Burning Midnight (3 page)

The shoulders of Holliday's tailored white shirt were covered in a rainbow of the pearl-sized brag buttons his company had pioneered. They spilled down the front of his shirt in dueling swirls that met at the breastbone. Sully had read that Holliday commissioned fashion designers to stylishly incorporate the buttons into his wardrobe.

Sully studied the brag buttons, trying to see if there was any color the guy
hadn't
burned.

Even from a distance Sully could see all of the super-rare ones represented. Besides Chocolate, there was Mustard (high IQ), Cranberry (better-looking—although in Holliday's case the results weren't as striking as they'd been on Jayla), Cream (athleticism), Vermillion (need little sleep), Periwinkle (good with numbers). That was only the tip of the iceberg, though. The guy seemed to have everything. He had all of the enhanced senses (including good old Forest Green), and tons of common, marginally useful stuff like Copper (ambidexterity) and Taupe (artistic ability). There were forty-three sphere colors total, but Sully didn't think he'd be able to count the buttons with Holliday moving around….

Sully smiled, realizing one brag button was missing. Cherry Red. Was it because Holliday didn't want to remind people how he'd gotten it, or because it hadn't provided him, personally, with any benefit?

“Spheres are the only truly magical things in the world that you can hold in your hand,” Holliday said. He was holding an Aquamarine toward the audience. “You can set them on your shelf and admire them while they appreciate in value more reliably than any stock or bond. You can burn them and gain remarkable abilities for the rest of your life.” He looked around the hall, let that sink in. “For the rest of your life.” He shrugged. “They're miracles. That's not to say we don't understand how they work. We do.” He made a sheepish expression. “Sort of.”

The audience erupted in laughter. They were acting like he was some titan of business, an international celebrity. The truth was, he was a regional player; he had maybe a hundred stores in the Northeast, fifty in other parts of the country, and none outside the United States. Yes, Holliday's was expanding fast, but he was still nothing compared with Jin Bao, who had something like two thousand Wanmei stores all over the world.

“We know when someone burns a sphere, it alters them physiologically. Some spheres alter receptor sites in the brain, some influence glandular secretion, like Lemon Yellow, which stimulates the pituitary gland.” Holliday set the Aquamarine down, spread his arms. “Not that some of us couldn't use a little more help than they provide.” More laughter. “Others go right to the source, altering the DNA in our cells.” He shrugged, let the silence build. “It's still magic. We understand what it's doing, but it's still magic.”

He was slick. Charming. Sully gave him that. But Sully knew better than anyone what was underneath the thin veneer Holliday showed the public. Seeing him strut around up there made Sully's skin crawl.

“There are no shortcuts to finding spheres. If they were hidden underground, geophysical survey techniques that archaeologists use to find buried artifacts could be used. But most are hidden in man-made structures, so they blend right in, as you all well know.” He held up a finger. “That doesn't mean we're not working to develop more effective sphere-hunting technology. We're always on the lookout for new ways to deliver these miraculous orbs into your hands.”

Holliday made a sour face, took a breath. “You bored yet?”

There were shouts of “No” from every corner of the room.

“Well, I'm tired of hearing my own voice. How about some questions?”

Fifty hands shot in the air, including Dom's. Heart thumping, Sully halfheartedly raised his as well. What were the odds Holliday would pick him? Sully was certain Holliday couldn't pick him out of a lineup at this point. Sully was six inches taller than he'd been the last time he and Holliday were in the same room.

Holliday pointed at the third or fourth row. “Yeah, the woman with the beautiful smile. You. Yes.”

A black woman stood, sporting three brag buttons on her sleeve. She was handed a wireless microphone from the aisle. “Are there any pairs that you haven't burned?”

“Slate Gray,” Holliday said immediately.

Singing ability. Rarity two, under five hundred for a pair. Sully wondered if there was anyone in the room who didn't know what ability went with every single color.

“Why Slate Gray?” the woman asked.

He shrugged. “I guess I believe there should be at least one thing you're bad at, so you don't get too cocky.” He waved as people laughed. “I'm kidding. To tell you the truth, I don't know. Superstition, maybe.” Holliday turned and walked toward the wings. He said something to someone out of sight, then returned to center stage. “I'll tell you what. Come on up here.” He beckoned to the woman, who, after a moment's hesitation, hurried onto the stage.

A beefy guy in a black suit appeared from the wings carrying a pair of Slate Gray spheres. He handed them to Holliday, who offered them to the woman. “A gift for you, if you'll agree to sing us a song.”

Surprised, flustered, the woman accepted the spheres. She lifted them and touched them to her temples.

There were no sparks. She didn't fall backward or cry out in orgasmic ecstasy. When she touched the Slate Grays to her temples and then lowered them, their rich gray color began to fade. In an hour the color would be faded and cloudy, and the spheres would be worthless, except to people who collected used ones, which was becoming a larger part of Sully's business every year.

“Sing us something,” Holliday said.

The woman nodded shyly, looked at the ceiling, and began singing “Like a Rainbow.” She was excellent—not pop-star excellent, but smooth and clear, and right on every note. She sang the first stanza, then gave Holliday a hug as the audience applauded, and went back to her seat.

As the crowd quieted, hands shot up again, including Dom's. Holliday's index finger drifted, pointing to the left side of the auditorium, then right. “Someone's whispering, ‘Pick me, pick me,' under her breath.” Holliday tapped the Turquoise (enhanced hearing) brag button on his shirt to much laughter, then resumed pointing at the audience. Before his roaming finger reached the back where Sully was standing, he stopped and pointed at a girl halfway to the back. “Yes—the woman in the red sweatshirt.”

The girl stood, accepted the microphone. She was Sully's age or maybe a little older, Asian, big-boned, very tall.

“Clearly your Lemon Yellow was more potent than mine,” Holliday said. The audience ate it up.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but this is the result of good nutrition and wholesome living,” the girl shot back, looking cool and relaxed. “I was wondering if you saw the article published on
Slate
a few years back about how independently owned sphere stores burn down at a rate six times higher than stores selling other goods.”

Holliday shrugged, shook his head. The big smile had vanished. “What's your point?”

“Have you seen the article?”

Holliday looked toward the ceiling, touched his chin. “Let's see. Yes. June eighth, 2016, around ten a.m. I was in my office drinking tea. Earl Grey.” Laughter drifted from the audience. Sully pinched the bridge of his nose, sickened by Holliday's smarmy display. They got it—he'd burned a Canary Yellow (perfect memory, rarity level nine). “I read the first paragraph. Everything sphere-related crosses my desk. Again, what's your point?”

The girl folded her arms. “My aunt's store burned down a few months after one of your representatives offered to buy her out. He was really aggressive. Downright threatening. Then her store burned.”

Holliday rolled his eyes, poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Let me make sure I have this straight before I respond. You're accusing me of burning down your aunt's store?”

“That's correct.” The girl didn't hesitate. A few people in the audience gasped at her audacity. Sully couldn't believe how calm she was.

There was whispering and mutters as Holliday cleared his throat, folded his hands in front of him, and spoke softly, forcing everyone to be absolutely silent to hear him. “I am truly sorry your aunt lost her store, but I hope you can understand if I take umbrage at your accusing me of a felony in front of two thousand people. Holliday's is not the only corporate player in the sphere industry, and it has a reputation for being the most principled. My weapon is my business model, not gasoline and a match. My integrity is worth more to me than a hundred stores.”

“Bullshit!”
Dom shouted. “Bull.
Shit.
”

Stunned, his heart suddenly hammering, Sully watched Holliday's face go stony as his gaze lifted toward them. A thousand people turned to look in Dom's direction.

Dom put a hand on each of Sully's shoulders. “You recognize this guy?”

Holliday shook his head briskly. “I'm sorry? You have a little too much Red Bull tonight, my friend?”

Dom shouted over the laughter, “This is David Sullivan! Does that name ring a bell, Mr. I-have-so-much-integrity-it's-squirting-out-my-butt?”

People booed.

Sully raised both hands. “Can I say something?” No one heard him.

“You owe this man
two point five million dollars
!” Dom shouted, stabbing a finger at Holliday.

Holliday was staring right at Sully. Sully stared right back, gave Holliday a little mock salute for good measure. Holliday shook his head, looked away.

A rough hand landed on Sully's shoulder. “Let's go.”

Two big, solid guys in black suits had pushed their way to Sully's and Dom's seats. One was bald with a goatee, the other—the one who'd grabbed Sully—sported a bleached-blond crew cut. Two more just like them waited in the aisle. Holliday's bodyguards.

“Who are you?” Dom asked, knocking the bald guy's hand off his shoulder.

“Event security.” The bald guy curled a finger at them. “Let's go. Outside.”

“What the hell is event security?” Dom said, nice and loud. He looked the guy up and down. “You're not police. You're just guys in suits.”

The bald guy grabbed Dom by the front of his sweatshirt with both hands and yanked.

Dom threw a punch and nailed the bodyguard in the face, sending him stumbling into the seats.

The blond bodyguard grabbed Sully's arm. Without thinking, Sully reached with his free hand and pulled the guy's pinkie back, hard. The bodyguard shouted in pain, let go of Sully. As soon as Sully eased up, the guy spun around, lightning fast, and grabbed Sully from behind, putting him in a headlock.

“Hey, let him go.” Rob grabbed the arm around Sully's neck, tried to pry it off. The bodyguard shoved Rob, sending him tumbling over the seats.

Black spots peppered Sully's vision as he was shoved toward the fire exit.

“So much for your goddamned integrity.” The voice sounded like the Asian girl's. She shouted over the rumbling crowd and Dom's cursing, “That's David Sullivan? The kid you cheated? Perfect. Tell us more about your pristine ethics while your goons beat on a welfare kid.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sully glimpsed another bodyguard racing up the aisle toward the girl. “Somebody call the police.
Don't touch me.
”

The blond guy pushed the fire exit door open with his hip. Sully reached back and grabbed for his face, but only brushed his nose before the guy shoved his head through the half-open door. Sully landed on one knee on the concrete alley.

Behind him, Dom was dragged out, shouting and swinging, by two bodyguards. A third pushed the Asian girl through. As soon as the door clicked closed, the two bodyguards went to work on Dom, punching him from both sides.

Sully lunged, shouting, but the blond bodyguard shoved him back. “Stay out of it.”

The guy was way bigger than Sully, and built like a steer. Sully got low and kicked him in the knee. It felt like he was kicking a fire hydrant. The guy let out a grunt and grabbed his knee as Sully ducked around him.

Before he could get clear the guy tackled him, driving him to the ground. Sully's nose hit the pavement and erupted in searing pain. A second later a knee was in his back. His kidney exploded in agony as the guy landed a punch. Two more quick blows followed.

“Now stay down!” the bodyguard screamed into his ear.

The knee in his back lifted. Sully grunted, trying to take a breath. For a moment he couldn't, then his chest expanded in a spasm and a tight squeal escaped him.

He heard Dom grunting with effort, or in pain, the girl cursing, shouting, the smack of fists landing.

Applause rose inside the auditorium. Evidently the great Alex Holliday had concluded his Q-and-A session.

“Crap. We gotta get back,” one of the bodyguards said. He turned to Sully, pointed. “Lesson over. Don't screw with Alex Holliday.” They headed off at a jog toward the front of the building.

“Should I call nine-one-one?” It was the Asian girl, her face close to Sully's.

Sully struggled to his hands and knees, touched his nose. It was bleeding, but from the feel of it, it was just a bad scrape. “I'm okay.” He looked at Dom, who was sitting on a concrete step, head down, one hand over an eye. He pursed his lips, spit blood on the ground, pressed on one of his front teeth.

“You all right?” Sully asked.

Dom looked at him. “Just peachy. Marvelous.” He let out a guffaw. “Jerks.”

The girl went to Dom. “Let me see your eye.”

Dom took his hand away, tilted his head up.

“I think you need stitches.” She turned to Sully. “Let's get him to the emergency room.”

When they tried to help him up, Dom brushed them off. “I can walk.”

Sully limped along between Dom and the girl.

“I'm David Sullivan, by the way. Sully.”