by Jenna Black
What she’d done was technically illegal—the high-rises were meant to be free housing for the poor. When the city planners had first designed the Basement, they’d made sure that there was enough housing for everyone who needed it. What they hadn’t planned for—or, more accurately, what they’d willfully ignored—was the human desire to lay claim to territory. Housing units were claimed by whoever had the strength to hold them, and if a powerful Basement-dweller like Angel of Mercy wanted to take over whole floors of an apartment building, rip out all the apartments, and turn them into a club, no one was going to stop her. And the fact that she’d managed to rip out all the apartments except for a few support pillars here and there without bringing the entire tower down around her suggested she’d had high-level help doing it.
Angel was most likely the richest person in all of Debasement, and with her money she could no doubt have decorated her club as elegantly as any legitimate Executive club in the city. However, she was also one of the savviest people Nate had ever met, and she knew exactly what her customers wanted. They didn’t come to Debasement in search of an elegant club they could find in their own neighborhoods; they came to see how the “other half” lived—without actually having to see anything more than a prettied-up fantasy.
The club was decorated in what Nate liked to think of as jailhouse chic. The pillars and floor were naked concrete, complete with chips and pockmarks to make them look like they came from a war zone. The ceiling was exposed beams and wiring, and lighting was provided by bare bulbs on wires. The walls were concrete, too, only you could barely see any of the concrete gray behind all the spray-painted graffiti that decorated them. Most of it was gang tags—for “artistic” effect, not because Angel’s was part of any gang’s territory—and suggestions to do things that were anatomically unlikely. There were also some pornographic cartoons, and one whole wall displayed a spray-painted portrait of Angel herself, holding a wicked, serrated blade to her chest and testing the edge with her finger as she looked out over her club with all-seeing eyes.
Nate fought his way through the crowd toward the bar. If you were looking for someone in a bar, the best place to start was generally with the bartender, and Kurt had always seemed to be at least mildly friendly with one of the ones who worked here. Nate darted through an opening to grab one of the rickety barstools. To his disappointment, the bar was being tended by Viper, a foul-tempered asshole Nate would have just as soon avoided. There was an off chance that Kurt’s friend, Random, was also on duty today, but Nate would just have to wait and see, because he didn’t want to ask questions of Viper if he didn’t have to.
A petite blonde in heels so high they should have given her a nosebleed climbed onto the other end of the bar. The girl was an obvious Basement-dweller, her hair dyed jet black with neon blue and green streaks, tattoos peeking out from the edges of her clothes, her face dotted with holes where she was pierced but not wearing her jewelry. But she was dressed in Executive finery, wearing a clingy red skirt suit that fit her like it was made for her, a white button-down blouse, and a conservative string of pearls. The stilt-like red pumps that looked like they were made out of plastic definitely did not go with the outfit.
As the patrons hooted and hollered out encouragement, the girl began to dance on the bar, stepping around bottles, jars, and glasses. Dollar bills and scrip appeared like magic in people’s hands, and as the girl slithered out of her clothes, she revealed convenient places for patrons to tuck the money. Viper worked around her, taking money and giving out drinks as if she weren’t even there.
Nate would have preferred to just buy a drink and sip quietly as he kept his eyes out for Random. But he knew from experience that if he ignored the stripper, she might make it her personal goal to gain his attention, and he was not in the mood for a lap dance. He held out bills like the men around him and tried to enjoy the show.
Technically, strippers weren’t supposed to remove their G-strings, and patrons weren’t allowed to touch, but those rules were ignored in Debasement with the same negligence as most laws. The strippers at Angel’s never seemed to mind, always encouraging the patrons to sample their wares—as long as there was money involved, naturally. Maybe it was because Nate was in a somewhat altered state of mind, or maybe this particular girl was new and not as practiced as the pros he’d seen before, but he couldn’t help noticing how frozen her eyes and smile were as she pranced across the bar, naked except for her shoes and her money-stuffed garters, letting the patrons, men and women both, touch her whenever and wherever they wanted.
Nate stuck a bill in her garter when she invited him to, but he did it almost gingerly, trying not to touch her any more than necessary. There were some girls he found attractive, but this chick wasn’t one of them. Her movements were almost mechanical, her expression behind the fake smile one of bored indifference. Based on the number of bills in her garters, Nate was the only one who gave a crap.
* * *
When Nate came to Debasement with Kurt, he always had a blast, and time had a way of getting away from him. It was always Kurt who had to gently break it to him that it was time to go. Together, they had sampled the various exotic drinks offered at the bar, danced openly as a couple because in Debasement, no one cared—and none of the tourists could see through Nate’s disguise—and rented the rooms upstairs when they wanted … privacy. They had enjoyed Angel’s male strippers, had bargained for contraband with the club’s favored black marketeers, and had even dabbled in some of the tamer drugs, though Kurt had advised Nate to caution on that front. When Kurt championed caution, Nate listened.
Angel’s without Kurt was nowhere near as much fun as he remembered. Drinking alone held little appeal, especially when he was drinking the watered-down crap that was served to customers paying in scrip. And without Kurt to distract him, he found himself really looking at the strippers and sex workers for the first time. There was nothing wrong with sex for hire, as far as he was concerned. Two consenting adults and all that. It certainly seemed a less unsavory “career” for a Basement-dweller than the drug dealing and violence that were the most obvious alternatives. Sex was fun, after all. But with nothing to do but sit back and observe, he was seeing things that before he’d always ignored, like the way the prostitutes’ hungry smiles tended to wilt when their customers weren’t looking.
It was all uncommonly depressing, and within fifteen minutes of arriving, Nate was more than anxious to get the hell out. But he’d come here for a reason, and it wasn’t to have fun. He risked asking Viper if Random was on duty tonight, but Viper ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken. The guy on the next stool said he hadn’t seen Random in weeks, so maybe he’d gotten another job. Or maybe he’d just disappeared, the way Basement-dwellers sometimes did.
Nate decided his next best option was to talk to Angel herself. She rarely failed to make an appearance, so Nate settled in to wait.
An hour passed, and then another, and Nate still hadn’t caught a glimpse of Angel. It was possible this was one of those rare nights when she didn’t show up at the club. By the end of the third hour, he’d wandered from one end of the club to the other at least three times, and he still hadn’t found her. To keep from being kicked out, he’d had to keep the money flowing, buying more drinks than he dared to swallow—being alone and drunk in Debasement was a recipe for disaster—and stuffing G-strings of strippers he had no interest in. He was running low on scrip, and he was aware that soon the staff would notice and ask him to leave.
At just after 4:00 A.M., Nate made his way to the bar once more and gestured at Viper. The vertically slitted yellow contacts he wore certainly enhanced his reptilian look, as did the curved, fanglike implants that replaced his upper canines. Even when Nate had been here with Kurt, throwing dollars around with aplomb and thereby buying the devotion of the rest of the club’s employees, he’d always felt like Viper disliked him. Of course, like everyone else who worked at Angel’s, Viper was a part of the “atmosphere,” filling the
role of the scary-ass bartender to give the tourists a thrill. Maybe acting like he disliked everyone was just part of his job.
Viper waited impatiently for Nate to order a drink, and Nate knew even before he opened his mouth that he was making a mistake. But he was almost out of scrip—if he ended up having to do this again, he’d make sure to bring a lot more money with him—and it was his last shot. He leaned over the bar, forced to shout over the music even though he’d have rather kept his voice down.
“I was hoping to talk to Angel tonight,” he said, then folded his hand around the remaining scrip in his pocket and slid that hand in Viper’s direction, making sure a corner of paper showed.
Viper looked at Nate’s hand and made a face. Nate thought the feeble bribe was about to be refused, but Viper tapped a sharpened, clawlike fingernail on the corner of paper and drew it out of Nate’s hand. He looked at the hundred-dollar note with obvious distaste, picking it up gingerly and dropping it into the tip jar he kept behind the bar. (Keeping a tip jar where just anyone could get to it would have been begging for the Basement-dwellers to help themselves.)
“Outta luck,” Viper said, managing to make his words hiss despite the lack of sibilant letters.
It was more than he’d gotten when he’d asked about Random, but it was a little thin at fifty dollars a word. Nate waited a second to see if Viper planned to elaborate, but the man turned and started to walk away. Unwisely, Nate leaned over the bar and grabbed Viper’s arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the bouncers take notice and start moving his way. The smart thing to do would be to let go, but Nate was too frustrated to be smart.
“What do you mean I’m out of luck?” he demanded. “Is she not here tonight?”
Viper stared at him with those slitted yellow eyes, and Nate fought a shudder. He’d always assumed the reptilian effect was caused by contacts, but now he wondered if they were implants, like the fangs. Cosmetic surgery performed by amateurs struck Nate as a terrible idea, but, like many terrible ideas, it was popular in Debasement.
“Time to go,” someone said from behind Nate, and a hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Let go of Viper, unless you want to lose fingers.”
In a bar in civilized society, Nate might not have taken that threat seriously. Here, he knew the bouncer was dead serious. Nate wasn’t here as the Chairman Heir of Paxco; he was just some anonymous Basement-dweller, and if Angel’s staff wanted to torture or even kill him, the law wouldn’t bat an eyelash.
“Please tell her I need to talk to her,” he said a little desperately as he let go of Viper’s arm. “There’s money in it.”
The bouncer yanked on Nate’s arm, practically dislocating his shoulder, and Nate stumbled forward. He tried to turn and say something else to Viper—he wasn’t sure exactly what he could say that would persuade the man to convey the message—but the bouncer was having none of it. Another joint-torturing yank propelled Nate away from the bar, and oblivious patrons filled in the space he’d just vacated, hiding the bartender from view.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nadia slept almost ten hours Monday night and woke on Tuesday morning feeling much more like herself, the lingering weakness of her battle with the flu gone. Remembering that Nate had promised to come by and check on her, Nadia examined her day planner, hoping she didn’t have too much free time. If she could keep herself bouncing from one obligation to another as much as possible, she wouldn’t have time for more than a brief visit from Nate, and maybe she could avoid having him tell her anything she didn’t want to hear.
The morning would be her most vulnerable time. Mornings were when she did her individual schoolwork and studying. Some days, she had a tutor, but today wasn’t one of them. She had plenty of homework to do, but when Nate was a student, he’d considered all homework optional, and he’d expect her to feel the same way. Fortunately, he almost never stopped by in the morning—yesterday being a big exception—and she had two hours of classes scheduled for the afternoon, followed by a meeting of the Teen Charity League, which was little more than a glorified social club for Executive teenagers, but which did manage to fit in some actual charity work here and there. That should account for most of the daylight hours, and then tonight her mother was putting on a dinner party, which always seemed to entail a lot of fussing and chores, despite the fact that all the real work was done by the servants.
After examining her calendar, Nadia felt secure in her armor, and she tried to forget about all the pressure sitting on her shoulders. She spent the morning studying, crossing her fingers that Nate wouldn’t interrupt. She got her wish, though her concentration wasn’t up to par. She breathed a sigh of relief when afternoon rolled around and it was time for class.
That relief evaporated when she arrived at her first class and discovered that Chloe hadn’t come, but Jewel and Blair had, even though they rarely showed up two days in a row. Jewel bragged that she and Cherry had been invited to a private dinner at the Chairman’s mansion, going on and on about what she would wear and how she would style her hair and how honored her family was. If the boasting was designed to make Nadia entertain uneasy thoughts that the Chairman was rethinking the marriage arrangement, she unfortunately succeeded.
Naturally, the story of Nate’s rebirth as a Replica was still front and center with the press, and they were constantly replaying things like Nate’s altercation with the reporter—and Nadia’s ignominious exit from the security station. In retrospect, she figured she should have left with her head held high, lack of makeup and inelegant attire notwithstanding. The effort to hide from the cameras just made her look guilty. Jewel found ways to slip references to the footage into conversation as often as possible. The day before, Nadia had come out the winner of their verbal sparring, but not today.
To make her victory that much sweeter, Jewel went out of her way to make demands of Dante, always during class rather than during breaks, so that he would have to leave the room and miss key parts of the lesson. And in yet another attempt to prove she was an obnoxious bitch, Jewel ordered him to carry her bag down to the lobby for her when class was over. Nadia could have countermanded that order—he was supposedly her family’s servant, not Jewel’s—but she wanted Jewel out of her sight as soon as possible, so she bit her tongue instead of arguing.
Nadia was pissed off enough about Jewel’s behavior that she didn’t immediately leave the schoolroom, instead fixing herself a cup of tea and taking a moment to enjoy being blissfully alone. In a little more than an hour, she would have to face Jewel again at the Teen Charity League meeting, and she needed to regroup first.
The solitude lasted for maybe one or two minutes, and then she heard footsteps approaching. Dante must have fled Jewel’s presence at a downright sprint to be back so soon. Nadia wished she’d hurried back upstairs, not wanting to be trapped into conversation with him.
Her heart skipped a beat when she saw not Dante but Mosely standing in the doorway to the schoolroom, arms crossed over his chest, unblinking eyes pinned on her. Nadia froze, trapped by the malice in his gaze. She didn’t want to know what he was thinking as he looked at her like that, but it made her feel naked and vulnerable and very, very alone.
Not that she was alone, of course. She was in her own home, and even if there was no one in sight, a scream would bring half the household running to her aid. Until they saw Mosely, of course. No one could protect her from him.
“What do you want?” she asked sharply. “If I had anything to say to you, I’d have called.”
Perhaps snapping at Mosely wasn’t the wisest course of action, but it was either snap or cower. Acting normal around this man just wasn’t possible, not when she was so acutely aware of what he could do to her.
Mosely made a tsking sound with his tongue, closing the door behind him and moving closer. Nadia had to fight an instinctive urge to take a step back. This was her home, and she would not retreat from a bully in her own home.
“I’m disappointed in you, Miss Lake,”
Mosely said with a frown. “Surely you don’t think I’m unaware that Nathaniel visited here yesterday. And yet I haven’t heard from you. Do we need to have another discussion about your duty to your state?”
Nadia cursed herself. She should have sent word to Mosely about Nate’s visit even though she hadn’t learned anything. She should have known he’d expect regular updates from his unwilling spy.
“I didn’t have anything to report,” she said. “I was still pretty sick when Nate came by yesterday, and we didn’t talk much.”
Mosely stepped even closer, and this time Nadia couldn’t help moving backward. She didn’t want him close enough to touch her. His lips curved into a pleased smile, and she wished she’d had the nerve to hold her ground. Nothing pleased a bully more than seeing his prey’s fear.
“What you’re telling me,” he said, “is that you had an opportunity to question him about his plans, and you chose not to do so because you had a case of the sniffles.”
“It was the flu!” she snapped, once again letting him see that he’d struck a nerve. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and looking away so she didn’t have to see Mosely’s baleful stare. She spent half her life putting on a public face and hiding her true feelings. She could endure public verbal sparring sessions with the Trio without ever letting on when their words hurt her; she could pretend she and Nate were in love—and in lust—when they were nothing more than good friends; she could set all her own needs and wants aside for the sake of following protocol and protecting her family. Why couldn’t she put on a brave face for Dirk Mosely? True, he was physically dangerous to her—and to those she loved—but she was an Executive, damn it. The face she showed to the public was never the real her, and she should be putting on the same front for Mosely that she put on for anyone else.
