Sugar Skulls (23 page)

That doesn’t take the edge off Sasha’s venom. “Shoot her with another dart, Damon, or I swear I’ll punch her in the face.”

This isn’t the little pink butterfly of a girl that I left behind. Somewhere along the line, Sasha shed that persona like a cocoon. Everything is hard angles and angry edges, down to the stabbing lines of liquid liner around her eyes.

“She doesn’t need another one,” Damon says, fingers finding my wrist to take my pulse. I jerk away, but a second later, his hand is on mine again. “The immobilizer reacts to any increase in her heart rate. The more she fights it, the harder she’s going to crash. I doubt she’ll have enough energy to walk into the Loft under her own power.”

“Tell that to my laptop,” Sasha snarls, sliding back into her seat.

“Stop talking like I’m not here.” The demand is slurred. Except for that shot of moondust at the Pyxis, I haven’t had anything in my system since detoxing off the applejack. With my racing heart moving poison through clean and eager veins, the tranqs are hitting hard. Slumping into the corner of the seat, I can feel my bones melting out from under me. “The fucking cat is wired to find me, isn’t he, Sasha? He’s a goddamn homing device.”

“Has been since Day One,” she answers, the words like chips of ice. “Damon’s idea, and I rigged it up. Still took a while to track you down.” She pauses, her hands fidgeting away. “Too long.”

Damon settles next to me, helping me stay upright with the firm application of his palm to the nape of my neck. “It was a fail-safe. In case something went wrong. In case your nanotech burned out, and we couldn’t find you.”

His fingers trail over the exact spot where the darts landed, and I can feel my pulse kick in my throat. I’m looking right at him, but all I can see is—

Black undershirt. Baggy jeans. Fresh ink.

I suck in a breath. “Damon, stop.”

Instead, he leans closer, his breath warm in my ear. “And that’s exactly what happened, isn’t it, Vee? The thrum-collectors overloaded and glitched you right off the grid. You passed out, and some obsessed fan got his hands on you in the dark, right? Somehow got you all the way out of the Dome and away from everyone who knows about you. Cares about you. A psychotic kidnapper who held you hostage while we scoured this city from top to bottom.”

I know what you did.
But he doesn’t let me say it, pressing his thumb against the tiny holes in my skin. A sharp arrow of pain shoots up the back of my neck, and I gasp. Trying to pull away from him only earns me another look of mock concern.

“Corporate’s been riding my ass since the second you went missing, Vee.” One hand still clamped down on me, Damon pulls his phone out with the other. With a few swift strokes, he dials a number and tells the person at the other end, “Roll it.” Then the charming-as-fuck smile is back in full effect. “Everyone’s going to be thrilled to hear we’ve found you, safe and sound.”

I know what you did.
“They aren’t going to hear that from me.”

“They already are.” He holds up the phone, just out of reach—look but don’t touch. Someone with my hair extensions and my face paint is giving an interview, all wide eyes and little gasps of breath . . . and my voice.

“It was terrifying,” Not-Vee says, playing every angle, enjoying her moment in the spotlight. “I can’t thank Cyrene Security enough for their tireless efforts to rescue me.”

The camera cuts away to Micah’s ID photo and description. The newscaster runs down every detail.

Which means they didn’t catch him. Not yet, anyway.

I twist my finger around his silver chain, drawing it tighter against my skin.

Be smart, love. Get out while you still can.

M

It’s already all over town. I hear the snippets of reports from vidscreens as I fly by, touting the spectacular rescue by Cyrene Security’s finest. I stop to watch it only once, when I catch a glimpse of white face paint and black lips.

Vee, in full Sugar Skulls gear, singing the praises of her saviors and denouncing the monster who held her captive. She pauses for a sip of water, offered by someone offscreen.

Wow, she’s good. She is really good.
The inflections, the word choices, the gestures. It’s immaculate.

But she’s not Vee. Not in a million years. I’ll never make a mistake like I did at the Palace ever again. Stage gear, makeup . . . Hell, put her in a gorilla suit, and I’ll know her by instinct alone.

The ruse works on the populace, though, whipping up plenty of antikidnapper sentiment to make hiding even harder for me. I slip away during the report and resume my run, forced to avoid my usual routes, detouring around greyface patrols and crowds glued to the vidscreens. It’s taking longer—too damn long—to get anywhere, and frustration builds up in me like fatigue.

Calm down. Focus. This isn’t about you. This is about her.

Halfway across the Odeaglow, I hear, “Hey, there he is!”
Fuck
. I glance back and see six kids in tracksuits hustling toward me, followed by an interested greyface. I don’t know if they’re more scavenger hunters or just enthusiastic bystanders. Either way, I’m gone.

They’re fast, no denying it, but they’re rookies when it comes to this stuff. I lose two of them with quick hops over chain-link fences, and two more are scared off by the static electricity of the pylons when I duck into the glass-globe power substation. Back out on the street, I clothesline another with my arm when he steps out from an alley.

The last one, a brown-haired girl with a nose ring and a serious snarl, keeps the chase going. Fast as all hell and determined as fuck, she leaps onto my back, knocking us over a trolley-stop bench. We both hit the ground rolling, my ribs protesting the impact.

She’s up first. “Stay down, asshole! You’ll pay for what you did!” She stomps down, and I pull my hand away just in time.

On my feet once more, I duck a wild swing from her, waiting for my chance. When she wings another haymaker my way, I brush my Brights against her arm. She tenses up in shock, and I catch her before she hits the ground, laying her down gently before taking off again.

There’s no sign of the greyface.
Probably checking on the kid I wrecked.
But I’m wasting time losing the volunteer Micah-hunters.

At least I’m a little closer to my destination. There’s only one place he’ll take her, one place he can control her utterly.

I make tracks for the Carlisle Building.

V

Sasha storms into the elevator ahead of us, keying in the code for the penthouse and staring steadily at nothing. Every button that lights up carries me closer to a very luxurious prison. When the elevator pauses three floors from the Loft, I stiffen, wondering if I can bolt as the doors slide open—

“Don’t even think about it,” Damon warns, jamming his thumb down on the override.

He’s right. Even that tiny bit of hope raised my heart rate, and it’s playing kissy face with the immobilizers. I slump against the wall, clutching the wooden railing, not trusting either of them to catch me if I faceplant.

I’m shaking hard by the time we reach the top floor.

Damon clamps a hand down on my arm and hauls me through the foyer, barking at the people scurrying out of his way like roaches. “Are they set up yet?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen more minutes—”

“Make it five.” He steers me to a new couch—stiff black leather—and drops me onto the cushions. Sasha stalks off toward the studio space followed by a yowling Little Dead Thing. The cat doesn’t spare me a glance. Just another betrayal.

I know what you did, Damon.

“What are you going to do?” I’m not sure if I’m asking for me or for Micah. It might not matter, either way.

“What I always do, Vee. Try to make the best of whatever clusterfuck you’ve ignited and tossed into my lap.” Damon doesn’t bother to look at me, preoccupied with reading another set of messages on his phone. “Apparently, the team found a lot of drug paraphernalia in that charming little hideout of yours. More than even Jax would consider ‘recreational.’”

Damon holds out the phone to me, and pictures of the warren slide over the screen. My throat closes up as I witness the step-by-step destruction of Micah’s safe house, finishing with the ripped envelope and the little green tabs that have caused so much pain.

“No one outside Corporate knows what really happened at the Dome,” Damon adds, “but the higher-ups aren’t happy about the applejack.”

“They aren’t happy about the fact that it almost killed me, or that you were the one cramming it down my throat?” I’m not going to pull any more punches with him. “Just get to the goddamn point already.”

“The point is, now that you’re back where you belong, it’s my responsibility to bring in the scumbag street dealers who almost killed Corporate’s little songbird.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and I wonder how long I have before he pounces. “We’re zeroing in on the runners, too, but I think you can help me with that, can’t you?”

“I am not,” I say, very deliberately, “helping you with
shit
.”

He indulges in a short, mirthless laugh. “You might spare a moment’s consideration for your boy toy. The dealers are no doubt very pissed off about the applejack in his little dungeon. Did he screw up a delivery? Or just steal it outright? You better tell me where they are
and
where Micah is, so I can find him before they do.” Damon gives me a moment to let that sink in before he continues. “I want him alive. Can you say the same for them?”

It’s a nice speech, but I can all too easily picture him hurting Micah.
And enjoying it
. Unfortunately, I know what Rete and his goons will do, and I have some chance of influencing Damon.
So it’s the lesser of two evils, for now.

I start reeling off addresses, hands clasped in my lap, eyes trained on the fire burning in the hearth. The Sugar Skull Vee glares down at me from the photo above the mantelpiece, fucking disgusted that I’m cooperating with him. Damon shunts information and orders over his phone; with every keystroke, he’s standing straighter, taking up more space, until I’m backed into the corner of the couch and can hardly breathe.

Empty, guts spilled, I fall into silence. He sends out the last message and then finally looks up at me. Through me.

Three words. Not the three words I so desperately wanted to say to Micah, but they’re all I have left. “Don’t hurt him.”

Ignoring me, Damon snaps his fingers at a passing assistant. “Brandy.”

I close my eyes for a second, knowing when he goes old school with his liquor, nothing good follows. Three more words. “What now, Damon?” I’m pretty sure I know the answer already, but focusing on the horrible shit about to happen to me takes my mind off the horrible shit that might be happening to Micah this very second.

Damon receives his drink and unbuttons his jacket. One sip later, he sits next to me. “We have to get you back on the grid, Vee. You’re of no use to anyone as long as you’re freeloading.”

“Fuck that noise,” I say, not wanting to meet his gaze but unable to look away. “I’ve put more than my fair share into this place—”

“Right up to the second you blew those thrum-collectors at the Dome.” He takes another sip, eyes locked with mine over the rim of the glass. “Just to save
him
, unless I’m much mistaken.”

When I refuse to answer, Damon tilts his head at me. “Do you recall the night we met? That night at Moonship & Stardust?”

“Yes.”
I remember almost everything.
But my past is the only card I have up my sleeve. I can’t play it just yet.

He loves telling this story, so it doesn’t matter if I remember or not. “I was out scouting,” he murmurs, cradling the drink in his hand. Gently. So gently. “Everyone at Corporate was slobbering over the idea that we could take Cyrene beyond self-sufficiency and start selling energy. While they dicked around in their offices and labs, I was roaming the city with a portable thrum-meter, hunting spikes in output.” He leans forward now, gaze boring into me. “Came into the bar at the end of another long day of finding squat. Walked right past you, sitting on a table and absolutely nothing to look at. But then you started trading songs for drinks. I must have sat in the booth behind you for the better part of an hour, pinned to my seat while you held court. A single high note burned out the damn thrum-meter. The second you let up and I could think again, I saw my chance.”

I know this script. “You sent over your card. It came with a shot of Pennyroyale.”

His hand tightens around his glass. “And that should have been it, Vee. That should have been our ‘once upon a time’ beginning.”

There’s nothing I can say that won’t light his fuse, but even my silence sparks his temper. He cocks his arm back and hurls the brandy snifter at the hearth. I don’t even get the chance to process the shattered glass, the splashes of liquor that cause the flames to flare up, before he’s got me by both arms.

“Was it worth it?” When I bite my lip instead of answering, he shakes me again. “You almost fucked everything,
everything
to the wall—”

“They’re ready for her,” someone interrupts, and Damon’s dragging me down the hall before anyone can say anything else. Rage boils out of him, hot and unforgiving.

“Stupid. So fucking stupid.” Another shake. “Your goddamn nanotech is shut down, Vee. Then you ran off to bang some guy who glitched off the grid months ago. Do you even realize what that could mean?”

Suddenly, I have to consider something other than his fury.

It means I could be pregnant.

All of our worrying. Dreaming.
And neither of us realized . . .

Damon pulls me into the guest bedroom and slams the door shut with a hollow bang. Wall-to-wall mirrored panels wink in the harsh white light of six halogen lamps. Everything else was cleared away to make room for a bank of computer equipment. A metal table. A cart loaded with injectors. Gauze. Vials of drugs.