Sugar Skulls (14 page)

And then she bites my neck.

I moan softly in her ear, my resolve weakening by the second. Thoughts of Vee and the girl from the Palace swirl in my head, the coincidences rattling my brain.

We blast through the streets like a meteor.
Almost home. Almost safe.
I make some quick calculations: how many doses of the garbage she probably had, how long since the Rivitocin shut down her nanotech, how long before the heat peaks and she crashes.

We’re cutting it close, we’re cutting it really fucking close.

Finally, the bridge appears in the distance, and I gun it, sure that we’re leaving flames behind us in the road, the melted slag of asphalt bubbling in our wake.

Vee grabs the back of my head and plants one on me. Hard. It’s passion and terror and attraction and desperation all at once. Her lips are like lava against mine, the air around us almost shimmering with heat. I kiss her back, giving her all of me, sacrificing breath and focus and even our getaway just to share this with her.

She kisses me, and it feels like good-bye.

Our lips part, and we both gasp for air. The Arkcell looms before us, and I cut the throttle and kill the engine, letting our momentum carry us down the little access road leading underneath the bridge.

I just hope we’re not too late.

V

Micah manages to get both of us off the bike without dropping it or me or falling himself. I immediately cover his mouth with my own, so his words come through piecemeal.

“Vee . . . I’ve . . .” I bite him again and he stumbles.
“Shit . . .”
He tears his lips from mine; it’s like ripping a piece of paper in half. “I’ve got to put you down.”

My response is something between a snarl and a whimper, but I feel cold concrete against my ass a few seconds later. Then he’s dragging my hands off his neck, his chest, pulling them away from his hair, his shirt, prying my legs apart but only because he’s determined to leave me here . . . alone . . . in the dark. He has my face in his hands, his fingers measuring the pulse in the curve of my neck, but there’s nothing left to feel; it’s all one continuous stream of heat.

“Fuck, just hold on,” Micah says, but he might as well be shouting over the top of the train barreling down on me.

He vanishes from sight, and I curl up on my side and start to shake. There’s a tiny rock under my cheek, one sharp point doing its damnedest to pierce my skin. I’d turn my head, but then I wouldn’t be able to watch the grid coming back online, district by district. Beyond the bridge, lights climb up the tower buildings one story at a time, like champagne flutes filled to overflowing. I can’t see the top of the Carlisle from here, but I can easily imagine the moment it flares with brilliant blue-white welcome. It’s a dragon uncoiling as I die, pierced by poisoned claws, smothered in ash, hollowed out by the applejack. The sky is hazy with smoke, the world a hookah den, everyone choking on strawberry cough.

Three minutes, maybe four before the power reaches into this dark space with electric fingers.

I should be cold now that Micah’s gone, but this shallow grave of concrete and gravel radiates my body heat back to me. I close my eyes and try to remember the taste of anything but apples. No one would pick that as a last supper, not that I had any choice. Trying to count back, to remember how many sticky green tabs Adonis fed me over the last twenty-four hours . . .

I lose track when I hit double digits.

The applejack isn’t playing nice with whatever Micah shot into me like liquid lightning. The wall between the drugs and my nanotech crumbles, melts; everything inside me is molten, shifting. I can feel the exact second when the applejack taints the last resisting cell. Then even the ability to form a coherent thought slips out of my grasp.

Today is the day of the dead.

I don’t have ancestors, just the past versions of me.

So today is my day. I
am
the dead.

The only thing holding me together now is my skin. There’s nothing inside me left to burn; I’m a shooting star turned black hole. Some tiny, utterly insignificant version of myself clings to life, clawing at the ledge.

My lips part. One breath left in me.
Do I call for help? Do I call to him?

The song was right. I
am
a pretty little dead thing. And the dead don’t share their secrets.

M

Hold on, Vee.

I scramble up the stone face and iron supports of the bridge in record time, cursing myself all the way.
So fucking stupid! If I’d just done it yesterday, she wouldn’t be lying out there, vulnerable as a snowball in summer.

Inside the warren, I kick a sheet of plywood that was leaning against the wall as I pass, letting it settle on the floor with a
whumph
, pushing the air beneath it out of the way. I grab the pulley and rope from my storage closet and tie the rope to the platform.

Once the pulley’s hung, the platform plummets toward Vee, landing a few feet from her. I hurriedly climb down after it, before pulling her into my arms and onto the plywood. She’s unconscious, barely breathing.
Oh, Vee, hold on, please hold on.

I loop her wrists into the rope so she won’t fall, then race up the bridge, tearing open my hand again as I clamber back to the top. Grabbing the rope coiled on the floor, I wrap it once around my wrist and jump.

Freefalling for just a second, I see buildings light up like paper lanterns, then the platform launches past me, carrying Vee up to the warren. The knot catches in the pulley and the rope tenses, halting my plunge a few feet from the rocks below. My hands move quickly, aching as I tie the rope off to a bent piece of rebar at the foot of the bridge and claw up the bridge’s supports a third time.

I pull Vee inside and close up the tarp behind me, hoping against hope that we managed it all before the grid blazed back to life under the Arkcell. If we beat the odds, then the copper wiring along the walls will prevent them from tracking Vee’s nanotech signature between doses of Rivitocin.

If not . . . we gave it one hell of a shot.

Cradling her in my arms, I set her down on the bed, putting one ear to her chest. She’s still burning up. Too hot for just the applejack. The Rivitocin’s worn off, and the nanotech is rallying. Rallying and killing her.

I grab my first-aid kit from the storage vault and slam it down beside the bed, flipping it open and grabbing another vial of rose-colored fluid. Pressing the injector to her neck, I dose Vee again, letting the applejack run its course without nanotech interference.

The lesser of two evils right now.

My ear to her lips, I feel the barest wisps of breath, and I heave a grateful sigh.
First battle of many. Won.

I steal a moment to softly brush her cheek.
You poor gorgeous girl. I tried to warn you. I tried.

I shed my hoodie and toss it into the corner before gathering my supplies. First things first: gotta get her temperature down. Her body’s still riding the applejack high, hot as the sun and as prone to flare-ups; she’s taken too much in too short a time. If she doesn’t burn up from the overdose, soon enough she’s going to crash, turning to ice again.

I’ve got you, Vee. I’ve got you.

CHAPTER TEN

V

Concrete and plywood fit together like puzzle pieces. Swathes of copper wiring around and overhead. Not on the ground anymore, but whatever I’m on creaks when I curl up in a ball and do my best to die. Ice-cold patches punch holes through the burning bullshit, adding to the agony.

Every performer can sense when it’s time to clear the goddamn stage. I can feel the lights dimming. The curtains shutting . . .

Except Micah’s right there with me, refusing to let me go. I can sense him, a blur of black against the metal grid surrounding us. Can feel his hands on me when he checks my pulse and shoots me full of the next dose of mind-searing reality. Wrapping my fingers in his shirt, I try to tell him to leave me the hell alone, but all I can manage is his name before the spasms kick in and I try to crawl out of my own skin.

This isn’t going to be pretty.

Sweat-slick, my skin reeks of the drugs working their way through my system. Concentrated, oily evil oozes out of me, one second at a time. And each second lasts sixty, a minute spirals out like an hour.

An actual hour of this is going to fucking kill me.

The inside of my mouth is so dry that my tongue might as well be sand, but I don’t have the words to ask for water, and my stomach clenches at the idea of drinking anything. Through the haze, I hear Micah telling me something, but the words are buried in concrete before they ever reach my ears.

M

I’m untying the rope from the plywood and pulley when she starts coming around.

I try to make her comfortable. Gel-pack adhesives on her neck and chest to cool her down, a wet compress on her forehead. We’ll try some water in a few minutes to stave off dehydration.

The stink of cider is everywhere. I’m saturated in it from the frantic ride over here, and she’s sweating that vile shit from every pore. I force my gorge down and follow it with a protein bar just to put something into my stomach.

Vee writhes on the bed like an egg on a hot sidewalk, and I try to tell her what’s happening, but I know only bits and pieces get through.

Finally, I cup her face with my hands—the black-and-white paint mostly wiped from one cheek—and steal her attention for a moment.

“Vee, listen. I have to go. If I don’t ditch that bike soon, they’ll trace it right back here, and then it’s Game Over. I don’t want to leave you like this, but I have to.”

I put a bottle of cold water and an electrolyte pack atop the bin next to her, my ribs aching as I crouch down. “Stay put. I’ll be back in a flash.”

She looks at me for a moment, wrung out and haggard, in no condition to fend for herself, then gives me a tiny nod.

Fuck. Great plan. Leave the girl drug-addled, alone, and thirty feet off the ground while you try to cover your tracks.

I slip my hoodie back on, feeling the smear of some of her makeup on my neck. Tossing the rope to the ground, I climb down after it, unknot it from the rebar, and tuck everything behind some loose rocks for retrieval later.

The city’s glowing again, the hum embracing me with gleeful smugness.
I’m baaaaack,
it murmurs.

I push His Majesty’s bike up the hill and onto the road before starting it. Pressure builds behind my eyes as I ponder the variables: how long before someone finds him and removes the sedative patch, stirring him back to consciousness; how long before the scumbag activates whatever tracking tech he’s got on this thing; how long before he and the greyfaces swoop down on me.

Gotta ditch the bike far enough to keep suspicion away from the bridge, but close enough to make decent time coming back.

I rip down the streets of Cyrene. A dozen blocks away, on the edge of the Odeaglow, I stop the bike and pull up my hood. There’s a guy slumped on the stoop of an apartment building, lit up on something low-end like riprap. Just pleasantly buzzed and letting the world drift by.

I stroll up to him, tense muscles playing casual by practice and sheer force of will. “Hey, you live here?”
Any question will do, really.

“Yeah, man. I’m like the king of this castle. Cool?”

“Cool. Well, congratulations. You just won yourself a free crotchrocket.” I toss him the keys and take off down the street, my footfalls echoing as he yells in reply, “Thanks, man! The kingdom rejoices!”

From His Majesty to his majesty.
I approve of the synchronicity as I sprint down the side streets, taking to the fire escapes and up-high hideaways, trying to set a new land-speed record. I’ve already left her alone too long.

V

I try to count the minutes that Micah’s gone, but I’m shaking so hard now that I can’t do anything except try to keep my teeth from shattering against each other.

At the medcenter, they would have sedated me. Let me spend three or four days looped out of my gourd on extremely high levels of detoxifying drugs and all kinds of take-the-pain-away beauties. Then there would have been purification baths, scented oil, hot rocks, candles, trance music, green smoothies full of vitamins and minerals and magic fucking unicorn sparkles . . .

I don’t know where the hell I am right now, but this is as far from a spa as it gets.

But there’s water and an unflavored electrolyte pack nearby. My brain doesn’t want either one, but my body does. With more effort than it would take to bench-press a car over my head, I sit up, reach for the pack, tear the seals off. I only manage a sip before I gag.

Slumping back against the wall, I pull my legs up and press my forehead to my knees. The boning in the corset digs into me in a dozen places, constricting, Damon’s grip on me even now.

It doesn’t matter if this place is at the end of the universe, he’ll still be looking. Have his goon squad patrolling the streets. Waiting for my nanotech to ping on his phone, like I’m a damn incoming text message. Just another thing to check off his to-do list.

I just want my own room, my own bed, and Little Dead Thing curled up in my lap. How I can miss that stupid-ugly piece of shit cat at a moment like this makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

The tears burn, but I figure it’s just another way to get the goddamn drugs out of my system, so I let them fall.

M

Two rides on a Busa wannabe and I’m ruined. All the freerunning in the world can’t make you that fast.

Charging down Ahriman Street, I spot security SUVs patrolling the bridge. Looks like a regular sweep, but I don’t hold my breath. Especially with my ribs throbbing like this. Slowing to a stop, I keep my distance, watching the greyfaces escort inspectors to every glass-globe in sight.
Must be double-checking the grid after the blackout.

But there are more than a dozen globes within spitting distance of the Arkcell and the neighboring roadways. My eyes scan up and down the street, looking for any gaps in their coverage. For now, the bridge is sewn up tight.
I can’t get back to Vee from here.

But they did miss something: the river.

I sprint four blocks, then climb down the embankment on Hallmark and dive into the water. The warm current carries me downstream, past the vans and SUVs, past the armored lackeys, and right up to the shore next to the bridge supports.

Thankfully, this isn’t your average dirtbag-filthy city river. With four treatment areas in Cyrene, this water’s cleaner than most of the alcoves at the Palace.

No one’s around to see me crawl out of the water. I grab the rope and slip it over one shoulder before scaling the iron and stonework until, at last, I’m sopping wet but home.

Vee looks up, tears streaming down her face. She’s curled up in a miserable ball against the wall, and I’m across the floor in two steps, crouching beside her.
I know the detox is bad, really bad, but is there something else? Is she hurt? Did I miss it?
I surreptitiously give her a once-over, looking for blood or bruising or anything amiss, but other than a few scratches on her neck that I’ve already tended to, there’s no sign of any injury.

Taking her hand gently, I let her cry it out, knowing any of a thousand reasons could’ve sparked this, and hoping there’s something I can do. I just sit with her silently until the tears subside. She pulls her hand from mine and rubs her face, leaving streaks across her cheeks.

I replace her cold compress with a fresh one, using the moisture left in the old one to begin removing her smeared makeup. Alabaster fades to pink under my care, and soon, the goth china doll is washed away, leaving the real Vee behind. Flaws, beauty, and all.

I touch her cheek, the wheels of coincidence finally clicking into place.
The black curls. The applejack. She called me “love” too.

I smile despite myself.
Of course it’s her.
The voice. The girl. The alcove. It was always Her.

V

He’s looking at me, through me, just like he did that first night at Hellcat Maggie’s.

The face paint. He wiped enough of it off to see who I am.

I avert my face for a second, sticking a finger into each eye long enough to ditch the black-light contacts. My nose is still running—no one could ever accuse me of being a pretty crier—and I wish more than anything that he would speak first. But I’m the one who pulled this party trick on him, so I get to start.

“I should have said something.” I look down at my hands, which are covered in snot and makeup and applejack sweat. If my face looks as bad as my hands, he’s probably wishing he left me onstage at the Dome for Damon and Adonis to clean up. “That night at the club.”

“Why didn’t you?” Micah sounds a little confused that I shared my body but wouldn’t share my name.

“I didn’t get the chance before you bailed.” Still humiliating, remembering how he bolted out of that alcove.

He takes a moment before responding. “I’m sorry, I really am. It was the applejack. I tasted it on you, and just lost it. That vile shit . . . I had to get rid of it. Get my hands on the dealer, stop it from hurting anyone else. Couldn’t let it fuck you up. I liked—
like
you, am drawn to you, even not
knowing
it was you. I couldn’t let it get you.”

Thinking about the metric shit-ton of drugs screaming through me, I can’t help blurting out, “You did a great job with that.” The moment the words slam into him, I wish I hadn’t said it.

Micah stands up, stepping away for a second. A long second. His sudden stillness raises the tiny hairs on the back of my neck before he simply says, “I know. I’m sorry.”

He just risked his life to save your sorry ass, and you’re going to give him shit for not doing better? Nice, Vee.
“I should be the one apologizing, not you. God. You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t need the world crashing down on your head because of me.” Thinking about it, about everything, I suddenly can’t breathe. Reaching behind me, I give the white corset strings a tug. The whole thing is soaked with sweat, reeking with chemical afterburn. Damon double-knotted the fucking thing, and I’m trapped in it, just like a marriage, for better or for worse. “I need you . . . to . . . Fuck, just get this goddamn thing off me.”

Micah’s already in motion, swinging open the wide iron door and grabbing something off a shelf. He slips a small serrated knife from its protective sheath; the silver glint of it cuts loose something in my hindbrain, and I can feel metal sliding against my skin. Thin ribbons of blood crisscross my arms, my chest.
Stop fucking moving. You knew this was coming. Someone hold her the fuck down.

I press my hands to either side of my head, almost recognizing the voices as I sink deeper in that pool. “Don’t touch me.”

“Vee?”

“Please . . .” Just the one word, plea and prayer both, because someone is there, turning my face toward his—

“Vee.” A soft shake, so much softer than I remember. “I need you to look at me.”

I don’t want to, but I have to, before that knife slides over me again. Even when my eyes open, it takes a moment to realize where I am . . .

. . . who I’m with . . .

. . . and that I’m safe.

A shudder accompanies my next exhalation, and I lean forward. Without a word, Micah slices through the knot and half the corset strings. He pulls the rest of the laces free as I scramble out of my shiny white straitjacket. Air hits my skin, and everything is goose bumps. The livid red marks on my body tell the story of what we’ve been through tonight, but I can finally pull in a real breath. Filling my lungs to capacity, I exhale and push against the memories as hard as I can.

That was someone else. A different Vee.
It’s feeble, but all I’ve got right now.

I want to chuck the corset as far away from me as I can, but it’s all I have by way of coverage. Weird, to feel like a giant prude when Micah has a Sugar Skulls promo poster hanging on the door, every bit of me available to his eyes. Never mind how many times I’ve run mostly naked from the dressing areas to the stage while three or four sets of hands rip off costumes and put on new ones.

My gaze slides down to the knife in his hands, which he promptly sheathes and returns to its spot. Crossing the room and rummaging through a trunk, he comes out with a T-shirt and nylon track shorts, and tosses them to me.

“Here. Might make you a little more comfortable.” And then he turns his back to me, averting his eyes.

Is he for real?

“That’s almost adorable,” I mutter, pulling the clothes on as fast as possible.

“Didn’t want something else to apologize for.”

“Yeah, well, I probably owe you one, since you only went after Adonis because he gave me the applejack. He said . . .” I trail off, heat flaring inside me that has nothing to do with the drugs.

Nice, Vee. Bring up the pillow talk you had. Want to tell him about the pancakes, too?

Micah’s shoulders go tense as he balls up his fists. “‘He said?’ Is that why he was at the Dome tonight? Because he’s your scumbag ’jack-dealing cheapshot artist?”