Sugar Skulls Read online

  It’s done. She’s finally free.

  I shut off the vidcam and wirelessly upload it to Sasha’s private server. She’ll have the video polished and ready for everyone later tonight. After today’s show, seeing Damon transferred out of town will be the icing on the cake for Vee. No more threats against her, no more mind-wipes or power games.

  No more boogeyman hiding under the bed.

  As the curtain closes, I glance upward at the Wall. The best playgrounds have fences, and right now, it’s our staunchest ally. Keeping us safe. Keeping our enemies out. Those projected blue skies are more welcome than ever. New chapters and all that.

  I’ve got hours to kill before the Sugar Skulls are done performing, so I stop by one of the local security offices en route to The Warren. Wanting to make sure I stayed in Cyrene—even another set of clean scans at the lab didn’t temper their espionage paranoia much—Corporate offered me a gig I couldn’t refuse: freelancing with the Facilitators, sealing the city up tight and preventing anyone from sneaking inside like I did. After all, who better to help you secure the place than the guy who already beat the system?

  So now, instead of ducking shadows and patrols, I spend my days running to ground every dealer I can find. In exchange, I get the resources and the freedom to finally do what brought me back here: rid the city of every last tab of that poisonous shit.

  We’re off to a good start. With Rete and his people already in custody, the majority of in-house cartel activity dried up. The pipelines are closed, and reports of applejack use are dwindling, though we still have no idea what over-the-Wall group was manufacturing it in the first place.

  We brought a runner in yesterday, and as she was hauled off, I thought about Trav killing the dealer who started all this. In Trav’s place, I don’t know what I would’ve done. There was never a real plan after “find the dealer.” I’d like to think I’m not a killer.

  But if Trav could do it …

  I don’t suppose it matters much now. Trav vanished from Corporate custody a few days after the “Night of the Dead” riot. No sign of him anywhere in Cyrene for weeks now. Him or his new applejack variant. My friend, gone as suddenly as he reappeared. His anger, his bitterness, his hatred, etched into my memory as clearly as his name on my skin. Our meager good-byes at the medcenter hardly enough for either of us.

  After checking in with Cyrene Security, I make a quick supply run at the home improvement shop not far from Maggie’s club.

  No, not her club anymore. It’s already in renovations for the new owner, same guy who redid Moonship & Stardust a while back.

  They offered the space to me, but I couldn’t take it. I gave them the whole spiel about it being too big and not the right layout for The Warren, but truth be told, it would never feel like mine, new floor plan or not. It’ll always be the Hellcat’s, if only in spirit.

  Last week, Rete gave up the location of her body, confirming my darkest suspicions. I barely recognized her. I know she misled me and trafficked in some serious garbage, but she deserved better.

  We all did.

  Shuttering those thoughts for now, I make tracks to The Warren to continue getting it ready for tonight.

  I swear, it’s easier to meticulously weave lengths of copper than it is to install this high-end lattice shit just to do the same job. But if that’s what it takes to ensure the place is totally off-grid, it’s still worth the effort.

  Once the final piece is secured to the walls, I step back and admire my work. There’s a long way to go before The Warren is up and running, but this is one big step closer to the finish line.

  I dash over to the gym a couple blocks down and grab a shower, scrubbing away the grime and sweat from the day’s labors. My hair is growing back, but I’m still careful when washing it, tracing the myriad scars left from my time in the lab. No nanotech to heal me up. Even Trav’s best efforts couldn’t plug me into the grid for good. The hum’s not going anywhere.

  I dry off, dress, and make it to the club just in time to sign for the first delivery of over-the-Wall spirits to enhance the bar’s selection. Corporate has agreed to look the other way on a few minor indulgences in exchange for my continued silence about what I endured at the medcenter. Amazing the leverage potential negative PR confers.

  After stashing the cases of liquor in the back storage room, I quadruple-check my improvised stereo system, since I’ve already gone over it three times today. Gotta make it perfect. She deserves perfect.

  I hear Vee sneaking up behind me while I tinker with the bass and treble settings. Let her think she’s got the drop on you. Her hands wind around my waist, and I can sense her vague disappointment when I don’t leap out of my skin in surprise. Instead, I tilt my head back as she kisses my neck and murmurs, “Hello, love.”

  I turn around and kiss her properly, pulling her body to mine, noticing that she’s traded her stage gear for something soft and tantalizingly short. My lips reluctantly break from hers as I whisper, “How was the show?”

  “Another glowing success. No blowouts, no blackouts, and only the regular burnouts in the crowd.” She reaches up to twist her fingers in the collar of my shirt and pull me a few inches closer. “And just what have you been doing with yourself while I was gone?”

  I give her my best smile as I walk her around the club, showing her the little touches that occupied part of my day. Once all the pieces are in place and we generate some positive word-of-mouth, The Warren will be our slice of underground paradise.

  By the time I’ve got her in the center of the room where the dance floor will be, she’s seen so much that the lighting I’ve jury-rigged escapes her notice. Ditto for the remote in my hand. I dim the lights and cue the music as I draw her close, and she smiles, a radiant, intoxicating smile that makes a peasant feel like a king.

  My hands find her waist as she drapes her arms over my shoulders, and we slow dance to the simple strumming of the song. Her eyes light up with recognition, and I answer her question before she asks. “Had a little help from Sasha and Jax. Recorded it yesterday.”

  “On the new guitar?”

  “Her name’s Sofie, thank you very much.”

  “Good thing I’m not the jealous type.” Vee kisses me, just for a moment, before retreating to arm’s length. I stroke her cheek as she croons along with the recording of me playing.

  You came in through an unguarded window,

  Finding me alone in this dark and empty space,

  Creeping through my every waking thought,

  Quiet as a mouse, and vibrant as the chase.

  I still tense up as the electric shocks of her voice roll over me, totally and utterly hers for the duration of the song. It’s a concert for one, and I sway with her, following her every lilt and half step.

  As the last note slips from her lips, I hug her tight and we just stand there, lost in a stolen moment. Eventually, Vee breaks the silence. “They’re expecting us back at the Loft.”

  I nod. “Game Night, right?”

  Her face pressed hard against my chest, it takes her a second to answer. “If Jax wants to play Full-Contact Rock-Paper-Scissors again, I need you to watch my back …” The words trail off as she concentrates on her breathing, like we’ve practiced: one count in, two counts out. Two counts in, four counts out.

  The last time we played, I’d gotten distracted trying not to step on Little Dead Thing in the middle of a skirmish. Jax had tackled Vee, pinning her to the couch and triggering a full-blown panic attack. With every day that passes, Vee’s remembering more and more of her time before Cyrene, her time in foster care. The neglect. Bad nights on the streets, in abandoned houses.

  Every time she edges toward that dark place, I pull her close, just to remind her that she’s here, with me. Not alone. Never alone.

  Counting Jax, Sasha, and Callie, we’re five against the world. Again.

  I run my fingers through the silky waves of her hair. “I’ll always have your back, Vee. I just wish … I wish it hadn’t
come down to forgetting me or remembering all that.”

  The smile she gives me now is tentative, wavering like water, but the words are strong. “I choose you, love. I’ll take the bad with the good as long as it means that I have you.”

  My fingers brush over her silver necklace as I smile. “Forever, love. I’m not going anywhere.” Taking her hands in mine and squeezing them in reassurance, I leisurely lead her toward the back, past the stacked-up crates and beyond piles of building materials. “I do have one more surprise for you.”

  I open the reinforced steel door labeled “Authorized Personnel Only,” and she laughs with delight as she takes in the miniature pad I’ve set up on the sly. There’s a double bed and a stack of pillows to lounge on. Rose petals on the bedspread, candles bathing the room with warmth.

  “I know it’s even smaller than our old love nest under the Arkcell, but I figured if we ever need an escape for a night—”

  “It’s going to be a lot more often than that.” Closing the door behind us with a definitive click!, she has me by the belt loops again. This time, I don’t mind it in the slightest, especially since she’s steering me straight toward the rose petals. “As nice as the Loft is, it’s a little like a fishbowl. A lovely …” Kiss. “Well-furnished …” Gentle bite to my lower lip. “Fishbowl.”

  “And this is just for us.” I run one finger along her jaw and down her neck, my lips inching closer to hers with every syllable. “No intrusions, no cameras, no bullshit glamour or artifice. Just our words, our thoughts, our music. How does that sound?”

  “Like a love song,” Vee whispers. “It sounds like a love song.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To our literary agent, Laura Rennert, who puts Micah to shame when it comes to delivering the goods. Thank you for finding a home for Micah and Vee’s story.

  To the Skyscape team: Miriam Juskowicz, for being the first real investor Cyrene ever had; our editor, Robin Benjamin, for helping build the city and making it run; and our copyeditor, Ben Grossblatt, who outperformed our nanotech when it came to finding every bug and flaw in the system. You can all have ten minutes in the zero-g room at Sarabande, our treat.

  And to Nicole Brinkley and Dave Olsher, for offering fresh perspective when it was most needed.

  From Glenn:

  I have an endless cavalcade of people to thank, only because I am blessed when it comes to both support and encouragement.

  To everyone who picked up this book and read this far. Thank you for taking a trip into a peculiar alternate future with us. Hopefully a few of you woke up on Jax’s floor with a story to tell.

  To my siblings, nephews, and nieces. Thank you for making my world a more colorful and adventurous place. Thank you for dragging me out of my head from time to time. Also, to my nephews and nieces, you shouldn’t have read this. There were lots of swears.

  To all of my workshop pals, to the members of the HWC, to all the hilarious and creative folks I’ve met on Twitter, to my fellow FFBs—Dan Angell, Heather Clawson, and Amanda Wils—and to everyone on OpenDiary and ProseBox who ever took the time to read my scribblings and share your thoughts. Thank you for making me a better writer, for critiquing (and haranguing when need be), and for reminding me to cool it with the adverbs. Seriously.

  And finally, to Lisa. Thank you for being the best writing partner I could ever ask for. Thank you for your laughs and your “Oh I LOVE that’s” and for all the times you took those extra five or ten or twenty minutes and helped me find the right words. Thank you for keeping it conversational. Thank you for that first email, so long ago, asking what I knew about guitars and if I’d like to be the bass-playing boy in your weird fictional goth-girl band. Thank you a thousand times for a thousand different gifts.

  Let’s do this again sometime.

  From Lisa:

  (sweeping up the tickertape from Glenn’s Parade of Thanks but refusing to clean up after the elephants)

  First and foremost, thank you to the readers. There was a tiny hop in style from the theater series to the steampunk novel, and then a massive leap to this near-future not-dystopian. Thank you for making that jump with us.

  To my family. Over the course of this novel’s publication cycle, I’ve watched my daughter turn into a preteen, my baby turn into a preschooler, and my nephew join our motley crew. The kids, as well as my husband, mother, sister, and family-by-marriage, are the life and light that make the daily trudging worth every second.

  To the loyal supporters, the faces that turn up at the signings, book launches, and conventions; the online enthusiasts; Patreon patrons; and Dress Circle members Cat Healy and Rose Elizabeth Pedersen. Your kindness, generosity, and love of reading never cease to amaze and delight me.

  And last but certainly not least, to Glenn. For answering that first email with “I’m in. Let’s do this thing.” For all the hours on the phone. For the jokes you had to explain. For knowing where the hyphens should go. For taking all the notes I shoved at you with good grace even when the hour was impossibly late. And for hanging in there until our weird word baby found a home. It’s been a joy and a pleasure to go on this journey with you.

  Yes, we really should do it again.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  When not working on puzzles for Penny Press or writing about them for PuzzleNation, Glenn Dallas is an author of short stories and at least half of one novel. After appearing in the acknowledgments of several outstanding novels, he looks forward to returning the favor in the future.

  Lisa Mantchev is the acclaimed author of Ticker and the Théâtre Illuminata series, which includes Eyes Like Stars, nominated for a Mythopoeic Award and the Andre Norton Award. She has also published numerous short stories in magazines, including Strange Horizons, Clarkesworld, Weird Tales, and Fantasy. She lives on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington State with her husband, children, and horde of furry animals. Visit her online at www.lisamantchev.com.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS