Sugar Skulls Read online

Guarding my ribs, I brush past a few straphangers and sidle up to the sullen-looking elf, slightly pointed ears accented with cartilage piercings galore, decked in ripped jeans and a leather jacket one size too big. Reliable customer for most of the dealers in town, legit and otherwise. Plays dumb, but knows plenty. And he’s been ducking me for a while now. I even changed laundromats so I’d have an excuse to “bump into him,” but until now, no dice.

  I slap his back with one hand, and he practically hits the ceiling. “Hey, Ludo, long time no see.”

  “Hey, Mi—my man …” He catches himself. Eyes darting around, looking for an exit, his hand tightens on the leather strap overhead, as if he’s considering taking a chance and swinging to freedom.

  I lean close and whisper, “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t. There’s two off-the-clock greyfaces near the front end, and they’ll definitely notice. And you’re carrying, I know you are, so you don’t want their attention. Same reason you won’t give me any trouble, right?” He nods, keeping his mouth shut, so I add, “Good. Now talk.”

  “The guy. You’re not gonna find him. He’s dead.” Ludo shrinks away slightly, anticipating punishment for telling me what I don’t want to hear. Frustration rolls over me, and I close my eyes for a moment. “Two kids I know from the Pyxis got his old place when they came into the city. Said they had to wait two extra days for ‘remodeling and fumigation.’ You know what that means.”

  Means somebody died there, and it wasn’t pretty.

  Pressing Ludo for the address of the apartment, I file the info away for later. At least it’s something. Then I slip a prepaid card into his hand and hop off at the next stop. The mall looms large in the foreground.

  My eyes jump from the plaza to the retreating trolley and back again. I should’ve followed Ludo, dragged him off, and shaken him down to be sure. That would’ve been the smart move. That’s the reason I’m in Cyrene.

  And yet, here I am. With just a few blocks to go.

  I give my ribs a conciliatory pat, grit my teeth, and take off down the street. If it wasn’t for Her, I wouldn’t have bumped into Ludo. At this point, I don’t know if this is luck or fate, but the dominoes are falling, and I’m going to see this through.

  Paleteni Mall, here I come.

  CHAPTER SIX

  V

  It takes a good five minutes for the racket beyond the door to die down. Standing there with my ear pressed to the metal, I get a crick in my neck and start cursing everything that brought me to this exact place, this precise moment in time.

  It’s a short list that starts with Damon and ends with Micah.

  When I’m fairly certain the crowd is clear, I tuck the phone as far down the front of my corset as I can without dislodging a rib and flip the lock. I can see daylight through the crack—

  “Well, I’m busy right now.” Damon’s voice pierces my temporary sanctuary. “For fuck’s sake, I’ll call him back once the Skulls are off the stage.”

  The second he turns around, I burst out and lead with “Those crazy glimheads almost killed me” and pair that with wide eyes and a heaving breath or two. My brain races ahead of the words, trying to figure out how the hell he found me so quickly, at least until I spot the phone in his hand, pinging my nanotech.

  Of course he has a backup. That goon with the aviators always has one in his pocket. Damon probably held out his hand, snapped his fingers, and had it replaced within three seconds.

  Worse news is that Damon’s not buying the innocent routine; I can tell by the way the muscles in his jaw jump as he swallows words he’d dearly love to spit at me. But he’s walking a tightrope, too. He has to keep the talent safe. Has to keep it happy. Has to get it shiny and slick and on the stage, because he’s answering to Corporate.

  Still, his grip on my elbow isn’t gentle. “We’ve reined in the crowd.”

  No thanks to you. He might as well have said it out loud. The implication ricochets between us, unfriendly fire.

  “Fantastic.” I force some strut into my step.

  The area alongside the stage is safeguarded by a human barricade of Facilitators, subtly armed. Damon isn’t taking any more chances, I guess. He hands me three pills: two red, one white.

  “As requested.”

  I barely swallow the pick-me-up before he nudges me toward Jax and Sasha, who are geared up in their own way. Sasha’s got a minisynth slung over one bare shoulder like a guitar, a poor replacement for her beloved Moog. A small side table has her laptop wired in with her favorite touches. It’ll do, not that Sasha would complain either way. Jax, on the other hand, has yet to shut up about the “glorified ironing board” rig she’s got, a foldaway combination turntable-and-mixer that she’d rather surf than play.

  She only checks her bitching long enough to nudge me with her elbow. “Next time you decide to start a riot, Princess, give me some warning and I’ll help.”

  Already jacked into the sound system and primed, Sasha gives us both a dirty look. “That’s not funny, either of you.”

  Ignoring them both, I throw myself into the lights, into the energy already pouring off the crowd, into the opening notes of “Screams and Whispers.” Losing myself in the song, I can forget about everything else. Everyone else.

  Except for the ghost of a guy in an alcove.

  Goddamn it.

  That’s when I start to shake.

  M

  I close in on Paleteni Mall, an oasis of high fashion and god-awful cuisine. The garish windows catch the sunlight and spit it back out in a dozen different hues, looking for all the world like a rainbow crashed and burned in the middle of downtown.

  Once I hit the parking lot on the outskirts, I stop dead in my tracks when the speakers adorning every streetlight crackle as one. Then a voice steamrolls me, echoing across the asphalt like the wail of a widow.

  It’s all just screams and whispers,

  just prettied-up and dyed.

  My fuck-façade all faded,

  a tarnished future bride.

  Coal-black eyes and heart to match,

  no artifice, no joy,

  His desires just as sinister,

  my precious lovely boy …

  She flips one lyrical switch and I’m lit up, coursing with Her voice in my veins. She’s on. Boy, is she on. But it’s not enough to keep me frozen in place—guess I have to be up close and live-in-concert for that—and I charge across the parking lot, the ache from my mistreated ribs either gone or just tossed aside by the sonic assault.

  Cars and people and the rest of the background detritus blur as I move, my eyes locked on those enormous sliding doors. All the while, her lilt and cadence and emotion surge within me, drawing me in, luring me closer. Her words blast pains and shadows and doubts to pieces behind me, and for a brief moment, I shed the last few months and race, renewed, toward the source.

  V

  I build the crowd’s energy as carefully as a house of cards, one note stacked atop another, everything in perfect balance.

  That’s the good news. The holy-shitballs-fuck news is that the pick-me-up isn’t working. Asking for it hadn’t been a complete lie; every bit of last night’s escapades was catching up to me, threatening to grind my face into the dirt if I didn’t get three steps ahead of it.

  The pills Damon gave me should have been enough to bliss out a complete tweaker, but they dropped into my system and evaporated like droplets of water in a red-hot skillet. Nothing.

  No. Not nothing. The end of my nose is going numb with cold.

  Just finish the song.

  Lowering my voice to a croon, I bring everyone back down to earth as gently as I can. No point in generating a frothing rage-monster here … I need to save that trick for the Dome. I catch an approving glance from the wings: Damon, arms folded over his chest, frown still cutting his forehead in half, but relief beginning to dawn on his features.

  It irks the living shit out of me.

  Taking three steps back, I hand the microphone to Sasha. She st
ares at it, puzzled, but before she can say anything, I take a running start and launch myself off the front of the stage.

  The crowd catches me and I surf it, accompanied by cheers and laughter and screams of “We love you, Vee!” all the way to a set of double doors. I curtsy to another roar of approval before ducking outside and making a mad dash for the limo parked around the corner. Still running, I pull Damon’s phone from its hiding place and toss it just ahead of me. The screen shatters under my heel, but I don’t look back.

  By the time the others join me in the car, I have my legs crossed, my breathing under control, and a nonchalant expression cemented into place.

  “That was quite the exit,” is all Damon says.

  I don’t answer. Cold inside, so fucking cold. When I exhale, I leave frost on the window.

  “We’ll go back to the Loft and get you ready for tonight,” he adds, checking the screen on his replacement phone. “You’re hosting a cocktail hour for the VIPs coming in for the concert.”

  I slide down in my seat, pressing my face hard to the upholstery.

  “Of course we are,” Jax mutters.

  A defiant “Fuck you” follows that, and everyone is surprised that it’s not Jax’s voice, but mine.

  M

  I’m forced to slow down as I jog down the mall’s main thoroughfare, toward the show and the voice and the throng crying out in delight. And even when the music swells and Her voice fades, Her words still radiate inside me, staving off the aches and pains of the day.

  I hit the back of the crowd, just in time to watch Her leap into the audience, borne aloft like royalty as they clamber to touch Her, and She floats along with the ease of a cloud, awash in their adoration. “We love you, Vee!” they cry over and over.

  Vee. They love you, Vee.

  She drops to the ground on the far side of the mob, and with a flourish takes off through the doors. All that time and effort, hoping to feel that same soaring high that I felt at Maggie’s, and it’s gone in a flash.

  Vee’s hold on me slips, and the ache of my ribs returns. No time for you now, gotta move. I sneak back the way I came, evading the security guards, hoping to loop around and catch her. Ask her how, why her voice affects me this way. To understand, even a little bit.

  Closing the distance between us, I burst out the main doors and hop the railing, my ribs very unhappy with the sudden jolt.

  She’s already in the limo and waiting for her bandmates. A swarm of mall security and private guards spill out the double doors, and Trouble and Treble—along with some suit-wearing tool, their manager most likely—drift down the stairs behind them.

  I’m three, maybe four car-lengths behind, and I know the guards will spot me before I can get any closer. Damn.

  I break left across the parking lot, anticipating the limo’s intended path out of the mall complex, letting my inner GPS take over.

  They’ll take the west gate—it’s the nearest exit—just to create separation from the fans. If they take a right it’s all back streets until you hit the Wall, so they’ll hang a left. Then at least three blocks before a street that will accommodate the limo.

  I’m across the road as fast as my lungs will allow, and I glance back in time to see their car turn left out of the west gate. So far, so good.

  Down the alley, I race along the next two blocks, catching a glimpse of the limo passing one street over. I turn right, behind one of the processing substations topped by another of those glass-globe behemoths, into the heart of the Odeaglow.

  Gotta get higher. They’re closing in on one of the city’s main transport hubs, and I could lose them easy.

  I push harder, scaling two flights of fire escape before I lay eyes on the hub. Their car, surrounded by high-end security, rolls down along Highmore and into the maze of apartments and private residences at the far end of the district.

  The convoy moves out of sight, but I haven’t lost them. I know that area better than most people. And hopefully, with their press tour over, they’ll ditch a little of their greyface deadweight.

  Clutching my ribs each time I pause to catch my breath, I purposely slow my pace, minding every jolt when I jump back to the asphalt. Night is quickly falling over Cyrene, and that’s in my favor as I walk with purpose from street to street, not far from Hellcat Maggie’s.

  I comb the neighborhood, looking for stashed-away stretch limos and out-of-sight SUVs. Nothing jumps out at me until I see the army of waiters and hired hands working to diminish the traditional pile of garbage bags in the alley adjacent to the Carlisle Building. The next two blocks are dominated by expensive cars of all makes and models, some with ice-blue halogen headlamps still aglow, having just arrived.

  Pay dirt.

  I press against the chain-link fence separating me from the hustle and bustle of soiree planners. The guy in the suit, the band’s Corporate-issued handler, is calmly giving orders as the hired hands flutter around him like crisply dressed moths, under the watchful eyes of at least a dozen Facilitators.

  I cast my gaze upward, toward the glowing penthouse suite of the Carlisle Building. After all that, this is as close as a party-crasher gets.

  Or so they think.

  V

  For the next hour, the Loft is the touchdown point of our personal tornado. The styling teams collide with the cleaning crew hauling out the last of the ruined furniture. Hired help weaves through everyone, loading in rental chairs, high glass tables, arrangements of flowers, crate after crate of liquor and food.

  There’s swearing and yelling from everyone involved, though Jax manages to screech down the house when she can’t locate her electroshock dress and matching boots. Someone finds them in the back of her closet, and then her screams are reserved for the poor asshole trying to brush her hair into some semblance of submission.

  Sasha disappears into her room, emerging in short order like a docile pink butterfly. Her only acknowledgment of the last twenty-four hours is the heavy eyeliner, a ring-around-the-eyes reminder of Pretty Goth Boy. She takes it upon herself to set up the audio equipment, pulling pieces as necessary from the studio space in the back.

  And me? I’m the poster child for good behavior, a silent statue as everyone buzzes around me, worker bees around their queen. Fresh face paint. New dress delivered from an uptown showroom. I eye the burgundy burned-out velvet, the silver-green leaves twisting through the fabric, in love with the design but afraid to touch it. Afraid my fingers will burn cold through the blossoms and kill them with frost.

  Fuck, I’m freezing.

  I still can’t feel the end of my nose, despite the fact that I turned the heat on high, and everyone else in the room is sweating through their clothes. The stylist wrestling my hair into a thousand impossible curls keeps wiping her face on a towel, but all I can do is bite my lip and try not to shatter into a billion pieces of ice.

  She finishes by wreathing my head with blood-red roses: real flowers, raised in a greenhouse somewhere, coaxed to life only to die so they can decorate my head. The weight of them bends my neck forward. A thorn pricks my scalp and draws blood, but I deserve it.

  “Everyone out,” comes the quiet order from the bedroom doorway. The stylist grabs her combs and brushes. The dressers bail out behind her. Footsteps cross the room, and then Damon kneels in front of me, his expression carefully blank, his voice admirably modulated when he adds, “They’re arriving already. I need you to get your shit together.”

  “I know.” My teeth are chattering now.

  “You know who’s downstairs, right?”

  Every higher-up from Corporate, plus investors. Very important people with very deep pockets who may very well fund a string of Cyrenes, if we pull off the gig at the Dome.

  Very important people who only give a shit about me as long as I continue to be their bright shining star.

  The moment this star falls, I’m dead to them.

  “Yes, Damon, I know.” The cold steals my voice, so that it cracks on the last word.
r />   That seems to decide something for him. Without breaking his steady gaze, he reaches into his pocket.

  I’m the one who looks down, barely able to make out the small plastic bag, the single green translucent tab. The promise of heat glows bright in Damon’s hand, and though every bit of me is screaming on the inside, I reach for it.

  He sucks in a breath when my fingers brush over his wrist in search of salvation. “Oh my god, Vee—” He starts to protest, but I’m already ripping the bag open.

  The applejack dissolves on my tongue and melts all the snow inside me by the time I close my eyes, count to three, make a wish. When I open my eyes, everything comes into focus. Edges are sharp again, hot knives all around me.

  When Damon pulls me to my feet, I wonder why I don’t cut right through him.

  “I’ll get you through this concert,” he mutters, “and then we’re cleaning all the crap out of your system. We just have to keep you going until Friday.”

  When I kiss him, I leave a perfect heart-shaped blotch on his cheek. “Whatever it takes, right?” I don’t wipe it off before leading him to the door. “Come on. It’s time to throw the meat to the lions.”

  M

  The Carlisle is at least three stories higher than any apartment building in the neighborhood. So if, say, you wanted to peek in on the high society rabble glad-handing and schmoozing in a rock goddess’s penthouse suite, your best option would be the soaring edifice known as the Cyrene Clocktower.

  And if your ribs allow for it, there are some monstrously large gears inside that make for easy climbing.

  Perched on one of the maintenance catwalks that grant interior and exterior access to the Clocktower, I can see half the city from up here. The various districts are aglow with their hedonism-fueled lights and vidscreens, but my eyes are locked on a particular floor-to-ceiling window of a particular penthouse.

  I wish I had binoculars on me. Then I could see more than the distant blacks and grays of tuxedos and business suits strolling about the ultramodern furnishings, all hard angles and glass tops. There are occasional flashes of other shades, cerulean blues and emerald greens, the gowns and formalwear of wives, girlfriends, husbands, boyfriends, and hangers-on of both sexes.