Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators) (8 page)

“
Then stay away from
me
,” she snarls.

“
Impossible.” She is tangled up in his coat.

“
I mean it. I'll cut you.” She presses down harder on the hilt. A bead of blood wells up and drips down his golden skin.

“
But Vol, all I want to do is keep you warm.”

Her breathing falters at his quiet insistence. “You—” She can't come up with a good enough set of nouns and adjectives.

He just watches her, silent, waiting. The blood soaks into his collar, like a tear. It makes him look vulnerable. He is human, if nothing else. Like her, he can bleed. She growls and re-sheathes the dagger. He isn't worth the reprimand, she tells herself.

“
Thank you,” he says, and closes his eyes.

She hates that he can look so relaxed and sound so confident while she feels so very unnerved. And she is starting to feel warm, curse him. Between the thick, warm coat and his own body heat, she is quickly losing the chill from the river.

“
Any more questions?” he asks, after a pause.

“
What's your name?”

“
Ahh. That is a bonus question. And I'm afraid that you will have to wait until next time to unlock it.”

“
There won't be a next time. Tell me now.”

“
I bet to differ.” She feels his hand drop to her hip and jerks when she realizes he's taken her dagger. “There is definitely going to be a next time because” — he lunges. Her back hits the ground and so does her head, and suddenly her wrists are above her, pinned and useless. His smiling face appears above hers and he continues, “Because I'm afraid you've lost this round.”

The dagger is poised at her breast, just above her pounding heart. The bite of it is icy against his skin in spite of the sun's warm yellow glow.

“
Hmm,” he says. “Now this is an interesting position.”

Vol spits in his face For tricking her, for touching her, for making her feel anything but good, healthy, self-preserving emotions like hatred and fear. For about a million other reasons, as well, and none of them even remotely close to accurate. The force of rage and betrayal inside her body surprises her, like a wave at high-tide. If she held the dagger in her hand she would plunge it into him.

No question.

And he knows this. She is sure he does, just by looking into the abyssal pupils of his golden eyes. Sometimes the eyes speak far more truthfully than the mouth is ever capable of; the eyes are windows into the soul. For a moment, his narrow. Not in anger, not exactly, but something else. Concentration. Appraisal.

Then he smiles, and she feels another shiver coming on, that he can smile at all with eyes like that. “Until next time, then.” And he drives the dagger through the slats of her ribs, straight into her heart. She feels the vibration of it in her chest as dagger hits bone and her vision goes white, — black, and then — blue — and she wakes up in the gaming cubicle, shivering, and sweaty, and very much afraid.

5.

Vol walks out of her cubicle on shaking legs.

She can still feel the blade. It seems to protrude from her body like a phantom limb.

Tash is already back in the reception area, sitting on Ariel's desk and swinging her legs back and forth as she chats with the God Mod. The shorter girl is leaning against the same surface in close proximity to Tash's swinging leg left leg, chatting back with the same amount of ease.

She seems oblivious to Vol's presence, though this seems impossible considering that Ariel is looking in Vol's direction. Tash has seen her, has, in fact, already inclined her head and started to wave, but her hand stills in mid-air and she glances curiously at Ariel. And distantly, in spite of the mixed emotions swirling through her like spilled paints, part of her finds room to be bitterly amused and think,
Oh, so it's like that, is it?

“
Are you okay?” Tash's eyes crease in concern. “Did you find out what you needed?”

It takes a moment to get the words — any words — out. “Yes, — and more. I think — I think he hacked the game.”

Ariel glances from Tash to Vol and back, frowning. “Wait. Who hacked into the game? And why?”

“
Some asshole is stalking her.” Tash pats Vol's shoulder and Ariel's eyes track the movement.

“
What's his name?” she says. “I can check the registry. See if he logged in.”

“
I don't know his name,” Vol says. “He wouldn't tell me.”

Ariel rubs at her temples. “Then I'm not sure what we can do.”

“
Don't feel bad.” Tash turns to Ariel. “Maybe he managed a manual override.”

“
I don't see how. That room is encrypted with a pass code. Only the MoGs know it.”

“
Could he have gotten the code from someone? Or sneaked in?”

“
I doubt it.” Ariel sighs. “But I'll add a tracing algorithm to the archive data files just in case. If someone adds code, it'll log the user ID and the time of the change. But it'll have to wait until next time. Kira, Catan, Suryan, a couple of the Weavers and Spinners, and I, all made changes at various times throughout the day to repair various bugs and glitches.”

“
Thanks.” Vol scratches at the back of her neck. She realizes she is still wearing the ice-blue dress and the silver mask and suddenly has the pressing urge to take a shower. She thinks she might have a pretty good idea who they are from now. “I think I'm going to call it a night.”

“
Goodnight,” Ariel says.

“
Are you sure?” Tash looks disappointed. “Ariel and I were going to go to the Spider after her shift.”

“
The Spider?”

“
It's a bar.” Ariel's eyes dare Vol to comment. Tower residents aren't supposed to drink.

“
At midnight, all the drinks are half-off.” Tash grins at the prospect. “Want to come with us?”

One glance at Ariel's face says accepting is out of the question.

(She thinks you're just golden — and you're going to break her heart.)

Vol smiles tightly. “No. Thanks, but I don't think that's going to help.”

“
Too bad,” Ariel says cheerfully. “Maybe next time — if you're feeling better, that is.”

“
Did he hurt you?” Tash whispers, too quietly for Ariel to hear. “Are you all right?”

Light flashes before her eyes, forming complex designs of swirls and dots that stand out in relief against the background of agony. Vol stumbles back from the black-haired girl and digs the heel of her hand into her eyes, wishing it would flip that magic switch inside her head that shuts off the pain.

“
I have to go.”

She thinks Tash might have called after her.

Then again, it might just be an echo.

Vol runs to the elevators and collapses against the interior wall. The metal feels cold against her feverish bare skin, and she cradles her head in her hands as she sinks down to the floor. The mask slips from her face and splits neatly in half with a quiet
tink
. Vol doesn't notice.

Her brain feels like rotten fruit, cracked and ready to burst. And all the ugliness inside that has been locked away for gods know how many years — all the festering unpleasantness that she can't and won't remember — all of that is growing stronger and more putrescence, and oozing out blackened memories like pus from a half-healed wound.

A wound that will never heal if she doesn't let herself remember.

A wound that might kill her if she does.

I'm damned either way
. She can feel her thoughts receding like the tide.
I'm already infected
.

And there's no cure
.

The elevator slides open. Vol staggers to her feet. Somehow, she manages to get her shaking hand to slide the card through the lock of her room. She steps inside, tearing off the ice-blue dress without a thought for the delicate fabric. She pulls on a nightshirt, threadbare and worn, and huddles under her quilt.
Even if there is a cure
, she thinks,
sometimes the treatment can be worse than the disease
.

And then, slowly, she sinks into the quicksand of dreams.

The stone floors are slick with rivulets of bloods and the rancid stench of death
.

Over the sounds of wild cheers, she hears a few people screaming and retching and crying
.
Some are doing all three
.
Their fear is almost as nauseating as the smells rising up from the coliseum floor, and she finds herself stumbling, as though her feet are stone blocks
.
Clunky, unwieldy, she finds herself knee-deep in muck and ends up emptying her own stomach
.

A short stocky man dressed in purple robes embossed with gold claps once, twice, three times
.
His paunch makes him stand out from the scrawny commoners and sinewy guardsmen
.
She doesn't know who he is, but she knows who he is supposed to be
.

Only the Regent is allowed to wear purple
.

His eyes are an extension of the smoke curling around the cheap lights of the bar
.
They slide over her like warm honey and a faint smile curves his lips in response to something she has just said
.
It must have been about herself, because he says, dryly, “You don't look like a nice girl to me.”

And her heart aches because it's true, because, of course, she would love to be nothing more than a nice girl — a girl to take home, a girl to come home to — but that option was closed to her long ago
.
Her contacts feel like thorns in her eyes
.
She blinks and smiles back
.
He thinks she is being coquettish; he has no way of knowing she's holding back tears
.

“
I could be persuaded to be,” she says
.

“
Oh?” he replies
.

All she can do now is pretend
.

The last few hours have passed in a blur to which she has tried to make herself blind
.
A few details have wormed their way through, like maggots gnawing at a corpse
.
Cuts spilling out like streamers
.
Offal and pieces of flesh, some recognizable and others mere bloody pulp
.
Each shrill cry of pain and terror seem to mirror her own until the walls between them grow so fine and thin that she feels she is tearing at herself
.

The Regent speaks to the man beside him and she catches the words, “only an amusing parlor trick,” and she knows immediately that he is referring to her
.
She stares at her hands, at the blood worked so deeply under the nails that no matter how many times she rinses them in scalding water it never seems to come off
.

For the first time, it occurs to her that one can hate one's existence without wanting to die
.

One can hate the person that one has become
.

His mouth crashes down on hers, and he tastes of sage and smoke and alcohol
.
She feels his pulse racing beneath her fingertips when she slides her hands around his neck
.
She returns his kiss, sighing into his mouth as his hands slide down her back
.
In this moment, she has never known anyone more alive
.

“
Who are you?” he breathes, his voice hot and heavy with desire
.

“
No one in particular
.
”

“
Well, Miss Particular, anything else I should know?”

And she shudders when his fingers slip beneath the hem of her shirt
.
She slides off his lap, primly smoothing out her clothes
.
As if she isn't still on fire from her touch
.
As if she doesn't want him just as badly as he wants her
.

“
I live in the Tower,” she says
.
“On the fourth floor
.
”

And as she walks away, she feels his eyes on her, infusing her with a warm, red glow that settles low in her belly and simmers quietly
.
She quickens her step, giddy with adrenaline and anticipation
.
She already knows he will follow her
.
He was fumbling to pay the bartender even as she turned away
.