Sugar Skulls Page 8

  “Nice work bringing him home. I’m surprised you can still walk a straight line.” She’s still dishing out the snark, but Jax is way more relaxed than she was yesterday.

  If Damon was as smart as he is ambitious, he’d loosen up her leash just a smidge.

  “Careful now, you almost sound jealous.” Under the guise of mixing orange juice with two shots of Samurai, I pull up a menu on the kitchen vidscreen, access the Cyrano database, and dash off a text message. Closing the window with a wave of two fingers, I ignore her and take my drink back into the living room. The state of the furnishings is enough to simultaneously break my heart and turn my stomach.

  Not just going to burn the sheets and the mattress. Couches go, too. I step in something with my bare foot and wish I’d remembered to put on socks. And the rugs.

  Adonis catches up with me at the bottom of the stairs, unaware that he’s interrupting a mental redecoration of the entire Loft.

  “You’re a hard one to keep up with. Ready for round two?” His smile should melt me into a pliant armful, but all I can think about is Micah in a gutter somewhere. Micah, bruised and battered and coughing up blood.

  When the expected knock comes at the door, I open it without sparing Adonis a single glance.

  Six Facilitators duck inside, a coordinated blur of boots and gloves. They grab Adonis, hauling him out of the apartment as he struggles and shouts, “What the hell?” until one of them swats him upside the head with a heavy hand. Adonis jerks as the electricity discharges with a flash, then goes stiff as a board. Some sort of a shock gauntlet, a Corporate-approved version of Brights. I’m feeling vengeful enough to hope they have a lot more kick than the ones Micah met last night.

  In the midst of all this, Damon enters the Loft and pushes the door wide open. “Anyone who wishes to avoid similar treatment should gather their things and depart.”

  The rest of the partygoers grab their clothes and duck out behind the security team in a steady stream that seems to last an eternity. Jax follows them around, protesting.

  “You don’t have to leave. I just ordered more booze and a pound of strawberry cough!” She turns her glare on me, then shares it with Damon when he closes the door on the last straggler.

  “Productive evening?” he asks with a perfunctory glance around the room.

  “Not as productive as today was supposed to be.” Jax throws herself on the couch, ignoring the splashes of acid-orange liquor and the lacy underwear peeking from between the cushions. “What the hell are you doing here, buzzkill?”

  “I was headed over anyway, but Vee messaged a request for a cleanup crew.” He takes one step onto the carpet, peers down at his highly polished black dress shoe, then backs up to the marble. “Street-drug dealer, you said?”

  “Pushing applejack at the Palace last night,” I answer, sitting on the stairs because it seems the safest place for now. “You can transfer the finder’s fee to my account whenever you get the chance.”

  “Sure. And Corporate won’t question the delay between him offering you the drugs and when you called us in.”

  “They shouldn’t.” I indulge in a stretch that I learned from Little Dead Thing. “Not with the energy the two of us generated for the grid in the meantime.”

  Damon refuses to take the bait. “You three must have missed the reminder I sent last night.”

  “W-what’s going on?” Sasha stammers, wiping her hands on a dishcloth as she ventures out of the kitchen. Pretty Goth Boy and the Redheaded Mini are right behind her. The former looks like a cornered raccoon as he eyes the closed door behind Damon. Unfazed, the latter makes her way out, blowing a kiss and tossing a wink over one shoulder that Sasha valiantly ignores as she adds a nervous, “We missed a message?”

  Jax answers from the crack of the couch. “Did it say something along the lines of ‘Dear girls, I’ll be in around noon to crap on your day’?”

  “Close.” Another knock on the door, but this time it’s the fashion minions. “You have scheduled appearances this afternoon to promote the concert. Hair and makeup now, into the broadcast studio by three.”

  “Fuck you,” says the sofa cushion.

  Pretty Goth Boy finally makes a harried exit as the styling team fans out across the room.

  “I want another cleaning crew brought in,” I throw over my shoulder as I head for the master suite. “This one for the mess.”

  Damon’s already dialing the number. “You worry about your wardrobe and leave the rest to me.”

  M

  Why oh why didn’t I do my laundry yesterday?

  With a half-choked grunt of pain, I drop the bag into a wheeled basket and reserve some machines near the back, putting it on the prepaid I snagged from Maggie’s place. I push my cart leisurely along racks and racks of identical off-white machines, scanning for any sign of Ludo after striking out at Sidri’s. But no luck. Nothing here but clothes swirling and swishing or tumbling and somersaulting en route to warmth and cleanliness.

  Three machines loaded and running, I close my eyes and take a slow, deep breath—as deep as the bandages will allow—holding it for a few seconds, then exhaling. Repeat. And again. And a few more times. I feel a twinge with every breath, something I better get used to, apparently.

  The book recommended I do this every hour to make sure my lungs won’t collapse. Seems like a small price to pay for continued lung function. It’ll be a different story when I run.

  The vidscreen behind me blares as someone unmutes it. I hate those things, I really do. The constant squawking of talking heads. News blasts advertising credit-for-thrum activities. High-voltage promotions for the latest companies to cut exclusive deals with Corporate and set up shop in Cyrene.

  The sound kicks out for a moment between each channel, and those brief silences become my favorite beats in an otherwise intolerable piece of street music.

  Finally, the “what’ll we watch for the next twenty seconds” contest is over. “And in two days, they will headline their biggest show to date at the Dome downtown.”

  A dulcet voice responds with a few playful notes. “Oooh-oooo-oooh, yeah.”

  I whirl around in surprise, midbreath, and it turns into an unpleasant coughing fit that brings tears to my eyes. It’s Her. It’s them. The Sugar Skulls, laughing at their impromptu performance just now. Sure, the makeup is a little different, with tiny press-on jewels instead of the sequins, the outfit a blue-black variation on a very tempting theme. But it’s Her, unmistakably Her.

  I stare unabashedly at the screen, drinking in every pixel, every frame. The gentle swish of her hair that trails a second or two behind each movement of her head. Impossibly amethyst eyes rising from the depths of kohl rims. Ghostly white makeup that almost glows under the studio lights.

  There goes the slim chance of forgetting her anytime soon.

  “They’re here live to promote their upcoming show …”

  Broadcasting live. In the studio right now.

  A studio six blocks from here.

  My legs respond before my thoughts, carrying me partway to the door before I toss the prepaid to the attendant. “Give me the works, I’ll be back! No lavender!”

  Promotion means public appearances. Which means a chance to see Her again. Just a look. A look and a few notes live. No harm in that, right?

  I rocket down the sidewalk, hell-bent on catching her. My lungs already ache, subsisting on half breaths as I race for the studio. Worth it.

  V

  Jax and Sasha clamber into the back of the limo, leaving a trail of feathers and sequins in their wake. The area behind us descends into chaos, with riggers and techs moving as fast as they can to pack up equipment we’re going to use at the mall.

  Damon stands between me and the car, coordinating the security team, cherry-picking the best of his guys to ride shotgun in each vehicle and others to drive ahead and behind. All the while, he’s fielding calls, following up tips, and whittling down leads. Hunting for Micah every spare moment, no matt
er how brief.

  Is that what this sudden rash of promotion is for? A trail of bread crumbs for Micah to pick up?

  I have plans of my own and pause in front of Damon, teetering in my heels. “Last night’s catching up with me. I’m going to need something to keep me going.” I slowly lean against him, careful not to get any makeup on his suit.

  There’s a pause in which I’m certain he holds his breath, and then one of his hands finds its way to the small of my back. The corset I’m wearing today is more like body armor than clothing, the antithesis of my shirt from last night. There’s no bare skin available for touching, yet I can somehow sense the heat from his fingers, his wrist, as his arm tightens. He’s holding me up. I can feel the barest whisper of movement in my hair; he must have given himself permission to breathe again.

  I almost feel bad that the only thing he’s going to get for his troubles is a snootful of product.

  “Whatever you need,” he says, voice low and controlled, like he’s trying to throttle the words. “We’ve got a lot more to do today, and I need you on your game.”

  Turning into his chest, I slide my hands under his coat, making sure he can feel my fingernails through his shirt. “Thanks.”

  One of the guards calls to him; I disengage even as he takes a deliberate step away from me. Before he can say anything, I duck into the limo, no doubt affording him a glimpse of bare thigh and black garters under six layers of bruised-raspberry crinoline.

  “What’s with the spontaneous bump and grind?” Jax demands, looking like she can’t decide whether to be amused or nauseated.

  “I thought Corporate didn’t want the two of you … uh …” Sasha trails off, making vague hand gestures when she can’t find a polite way to finish the sentence.

  “Corporate’s not the only one who doesn’t want us ‘uh-ing.’ Just putting in a formal request for a pick-me-up.” I quickly turn Damon’s phone to vibrate and tuck it into a hidden pocket of my skirt.

  M

  Pace slowing. Breathing labored. Pain … manageable.

  I expect to burst onto the scene outside the studio, but there’s no sign of the Skulls, their entourage, or the crowd that populated the area a scant few moments ago. Where throngs of screaming fans, a phalanx of media cams, and the machinery of fame should be, there’s nothing but an empty husk of a stage.

  A few members of the studio’s private security force mill about, but otherwise, zilch. The whole scene’s a ghost town, abandoned en masse, leaving a baffled quartet of people who really shouldn’t be allowed to carry batons or stun-tech of any kind.

  Still, I keep my distance. I need to catch my breath before I start moving again, and having some wannabe greyface open fire because I sneezed at an inopportune time isn’t really how I want to go out.

  The stage is already disassembled, the day’s business returning to normal. In ten minutes, everything will be gone, all evidence of the event banished to DVRs and recaps and retreads.

  That’s when it all comes together. Of course.

  There’s only one way they could’ve cleaned up from a crowded live event this efficiently: they didn’t air it live. I raced six blocks to catch a prerecorded program, a set-up, a PR stunt. Any fans within earshot of the promotional push would’ve been here in a flash, the crowd padded out with recruits enticed by the promise of a few bonus credits for an hour’s work. A dozen or so disappointed latecomers like me trickle in, providing some valuable camouflage as they message friends, telling them not to bother.

  And now She’s well ahead of me, cloaked in obsidian and glimmering with punk tinsel. The mysterious siren, just out of reach.

  Thankfully, every loudspeaker and vidscreen between here and the laundromat blasted us with concert info and the details on the Sugar Skulls’ surprise media blitz. Everyone in Cyrene knows where they’re headed next: the Paleteni Mall Complex, clear across town. The trip here almost had me seeing spots, but I take off once more.

  As I run, I ask myself the big question: Why?

  I push forward, trying to ignore the pain. There’s nothing pretty or fluid about my technique just now, no flair or pride in movement.

  Why are you running yourself ragged all over town for this girl? Is she really worth it?

  The rational mind asks questions like that. The rational mind considers the risks, lists the consequences, scorns the errands of fools. But the rational mind didn’t feel what I did at Maggie’s. It doesn’t revel or weep or long for old sensations. It doesn’t sing or cheer or soar or understand how a single song can come to define an entire year, or a person, or an experience.

  The rational mind has nothing to do with this.

  That vibration in my soul says go. So I go.

  V

  I don’t get my chance until we arrive at the shopping center. Bolting from the limo, I grab the two closest greyfaces and haul them down the gauntlet of screaming fans. “You guys are with me. Come on!”

  “Vee!” Damon shouts. I can’t hear anything that comes after that. Hard to think, much less communicate, over this level of noise pollution. No doubt he’ll have us fitted with earpieces for the next junket, especially after what I’m about to pull.

  Under the guise of signing an autograph for a girl crying liquid-eyeliner tears, I flick the latch on the barricade separating the kids from the carpeted entrance to the mall. The fencing twists on its hinges and crashes inward, pinning my handpicked guards to the ground. I take off at a run as rabid teenagers spill onto the carpet, like rubber balls bouncing out of an overturned bin. They catch up so quickly that I ride a screaming wave into the building.

  For a few seconds, I severely regret some of my life decisions. I can feel pieces of my skirt tearing away. A buckle on my corset coming loose. Someone pulling one of the tiny silver skulls out of my hair. Souvenirs, I guess. But if I’m not careful, they’ll shred me to nothing.

  Twisting and ducking, I fling myself into an open supply closet. Leaning into the door with my shoulder, I manage to get it shut and locked. It’s dark in here, the air reeks of hard scents like ammonia and bleach and plastic that burn as I try to catch my breath. I don’t need to locate the light switch. When I rub my thumb over the screen on Damon’s phone, it flares blue and then settles into a brilliant white.

  This might be a safe place for the moment, but I have to hurry. Flicking through menus as fast as I can, I use Damon’s privileged access to open the Cyrano database and type in four letters.

  Three seconds later, I’m staring at Bryn.

  She’s like sunshine on water. Brilliant blond locks and blue eyes, her smile wide and mischievous and without a single secret. Tiny, according to her stats, from every possible measurement. Stepford adorable. I thumb down to get city of origin, medical history, recruitment information, but all that has been overwritten with red lettering:

  DECEASED

  Fuck me. The girl who tattooed her name on Micah’s heart is dead.

  I guess I’d thought maybe, just maybe, if I could track down Bryn, I’d be able to locate Micah. Make sure Adonis didn’t do any permanent damage.

  Best of intentions that, in hindsight, are nothing but ridiculous.

  I get ready to close out the screen, except I realize it’s not just Bryn. There are links to more names, ones I also recognize from Micah’s tattoo: Zane. Rina. Trav. Except a security firewall activates, and I can’t access more information without punching in a password.

  “Jesus, Micah,” I whisper, “what were you guys into?”

  And then I remember his hands on my face, his eyes burning into me.

  Please, please don’t ever touch that rancid garbage ever again. It will fuck up your soul.

  Applejack.

  M

  I have to stop. Breaths are getting shallower. If I’m not careful, I’ll start hyperventilating, maybe even pass out. A brutal stitch in my side throbs with every step, and I slump against the wall of a municipal building. I’m not even halfway to the mall, but it feels like I’ve
been racing uphill for hours in a lead jumpsuit. At this rate, I’ll never make it.

  A trolley rolls past, too fast for me when I’m winded and wheezing like this. I stumble a bit getting upright again and walk back out onto the main road, glaring at every cab that speeds by. One more thing I’m denied off-grid.

  Feeling exposed, I slip into a crowd gathered outside the neighboring market. I glance up and down the street and see people huddled around every vidscreen and newslink they can find, watching intently. Guess the media blitz is working just fine.

  I let the crowd close around me as a news blast dominates the screen, and one of their airbrushed talking heads, all brilliant teeth and bronzed skin, does his thing.

  “Reports of small-scale rioting have been reported at the Paleteni Mall Complex this afternoon as overexcited crowds slipped past security cordons. They’re being managed by mall security and Facilitators, and once the issue is resolved, the Sugar Skulls’ performance will go on as planned.”

  Rioting before She’s even sung a note? Impressive. I wonder if that’s Her doing or Trouble’s. I smile, despite the lingering pain from the chase.

  It’ll take a while to get the crowd under control in a media-friendly fashion. There’s still time. Time to catch the show, time for her to pluck those strings inside me again.

  Parting the crowd with excuse-me’s and pardon-me’s and hey-buddy-do-you-mind’s, I push my way to the corner where several fellow vidscreen watchers are flagging down an approaching trolley.

  Normally I’d avoid it—scanner-free or not, confined spaces are not the fugitive’s friend—but it’s the only way I’ll make it to the mall in my condition. And luckily, today fortune favors the impulsive and injured.

  Ludo. Finally.