The Pledge (6 page)

She reached out to knock on the solid door, rapping her knuckles against the red steel. The sound was swallowed by the bass resonating from within.

She tried again, pounding with the side of her curled hand, striking the door as hard as she could.

Still, nothing.

I pushed her aside. “I think we just go in.” I gripped the iron handle and pulled as hard as I could. When the door opened, the noise beyond reached inside me, rattling my bones. It beckoned me.

Brooklynn hopped up and down, clapping her hands before rushing past me in a blur.

I hurried after her, not wanting to be left outside alone.

The large man inside the door stopped us, holding up an arm that was the girth of my entire body as he reached for Brook’s Passport. I was certain his silence was meant to be intimidating, and he wasn’t half-bad—with all of his brawn and his menacing scowl—but he was just like any other bouncer at every other club we’d been to.

It wasn’t until his gaze fell on Brook—not her Passport—that my throat tightened. I hated this part.

He knew we were underage, and we knew that he knew it, so he would be doing us a favor by letting us in. He would admit us, of course, but not before getting something out of it in return.

He inspected
her
, his eyes devouring her, appraising her from head to toe.

Brooklynn didn’t mind. She grinned, trying her best to look alluring, and I had to admit, she was convincing. Better than convincing. It was no wonder she’d attracted the attention of so many military men throughout the city.

My stomach turned as he dissected her through half-lidded eyes. His gaze paused over the bare spots of her skin: her neck, her shoulders, her arms.

When he was finished, the burly man gave a quick nod of his head to the almost undetectable girl who stood beside him, lost in the shadows of his bulk. Her inky-black hair was swept up into a cascading ponytail, with tiny black wisps skimming her pale face, making her look young. Too young to be in a club.

Just like Brook and me.

The girl skipped forward, reaching for Brook’s hand and marking it with a stamp, the ink indiscernible in this light.

And then it was my turn.

I pressed my Passport into his enormous hand, hoping to avoid his scrutiny, but he stared anyway.

It was impossible not to feel violated. I did my best to block out his gaze from my mind, but goose bumps broke out over my skin wherever his eyes roamed.

When I felt him studying my face, I looked up again, locking eyes with his. My shoulders stiffened, and I refused to look away.

He grinned at my show of defiance, pleased, his teeth flashing scarlet beneath the glow of the red lights overhead, his lips thinning around them. This was a man who didn’t belong to any class in particular—at least not any longer. Of that I was certain. Everything about him spoke of something else entirely. I wondered which class it was that had cast him aside, or whether he’d simply been born to Outcast parents, condemned through no fault of his own to a life in which he was never permitted to speak in public . . . not even in Englaise.

I tried not to be the first to blink, but he was better at this game than I was, and too soon I turned my head away, training my eyes toward the floor.

His laughter boomed above the music, and from the corner of my eye I saw him nod again. The slight girl with the ponytail hopped forward, grabbing my hand in hers and marking it before she disappeared behind the bouncer once more. As always, the skin beneath the hand stamp tingled, a little something they added to the ink to loosen up the patrons. Particularly the female patrons. Especially the underage ones.

We considered it the price of admission.

He ignored the fact that neither of us was legal as he scanned both of our Passports before handing them back to us. I had no idea where the scanned information went, but I knew that it wasn’t the military tracking us here, since the clubs weren’t exactly legitimate.

They weren’t necessarily illegal, either, but only because no club ever stayed open for more than a few days. A week at most.

Brooklynn took my arm and dragged me away from the entrance, pulling me toward the hypnotic music coming from within.

I could feel the steady rhythm of the bass thrumming through my veins, and my heart beat in time with the flashing lights that were mounted in the rafters overhead. And, for the moment at least, I forgot to be irritated by the flesh examination I’d just been subjected to.

It had been far too long since I’d been out, too long since I’d listened to real music, the kind that came from an electric sound system. It slithered beneath my skin, finding a warm, safe place there.

“This place is amazing, isn’t it? Are you out of your mind? Do you love it here?” Brooklynn’s manic speech patterns would have been impossible for anyone else to keep up with, but I’d known Brook since we were children. I could eat her rapid-fire sentences for breakfast.

I followed her eyes around the club. She was right. It
was
amazing.

It had all the right things. The mood was dark and sensual,
amplified by throbbing red, blue, and purple lights that pulsed to the music. A glass-and-steel bar had been built into an entire wall of the massive interior.

Impressive, considering it probably hadn’t existed yesterday and could be gone as early as tomorrow.

The large dance floor was crowded as bodies rubbed together, sliding, grinding, and swaying to the seductive beat. Just watching made me want to join them, as they moved in and around one another.

The beat continued to thread its fingers around me.

“What did you say they were calling this club?”

“Prey,” Brook answered, and I grinned.

Of course it was Prey. It was always something dark and dangerous. Something carnal.

Brooklynn dragged me toward the bar, reaching into her purse to pull out some loose bills. “Can we get two Valkas?” The tremor in her voice was barely noticeable.

The bartender was a sinewy woman with lean, bare arms. She was strong and looked like she could be a bouncer in her own right. Her short, spiky hair was a deep shade of blue, and her tongue shot out to touch the piercing in her lower lip. She was beautiful in a strangely androgynous way, and her comfort in her own skin was evident in the way she moved as she reached for a bottle. She narrowed her black eyes at the jumpy girl in front of her bar.

Brooklynn squared her shoulders and met the direct gaze as unwaveringly as she could.

Finally the bartender set two glasses on the countertop and filled them with a shimmering blue liquid. “Twelve,” she
stated in a raspy voice that was both hard and sensual at the same time. As she slid the drinks toward us, I was instantly very aware of just how underage we really were.

Brooklynn dropped a single bill on the bar, and the woman pocketed it. There was no discussion of change or tips.

I picked up one of the drinks and took a sip. The sweet taste barely masked the caustic burn of the liquor, which sizzled all the way from my throat down to my stomach. Brooklynn was in more of a hurry and guzzled hers, downing half her glass in three long swallows.

I rolled the chilled glass over the sting on the back of my hand, where the girl at the door had stamped it. I glanced down and could see the angry red outline of welted skin in the shape of a crescent moon.

I didn’t need a black light to see it now. No one would.

I felt off, out of sorts. I knew that whatever was bothering me was probably just the drug from the hand stamp finding its way into my system. Paranoia was always a potential side effect.

Brooklynn pointed across the room. “Look, they’ve got the good stuff here,” she said in a voice that was thick like honey.

Above the dance floor, on the opposite side from us, a man with a daring grin stood at the railing overlooking the tangle of bodies below.

He had captured Brook’s interest.

It was nothing new. Men of all types enthralled Brooklynn. She’d been boy crazy since we were little girls; she’d only had to wait for her body to catch up. And now that it had, there was nothing to stop her.

“Here,” she said, draining the rest of her drink. “Hold this, I’ll be right back.” And over her shoulder she added, “We need an appetizer.”

Typical Brooklynn,
I thought as I searched for a place to set her empty glass. I tried not to look too abandoned as I eased myself toward the railing to watch the dancers while I prepared to wait, getting comfortable.

I rested my elbow against the steel balustrade and again tried to figure out what was wrong with me. I should be having fun; we’d made it past the bouncer at the door. And, more importantly, the bartender.

I was sure it had more to do with what had happened earlier at the restaurant than the drug-laced stamp on my hand.

Around me, I listened to conversations spoken in every tongue, and was never forced to look away, or even to pretend I couldn’t understand what was being said. None of these people would ever realize I actually knew what they were saying.

Because here there were no rules.

I was born into the Vendor class, to a family of merchants. Other than Englaise, the universal language of all people, Parshon was the only language I was permitted to know. It was the only other language I should have been capable of comprehending.

But I wasn’t like the others.

I was like no one.

For me, that was part of the appeal of these underground clubs, places where class didn’t matter, where the social
boundaries were blurred. In places like these, the military sat beside the wanted, the degenerate, and the cast-aside, and they all pretended, at least for a short while, to be friends. To be equals. And a vendor’s daughter could forget her lot in life.

It was everything I’d ever dreamed of.

But I was pragmatic. I didn’t spend my days dreaming of a different life, of ways to escape the limitations of my class, mostly because there were none. I was what I was, and nothing could change that. A place like Prey was only make-believe; the reprieve was only for the night.

I moved away from the railing and drifted into the sea of bodies, noticing the colors. I always noticed the colors. Here, clothing didn’t have to be utilitarian—dull shades of browns, blacks, grays. In a place where class division didn’t exist, colors materialized. Brilliant hues of emerald and scarlet and plum blazed in the form of clothing, temporary hair dyes, tints for lips, and polishes for nails. Somehow even the indigos and blacks were deeper and more intense within these walls.

Brooklynn fit right in, wearing a shimmering gold dress that revealed a generous expanse of her toned legs and glittered beneath the flashing lights. I, on the other hand, wore my usual drab linen tunic that fell just below my knees.

I glanced at the people around me. Mostly, they were like us—the underage crowd. Youthful and energetic, with not enough outlet in their real lives. They—
we
, I corrected myself, even though my dress was dull and boring—created a bizarre human rainbow.

I worked my way toward the stages, positioned high above the dance floor, where scantily dressed girls danced for the
crowds below. Their bodies, and the way they moved, were utterly hypnotic. They provided entertainment for the evening.

One particular girl caught my attention as her hips rocked in perfect rhythm to the song pulsating through the air. A blue spotlight shone down upon her, making her skin glow an unnatural shade of sapphire. The beads she wore were strung from a slender collar clasped around her neck and draped to a belt that was slung loosely around her hips. When she swayed, the beads clattered together, moving, shifting, parting. Just like every other girl up on the stages, the beads covered almost nothing, but I was certain that was the point.

Her long legs were willowy and graceful, as if she’d been trained to perform in this manner. And she probably had been. The outcasts lived a different lifestyle from everyone else, doing jobs that were considered objectionable to those living within the class system.

Dancing would definitely fall into that category. Especially the kind of dancing that this girl did.

I watched her for several long moments, admiring the freedom she had up there, on that stage. A vendor’s daughter would never be permitted to perform for a living.

“I’m glad you decided to come.” The deep voice rumbled from behind me, interrupting my musings.

I spun around, my eyes wide, embarrassed to be caught staring at the dancers.

“Do I know you?” I asked, but I realized immediately that I did. I’d seen him before. “From the restaurant,” I amended. “You were there tonight.”

Strong black brows drew together as he watched me, his
expression unreadable. I felt like I was being inspected, but in an entirely different way from the bouncer at the front door. Something dark and unrecognizable tangled in the pit of my stomach, something uncertain.

He was larger than I’d remembered, entirely too large for the crowded space in which we stood, making me feel childlike and small. He took up far too much room, breathed far too much air.