Sugar Skulls (30 page)

Staring at the blood on the metal loop in my hand, I’m barely able to keep from throwing up. I crouch down next to Trav, lying there among the scattered injectors and surgical tools. He swings at me blindly with one hand, still holding his head with the other. Pinning his arm down, I stare into the teary, manic eyes of my friend.

“Go on then, killer. Finish me off. Finish the job!” He spits out every syllable.

I will, Trav.
“I’m so sorry. For Bryn. For everything. For this.”

I pick up a sedative patch from the floor and slap it on his neck before he can respond. He struggles for a moment, and then his eyes close. His last words before unconsciousness takes him are “I hate you, Micah . . .”

“I know. I do, too.” I slowly stand up—battered, bruised, and heartbroken—and grab Trav’s security tag from his lab coat. Quickly rummaging through various drawers, I scrounge up a stun baton. Fully charged.

Passing through the double doors, I stumble into the corridor. One deep breath later, I’m moving, realizing I have no idea where to go next. The elevator in the center of the hallway dings, and I’m about to run, hide, anything to give myself a little more time to find Vee.

The doors part, and twin tranq gun barrels are the first thing I see. Trigger fingers clench, then hesitate. The barrels dip slightly, and I see her face, streaked with white and black war paint. Even in the hideous emergency light, she’s radiant.

I lower the baton, thumbing it off as I stare. The crushing weight of every kick, punch, injection, and accusation from the last day crumbles and blows away.

If I’m hallucinating, if this is the angel I see before I die, I’m okay with it.

I reach for her with open arms.

V

One second I’m ready to shoot in the face whoever’s between me and Micah, and the next his arms are sliding around me.

“You’re here,” he murmurs, his face buried in my hair. “You saved me again.”

I get fleeting impressions of his hands on me, his cheek pressed to mine, his ragged voice in my ear. Someone shaved his fucking head, and god only knows what else they did to him before I got here. My heart kicks in my chest, but I don’t get the chance to do anything, to say anything before the elevator opposite us pings.

Micah twists around, his instinct to act as a human shield kicking in. “Stay behind me.”

“Like hell.”

Have to move. Have to run. This is our last chance to get the fuck out of here—

But the doors slide open, and it’s Game Over. Four Facilitators step out wearing Kevlar chest plates and helmets, guns raised. Not tranq guns like mine, but actual M16s. The kind that fire real fucking bullets and tear open big messy holes and leave lots of blood on the floor. Every barrel is thoughtfully capped off with a matte black suppressor so they won’t blow out our eardrums when they shoot us. Electronic sights partially obscure their faces, but I can tell they won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

Damon steps out next. His jacket and tie are gone. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar and the sleeves are rolled up, but none of his tattoos are as vivid as the burn mark I left on the side of his neck.

Give me even half a chance, Damon, and I’ll make it a matching set.

Seeing the look on my face, he goes very still, gaze roaming from my sugar skull paint down to my purloined weaponry. “Drop everything.”

The request is punctuated by the pounding of boots down the hallways and the arrival of more special ops. More than I can count. We’re hemmed in, nice and neat.

“Vee.” It’s all he says, all he has to say: A reminder that he’s waiting. That he gave me an order. That my job is to say “Yes, Damon” and obey.

I drop both the tranq guns. They hit the floor with a clatter.

“The glove, too.” Damon hasn’t moved an inch, but if he had a tail, it would be twitching by now.

As I uncoil the length of silver chain from my knuckles, my eyes never leave his. I slide the broken necklace very deliberately into my bra before peeling off Jax’s wrecked haptic glove. The second it’s gone, I feel panic rush through me.

There has to be a way out. Back down the stairs. Get lost in the crowd.

Fuck, Vee, think.

But it’s a suicide mission, with Micah first in line to die. He’s still between me and everyone else, refusing to budge, stun baton at the ready.

“Drop it, or she’s dead,” Damon says. Calm. Vicious.

Micah’s shoulders tense up, as he considers the threat. I count the moment off in heartbeats; between the second and third, the baton bounces off the floor and away from his feet.

Damon jerks his chin in our direction. “Now move away from each other.”

Neither of us budges.

They’re going to have to pry me off of him.

I step up behind Micah, slide my arms around his chest, press myself against his back. He’s sweated through his shirt more than once, so he doesn’t smell like detergent anymore. Hell, he doesn’t smell like anything but fear and pain. But this is the last chance I might have to hold him, and I take it. For a split second, I can imagine we’re back at the slow jams club, just us and the music and the dance floor. The perfect night. The perfect moment.

In the dead silence, I stand on tiptoe to whisper into his ear, “I love you, Micah.”

His every muscle clenches in response. He covers my hands with his own. “I love you, Vee.”

I hold him tight, words failing me.

Micah looks at me over his shoulder. “Always you. Only you.”

Damon’s rage boils over. “Grab her and shoot him—”

Somewhere down the hall, doors slam open in quick succession. Radios start to crackle with warnings, but the chants of “Fuck the thrum, screw the grid!” drown out everything else. The noise is unbelievable, bouncing off the walls, the ceiling, accompanied by the screech of metal and shattered glass. The countless Facilitators surrounding us whip around to face the new threat: Jax charging down the hall like some kind of Valkyrie, leading an army of energy-high little dead things. Somewhere along the way, she’s picked up a foot-long blade, the swingarm off an industrial paper cutter, by the looks of it.

For the first time, Micah seems genuinely surprised. “Here comes Trouble.”

“Get to Vee!” she yells, hair streaming over her shoulders. “Save the Princess!”

Still singing, they surge forward, armed with pipes and knives and Brights and pointy makeshift weapons they’ve twisted off gurneys and railings.

“Tranqs only on them! They’re civilians!” Damon orders.

The first row of Facilitators starts spraying the crowd with darts, but the chanting overrides the drugs, and the kids plow into the nearest guards.

“Get the one in the middle!” a familiar voice shouts from the right. I twist around in time to see Sasha flying in from the other side, tranq guns in both hands, followed by another crowd of rampaging fans. Matching her step for step, the Redheaded Mini is looking a little less pretty and a lot more pissed off, right hand bandaged but her left hand clamped down on a glowing shock baton.

“The one with the fucking tattoos!” Callie calls out to the horde at her back. Taking out the nearest goon, she heads straight for Damon, looking for payback and then some.

The balance is tipping, tipping slowly in our favor. I can feel it in the frisson of energy all around us, in the shrieks of the little dead things, and in the thuds of security hitting the floor. But there are still guns trained on Micah, on me, and all it’s going to take to finish this the quick-and-dirty way is for Damon to give the order.

The special ops know it, too. Their eyes never leave us, but the closest one asks, “Do you still want us to shoot him, sir?”

I ease around Micah, putting myself between him and the imminent bullets. “You’ll have to shoot me first. And then”—tipping my head toward the crowd fighting their way to us—“maybe half this crowd. That’s going to be hard to explain to Corporate, isn’t it?”

I wait forever for Damon’s answer, trying to remember how to breathe. Jax is ten feet away; Sasha maybe twenty. The girls’ sugar skull faces are studies in glee and murder, respectively.

He actually has the balls to hold his hand out to me. “Vee, make them stop. You and I can fix this. We—”

Over his shoulder, I can see my face reflected in the shiny gold surface of the elevator doors, an angel and a demon all at once. “I told you before, Damon. There is no fucking
we
. You’re clinging to that idea so hard, you can’t see that the girl you want is gone . . . if she ever really existed in the first place.”

He looks every bit the street thug when he spits out, “So that’s it, huh? I’m nothing to you. Your family means nothing to you?”

“Not if I have to trade it for what I have right now. What I’ll have tomorrow morning and every morning after that.” I glance around at the crowd closing in from both sides, the Facilitators eyeing the elevators.

Damon’s once-steely gaze searches my face for guideposts long gone. After riots and blackouts and declarations of love at gunpoint, he finally looks uncertain. “I would’ve given you everything.”

“Except the freedom to be who I am. To become who I was meant to be. Because you were afraid that person might not love you.” I make sure I’m looking him right in the eyes when I add, “You were right to be afraid.”

That’s when he flinches. His shoulders slump, and through a rushing crackle of white noise, I hear him give the order to lower the guns.

Lacing my fingers through Micah’s, I pull him as close as I can and murmur, “I think it’s time to renegotiate my contract.”

EPILOGUE

V

Another concert, another corset.

The dressing room scene is the same as always: total chaos. Face already painted, I get laced into a black satin waterfall. Little Dead Thing scowls at everyone from a cushion in the corner. Jax twirls new waist-length colorshifting hair extensions like a stripper on a good night. Sasha’s having some issue with her laptop. Glaring at the screen, she’s reduced to tears that somehow magically evaporate the second Callie appears in the doorway.

“Ten minutes,” the Redheaded Mini warns the rest of us.

Damon might have blamed the worst of his manager-gone-wild excesses on Trav, but Corporate didn’t exactly buy it once they heard my side of the story. That should have been that, but Damon still had cards up his sleeve, all aces: the upper-echelon investors he’d cultivated, several bigwigs on the board of directors with more greed than common sense, and last but not least, the Sugar Skulls’ contracts. Negotiations to remove the tumor in our midst took longer than I liked, but I’d expected nothing less. Of course Damon would go down swinging. Corporate finally agreed to let him stay until the “Night of the Dead” damages were paid back in full; the second I hit the stage tonight, he’ll be escorted out of Cyrene and shuttled off to his shiny new gig in a second prototype city.

Sensing the need for someone to run interference, Callie stepped in to handle things. Pretty diplomatic, given what Damon had inflicted on her, but Corporate was just happy she wasn’t going to sue them. It doesn’t hurt that she has a definite knack for prepping for shows, managing PR, and dealing with all the details. Bonus for everyone that her flavor of capable is laid-back, it’s-all-good. Like right now, she manages to assess the status of our costuming and Jax’s mood even as she crosses the room to help Sasha with whatever coding snafu is holding her up.

“The new thrum-collectors are all online and working without a hitch.” Callie gives me a sidelong glance and the merest flicker of a wink. “Let’s see if we can keep it that way, okay?”

“Hey, I haven’t tested them nonstop for a month just to blow them out now.” Truth be told, tonight’s concert really
is
the test of what the new tech can handle—
or not handle
—under the combined pressure of my voice and the crowd’s energy. Trying not to let my nerves eat me alive is getting harder by the minute, especially as I wait for word from Micah. I run my fingertips over the electroluminescent wire threaded through the front of my corset. Right now, it’s glowing pale violet.

Jax notices, of course. “You should take a handful of something and calm the fuck down.”

“It makes you nervous that I’m off all the chemicals, doesn’t it?” Social drinking is one thing, but getting all hopped up on sky-candy isn’t something I do anymore.
Not after the applejack. Not ever again.
“Why don’t you take extra pills for me? Might improve your mood.”

“It’s completely unnatural for anyone to be high on life, is all I’m saying.”

Callie snorts out a laugh as her arms wrap around Sasha. “Shoot a note to your mom and dad. Payment for the month should have gone through, no problems.”

“Oh, good.” When Sasha closes the laptop and leans back, the crease in her forehead disappears. Her sigh of utter contentment brings a tiny ache to the back of my throat.

“You two are absolutely fucking nauseating,” Jax observes, sitting on a stool and swinging her legs so the toes of her boots scrape against the floor. “Keep it up and I’m gonna Technicolor yawn all over this place.”

Callie’s earlobes flush bright pink under her piercings, but Sasha responds by turning around far enough to plant a serious kiss on her. Setting the laptop aside, Callie grabs Sasha by the wrist and tows her from the room, tossing “We’ll be right back” over her shoulder.

“Seriously? Eight minutes to curtain and they’re gonna squeeze in a quickie?” Jax scowls at the ceiling. “I need to get laid. What do you want to do after the show, Vee? Up for playing wingman?”

The dresser ties off my laces and gives me a gentle pat. I can’t sit, so leaning against the wall is as relaxed as it gets for now. “I don’t think so. Not tonight, anyway.”

“You always have plans,” she grumbles. “All of you have abandoned me in my hour of need.”

“You’ve gone a whole hour without?” I smile. “Back at the Loft after the show. Whatever you pour out, I’ll drink, all right?” I get my earpiece and mic situated, wishing that I had Micah’s arms around me, that I was the one stealing kisses and more before the show. “In the meantime, let’s get our asses onstage.”

“At least it’s the end of the Indentured Fucking Servitude Tour. This bitch needs to get paid.” Flashing a grin at me, Jax is already halfway out the door. Despite having the wrack-and-ruin from the park crawl riot stuck on the Sugar Skulls’ tab, she’s still reveling in the glory of leading a zombie army. Some days she threatens to do it all over again, just for shits and giggles.

One corridor and a set of stairs later, we’re in the red-lit wings. “If the collectors don’t blow.”

Sasha joins us seconds later, adjusting her clothes and running her fingers through her disheveled hair. “What did I miss?”

Jax nudges her hard. “Something about blowing. Unless you squeezed that in, too.”

“Shut up,” Sasha tells her without any real heat behind the words.

We hit the stage, following the paths of yellow glow-tape to our respective marks. Amber lights fade up and crimson sparks rain down on the stage as vidscreens all over the Dome sizzle to life.

“Take it easy on the first few songs,” Callie tells me through the earpiece. “Ease them into it, all right?”

A nod of acknowledgment, and then we launch into “The Morning After.” Jax hates my newest song, preferring riot-inducing riffs to celebrations of love, but when I’m singing it, I can close my eyes and picture Micah that very first morning in the warren, the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way he held me even when sleeping. He’s with me, even when he’s not with me, every time I sing this one.

After that, it’s a slow build to “Revolution.” Corporate still doesn’t like it, but the recording sold an epic number of downloads the day after the park crawl, so they ignore the lyrics as best they can.

The audience loves every word. By the second verse, they’re screaming along with me.

All the pretty undead things

Wear silver necklaces and rings.

We’re coming for you, one by one,

Your perfect satin knot’s undone.

Fuck the thrum, screw the grid.

Lick the sparks, eat the dark.

One hand reaches up to touch the silver necklace hanging around my throat, and I drive into the chorus again, pushing the words, spitting the lyrics, sending the crowd into a screaming frenzy. They’re high on vaporized moondust; by the time we’ve looped around and sung the chorus a third time, I can feel the breaking point, the glass ceiling just over my head.

One more time, and I bump into it again, but it doesn’t break. The thrum-collectors hold, whisking away all the energy safely into the grid.

The grid. I pushed as hard as I could, and I’m still here. Still on it.

This nightingale gets to stay in the nest.

Not a cage anymore. You can’t build a cage out of music and light and—

Love.

The electroluminescent wire lacings on my corset colorshift from violet to blue.

Perfect timing.

I close my eyes, take a breath, and transition to “For You.”

What would I give for just one taste of you?

What would I trade to fall straight into you?

I would burn this city to the ground.

Down, down, down to the ground.

M

Okay, she should’ve seen the alert by now. Time to record.
Hold on, gotta center this in the frame.

I zoom in with Jax’s mini-handheld vidcam as a pair of Facilitators in full gear escort Damon to the waiting town car. No crowds, no fanfare, no farewell party from Corporate. The contracts are signed and thumbprinted; it’s time to wrap him up and send him packing.

I track him, moving from rooftop to fire escape to balcony, running the intricate maze of the Odeaglow while keeping the car in my sights. Finally, a section of the Wall parts like a curtain, and the car is gone, taillights fading from view.

It’s done. She’s finally free.

I shut off the vidcam and wirelessly upload it to Sasha’s private server. She’ll have the video polished and ready for everyone later tonight. After today’s show, seeing Damon transferred out of town will be the icing on the cake for Vee. No more threats against her, no more mind-wipes or power games.

No more boogeyman hiding under the bed.

As the curtain closes, I glance upward at the Wall. The best playgrounds have fences, and right now, it’s our staunchest ally. Keeping us safe. Keeping our enemies out. Those projected blue skies are more welcome than ever. New chapters and all that.

I’ve got hours to kill before the Sugar Skulls are done performing, so I stop by one of the local security offices en route to The Warren. Wanting to make sure I stayed in Cyrene—even another set of clean scans at the lab didn’t temper their espionage paranoia much—Corporate offered me a gig I couldn’t refuse: freelancing with the Facilitators, sealing the city up tight and preventing anyone from sneaking inside like I did. After all, who better to help you secure the place than the guy who already beat the system?

So now, instead of ducking shadows and patrols, I spend my days running to ground every dealer I can find. In exchange, I get the resources and the freedom to finally do what brought me back here: rid the city of every last tab of that poisonous shit.

We’re off to a good start. With Rete and his people already in custody, the majority of in-house cartel activity dried up. The pipelines are closed, and reports of applejack use are dwindling, though we still have no idea what over-the-Wall group was manufacturing it in the first place.

We brought a runner in yesterday, and as she was hauled off, I thought about Trav killing the dealer who started all this. In Trav’s place, I don’t know what I would’ve done. There was never a real plan after “find the dealer.” I’d like to think I’m not a killer.

But if Trav could do it . . .

I don’t suppose it matters much now. Trav vanished from Corporate custody a few days after the “Night of the Dead” riot. No sign of him anywhere in Cyrene for weeks now. Him or his new applejack variant. My friend, gone as suddenly as he reappeared. His anger, his bitterness, his hatred, etched into my memory as clearly as his name on my skin. Our meager good-byes at the medcenter hardly enough for either of us.

After checking in with Cyrene Security, I make a quick supply run at the home improvement shop not far from Maggie’s club.

No, not her club anymore. It’s already in renovations for the new owner, same guy who redid Moonship & Stardust a while back.

They offered the space to me, but I couldn’t take it. I gave them the whole spiel about it being too big and not the right layout for The Warren, but truth be told, it would never feel like mine, new floor plan or not. It’ll always be the Hellcat’s, if only in spirit.

Last week, Rete gave up the location of her body, confirming my darkest suspicions. I barely recognized her. I know she misled me and trafficked in some serious garbage, but she deserved better.

We all did.

Shuttering those thoughts for now, I make tracks to The Warren to continue getting it ready for tonight.

I swear, it’s easier to meticulously weave lengths of copper than it is to install this high-end lattice shit just to do the same job. But if that’s what it takes to ensure the place is totally off-grid, it’s still worth the effort.

Once the final piece is secured to the walls, I step back and admire my work. There’s a long way to go before The Warren is up and running, but this is one big step closer to the finish line.

I dash over to the gym a couple blocks down and grab a shower, scrubbing away the grime and sweat from the day’s labors. My hair is growing back, but I’m still careful when washing it, tracing the myriad scars left from my time in the lab. No nanotech to heal me up. Even Trav’s best efforts couldn’t plug me into the grid for good. The hum’s not going anywhere.

I dry off, dress, and make it to the club just in time to sign for the first delivery of over-the-Wall spirits to enhance the bar’s selection. Corporate has agreed to look the other way on a few minor indulgences in exchange for my continued silence about what I endured at the medcenter. Amazing the leverage potential negative PR confers.

After stashing the cases of liquor in the back storage room, I quadruple-check my improvised stereo system, since I’ve already gone over it three times today.
Gotta make it perfect. She deserves perfect.

I hear Vee sneaking up behind me while I tinker with the bass and treble settings.
Let her think she’s got the drop on you.
Her hands wind around my waist, and I can sense her vague disappointment when I don’t leap out of my skin in surprise. Instead, I tilt my head back as she kisses my neck and murmurs, “Hello, love.”

I turn around and kiss her properly, pulling her body to mine, noticing that she’s traded her stage gear for something soft and tantalizingly short. My lips reluctantly break from hers as I whisper, “How was the show?”

“Another glowing success. No blowouts, no blackouts, and only the regular burnouts in the crowd.” She reaches up to twist her fingers in the collar of my shirt and pull me a few inches closer. “And just what have you been doing with yourself while I was gone?”

I give her my best smile as I walk her around the club, showing her the little touches that occupied part of my day. Once all the pieces are in place and we generate some positive word-of-mouth, The Warren will be our slice of underground paradise.