Sugar Skulls Page 5

  “Emergency, my ass. You said you handled it—”

  “Yeah, I fucking did, just like I always handle it.” His vehemence surprises me into buttoning my lip long enough for him to finish his thought. “So now I’ve got Corporate breathing down my goddamn neck, not just about you, but about the shithead who egged you into blacking out a significant chunk of the Odeaglow, ruining our field test.”

  I let my thoughts slide back to the unreachable stranger, melting just a bit against the memory of him. When my brain catches up with my body, I try to defuse the situation. “Relax, he was probably just—”

  “Just what, Vee?” Damon’s face tightens. “The guy you ID’d glitched off the grid nine months back using illegal street drugs. Fried his nanotech and his brain. He should be a vegetable, and instead he’s back here.” His steady gaze bores into me. “Just what I needed, right? Another goddamn responsibility, catching this guy when we have no way to track him.”

  “Somehow I doubt that will slow you down much,” I say. What Damon wants, he usually gets. The only question is how long it will take. “Then what will you do?”

  “Hand him over to the medcenter and have him scanned for bio-recorders and other implanted tech, just in case he’s something more than a bottom-feeding ’jack peddler.” He looks me over, like he’s assigning me a price tag. “But if he sought out you and the band for a reason, I doubt he’ll be able to stay away for long. Not when he’s had a taste of what you can do.”

  I smile without humor. “You’re a pusher. A dealer in a nice suit.” He stiffens at the accusation, but before he can protest, I add, “And I’m the drug you’re dealing.”

  “That’s hardly complimentary to either one of us, Vee—” He takes a step toward me, then thinks better of it.

  Smart boy.

  I’m tired of this conversation, tired of thinking, tired of hurting, and tired of him. I wish he would leave, but I don’t have the energy or the balls to kick him out just now. Damon’s phone pings and saves me the trouble. He checks the message, then says, “There are a few things that need my attention. Do you want another painkiller before I go?”

  They work better on an empty stomach, anyway. I pull my sleeve up for an answer.

  M

  The rain falls in sheets now, clearing the sidewalks of the usual vendors and midday millabouts. Even taking the unnecessarily long way around doesn’t eat up too much extra time.

  Maggie’s home address isn’t common knowledge for good reason: it would ruin her Hellcat rep for clubgoers to see her swapping dank for swank, trading the joyful decadence of her place for a high-end apartment building for over-21s. With flower boxes for every window and ivy ringing the doorways, it’s postcard pretty, even from across the street. The scene is marred only by the two raincoated greyfaces stationed just outside the main lobby. They stick out like bland thumbs, old before their time, surrounded by youth but drained of it. Like refugees from cheesy crime vids, they lack that futuristic SWAT vibe of the Facilitators.

  Thankfully, the curtain of water streaming off the Isambard Hotel’s hideous green-striped awning keeps them from spotting me.

  I head down one block, splash my way across the street, then take my time circling around back.

  No way of knowing how thorough they’ll be. The rear garage is definitely out. If they’re smart, they’ll have somebody inside the side service entrance, checking delivery boys and anybody else unfortunate enough to use it today.

  With two quick steps, I plant my feet on the brick face of the building and spring skyward, grabbing the bottom rung of the fire escape’s ladder. It doesn’t give an inch—rust and lax maintenance will do that—so I scramble up with ease.

  Two flights up and a surefooted dash across the ledge, and I’m outside Maggie’s living room window.

  If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear the place looked fine. But I do know better. Before I made the Arkcell my haven, this was home for a few weeks. Since then, I’ve caved on a dinner or two here and there, when I couldn’t duck one of Maggie’s loaded invites.

  Maggie has one rule: a place for everything and everything in its place. But a few things are out of place. Knickknacks shifted. Pieces of furniture out of position. They must have gone over every inch with a fine-tooth comb and an arsenal of scanners, detectors, and whatever else beeps and whistles and boops when it finds something they want.

  There’s no sign of Maggie. Either The Powers That Be took her in, or she bolted before they could drop the hammer on her. Those are the only options that make sense.

  But why? Why case the place so thoroughly? The black-market thumb drives and booze? That’s pretty low priority to justify closing down the club.

  Was it the blackout?

  Was it me?

  The deep breath I’ve been holding comes out as a defeated sigh. Dammit.

  One last thing to check. I slip back across the ledge and onto the fire escape. Maggie’s bedroom window. Shades perpetually drawn. She always calls it “where the hellcat comes out to play.”

  I never pushed for elaboration.

  My hand runs along the window frame until one of the bricks shifts slightly. Bingo. Pulling it from the wall, I find a white envelope sealed inside a plastic baggie to keep the rain out: Maggie’s just-in-case instructions. Once I’ve stashed them in my pocket, I carefully replace the brick.

  I glance down, making sure the alley is clear before hustling down the fire escape and dropping back to the ground.

  Letting the rain wash away any trace of my visit, I calmly and casually stroll down the backstreets of Cyrene, stopping only to liberate some more copper wiring from a construction site on Lattimer Street, prime real estate on the outskirts of the business district. Ducking behind a dumpster, I slip off my drenched hoodie and slip the coiled wire over my head and under one arm, letting it rest across my chest like a skinny bandolier, before layering up once more and heading for home.

  This is where paranoia serves me well, my eyes jumping all over, trying to see everything at once. Forever vigilant. But it’s hard to focus. Try as I might, I can’t get that girl out of my mind. I hear the crinkle of the poster in my pocket. I see Her in shadows and road signs and street art. Hell, even the hum reminds me of the speaker-buzz at Maggie’s last night.

  Three days. Three more days.

  Three more days with Her voice ricocheting inside my head. Three more days of raw, blood-fresh memories coursing over my strip-mined soul.

  I’d forgotten … I’d forgotten what it felt like to glide like that, beyond shadows and shapes and off into endless sensation, where gravity’s shackles fall away and you whirl on updrafts of chemistry’s great bounty …

  She stole it back for me, for just a moment. And then she was gone, and the world turned back.

  I shake my head slowly, as if I can gently jostle the pieces into place, and realize how close I am to home. Be smart. Be safe. Stick to the job at hand.

  Sprinting away from the bridge, vaulting benches, and scaling access ladders, I cut loose and make the Odeaglow my own personal jungle gym. If anyone managed to track me this far, following me through this would buffalo their day something fierce.

  Twist scramble through, then double back. Once I’ve erased all doubt from my mind, I jog back toward the bridge. Scaling the slick scaffolding and familiar tangle of stone and metalwork, I slip past the heavy tarp and into my lovely little refuge.

  Hoodie on a hook to dry, copper added to the growing pile, I sprawl out on the floor, laying my recent acquisitions out in front of me. Wynn Avenue parcel, otherwise unmarked. Envelope from Maggie’s, with “DOVE” written on the front. The poster, unwrapped once more, sinfully alluring and utterly mystifying.

  I choose the envelope first, tossing the plastic baggie aside and dumping the contents into my hand. It’s a meager haul: a prepaid, a business card, and a sheet of paper folded once. The first is no doubt an emergency fund to keep me in essentials until further notice. The second is a simpl
e white card, the swirling logo of Cyrene Medical Services on one side and eight digits written in pen on the other—the access code for a medical supply depot in town.

  That could definitely come in handy.

  I stash the prepaid with the others in my safe and pocket the business card. Unfolding the sheet of paper, I find a list of coordinates and times and a few words from Maggie, hastily scribbled, far from the measured precision of her usual handwriting.

  HERE ARE YOUR DROPS FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS. GIVE ALL OF MY PARCELS TO RETE. STAY LOW. BE SAFE. DON’T BE STUPID.

  She always ends her instructions with “don’t be stupid,” but she’s never underlined it before. Hmm.

  The parcel is next. I quickly note the shape, size, and packaging details for later, then slice it open. Two thumb drives and a note with a date, time, and serial number. The usual. This one is clean. Maggie’s streak continues. I grab a fresh shipping envelope and packing tape, slipping the paper and music inside before sealing it up neat as before. Rete’ll never even know.

  Thinking of him further sours my mood. The more I learn about him, the slimier he seems. But Rete can wait. I’d rather pay attention to something more pleasant, so I pick up the poster, finding myself eye-to-eye with Her again.

  Using a few pieces of duct tape, I stick the half-sheet to the metal door of my storage closet. I step back and stare. In a gentlemanly way. Then in several ungentlemanly ways.

  With great effort and more than a little regret, I turn away, closing my eyes and breathing deep. Thinking of Her and the club stirs up those old memories. Unwelcome memories.

  My eyes snap open, and I bend down to retrieve a bucket of metal pegs, a hammer, and a swatch of carpet from the corner, where I’d left off in the midst of my latest endeavor. Using the carpet to deaden the pounding, I drive a peg into a crevice between two stone blocks, burying it in the surrounding rock. Then another. And another. A dozen more times, the pegs are driven home in specific positions on each wall, a near-perfect grid pattern.

  Satisfied, I put the hammer and chunk of carpet beside the door for later, and I select a length of copper wiring from my stash. Unspooling it, I get down to work, with a haunting hum and a heavy downpour as my soundtrack.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  V

  Little Dead Thing perches on the side of the bathtub, carefully arranged into the perfect rectangle I think of as a kitty-loaf. He stares down his crooked nose at the water. Innate distrust radiates from every ugly patch of fur.

  I sympathize, but bip him anyway with one wet toe before letting my leg drop back into the water. The skin on my chest is flushed pink. The water is hot, but not hot enough anymore, so I drain a few inches and then top off the tub. Have to balance out the fact that I opened a window just so I could listen to the rain.

  Fat drops bounce off the roof. I can hear them pinging off metal, off concrete. That’s the weird thing about living in a penthouse, I quickly realized after moving in. Thirty floors up, I can see everything, but I can’t touch anything. The world is out of reach. I’m shut up, shut in.

  But then there’s the sky. Blue, black, or gray. Moon and stars. It’s up there, nothing between me and it except open space. I think that small knowledge is the only reason I can still breathe without screaming.

  I settle back into the tub, my limbs loose with the painkillers still snaking through my system. With the worst of the migraine gone, this is a welcome high instead of an obligatory one. I can relax, naked spine pressed against warm white marble. Sink down until my lips are covered. Blow tiny lemon-scented bubbles, every one of them a word to a song I haven’t written yet. I don’t even have to think about shaving, thanks to Damon’s preference for smooth skin and four seshes of all-over electrolysis. The scratches that Little Dead Thing’s claws left on my chest last night are also gone, courtesy of my nanotech.

  There’s something more, though. Something else that’s missing. I trace the skin on my hand, the inside of my right wrist. There should be scars … there. Vertical lines from an ivory-handled switchblade. My fingertips slide up to my forearm, where the memory of a dark tattoo wavers under the water. A skull, but not a sugar skull. A rose. A dagger. Gothic lettering that turns to livid bruises …

  The memory bleeds around the edges, disappearing as the locks disengage and one of Jax’s big-ass buckled boots kicks in the bathroom door.

  “Get out of the tub, wench.”

  I glare at her through my bangs. She’s dressed head to toe in black mesh. Always on display, always another step closer to after-show debauchery. “Is Damon back?”

  “Nope.” Jax leans over and fishes out the plug, then flicks me in the face with her dripping hand. “We’re going out.”

  “We’re … what?” I blink, trying to follow her reasoning and wishing I could pull the water back over me like a blanket.

  She straightens up and huffs her rat’s nest of hair out of her eyes. “The grid’s patched back together. Corporate’s trying to make up for lost thrum, so they opened a new hookah den at the Palace. I’m jonesing for strawberry cough, and I’m sick of looking at the same four fucking walls every night. Get dressed. We’re going.”

  “You can go. No one’s stopping you.” We go through this routine every time, varying the amount I make Jax work for it. But tonight, I mean it. Every bit of me aches, and I’m tired of voices in my ears and commands being issued like I’m a goddamn greyface lackey.

  “Not by myself!” She chucks a towel at me.

  Bubbles slide off me when I stand up. “The last thing I want right now is to get manhandled by a hundred toked-up potheads when I don’t even smoke.”

  “No one said you had to smoke, Princess. We all know how you feel about those precious pipes of yours.” Jax grabs me by the wrists and shakes me in a way that says I’m pretty much forgiven. “Come on. I deserve a night out. We all deserve a night out.”

  I lose my grip on the towel. “Meaning you want to get laid.”

  “Ding-ding-ding!” She tugs on me again. “Damon’s had us on lockdown for a month, and it’s use-it-or-lose-it time. You can sit at the bar and sip some liquid neon and make rude jokes at my expense. Just don’t make me go alone. I need company. And I need someone to pour me into the car after I score.”

  I see the dimple tucked into the right corner of her mouth: a sure sign of trouble to come. “I don’t know …”

  “What is there to know?” Sasha flutters in the doorway, an agitated bumblebee. Seriously. She’s wearing a canary-yellow shirt over black leggings, striped knee socks, and a headband that reminds me of disco ball antennae. Not a damn thing about it says Palace-wear, which means she’s sitting firmly in Camp Stay-at-Home. “You’re not in any shape to go clubbing.”

  “It’s not that—” I start to argue, but she nods like I agreed with her.

  “Anyway, Damon wouldn’t like it. He said you needed rest.”

  I glance at Jax.

  She raises an eyebrow at me. “That’s right, Princess. He did say that.”

  “Of course he did.” Shifting my gaze, I stare at my reflection, the picture filtered by the steam hanging in the air and the mist clinging to the mirror. Damp strands of unnaturally black hair tangle over my bare shoulders. My cheeks are flushed as pink as my chest.

  And I realize again that I look nothing like Vee-the-rock-star. Minus the makeup, you’d never know it’s me.

  Normally, if I’m going to thumb my nose at Damon, I make damn sure he knows it. But I’m not in the mood for shallow victories tonight. “I’m sure nothing would make him happier than knowing we stayed in tonight, braiding each other’s hair and eating cookie dough out of a tube.”

  “I’ll get the cookie dough!” Sasha says, blissfully oblivious to the fact that we’re doing no such thing.

  M

  I slump to the ground, finally, gratefully. Fingers ache and arms throb from hours and hours of painstaking work.

  There was just enough copper to finish, after weaving the wire across the
walls and ceiling of the warren in increasingly finer lattices. Secured to the numerous pegs hammered over the last week or so, as well as taped in precise latitudes and longitudes on my tarp weathershield, it should be perfect. I sit there for a few moments, flexing life back into my fingers and admiring the elaborate gridwork all around me.

  There. Any lingering doubt about trackers in my prepaids or other intrusions … successfully banished. Better than a tinfoil hat for keeping Big Brother out of your business. Thank you, Mr. Faraday.

  My eyes scroll past the checkerboard pattern that defines almost every inch of available wall space before landing on the poster of the Sugar Skulls. I embark on a futile staring contest. Just looking at Her summons up wisps of Her voice like smoke from a bonfire, and a shiver rolls over me.

  I blink first, of course, and my averted gaze falls upon the parcel, awaiting delivery. I pick it up and sit on the cot, glancing toward Lara. Rete’s pretty much the last person in the world I want to do business with. But I don’t know where Maggie is or when she’ll be back, and I need to keep the information flowing. For now, all roads lead to Rete.

  Grabbing my guitar and slipping onto the bed, I lie back and let my fingers stroll across the strings. These days, I play only for me. There are no appreciative claps from friends or playful cheapshots when I flub a chord, just the twang and strum and gentle melodies. The tension in my shoulders fades, dripping down my arms and off my fingertips as Lara soothes my frustrations with the sudden change in management.

  Instinctively, I play the opening chords of “The Third False Dmitri” and half smile, remembering the old tale someone told me of multiple pretenders to a powerful throne.

  On that note … Carefully bundling Lara up in her case, I return her to the storage vault.

  I flip up one of the cover flaps on my tarp and peer outside. Night’s fallen while I’ve slaved away, but the rain remains.

  Rete’s only legitimate job is bartending at a few of the lamer clubs in town. Basically boxes with speaker systems, most of his haunts are glorified energy collectors, nothing more. But some nights, he tends center bar at Palace of Wonders, the music-and-medication emporium du jour.