Sugar Skulls (17 page)

I try to give her space, but here, that amounts to leaning against the opposite wall.

And I’m still working on the “making conversation” thing. It’s hard to concentrate. A girl, untamed hair and all, padding around your place, wearing your clothes?
Super hot.

I clear my throat.
Nothing idle. I’m not going to ask about the weather or something.
Taking the plunge, I ask something I’ve genuinely been wondering. “So, Vee. Is that short for anything? Or a stage name? I mean . . . What do I call you?”

She’s sitting in the middle of my cot, pulling out long sections of clip-in hair that I’d never suspected weren’t hers. By the time she’s done, there’s enough sitting on the floor to mistake for a cat, and the girl in my bed looks even less like the girl in the poster. Running her fingers through the remaining black curls, she twists them around her fingers and over one shoulder before answering. Even then, it’s with visible reluctance. “I don’t remember.” She hesitates, then adds, “I’ve had something wrong with my nanotech from the get-go. Every time they reboot it at the medcenter, they have to do a mind-scrub, too. Just like clearing out a hard drive for a reinstall, I guess.”

“Oh, Vee . . .”
Tread lightly, Micah. You don’t know everything she’s been through.
“How thorough are we talking about?”

“As far as memories go, I have this last year.” Another pause. She looks down at her arms, tracing over the skin with her fingers, as if she’s looking for something there, some vestige of a previous life. “A few pieces from before that. Nothing good.”

“I can appreciate that. Plenty of times I’ve wished I could forget what happened. Wished I could have a single night’s peace, a stroll without the weight of remembering.” I take a shot in the dark, wondering how bad it was, but knowing it was bad enough to push her here. “Rough childhood? Bad family stuff?”

She looks up at me, eyes bleak. “I had some kind of tattoo. And scars. From a knife.”

I cringe, thinking of her reaction when I freed her from her corset. And then I wonder if she was cutting herself for the release or being cut by someone else, tagged with ownership. Each is horrible in its own way. I think of her smooth skin beneath my fingertips, and all the hours of nanotech treatments and restorative surgery to remove the signs of physical abuse. Worse than I expected, worse than I would wish on anyone. So much worse than I’d ever wish for her. “What
do
you remember?”

“Voices. People holding me down and cutting me up. Blood. Lots of it . . .” The last bit wavers, like she’s drowning in it. “Damon told me I volunteered for a mind-wipe when I signed up. Showed me the paperwork and everything.” I can actually see the moment she gets a lid on the feelings and forces them back into some dark place inside her. “So let’s just stick with Vee, all right?”

“You got it.” No more tough questions for now. “So, Vee, what comes next?”

“Food?” She looks down at the clothes she’s been wearing on and off since landing here. “A shower. I can use a fire hose, if you have one handy.”

“Fresh out of those, though I’ve recently found a dip in the river to be quite refreshing.” I’m trying to keep things light, but we’ve been living off protein bars and electrolyte packs for days. She deserves something that doesn’t come shrink-wrapped or prepackaged. I need to make a supply run. “Um, can’t help you with a shower. Unless we rig something up. Water and a funnel or something. One of those burn-unit bags for debriding skin . . .” I look to her, mid-ramble, and her horrified expression says that’s a no-go. “Right, scratch that. Food, I can definitely do.” Still some money left on Maggie’s latest prepaid. “What would you like?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t have anything with me. Credits-wise, I mean—” When she flushes, it’s up to the tops of her ears.

“Vee, no. It’s okay. I’ve got this. I swear.” She’s still looking away, and I close the gap between us, stroking her cheek. “Hey, look at me.” She does, still pink, and I whisper, “We didn’t exactly give you time to pack. It’s okay. Improvising is what I do.”

“It’s just . . . stupid.” She’s got her knees up now, chin on top of them, like she’s trying to make herself smaller, take up less space. “I mean, a week ago and we’d be at my place, in my bed, with fucking room service coming out of our ears, and now I’m here, and a burden . . . I don’t want you to feel trapped because of me.”

I pull her close and kiss the top of her head. “I don’t feel trapped, sweetheart. I chose this. You’re not a burden, you’re a guest. Not even a guest, more like a roommate, or . . .”
You’re rambling again. Stop rambling.

Too late. Vee’s already pulling back far enough to narrow her eyes at me. “Then your
roommate
wants pancakes.”

I spring up onto my feet, grateful for the free pass she just gave me, one that I in no way earned. “What roomie wants, roomie gets. I’ll be back before the syrup has time to cool.” I grab my sneakers, sitting down to lace them up. “Hey, do you mind taking a quick look, make sure the coast is clear? It’s about time I revealed to you the exact location of my secret lair.”

Vee hesitates, looking at the tarp and back to me. “Sure. Not a problem.” Placing a hand on the safety railing and stepping up to one of the canvas flaps, she flips it upward, gazing through the netting and outside. She turns back toward me, wide-eyed. “How far up are we?”

I look up as I finish knotting the laces. “Twenty-five, maybe thirty feet?”

She turns back, one hand pressing against the tarp as she scans everything within view. “So, under a bridge, huh? What’s it like being a troll?”

I smirk, standing up and crossing over to her. “Ha
ha
. It works for me. Good hours, no managers bossing you around. Toll fees could be better, though.”

“Those I can pay, at least.” She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me in for a kiss, and I gladly oblige. One kiss becomes several, and I lift her off her feet, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist. I turn and pin her against the wall, careful to avoid any of the metal pegs in the Faraday grid. She gasps as I press my body to hers, and just like that, pancakes are forgotten.

Between kisses, she manages single words. “Your.” Kiss. “Bed.” Lip bite. “Now.”

I spin us away from the wall, toward the bed, and a piece of copper wiring comes with us, clinging to Vee like I’ve been.

Oh unholy fuck no.
I drop Vee, thankfully onto my cot, and twist back around to the damaged wall, grabbing the bent wiring and desperately weaving it back into place. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.”
One break in the lattice, that’s all it takes . . .

She knows this is bad. “How long do we have before they find us?”

I keep at it, a stupid, futile gesture, knowing they’re already on their way. “Minutes, at most.”

Vee pulls the tarp aside. Daylight floods the room. “Stay here.”

And she’s
gone
.

Racing to the flap, I see her scrambling barefoot down the frigid stone and ironwork. “Vee, no!” I start climbing down after her, the rocks slick from earlier rain.
She could slip, she could fall, she could—

“Get out of sight, Micah!” She’s a third of the way down when she misses a foothold, leg sliding out from under her, knee banging into the wall.

A few more feet, and I’m at her side, reaching for her with one hand while anchoring myself with the other. A breeze kicks up, sending her hair into her face. One more distraction. “Vee, please, come back in. If you fell . . .”
I’d never forgive myself.

But she recovers, planting her foot and continuing down the sheer stone face. If I reach for her again, I’ll do more harm than good.

I follow her down, feet hitting the ground just behind hers, and I barely dodge a rock she wings at me. “Stop following me, damn it!” She takes off toward the river, running along its bank, leaving footprints in the muddy sand.

I chase her around the bridge’s foundation and into the shallow water. She stops, and I almost slam into her as she stands there, still as can be. I strain to hear the sound of whatever’s coming at us over the hum—

“No sirens, no helicopters. I don’t hear anything,” Vee murmurs. “Why aren’t they here yet?”

She’s right. The goddamn sky should’ve fallen down around us, and there’s nothing. I don’t get it.

Cold wind whips around both of us again, and she shivers. I reach for her, and she takes my hand. I sweep one arm under her legs and carry her back to shore, my eyes darting around us, hoping our shouts didn’t attract any unwanted attention.

She climbs back up to the warren, adrenaline-exhausted but still strong, and I follow her up, watching her form as she scales the wall. Back inside, we stand together in silence, waiting for the hammer to drop.

But it doesn’t.

She holds her elbows, hugging herself. I’d do that for her, but there’s something else I need to do first.

I dig around in the storage vault and pull out the scanner. “Your nanotech should’ve been pinging sensors far and wide as soon as the grid was broken. Which means . . .”

I run the scanner over her wrists, then over her body like a security wand. Nothing. “You’re off-grid.”

This . . . this is impossible. Could the Rivitocin have done this? One or two doses shouldn’t have been enough. But six in twenty-four hours?

I guess the why doesn’t matter. She’s free. Instead of this tiny cell, she has a whole city, hers to see with new eyes.

Vee looks up at me like it’s Christmas morning, and I’m Santa. “So, we can both go for pancakes?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

M

Vee pours syrup over her third stack of pancakes, and I can’t help but smile as I watch her dig in with relish. I’m sure after days of protein bars and water, this seems like a feast.

I polished off my omelet and bacon a good five minutes ago, and now I’m leaning back, trying to enjoy a quiet moment before we venture out in public again. As I sip my orange juice, one elbow perched atop the cheap vinyl booth, I scan our surroundings once more, just for peace of mind.

A few kids, still in their club gear from last night. A gaggle of tweakers at the counter. A few older guys in jumpsuits, maintenance by the look of it, or janitorial maybe. No one’s paid us any attention since we came in. That’s part of the reason we’re here.

It’s also not far from the apartment Niko let us borrow. One of my few friends from the old days, and as a housing rep, a handy one to have. With people coming in as new energy sources, moving up to classier digs, and eventually leaving as productive members of society, apartments are always changing hands, and he managed to get us an hour in an empty studio before the new residents arrived.

The shower was meant as a treat for Vee, but it would have been a shame to waste water with two showers, so . . .

Yeah, we made it out with three minutes to spare.

She catches me looking, her fork poised over the plate, and meets my gaze. For a brief moment, she hesitates, like she’s suddenly realized the absurdity of sharing breakfast in the eye of a hurricane, and I worry that simply being out like this might be too much for her, knowing Damon is looking for her.

“Hey, it’s okay.” I reach for her free hand and squeeze it to reassure her. “Take a deep breath. I’ve been coming here for a while. We’re in no hurry. You’re allowed to enjoy the food. No one is gonna chase us out.”

She trades her fork for a coffee cup, still mostly full and heavy on the cream. “I think I’m good. For a few hours at least.” Then, just before taking a sip, I see her smile, seemingly enjoying a touch of the mundane. “Shower and food accomplished, fearless leader.”

“Very true, plucky sidekick.” I turn my attention to one of the great glass-globe emitters outside, dominating a rooftop across the street. “Hey, let me ask you something.”

Vee pauses with another forkful halfway to her mouth, despite her earlier statement. “Shoot.”

“When I came back to the city without nanotech, I heard this . . . hum. Always in the background, like an air conditioner in summer. A constant
rrrmmmmm . . .
Are you hearing anything like that?”

Vee tilts her head slightly, considering. “During withdrawal, I definitely felt this constant pressure, like rushing water, but I figured that was just my body fighting the applejack. No hum, though. Sorry.”

“No worries.” The applejack didn’t have the chance to alter her brain chemistry like it did mine, then. I mouth a silent prayer to whoever cooked up Rivitocin.

Time to switch gears and have a little fun.

“So where to now? You’ve got the whole city, what do you want to see?”

She slides around the booth until she’s pressed up against me. It’s comfortable, intimate . . . easy, even. “You tell me. I know the top-floor clubs, some very high-end restaurants, and the backstage areas of every venue in Cyrene. You can take me anywhere else.”

I think for a second, and then smile. “There is one place I can guarantee the Sugar Skulls have never spent a single second.”

Instead of taking another sip of coffee, she tilts her head toward the door. “Lead on, stringbean. I haven’t got all day.”

V

There are a thousand playgrounds in the city, and all the ones I know by heart are expensive as fuck. No way Micah would take me anywhere someone might recognize us, anyway. Credits issue aside, we’re not exactly dressed for the All Saints Club or the fusion restaurant at the top of the Tener Building.

We walk down Hawthorne Street, and I can see the Dome in the distance, the cordoned-off area still swarming with cleanup crew. Even from here, I can tell the damage was mostly superficial, and a good chunk of it was cleaned up during my recovery time in the warren.

Whatever. All that’s someone else’s problem now.

We pass boutiques I’ve shut down so I could sort through them without having to deal with the plebs. Everything beyond the glass is brilliant white light, black-clothed staff, freestanding geometric statues, unnaturally shaped couches.

I’d rather be out on the sidewalk wearing Micah’s clothes. After our shower, I ditched the dirty V-neck and shorts for a pair of his jeans—they mostly fit in the waist, but I had to cuff them up twice—one of his long-sleeved undershirts, and a spare black hoodie. The sleeves keep slipping down over my hands, and I might have dragged my arm through the butter twice at breakfast, but everything smells like his laundry detergent, and under that there’s something warm and definitely male.

Micah also took a knife to my concert boots, cutting them down to the ankle and covering the white leather with electrical tape so I didn’t have to wear thigh-highs to breakfast.

Handy guy to have around in a crisis.

Right now, he’s got his nose pointed toward Mercette Park. It’s one of four in Cyrene, brilliant green squares plunked down like afterthoughts, walled in like prisoners. Speeding past them in the back of the limo, I only caught glimpses of restless trees, branches reflecting the season, pedestrians pouring in and out through the gated archways marked by enormous thrum-collectors.

Today’s a day of firsts.

People stream past us, all of them in athletic shoes and the kind of clothes meant for bending and stretching.

“Something’s happening in the park,” I note as I slip on an old pair of Micah’s sunglasses.

“Something’s always happening in the park,” he says. The flicker of a smile signals he’s amused by my ignorance. “It’s an energy-for-credits program Corporate uses to keep the kids busy during the day.” Easily sidestepping several people intent on running us down, he weaves in and out of the crowd, not breaking stride or fumbling a single syllable. I follow in his wake, grateful for his fingers laced between mine. “Activities every day that generate easily harnessed energy.”

I don’t know what I was imagining, but group exercise wasn’t it, and that just shows I’ve been living on the nocturnal circuit too long. “Like what?”

“It varies between more regimented stuff—calisthenics, martial arts, you know—and group competitions. Obstacle course challenges. An annual park-wide zombie run.”

I’m not sure what seems more foreign: voluntarily running through the park during the day, or doing it dressed as a zombie. For fun. “That sounds . . . strenuous.”

“It’s supposed to be. They’re
zombies
. It’s life or death, Vee.” He’s teasing, and it’s a wider smile than I’ve seen before. This tiny moment of normalcy really suits him, but I can’t help wondering how long it’s been since he had something normal. “Plus, it’s a great way to stay flush in credits for a couple hours’ effort. A few years ago, Trav and I finished first and second in the obstacle course, two and a half seconds in front of the pack.”

He gestures toward the east end of the park, away from the gathering crowd. “We sprinted to those sets of high and low bars.” There’s a series of wooden hurdles of various heights and wide enough for two people to jump. More competition, more thrum output, if I had to make a guess. “Up and over the high ones and under the low ones. Piece of cake.”

I watch Micah relax into the story, his expression and gestures growing more animated. These memories don’t hold any despair or bitterness, just the thrill of movement. The way he’s bouncing a little on the balls of his feet signals a readiness to sprint off to join in the games this morning. I stifle a smile, wondering if he even realizes he’s doing it.

Describing the next two obstacles, he walks backward with his usual easy grace, and I have all the time in the world to look at him. I can’t help but note the way the light slides over his face and tangles in his blond hair. I’m feeling warm, and not just from the sunshine.

“The last part, the worst part, was the cargo net. My arms were aching by the time I was halfway up, and that thing sways with every move you or the other guy makes.” Two stories tall, it looms in the distance, hanging from a raised platform with a finish-line banner. It reminds me of a tree house, with a slightly rundown perch for the victor to cheer and gloat from.

“Trav was first to the top of the net, first to ring the bell and claim victory. But as soon as he did, he turned around to cheer me on. ‘Come on, killer. What’s it gonna be?’” Micah shakes his head softly, as if brushing off the memory. Then he looks up at me and reaches for me, taking my hand again. “The credits we won bought the five of us ten minutes in the zero-g room at Sarabande. It was awesome.”

“Jax wanted to go there.” No need to say that Damon had nixed the idea so thoroughly that she never brought it up again, not even to bitch about it.

“Jax . . . Is that Trouble or Treble?”

I can’t help but snicker, because I don’t even have to ask what he means. “Trouble. Big trouble. Which makes Sasha your Treble.”

Micah studies me for a moment, reaching out to touch my cheek. “So, speaking of the band, why the Sugar Skulls?”

His finger’s still moving, still tracing some kind of pattern on my skin. It takes me a second to realize he’s recreating my makeup from the show at Maggie’s with his fingertip. “It was my idea. Everything Jax came up with was horrifying, and Sasha couldn’t even name the cat. Plus I had this image in my head pretty much from the second I woke up in the penthouse. Roses and skulls. I figured I should take whatever memory that was and run with it—”

Before I can follow that thought down the rabbit hole, someone slams into me from behind. Stumbling forward, I grab a handful of Micah’s jacket and manage not to go down. I snarl over my shoulder at some dude trying too hard to look edgy. “Why don’t you go suck a bag of dicks?”

When I turn to look at Micah, his eyes are on the stranger, staring daggers and swords and machetes and all sorts of other pointy objects. Slipping an arm around my waist, he pulls me close to him, away from the guy.

“Should watch where you step next time. Somebody could get hurt.” Micah’s words are polite enough, but there’s serious bite behind them.

The guy holds his hands up, muttering apologies through a cheesy smile, claiming it was all an accident. He shuffles off, but Micah watches him until he disappears from view.

Then Micah turns to me, dialing down the tension in his voice and trying to sound casual. “Hey, do you want to go somewhere a little less . . . mob scene-ish?”

“Absolutely.” The day is less bright, the shine rubbed off somehow as I nod and fall in step with him.

M

I mentally kick myself as we leave the park. Mercette wasn’t the most brilliant idea—too many people, too little control over the situation—but Vee deserved some sunshine.

The odds of Ludo just being there by chance: slim to none.
Little twerp was following me. Following us. Need to be more careful.

I keep us moving at a steady pace, not frantic but motivated, just two busy city dwellers with places to go and things to do. Vee squeezes my hand tight, betraying her anxiety, but trusting me to take us somewhere less conspicuous.

I know
just
the place.

A few blocks away, the buildings scrape the sky, and the shadows deepen, creating dark valleys where prying eyes are less likely and far less welcome. This is the Cyrene I know by smell and touch; it’s tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.

Vee draws closer to me, more baffled than concerned. “Where
are
we?”

My carnival barker act is the perfect opportunity to distract her from what happened at the park. I lay it on thick and theatrical: “We’re half a block from one of Cyrene’s most hallowed underground halls of music appreciation. A shrine to every badass lick, kickass chick, and dude most slick. Oh yeah . . .”

“Quite the hype-man,” she says through giggles. “How long have you been practicing that?”

Caught mid-gesticulation, I wobble a bit, then lower my arm sheepishly. “The whole way here. Too much?”

Leaning close enough to kiss me, she bites my lip lightly. “Just enough.”

We round the corner hand in hand, and Vee takes in the scene. It’s one long alley, and every square inch of it, from asphalt to bricks twenty feet overhead, is covered in spray-painted tributes to the DJs who stir the drug-addled souls of the Cyrene faithful.

“Welcome to Taggarty Ave.”

She follows the painted footprints of gods and monsters as she wanders from piece to piece, angels and devils of musical mastery rendered in a thousand styles, every drip and dab contributing to a visual buffet that could easily explode a lesser observer. TumbleKitty is there, the mistress of sound, and Spunfloss, and Mystikal Mark, and Grimastetia, too, all the remix masters of note.

Vee glows with delight. Taggarty Ave is hardly a hotspot, and your average glimhead would never find it. It’s meant for us, the ones who boil and burn and soar on sonic candy.

But when she nears the end of the alley, that’s when she beams, a rhapsody of light. That’s when she sees one of the newest additions to the Ave: a Sugar Skulls piece, the only band on a wall dominated by DJs. Trouble and Treble weave notes like spells over our heads, with Vee front and center, lips parted as she blasts a microphone to pieces with her song.

No sex, no gimmick, just the music.

She pulls her hand from mine, letting go for the first time since the park. Reaching out, she stops just short of the wall, fingers outstretched. An inch, maybe two; that’s all that separates her from the art.

But she’s moved a world, maybe two, away from that life.

One of the street artists startles her out of her reverie as he touches up the wall behind her with a few dustings of amber aerosol. “Man, you must be a hardcore fan. You even got the mods to look like her.” He gestures toward the tableau.