This corner of the village is darker and quieter, the streets illuminated by neon lights. I turn down a block lined with men standing alone, their heads lowered, their faces in shadow, their shoulders braced against the buildings as if they are holding them up. When I bring the bike to a stop, many of them look up. A few appear to be young. None appear to be happy. Every door on the block is closed, and muffled music seeps out into the street. It might be early afternoon, but on this block, it’s night. If there’s a dance hall in this town, this feels like the right neighborhood.
Leaning the bike out of the way, I pocket the key and decide I have no choice but to approach someone. I don’t have time to waste.
“I’m looking for a place called Poppee’s,” I say to the nearest man, trying to sound self-assured and failing at it. He is not much older than I am, and he smiles. I’m not sure if this is good or bad.
“End of the block,” he says, his eyes moving up to my head and down to my feet before returning to my face again. “You might want to wash some of the dirt off before you go in there, though.”
I bristle at this comment, but I nod my thanks and leave him to watch me walk away. Right before the corner, I come to a building with lights shining behind closed drapes on the upper floors. I feel as vulnerable and out of place as a fox wandering into a gathering of hounds. I may not know where home is, but I know it’s not here. I can feel it in my bones.
The doorway is set back from the street and tucked under a balcony, and between me and the doorway stand four men. No embeds, so Enchanteds or citizen Outsiders. They look up at me as if I have just interrupted their conversation, though no one was speaking. “Poppee’s Dance Hall? Is this it?” Not one of them responds; they just stare. I wish this dress weren’t so dirty, and that there were a little more of it. They all step back and watch me as I pass between them and pull hard on the heavy door.
I enter a room that would be pitch-dark if not for the giant red neon flowers that cover every wall. Poppies. The ceiling is low and painted black, and the room smells like sawdust and beer. Directly in front of me is a podium, and leaning against it is a woman with jet-black hair, a long neck, and a black dress that flows all the way to the floor. She is striking, but she commands my attention for only a moment, because in the back of the room a band kicks in, and they are loud. Every note is hot and cool at the same time, overlapping into something sensual and erratic, matching my erratic pulse. It’s a reel—the kind of tune that’s played fast but still works if you want to dance slow. I can barely keep from swaying to it.
A voice shouts over the music. It’s the woman at the podium in front of me, waving her hand in my face. From up close, I can see that she is much too old to have hair so black. “Here to work?” she asks, her mouth close to my ear.
I’m not sure what to say, since I’m afraid that anything other than yes will get me thrown out. “I’m waiting for someone,” I say. The door opens behind me and a flock of women pushes in from outside, carrying with them a cloud of laughter and perfume. The girls are all Outsiders, their embeds flashing, but the few men who have already arrived are all Enchanteds. They watch the girls from the edges of the dance floor with such predatory glares, I can only imagine the hands that are hidden in their pockets have claws in place of fingers.
Something procedural is happening at the podium—I think the girls are signing in—and with my head down but my eyes up, I slip by and find a dark corner where I can get my bearings. They’re playing a waltz now—all guitar, fiddle, tin whistle, and mandolin—and it almost seems familiar. The bandleader calls out its name: “Down a Lonesome Road.”
From the shadows behind my back comes a voice, and it’s got all the friendliness of a broken bottle. “Racers aren’t allowed to go anywhere they want to, you know.”
I spin around and plant my hands on my hips. The man in front of me sways on his feet, emboldened by whatever he’s been drinking. “Dirty dress, no shoes. You are a racer, aren’t you?” When I don’t answer, he answers for me. “Of course you are, because you’re a germy little urchin who believes that all of Lanoria should be disrupted so a bunch of selfish Outsiders can fight over a shortcut to citizenship.”
His tunic is open at the neck, and I can see his scar. He’s a citizen Outsider. “I don’t mean any disrespect,” I say.
The room is filling up quickly. A hand falls on my shoulder, and I almost jump out of my skin. When I whirl around, the face of an Enchanted man is too close to my own face for comfort. He has a thin mustache and a patch of beard on his chin, and something about him makes him seem even dirtier than I am. Without thinking, I shove his hand off my shoulder.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, doll,” he says, and his smile is bright but not warm. His eyes are skittish. He’s tall and wiry, but he slouches, so his arms hang in front of him instead of at his side. He reminds me of a willow tree. He’s with another man who’s practically leaning on him. “Just wanted to see if you needed me to tell this guy to shove along.”
“I can tell people to shove along just fine on my own, thank you.”
His friend, also an Enchanted, is less jumpy. He leans forward and whispers into my ear, “If you don’t turn down your mouth a bit, you’re going to be tossed out of here before we even get to dance.” I step back to take him in. He’s built as if he were made from wooden blocks, square and sturdy, and his eyes are a little heavy. I notice how clean and white his tunic is when he slips out of his jacket and hands it to me. “And put this on. Your back is a bloody mess.”
This is an accurate statement, so I accept the jacket and shrug it on. “So let’s go then,” he says. “Dance floor’s behind you.”
“I . . .”
“Let me guess. You don’t actually work here. Good. Then the dance will be free.” When I don’t move, he adds, “You are looking for a clue or something, aren’t you? Well, the dance floor has a better view of the room than this dark corner. And if I step on your foot, don’t squawk. You don’t want anyone noticing you’re not wearing shoes.”
The next thing I know I’m in the middle of the dance floor, holding his hand. He sets his other hand on my hip. I try to read him, but there are so many intentions swirling around me, I can only hope the more sinister ones aren’t his.
I set my hand on his shoulder and we begin to shuffle in a slow circle. I don’t look at his face, but that doesn’t stop him from speaking low into my ear. “You might not be able to tell,” he says, “but many of the people in here know who you are.”
Now I can’t help but look at him, and he smiles at the obvious jolt he’s caused me. We keep turning, and I try to search the room. Maybe I was wrong, and I’m not far from home after all. Maybe someone here knows my father and can tell me if it’s true that he died.
The dance floor is getting crowded, and people are pressing in around us. I keep catching people staring at me, just before they avert their eyes. “What I mean is,” my partner continues, “people here know you from the papers and the news network. You gained a bit of notoriety from an incident that happened before the race, and then a bit more when people found out you had entered.” He slides his hand into his pants pocket and pulls out his comm. Tipping it up so I can see the screen, he watches my reaction when I notice it’s a picture of me, sitting on the ledge outside the lighthouse window.
“Who took this?”
“Someone who thinks people will be interested in your story.”
I stiffen. “And why would that be?”
“Lots of reasons. Like I said, there was an incident before the race that made people take notice of you. I can’t tell you what it was because I’m not going to get accused of helping a racer. But I will tell you this.” He lowers his voice and breathes into my ear. “Some people who have seen you fight are saying you might have an advantage over the other racers. An advantage no Outsider should have . . .”
My heart pounds. “Why would anyone say that—”
“Why? Kid, you know why. Just l
ike when you got into those fights, you knew where the next punch was heading.”
“But I don’t have—”
“Don’t bother lying to me. You’re not the only one with Cientia, all right?” He tightens his arm around my waist, pulling me in a little closer. “I’m not trying to scare you,” he says, and his lips are so close to my ear, his breath warms my skin. “I’m trying to help you stay out of trouble. Stop making your Cientia so obvious, or you’ll never get through the race without the Authority tracking you down and taking you in. It’s only an advantage if you don’t get caught.”
The song ends, and he steps back from me, looking down at his comm. From through the crowd his willow tree friend appears, his skittish eyes roving all over my body before he says, “I think it’s my turn to dance.”
I’m not sure I want to go on dancing, though, so I shove my hands into the pockets of the borrowed jacket. Something slips between the fingers of my left hand, something soft wrapped in plastic. I have an idea what it might be, and if I’m right, then I shouldn’t pull it out and look at it in front of all these people.
The willow man grabs my waist—the next song, another waltz, is starting—and my hand twitches inside the pocket, itching to slap him across the face, but I stifle the urge. I need to be here to search for the clue, so I place my own hands as lightly as possible on his shoulders. “Come on, now,” he says, and I realize I’m so distracted, I’m barely moving, just shifting my weight from foot to foot. “Make this a proper dance, or I’m going to turn you in. I think the Authority would love to hear about a racer with Cientia.”
I flinch at this threat, and he laughs.
The music picks up speed, but the dancers all around us keep the same steady pace, some of them hardly moving, so that their dance is little more than an embrace. Men’s faces flush red from the heat, and women’s dresses stick to their backs. Maybe it’s the circles, but I’m starting to feel ill. I’m wondering how I can break away so I can properly search for the clue when my dance partner’s hands slide down my back, not even slowing at my waist before they are somewhere they do not belong.
I plant both hands on his chest and shove.
He stumbles backward, bumping into several couples. Men turn and glare, and a few of them shout. I feel outrage churning through the crowd. If it weren’t so packed in here, he would’ve ended up on the floor.
“You know, actions have consequences.” This is what he says to me—this is what he says to me—as if the person who just shoved him for putting his hands on her doesn’t understand the consequences of actions. If I weren’t so sure I’d be flung out of here and never get to look for the clue, I’d teach him something about the consequences of actions, with a kick to the groin that he’d never forget.
I jab my hands back into the pockets of this jacket and notice that the ring of people standing around me are all staring. A few of them—mostly Enchanted men—raise their comms and snap my picture. My dance partner, his eyes hardened to little brown beads, steps toward me. It almost appears that he’s coming back to dance, but my Cientia tells me that’s not his intention. I’m wondering how a brawl in this dance hall might affect my chances of winning the race, when someone pushes through the crowd and comes up beside me, placing a hand in the middle of the willow man’s chest.
I’m shocked to see it’s Darius.
“She’s not worth it,” he says, loud enough for me and anyone else who’s listening to hear him. “This place is full of girls prettier than her.” His eyes sweep from my head to my feet. “Cleaner, at the very least.” He slips what looks like a folded bill into the man’s hand. “Why don’t you go find one and ask her to dance?”
The man looks down at the bill and grunts. But he walks away.
Darius turns, and for the first time since I met him this morning, his lips quirk into a smile.
“Well, now that that’s taken care of,” he says, “would you like to dance?”
Eleven
You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, digging my hands deep into the pockets of this jacket, as if to emphasize my point. But Darius doesn’t seem to get it. “I’ve got better things to do at the moment,” I snap.
He tries to answer, but the band drowns him out, and there’s something happening near the door that’s causing a commotion. Darius glances back over his shoulder, and we both see the cause at the same time: a few officers of the Enchanted Authority are talking to the woman at the podium. I feel a ripple of anxiety flow through the crowd. Even the Enchanteds in here would rather avoid the Authority. My hand goes to the plastic baggie in the left pocket of this jacket. The guards at the door, and the stir they’re causing among the patrons here, suggest my suspicion that it contains contraband might be correct.
But I don’t care about that. All I care about is what the blocky Enchanted man said. Stop making your Cientia so obvious, or you’ll never get through the race without the Authority tracking you down and taking you in.
The entire dance floor seems to shift toward the back, away from the front door. People turn and stare at us. Do they suspect these officers are looking for me? I wish I could run out of here—just run home—but without my memories, I’m as good as homeless. “All right,” I say, stepping closer to Darius. “I’m taking you up on your invitation to dance. But only because I need to keep a low profile. And just until those officers are gone.”
Darius grins. With so many eyes on us, his composure is impressive. His right hand floats up from his side, just enough to lightly touch my waist. His left hand enfolds my right. Despite the black dust from the road that I can feel on his skin, there’s something nice about how solid his hand feels. I swallow.
I can’t help but wonder if I have a boy in my life, and if he provokes me the way Darius is provoking me right now. In this way that makes me want to look at him, but also makes looking at him impossible.
“I probably should know your name if we’re going to dance,” Darius says. His mouth is very close to my ear. “Have you figured it out yet?”
I don’t like his smug tone. “It’s Astrid.”
“Well, Astrid,” he says, tasting my name as if it were a piece of chocolate in his mouth, which I also don’t like, “it looks like those Enchanted Authority guards are heading out, but I just located two other people of interest in this room.” He turns me around in another circle, and I see what he’s talking about. Two racers loiter near the front of the bandstand—the small woman with the big boots who stomped on Darius’s hand at the lighthouse, and the boy with the tree-trunk arms who jumped me and Jane. I try to hide the stress I feel at their sudden appearance, but he notices because he says, “Don’t worry. They’re no closer to finding the clue than you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I begin to question how I could’ve forgotten for a moment how I feel about Darius—my commitment to cursing his name. “For all you know, I already have the clue and I’m just waiting for the right moment to slip out of here.”
“What’s keeping you?”
“You, for one thing. It isn’t my intention to be followed.”
“You have to be going somewhere before you can be followed.” I shoot him a dirty look, which only seems to please him. “Look, I didn’t come in here to harass you, or to follow you to the next checkpoint. I came in here to offer you a deal.”
The music changes and the crowd around us thins and then swells again, as people find new partners. Someone stumbles and stomps on my toe, but I don’t even turn. The band takes up a waltz again, and Darius and I sway in time. The bandleader calls out the name of the tune: “Down a Lonesome Road.” They played this one earlier. “What kind of deal?” I ask, and I do my best to hide my interest. I don’t think I fool him.
“I need to take back my earlier warning not to help anyone.” I manage a sidelong glance at his face. His brows are tense, pulled together over his hazel eyes. The playful smile is gone. “I have decided to help you, and that’s the reason I came and found you he
re. But . . . I also won’t lie to you and tell you that I changed my mind because I knew I was in your debt. I’m making an exception out of necessity, because you have transportation and I need it. We’ll both need it, at least in order to reach the next clue. So I’m willing to tell you what only I know.”
“You have the next clue—”
“Yes—”
“And no one else does?”
“Not yet.”
“And you’re willing to share it with me because I have the bike?”
I see in his tight expression that this isn’t easy for him. “Yes.”
“How do you know that no one else knows the clue?”
“Because once I figured it out, I made sure it stayed hidden.”
I pull away from him. “So I’m in this dance hall risking arrest, looking for a clue that can’t be found?”
“I understand your anger,” Darius starts.
“You don’t understand anything about me,” I snap. “Just tell me the clue.”
There’s a long silence between us. I notice a woman standing in the corner, pointing a fancy camera at my face. I turn my head. Darius says, “If I tell you the real clue before you agree to team up with me, I give up all my leverage.” I can’t help but wonder if, in his life before the race, he had reason to negotiate bargains. He seems to be experienced in maintaining the upper hand. “Once you have the clue, what motivation do you have left to help me?”
“Maybe the debt I would owe you for helping me? Not all people would leave someone who helped them with nothing in return. Wait. I take that back. You didn’t leave me with nothing. You left me with a warning. A warning not to help anyone.”
“I made a mistake. But I want to point out . . .” His eyes move to my face, and when his gaze meets mine, I turn my head away. He isn’t giving me enough room to breathe. “You didn’t exactly help me out of goodness, you helped me to set up an exchange. I’m just asking for that same thing now.”
Crown of Oblivion Page 9
