” I murmur, patting her. “Jax told me what happened with …” Shit. What’s the Redheaded Mini’s name? The girl lost a finger because of me, and I don’t even know her name.

  “Callie.” Sasha wipes her nose on her sleeve. “But you’re back now, and Damon’s not going to do anything else to her, right?”

  Tearing off the foil seal, I break off a blob of cookie dough and eat it myself, trying not to choke. “No. Damon’s probably done. For now.” I pass her the package and lean back, letting that last thought spin cobwebs in her brain.

  She frowns. “For now?”

  “Until he wants something else from you,” I explain, trying to swallow and silently vowing that I will never eat another chocolate chip anything ever again. “Corporate doesn’t know he’s up to any of this. What he’s done to Callie. The fact that he’s got Micah locked up, too, so that I never forget to behave myself. Once he’s got something on Jax, he’ll have all three of us sewed up in a pretty little package.”

  Sasha peers unhappily at the cookie dough, then sets it down, like she’s lost her taste for it. “We have to get a hold of someone higher up the chain. Tell them what Damon’s doing. They can help us get Callie and Micah out—”

  “By the time we get a hold of someone at Corporate with influence, and they figure out who’s lying and who’s telling the truth, Callie and Micah could be dead.” I swallow hard at the thought, then press forward. “I can fix this, Sasha, but I need your help.”

  She hesitates. All it will take to end this is her saying no. She doesn’t even have to tattle to Damon, though that certainly would bring every bit of his wrath down on my head. When she starts to pull back, I grab her hands. My thumb finds a chunky piece of jewelry on her middle finger; the way Sasha gasps a little tells me it’s the Redheaded Mini’s ring.

  Probably the one on her damn finger when they cut it off.

  “We’ll get Callie out.” I press as hard as I can on the silver, pushing the tiny skull and crossbones into her skin.

  She blinks once, twice, then whispers, “How are we supposed to manage that?”

  I have to trust her now. Have to throw myself out of the nest. Fly or fall. All or nothing.

  “I need you to help me make a few phone calls.”

  M

&
nbsp; It’s not when the pain starts that scares you. It’s when the pain stops. Even as the drill continues to whir behind you. And for a very long moment, you wonder if you’ll ever feel anything again. When the electrodes and exploratory probes begin snaking inside, it’s horrifying and reassuring all at once.

  Describing their every action in excruciating detail for the official record, Trav and the assistant are hard at work behind me, like the monsters you know are lurking just out of sight.

  Or one monster you thought you knew.

  It’s been nine months since that night. Has he been here the whole time I’ve been running around the city? How soon did he know I was out of the coma? Why won’t he tell me about Vee?

  What’s his role in all this?

  My jaw aches from silent screaming, and eventually I stop, unable to summon the energy to keep at it. Better to keep my efforts in reserve for an opportunity down the line. If one ever presents itself—

  There’s a ping, and Fisher stops to check his phone. “Your guest has arrived. I’ll send him in.” Trav nods slightly as he checks my vitals again. The whole time, his eyes refuse to meet mine.

  The double doors open and shut out of view. “From street rat to lab rat. How fitting.”

  I don’t know the voice, but I can guess. I see the pricey suit before the victorious sneer on his face.

  He makes sure to approach me from my good side. He wants to savor this. “Well, what have we here? Huh. Micah. The survivor. The runner. The legend. The man who outsmarted every guard at the Dome.” He leans over, ripping the paralytic patch from my skin. His breath stinks of mint, as if he’s been sanitized. “You don’t look like much to me.”

  If he leans an inch or two closer, one bite will make him regret it.

  Trav replies before I do. “Damon, I have a great deal of work ahead of me. Determining Micah’s viability for the project will take time. So if you’d like to see your cut anytime soon, make it quick.”

  Viability. The project. I shudder at how casual that sounds. How clinical.

  “Oh, please, I gift-wrapped him for you. The least you can do is shuffle off and play with your chemistry set while I enjoy myself for two seconds.” With a hard glare, Trav steps away, and Damon turns to me, smiling wide, triumphant. “Hey there, lab rat. Sounds like your old friend here will have to dissect you just to find something of interest. You might be something special to this nutjob, but not to me. And certainly not to Vee.” He licks his lips before continuing.

  “I can’t believe a piece of pathetic trash like you almost stole everything from me. Some delusional vigilante clown running around my city taking what’s mine!”

  He leans close, grabbing my throat. “Unacceptable!” He looks at the restraints pinning me down, reassured that he has control once more, and he composes himself. “It’s unacceptable, so I put a stop to it. She’s been scrubbed free of your filth, and you’re nothing but a stranger to her now. Vapor. Dust in the wind.”

  I refuse to accept it. Trav didn’t say one way or the other. And even if it was true … “No version of her has ever loved you, Damon.”

  He turns crimson, and I watch the rest of the professional façade collapse in on itself. A thug-gone-Corporate emerges. He punches me right in my broken rib, one shot like broken glass in my side. I cry out as everything goes white with agony.

  “Damon.” Trav surprises me by speaking up. “That’s enough. I can’t have you interfering with my research. You should be tending to your pet and keeping Corporate happy. I doubt they’d care to hear about how far you’ve gone to ensure these little victories.”

  I can’t tell if that was an act of kindness or Trav calling dibs on dissecting me like a frog in science lab.

  My vision clears, and there’s Damon, making sure his suit is just so. But a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth tells a different story, one of rage barely contained.

  “Fine. Good luck with your experiments. After the work I put in tracking this shitstain down, they better be profitable. And don’t forget to wipe your toy clean when you’re done with him.” One last time, he closes the gap between us. “Don’t worry, Micah. I’ll take excellent care of Vee. She’s all mine. Spend your last few moments considering that, lab rat.”

  Trav applies another paralyzer to my throat before I can reply.

  The thought of Vee, vulnerable, confused, and in that bastard’s hands … Please be okay, Vee. Please be okay.

  After a beep acknowledging his security tag, the scumbag walks out, crisp and businesslike once more. And now my attention falls to the array of surgical implements and unidentifiable tools awaiting me.

  Trav leans over and whispers in my ear, “That guy is a real asshole. He says you were running applejack. But after what we lost, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t possibly. Could you?”

  I look at him with my good eye, unable to reply or shake my head, but hoping he’ll see the truth.

  His tone is halting, reluctant, as he continues. “I thought you were gone. They told me you wouldn’t recover. But you did, and you’ve been here for months, doing … what?”

  With the paralyzer on, I can’t tell him about running down the dealer through Ludo, about getting in with Maggie and Rete and trying to trace the sources of applejack, about everything I’ve done for months. For him, for her, for all of us.

  Even as I say it in my head, it sounds so small. So pointless.

  “How long did it take you to forget us, Micah? How many days of palling around with lowlifes and diddling your popstar girlfriend?”

  His words run through me like glacier water. And then, with the simple click of the mic, Trav is the picture of professionalism again.

  “As our probes gather useful data in the background, we’ll perform thorough scans and examinations in order to locate any recording devices present, either mechanical or biological.” Trav tapes my eyelids open and draws a long needle, filling it with a nausea-inducing seafoam-colored mixture.

  Watching something awful happen and being powerless to do anything about it is becoming a recurring theme in my life.

  The needle inches closer and closer, looming over me, big as life, before finally plunging forward.

  V

  Coming out of Jax’s room for the second time, I run into the same dink from the pre-Dome party. Damon’s right-hand guy is a fucking wall of muscle, and even a well-tailored suit can’t disguise the fact that he’s got no neck.

  And aviators? Past midnight? Sure sign of a complete douchebag.

  He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s Phase Two.

  “Enough running around for the night,” he says with a grunt, nudging me in the direction of the stairs.

  “Damon’s orders?” I grin up at him, trying to sound playful. “You realize I’ve only seen you once or twice without these glasses?” Scrunching up my nose at him, I make like I want to push them back.

  He reaches for that wrist while my other hand slaps a level-nine sedative patch under his jaw. Down he goes like a sack of rocks, and I smack a second snooze button on his cheek. By the time I reach into his coat pocket and locate Damon’s backup phone, he’s full-out snoring.

  “Pleasant dreams, asshole,” I mutter.

  Jax bounces into the hall carrying two bags loaded with supplies. “Holy shit, it worked.”

  “Told you it would.” I step over Mount Fucknuts and head straight for the studio. Sasha’s already got an impressive bank of equipment up and running. Two glowing pinpoints of light indicate that Little Dead Thing is curled up in the corner, scowling at all of us.

  Sasha’s just as focused, her gaze never straying from the glowing blue light of the holographic displays hovering in front of her. “Everything’s ready to roll.” She hands me the vocal modulator from Damon’s bullshit fake-Vee PR stunt.

  I fit it into my ear and adjust the mouthpiece. “You wrote an override program for the city vidscreens?”

  “Yup. It’ll go live as soon as we’re ready.” Sasha leans back far enough
in her chair to flash me a smile. Some of that fire she had in the limo has returned.

  Good damn thing, too, because this is going to get very hot very quickly.

  Damon’s backup phone is linked to every account he’s got, so it doesn’t take me long to sort through his incoming messages. Pictures of the warren that I’ve seen already. Pictures of Micah that I have not. My stomach clenches at the sight of his face, bloody and swollen, but I thumb through the folder until I find the address.

  I was expecting a holding cell in a detention facility, but he’s in the fucking medcenter, and not for 50 cc’s of TLC, is my guess. Callie’s there, too. In case Damon needs more leverage over Sasha.

  Trying to keep a lid on the medical horror show running through my head, I hand the phone off to her. “Dial out for me?”

  She plugs the phone into her mini-grid, calls up a vocal sample from one of Damon’s outgoing messages, then fires off a finger-pistol at me.

  When the person on the other end of the line picks up, I use Damon’s voice to bark out my order: “Bring the car around.” He starts to protest, but I yell over him, “Yes, jackass, I know I’m inside one already. Bring the other goddamn car around.”

  Hold on, Micah. I’m coming for you.

  M

  Trav gives me a series of injections designed to reveal any subdermal biotech or microscopic recording devices. My vision blurs, tinted blue for a few minutes by a chemical eyewash that burns like hot sauce.

  With my eyelids taped open, I can’t help but watch Trav throughout the tests. He keeps his expression neutral, hardly looking at me at all. I’m a lab rat pincushion. Subject C-15, nothing more.

  But after those whispered questions, I can’t help but see something in his eyes. Resentment at my very existence.

  I’m starting to prefer being Subject C-15 to being Micah.

  He activates the mic as he reviews the results of his chemical trace tests. “Preliminary examination reveals no sign of biological or artificial technology in the eye, ocular cavity, or in any subdermal tissues so far. Fisher?”