Beneath a Holo-Sky (Poison World Book 1)

by Lyn Forester

“How?” He flips his palm-port to check for tampering.

  With a shrug, her attention returns to the glowing screen in her hand. After another minute, she puts the palm-port back in her pocket.

  “There’s nothing new here. It just confirms what Newland already told us.”

  Drake, skimming his own file, has to agree. The record keepers should have more information, but it all appears in order. No reported incidents to draw attention, their proximity to each other being the only red flag.

  That could be a clerical error. Penned sits just on the edge of the sector, and the brothers originally planned to have one large den, if what Newland said was true.

  “May I take your orders?” The waiter who stops at their table could be a mirror of Tiffany, without the boobs. Same pinstriped outfit, same slicked back hair, same high collar and long sleeves.

  “I’ll have a whisky, old-fashioned.” Drake returns his palm-port to his pocket, a little surprised a server actually came to their table.

  The waiter smiles and taps the order into his tray before he turns to Reagen. “And for you, ma’am?”

  He expects her to ask about their GoGoNow products, so it comes as a surprise when she says, “I’ll have an apple glow bomb.”

  Drake glances at Reagen, brows raised, as the waiter makes a note and walks away.

  “What?” She demands.

  “No cherry flavor?”

  “I’m not obsessed.”

  He grabs the menu again, and her fingers twitch. He flips through to skim the selection, and a smile spreads across his face. “They don’t have GoGoNow. Or anything cherry flavored.”

  She snatches the menu and perches it back in the table’s center, making sure it tents at a perfect angle. The dim light makes it hard to tell, but her face looks red.

  “Are you blushing?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You are blushing!” He laughs, clutching at his sides as he gasps for air.

  The hands on the menu curl into fists as she glares at him. “I’m going to punch you.”

  “Probably.” He nods, accepting that at some point he’ll push her too far. “Don’t think I won't punch back just because you’re a girl.”

  “You shouldn’t give warnings like that.” She rolls her shoulders.

  “Seems only fair.”

  “You shouldn’t be fair.”

  “I’m strong, my halion blood makes me stronger. And I don’t hold back.” He rakes a glance over her. She doesn’t look like she could hit hard, all boney angles. “You’re strong, too. You gave yourself away at the Halls of Justice. Might be a fun fight.”

  She stills for a fraction of a second, and then her body goes loose, relaxed. The perfect amount of interest shows on her face. He tries to remember when the professional mask slipped off.

  “Yeah, it might be fun.” Her gaze drifts over him in assessment. “So why did Mr. Black pair up two people with halion blood to investigate this case? It seems like a bad assignment, considering humans are harder to poison with this stuff.”

  The question comes out of nowhere, but he expected it to come up at some point. “Mr. Black uses the best resources for the job. It doesn’t matter to him if it means we’ll be in more danger. He wants a quick resolution.”

  “That’s a tidy way of saying it. Have you been practicing?”

  “I’ve worked with him for a while now. I know the way he works.”

  “Do you, now.” Her head tilts to study him, as if a different angle will settle some puzzle in her head.

  Mr. Black was upfront with him when he told Drake what he wanted from Reagen. But the way she gazes at him now, he wonders if Mr. Black had a similar conversation with her. It would make sense for him to resolve multiple concerns all at once.

  Their drinks arrive before he becomes lost in that line of thought. A quick peek at the name badge confirms that Tiffany has returned to their table. She sets the order down, pinky cushioning the bottom against the table to prevent an intrusive clink as the glass settles, a motion of habit instead of courtesy. She frowns at their new table arrangement.

  “To place another order, move your glasses onto this panel.” A light touch highlights a circular panel in the table, closer to their new seats than design intended. They messed with the table’s function by moving the chairs. “This button will call a server. Payments are processed through your menu. The datband scanner is on the back.” She lifts the menu to show the black rectangle on the back. Red light flickers as it searches for a band to read before it goes dark again.

  “Would you like me to send an entertainer over? We have many skilled hosts available for the evening.” She smiles through the entire spiel as if she believes they can afford to be here.

  “We're still looking at the brochures.” Reagen lifts the egg-shaped container in front of her and gives the top a firm tap. The seal breaks, and green liquid disperses into the milky substance at the bottom of the cup, and glows. She glances back at Tiffany. “We’ll call if we find anything interesting.”

  Reminded of the brochure in his pocket, Drake retrieves it while Tiffany walks away, stiff legged with annoyance.

  “Are you really going to read it?” Reagen taps short nails against the egg, her side of the table illuminated a sickly green.

  “Why not? You took one. You must be curious.” He opens the pamphlet, surprised to see the number of items listed.

  “I took it as a reminder.”

  “Why? Is your sex life so boring you need an instruction manual?”

  Bite guards are listed next to condoms in the Protection and Safety part of the list, right below lube and soap. Hard and soft handcuffs, as well as blindfolds, fall under the Beginner’s section.

  Reagen remains silent, refusing to acknowledge his joke.

  His gaze lifts from a Party Fun description that offers a multi-partner room, with optional pheromones for a True Halion Experience. She scowls out at the people gathered, eyes shifting from humans costumed as halions, to the patrons they’re meant to entice. Pureblood halion men stand out from the human men and women, their vibrant coloring vivid with life instead of imitated through dyes.

  “They’re romanticizing the breeding pens. It’s wrong.” She turns her attention to the brochure in his hand, lip curled with disgust.

  “Places like this are necessary.” He shrugs and returns the brochure to his pocket. “They give halion men an outlet they don't otherwise have. There aren't enough halion women to go around. At least they can pretend here. And humans who can’t catch a halion man’s attention still get to play out their fantasies.”

  “Did you see that markings are in the upgrade section?”

  “If the human's willing to risk it, who cares?”

  That part bothered him though. Markings should be sacred between a bonded pair. But the breeders outlawed bondings years ago when halion birth rates dropped. Since markings are part of bonding, they forbade them, too. The breeders need a large DNA pool to tap into, in their efforts to find a solution to the halions’ fertility problems.

  Human marriages declined, too, one group leading the other. Now bonding is romanticized into the fantasyland of soul mates, and humans can’t get enough in their books and movies.

  But bonding exists on an animalistic level that deals with pheromones and instinct. When a halion male finds a compatible mate, the need to sink teeth into flesh can overwhelm reason. If the potential mate marks the male in return, the bond becomes permanent. Places like Penned help soothe the instinct and humans get to live out a fantasy.

  Reagen’s lip curls with disgust. “Do you really believe that? Breeding pens are horrible.”

  “It’s not our problem, is it? Halfbreeds don’t have to deal with that instinct shit. And breeders don’t care, because we can’t make babies to dilute their bloodlines.” Whiskey burns against his tongue as he takes a deep gulp. They gave him the cheap shit, and it scorches his throat as it slides down.

  “No, I guess not.” But she sounds u
nconvinced.

  “You’ve done a skin trade case, haven’t you?”

  She freezes, egg glass mid turn in her hands, before she gives a slow nod. “Yeah, a couple.”

  “It’s not real. They’re actors.”

  “Some of them are recorded illegally, in places like this.” A finger lifts from the table in a circular motion to encompass the room.

  “Yeah, and that’s when investigators like you are called in. You make those files disappear.”

  She shrugs, but tilts her head in the affirmative. “I’ve had to watch a lot, though, to find the ones I’m hunting. Stuff gets dark.”

  She looks sickened for a moment, like she might have nightmares from those cases. Like she’s worked more than a couple.

  “There's a market for dark.”

  “You ever watch them?” She watches his reaction.

  “Shit, no. I get laid enough without porn.”

  Her eyes widen, startled, then she snorts and lifts her egg cup to take a sip. “Yeah, I bet.”

  Mood lighter, he swigs his whiskey, glad to move past the topic. Dark corners encourage open conversation, not always in a good way.

  Shit got real there. “How long you want to sit here? It's boring.”

  “Yeah, I guess this isn’t the room where we’d see anything exciting.” The light from her bracelet reflects off the plastic masks on the table, and she considers them.

  “Please don’t say you want to sneak into the club’s right side.”

  The sound of glass striking a hard surface reaches his ears. Not loud, but out of place. Tiffany was so careful when she delivered their order.

  Reagen must agree. She leans toward him to see around the small group in front of their table. He scoots his chair over for a better view.

  Tiffany stands at a table two down from their own. Her head shakes in refusal as she tries to pick up the dropped glass.

  The Rothven man at the table takes the glass away and sets it out of reach. Then he slides a hand to the server's waist while he gestures to the staircase behind the bar. It must lead to the playrooms. She shakes her head again, but the man grips her wrist to keep her in place.

  No one pays attention to them, too self-absorbed in their own entertainment or simply uncaring. The other servers continue on with their jobs, eyes fixed forward.

  “Shouldn’t someone be calling the bouncers?” Drake surveys the room and finds no security in sight.

  “There aren’t any on the floor.” Reagen stands, glowing egg cradled in her hands. It highlights the smile on her face to make her look evil.

  Shit.

  “You know that’s a pureblood, right?”

  “Eh, he’s Rothven, the weakest halion clan. Most likely lower echelon.” She shrugs, unconcerned. “Not like he’s Troehan.”

  “He’s still genetically stronger than you,” he hisses at her back. She looks way too eager for a confrontation. “I’m not backing you up, here.”

  “Didn’t ask you to. Hold this.” She shoves the glowing, green drink into his hands.

  Closer to the pair, their conversation becomes audible. “Everything’s for sale here, so tell me your price.” Anger colors the halion man’s voice, not used to rejection.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not allowed to perform as an entertainer. It’s above my position.” Tiffany tries to pull away from the man, but his grip tightens, the cuff of her suit wrinkling beneath his fingers. She’ll have bruises later.

  He respects Reagen, a little, for intervening when no one else seems to care. But, come on, taking on a pureblood? He sniffs the drink in his hand. What's the alcohol percentage in this thing?

  “Tiffany!” Reagen steps up to the pair, appearing oblivious to their argument. “Is this the entertainer you told me about?”

  Startled, Tiffany’s expression turns to relieved confusion.

  “This doesn’t concern you, halfbreed.” The Rothven man shakes blue-black hair from his face, and light glints off luminescent skin. His vivid blue eyes rake a contemptuous glance over Reagen.

  “Oh, so arrogant. Just the kind of dominating brute I like. You do good work, Tiffany!” Reagen places a proprietary hand on the man’s bicep, gives it a squeeze. Her hand circles halfway around his arm. “Oh, I bet you’re strong.”

  “Get your hand off me, sterile bitch,” the man snarls.

  “It’s okay, ma’am. I’m trained to handle situations like this.” Tiffany turns bleak eyes out toward her coworkers, not expecting help, but searching anyway. Her gaze lands on Drake, her lip trembling.

  Shit, he’s gonna have to back Reagen up here. He sets her drink down, next to a delicious-looking basket of green rice balls. He ignores the glares from the table’s occupants. His hands need to be free.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Tiffany,” Reagen coos. “This guy knows how to get me going.” Her hand slides to his elbow. His fingers spasm and loosen their grip on the waitress. She stands there, not registering her freedom.

  Drake takes her arm and uses his body to block her from the halion. “Take a break. Get off the floor.”

  She turns bright eyes up to him, clutches his hand, and mouths a silent, “Thank you.”

  Shit, he didn't do anything.

  Behind him, the man grunts, and Drake hears a thud. He whirls, prepared to save his partner. Instead, he finds her easing the Rothven into his seat, propping him against the back of his chair. His eyes stare at the table, listless and confused.

  “How did you do that?” Drake demands.

  “I’ve got skills.” She raises her eyebrows at him. “Awesome skills.”

  The halion slides sideways, and she reaches over to tip him back in place. Suddenly, her bony ass is a little scary.

  She smiles like she can smell his fear. “We should go find the manager now.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Drake peeks back at the man, who stares into the distance with drool glistening on his lips.

  “You think he’s up those stairs?” She bounces on her toes, vibrating with energy.

  “I doubt it. He wouldn’t have his office on the same floor as the pleasure rooms.”

  She hums, swivels around to view the room from their new vantage point. The servers still avoid eye contact, though now it seems less resigned and more respectful. One of them might give directions. He doesn’t want to go back to Madam Healani.

  Reagen freezes, gaze fixed on the wall behind the bar, near the staircase. “Those are security guards, aren't they?”

  He follows her line of sight to the privacy booths. One with open curtains stands out with bulky men in black suits bracketing either side. “Yes, they are.”

  “We should go there.”

  “Yes, we should.”

  “Get out your magic card.”

  “Stop bossing me around.”

  “But that’s what bosses do.” She grins at him, too hyped up to pretend professionalism. The high from the fight buzzes through her. If that can be called a fight.

  “Game face time.” He hates to say it, sure this is the real Reagen, mask gone. He wants to see more, learn more, while she has her guard down.

  But they have work to do.

  She pauses and shifts, shoulders relaxing and expression smoothing out. It’s like watching another person take over her body. She gives him a nod, cool and professional. The change makes him a little sad. He could be friends with the other Reagen.

  The security guys see their approach and form a human barrier to block their path. Hands drop to hips, to hover over holstered psy-guns.

  One beefy man steps forward. The arms of his suit stretch at the seams, and veins pop from his neck. Dude shoots enhancers. He’d have to, running security in a club where a pureblood halion can swat him down without breaking a sweat.

  “Keep going, kids. Boss isn’t takin’ visitors today.”

  Drake pauses at that. He might not have graying hair like the man in front of him, but he’ll be thirty next year. He doesn’t look that young. And Reagen, skinny as she is, mi
ght pass for twenty, but it would be a stretch.

  He glances at his partner. She looks bored. The condescension slides off her without effect. Of course, she tossed insults at him all day. Maybe shit like this doesn’t bother her.

  She raises her brows at him, and he realizes the silence dragged on too long. The security dudes become fidgety. The one on the right unclips his holster, an inch of barrel now visible on his psy-gun. Dark orange light glows on the pummel. Heavy stun setting.

  “I don’t need an appointment to see Victor.” He waves off the growl from the guard for dropping the honorific and speaking with familiarity about his boss. “In fact, it’s an honor I’ve come down here in person and not had him called up to the office.”

  “What did you say?” Blood rushes to the guard’s face so fast his eyes bulge with the pressure. He unclips his holster.

  “What’s the problem here?” a smooth voice calls from within the booth. The curtain ruffles, and a man steps into view. His gaze takes in the scene, eyes lingering on Reagen a little too long, before they come to rest on Drake. His brow furrows in confusion.

  “This guy’s disrespectin' you, boss. I’m about to have him escorted out back.”

  The frown clears from Victor’s face in sudden realization. “No, that won't be necessary.”

  “But, boss, we can’t let this slide.”

  “It’s not disrespect when he’s in the right.” He steps around the guard, hand extended. “What can I do for you, Mr. Esten?”

  The security guard looks startled as Drake accepts the firm handshake. No struggle for dominance, a simple three pumps of the arm, then release. The shake of a confidant man.

  “May we speak in your office?”

  “Hmm, I'm embarrassed to admit it, but this is it for now.” Victor waves at the entertainment booth with a chagrined smile. “My office is under reconstruction.”

  The booth doesn’t look secure. Horrible place for a meeting.

  “I assure you, once the curtains are closed, it’s very private.” The den manager gestures for them to come inside.

  A small chandelier bounces sparkles of light off plush bench seats. Faux leather and overstuffed. High backs extend upward to the drop-down ceiling, cocooning the small space. Against the back wall, the triple-wide cushion allows enough depth for two people to lie down, if they want to cuddle. Above, a mirror hangs from invisible wire.