Sugar Skulls (25 page)

A muscle in Damon’s jaw flexes when he grits his teeth. “The second you got a look at my arms, you freaked. Full-blown panic attack. The screaming brought security guards, but I got you sedated and back to the medcenter without having to answer too many questions. After that, I was careful to keep them covered, but it’s not like you were trying to get my clothes off.”

So much bitterness in his voice; some other person might muster some sympathy for him.
But not me.
“If they were such a liability, why not have them removed? You had mine lasered off.”

That provokes another flash of anger. “Cleaning up your arms was Cyrene’s call, not mine. Part of the reconstructive surgery after the attack. Fucking Corporate erasing me from your life.” He rubs one hand over his arm. “I couldn’t take mine off, Vee. They were
all I had
from outside. The only remnant of
us
. And I hoped that one of these days you’d remember who I was and everything I did for us and be happy. Be grateful. But every fucking time, the answer was no. Your mind, your body just kept right on rejecting me, even if the meltdown was triggered by some other guy’s ink.” He pauses, looking down at his arms. “But the good news is that we won’t have to worry about shit like that ever again.”

“We won’t?” And I know I’m not going to like the answer even before he smiles.

“No. Because we’re back at ‘once upon a time.’” Pulling a long velvet box from his pocket, Damon opens it to reveal platinum and diamonds. The kind of jewelry that should say “I love you” but instead screams “You belong to me.” Damon holds the necklace out, one eyebrow up. “As promised.”

I have to find the strength to smile. Have to play along. “It’s gorgeous.”

“Put it on.” Not a request.

Somehow I manage to tuck Micah’s chain under my pillow, freeing up my hands to obey. I barely feel the links against my skin, but they sit there all the same, like hands spanning my neck. It’s delicate, for a collar. Time to manufacture a new Vee, one who’ll say all the things that he wants to hear.

“Thank you, Damon. For the gift. For understanding. For . . . forgiving me. I’m not sure I deserve any of it.”

“You don’t. Not yet, anyway.” He disappears into my closet for a few minutes and emerges with a red silk dress. “Go take a shower. Put that on and make up your face. Your benefactors are down the hall, each expecting a personal thank-you for your glorious rescue.” Striding back to the door, he pauses at the threshold. “Leave the necklace on.”

“Of course.” My tone is already brighter, my chin tilting up. I know all the lyrics to this song. “It’s the very least I can do.”

M

Rete supervises as his boys dismantle me piece by piece, opting to observe rather than involve himself or his rib-cracking equalizer any further.

Fire Plug sticks to the upper body, cheapshotting my cradled ribs and muttering about Vee as he pounds my face in. “Little fuckin’ bitch,” he spits.

“Takes one to know one,” I reply, not regretting it for a moment, even when he steps on my wrist and I hear a sickening pop.

Scrappy prefers the all-over approach. Whatever company made his shoes will have free advertising on my skin for a while to come. Eventually, I lose myself in the pain, my thoughts drifting back to the raid on the warren.

If it wasn’t Rete, and it wasn’t His Majesty, how did they find us?

Rete mumbles something I can’t make out, and I realize the beating has stopped, but my eyes refuse to focus, leaving me squinting at colored blobs on a blue backdrop. My mind immediately shifts to Vee.

Is she all right? Those screams . . . God, Vee, please be okay.

I hear footsteps approach, and several hands jerk me to my feet. Everything goes white with pain for a moment. My legs can hardly support my weight, and it feels like I’m being stabbed in the side with every breath. “What’s . . . what’s happening?” I suck air as best I can, but my busted rib makes it hard.

Rete, chipper as ever, replies from somewhere behind me. “Can’t let them beat you to death in the street, pigeon. Got a few questions for you that require some privacy.”

By the time we’re back inside the warehouse, my vision clears enough for me to look around. I don’t recognize the guys on either side of me—one squat with a bright-red Mohawk, the other lanky and chewing something that reeks—but they must be Rete’s newest recruits. Ludo waits in one corner, so damn smug. After the shrill rattle of the door slamming shut, Scrappy limps into view, cracking his knuckles and smiling at me. He slugs me in the gut before I can ask how his knee is.

I gasp and slump forward, the new arrivals barely keeping me vertical.

“How many are in your crew?” Rete’s voice echoes off the cinder block walls. Even with four guys between us, he keeps his distance.

“I don’t have a crew. Just me.” Scrappy looks off to one side for confirmation, then hits me again, and I double over. Ludo jumps excitedly with every shot, like he can’t wait for his whack at the piñata.

“Oh, Micah, play ball, will ya? At least cough up Maggie’s other source for ’tocin. There must be one. No way you could’ve kept yourself going with what you’ve taken in the last week or so. Come on, chum, no need for the hero routine. Give me a name, and we can start making nice-nice.”

He waits for me to reply, but I don’t waste the breath.
If shit-for-brains wants to waste time chasing shadows, he’s welcome to it.

Scrappy reluctantly steps away, and Fire Plug takes his place, now holding the metal pipe. Rete finally slips into view, and he looks up and down the length of pipe before turning to me. “I guess it really doesn’t matter if you’re running your own crew or not. After that stunt with one of our best customers yesterday, I need to make an example of you. Anyone on your payroll will either quit or fall in line. Such a pity your little punk rock paramour will have to wonder what happened to her fair-haired kidnapper.”

He nods and Fire Plug cracks me in the thigh, obviously still enjoying himself. Joke’s on him, though. The pain in my ribs is so bad, I barely feel it.

Rete takes the pipe and leans close, lifting my chin with it, locking eyes with me. “Say hi to Maggie for me,” he whispers. He pulls the pipe away, and my head slumps back down. All I can see is the concrete floor, covered with a rusty stain. Must’ve kept it hidden with deliveries the last few times I was here.

Not rust. Blood. Stained with blood. Way too much to be mine.

I wonder what he did with her body.

I hear Rete hand over the pipe to someone who slaps it against his palm. “Go ahead and finish him off.”

There’s a pause. I can picture him winding up to smash my skull in.

I’m sorry, Vee.

I feel the shock wave before I hear the explosion, as the garage door is torn from its tracks and hurled across the room. Mohawk and Chompers abandon me for Rete, and I hang there in the air for a second before collapsing to the ground.

“Everybody freeze!”

My head bounces off the cement and everything blurs again, but I can see black-suited security pouring through the door, rounding people up and firing off the occasional tranq dart.

A Facilitator kneels in front of me, the barrel of his dart gun aimed straight at my chest, and through his visor, I see him staring at me. He turns and shouts over his shoulder, “He’s alive. Bring him in!”

I have one last thought before I’m hoisted up and the pain finally takes me:

How did they find me again?

V

Not-Micah. I’m cornered by the blue-eyed, blond-haired Micah doppelganger from the night of the VIP party. Well-dressed, charming, and very, very interested in hearing every detail of my perilous week spent at the mercy of the fugitive drug runner.

“That must have been very hard on you.” He hands me an unidentifiable cocktail, his fingers tracing my bare, perfumed wrist. “I know everyone is so relieved Damon tracked you down.” Not content with simply lingering, his hand slowly slides up my arm.

I can smell his cologne, along with ten other kinds of product he must have bathed in before coming here, and close my eyes for a split second.

Be charming, Vee. Make nice with the other kids on the playground and maybe, just maybe, it will help Micah out.

But every second I’m forced to spend in this guy’s company is another needle under the fingernails. He can’t know that he’s turning my stomach, the poor bastard.

Damon does, though. Standing two, maybe three feet away, he’s the picture of studied nonchalance. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. Enjoying himself more than a little at my expense. No doubt he figures I owe him this much. Maybe more.

Quite a lot more.

“Parts of it were absolutely terrifying.” True. Escaping the Dome. Seeing our ID photos on the vidscreens. Remembering that I was gang-raped and left for dead . . . “But I’m here now. Safe and sound—”

Damon cuts in, smooth as cream. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but our songbird is due for another pick-me-up. Excuse us a moment, please?”

Not-Micah doesn’t look happy with this turn of events, but he can hardly say so. “Of course.” He kisses my hand like he’s folding over a page in a book he wants to read later. “But don’t stay away from the party too long.”

Damon replies for me. “No, of course not.” One predator snarling at another, but this one’s bigger, and he marked his territory a long time ago. “Quick as we can.”

In short order, we’re in my bathroom and Damon’s administering a vitapep shot just behind my ear. That’s the first punch. The second comes when he says, “We’ve got Micah in custody, along with all his drug-running buddies.”

I take a step back, my ass bumping against the marble counter. “He wasn’t running the applejack, Damon, he was trying—”

“Do you think I give two shits what he was trying to do? I don’t need to pin anything on him, Vee. Thanks to your timely contribution, we grabbed most of the outfit in one fell swoop, and Corporate can do whatever they want with them. All I care about is the credit.” He sets the injector down on the counter and leans into me, so I don’t miss a word. “They broke your little toy good before we got there. Do you want to see the pictures that just came in?”

“No.” My voice goes flat. “No, I don’t.”

“Makes for very interesting viewing, I promise.” Damon dangles his phone in front of me. “You’re going to keep up the charming routine tonight, or I’ll have your bedroom wallpapered with these, is that clear?”

“Yes.” It helps to imagine sticking my thumbs into his eye sockets as deep as they will go.

“We’re going to get him cleaned up,” Damon continues. “Just enough to see if we can suss out why he’s not the vegetable Corporate anticipated. I would have liked the pleasure of cracking him open myself, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

Cold all over. I haven’t been this cold since the night of the Dome concert.
I already told you that I’ll kill you, Damon, and that was over a necklace. Do you understand what I’ll do to you if you hurt him?

“Just in case you were thinking about doing something stupid, let me assure you that something very fucking unpleasant will happen to him every time you don’t cooperate.” He runs his hands up my arms, letting them come to rest on either side of his necklace. “That little punk threatened my career and put his hands all over
what’s mine.
I want you to remember
that
every time you consider using that beautiful mouth of yours to say anything other than ‘Yes, Damon.’ Take a guess. One little guess what I’ll do.” He shifts one hand over to trace my upper lip with his thumb. “And then multiply that by a hundred.” He leans in to kiss me, his mouth still moving against mine when he adds, “And if you really piss me off, I’ll have him scrubbed so he won’t even remember your name.”

I hold very, very still, afraid if I so much as blink that I’ll fly into him, shred him into nothing.

“Ready to go back downstairs?” he asks, the first question on the test.

“Yes, Damon.”

“Perfect.” One more kiss and he tucks my hand under his arm. “Keep it up.”

M

I hit the gurney and jolt back to full consciousness. The low thunder of rolling wheels vibrates up the metal frame.
We’re moving.

The fog lifts, pain bringing unexpected clarity.
Keep your eyes shut. Reveal nothing. Assess the situation.

My ribs throb angrily, demanding my attention. Instinctively, I want to reach for them, but I clamp down on that thought before moving a muscle. My left wrist is sore as hell, like something’s pressing on it. The weight on my ankles confirms my suspicions.
Restraints. Lovely.

There’s something else, a hint of cold metal in my forearm.
An IV?
Can’t tell if it’s fluids, antibiotics, or tranquilizers.

There’s a bump as we hit a set of double doors and push past them. Flashes of white light cross my eyelids as fixtures pass overhead. I crack one eye open and peer around, spotting at least four lab coats moving in tandem with the gurney, one of them already jotting notes on a datapad.

“Subject awake and responsive to stimuli, probably regained consciousness several minutes before apparent ocular movement.”

So much for the element of surprise.

With my cover blown, I try to open the other eye and look around, but it’s swollen shut. On my good side, I can see white walls, pristine almost to the point of nonexistence. The only lab coat paying me any attention is Datapad, a thirtysomething, eager-to-please tall drink of nothing.

I meet his gaze. “So, this way to the dissection room?”

He nervously snorts with laughter, then looks around ashamedly. “Oh, I’m not at liberty to say where you’re headed, si—” He cuts himself off before calling me sir.

My lip, now fat from Fire Plug’s attention, protests every time I speak. “Are you at liberty to answer questions?”