by Lyn Forester
The booth’s center offers an empty area to move around in. Rectangular end tables tuck off to the side, designed to hold drinks. The space can hold four people with comfort. When the guard pulls the curtain closed, the sounds of the club cut off.
Reagen goes to investigate, swishing the curtains a couple times to let the noise back in with a staccato beat. The guard's annoyed scowl flips in and out of view.
“Halion-made?” With one last swish, she steps away.
“Yes, imported with the help of Black Corporation.” He nods to Drake before he resumes his seat on the right. Slender legs folded, he adjusts the seam at his knee. “Was Healani not at the front to take your card? She should have escorted you here immediately.”
“It was crowded when we came in. She seemed busy.”
“My apologies for the inconvenience,” he murmurs.
Drake takes the bench on the left, avoiding the center one. The sex bench. Even if the cleaners come often, the thought of sitting there still makes him shudder. Reagen paces in front of the curtain. Three steps, turn, three steps back. She takes in her seating options, frowns, and paces some more. Not a lot of choices.
“Thank you for coming to my establishment, Mr. Esten.” Victor’s gaze follows Reagen’s movements, a quirked smile on his lips. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The way he draws out the syllables on the last word makes Drake’s skin crawl. Reagen settles on the left bench, at the edge, as far from Drake as possible while not sitting on the end table. She looks relaxed, but the fingers on her right hand tap at her leg.
Victor watches her, eyes lingering on her hair, face, and chest. She stills, leans back in the seat, and rests her hands at her sides.
Drake clears his throat to draw the other man’s notice. “It’s come to our attention that there was a break-in at your cousin’s establishment next door.”
“Yes, a week ago.” He blinks and drags his focus to Drake. “Did Troy file a report?”
“We had a tip from an outside source.”
“Oh, that’s unfortunate.” His gaze slips back to Reagen.
“So you thought Troy should report the incident?” He resists snapping his fingers for attention. What’s up with the guy?
“Hmm, yes.” He shifts, uncrossing his legs. “I’m sorry, we weren't introduced.”
In the silence, the bench creaks quietly as Victor stands and crosses the small distance to stop before Reagen. A tall man, her eyes are now level with a large belt buckle in the shape of an upside-down triangle, an arrow to his crotch. If she tries to get up, she’ll be chest to chest with the man.
“Forgive my manners.” Drake rises to his feet, crowds the man out of Reagen’s personal space. “This is my partner, Ms. Thorpe.”
“Partner, you say?” Victor’s lips tilt down at the corners, his shoulders slumping.
“Business partner,” Drake amends. The other man straightens, the frown flipping over to a bright smile.
“Enchanted.” Victor extends a hand, keeps it out long after it becomes apparent Reagen won’t accept the offer. At last, she stands, hands in her pockets, and gives a slight nod of her head.
“Nice to meet you.” The words push through clenched teeth. Her calves press into the booth to maintain as much distance between them as possible. “Why didn’t your cousin report the break-in?”
“Was your father Rothven?” His shoulder brushes against Drake as he creeps closer. She leans away from him, body bowed back toward the booth wall, lips compressed into a straight line.
“How many break-ins has your cousin had?” Drake moves closer to Victor to edge him away from Reagen and give his partner space. A quick sidestep takes her out of immediate range.
“Three, I think.” Victor swivels to follow her, a predator on the hunt. “Do you work for Black Corporation with Mr. Esten? I think I would remember your face on the upper level rosters.”
“Sit down, Victor.” Drake takes the man’s arm, squeezing tight like he hadn’t when they shook hands. He steps to the left bench, leans close to the man’s ear. “Ms. Thorpe works for Mr. Black and is here to perform a job, not be pawed at by you.”
“My apologies.” Victor adjusts his tie, clearing his throat. “A hazard of the business, I’m afraid. It’s hard not to see people as potential employees, and your partner would make an excellent entertainer.”
Drake releases the man and turns back to Reagen. Skinny legs, bony butt, chopped off hair. He doesn’t get what has Victor so excited.
“Let’s continue the conversation.” Drake moves to the right bench, takes a seat next to the curtain, his knee bumping the end table. Reagen remains on her feet until Victor settles onto the left bench and she can be sure he won't try to touch her again.
“Yes, you were asking about the break-ins.” He clasps his hands in his lap, tight to restrain himself. His fingers squeeze together until they become white with blood loss.
“Why didn’t Troy report the incidents?” Hesitant, Reagen takes the seat next to Drake, butted up against the sex couch.
Shit, he should have taken that one. Too late now, unless they want to perform an awkward shuffle.
“He’s worried the shop will be shut down during the investigation.” Victor recrosses his legs and adjusts the seam again so it stands out sharp from the pant leg. “He’s not making enough revenue to risk the profit loss, and the thieves only took candy. They didn’t get into the den’s aphremore supply.”
“Why not report it to Black Corporation? We would have kept the business open.” Drake smiles. “Black Corporation doesn’t like to lose credits.”
“Yes, that’s what I told him. But it’s such a gray area, breaking and entering. With the aphremore untouched, he worried the investigation would come under blue guard supervision once he filed the report.”
“Have you had any trouble in your business?”
“No.” He refolds his hands, right thumb now on top. Blood rushes in to turn the skin red. “Personally, I think it’s street rats looking for food. The Hut was an easy target.”
“Have any other businesses had break-ins?” Reagen pulls out her palm-port, tapping away at the screen.
“Not that I’ve heard.” Victor’s smile returns as he gazes at Reagen once more. Drake wants to smack her for drawing attention back to herself.
Reagen flips the palm-port so Drake can see the screen. Zoomed into their current location, tiny brown flags pinpoint all the places to eat around L4S9R4. Unlikely kids would break into an aphremore den and risk the wrath of Black Corporation with so many easier targets at hand.
Drake glances back at the club owner. “Does your cousin have any enemies?”
“Goodness, no!” Victor laughs, as if the thought is absurd. “Troy is the nicest person I know. I’m surprised he’s running The Hut and not working with welfare groups.”
“Why is he running The Hut? Didn’t you guys originally plan to open a shop together?”
“Hmm, yes.” Rings flash as he rubs at his ear. “That was unfortunate, but not surprising.”
“What happened?”
“When the time came to sign the paperwork, he didn’t have the tithe ready.” A sad smile. “I offered to front him the credits, but he’s proud and refused to accept.”
“How did he end up with the shop next door?”
“He purchased it a few cycles later.” He shrugs, unconcerned. “I knew the owner and was looking at it to expand my own club.”
“Didn’t that hurt your business?”
“There’s six floors above the three I already own. Someone will sell, eventually. I’m not hurting for clients right now.” His eyes shift between them, linger over Reagen, and then move back to Drake.
“Were there other buyers interested in the shop next door?”
“I’m sure there were. Real estate's difficult to find down here.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“No. You’d have to ask the previous owner. I heard he moved up a l
evel, after the sale.”
“Have you noticed any other suspicious activity around the club?”
“Nothing abnormal.” Fingers smooth over the corners of his mouth. “Although, now that I think of it… Well, I shouldn’t say. They’re just rumors.”
“Go on. We’ll verify all information.”
“Hmm, my servers have overheard clients whispering about new ways to double dose. Some method to get around the tracking system that links the dens.” His lips twist into a frown. “It’s not happening here, as far as we can tell, and anyone caught with their own vapor stem is blacklisted.”
“So no one's shown signs of blood fever?”
“No.” He shakes his head with a sly smile. “But most of my clients aren’t here for the aphremore den.”
“No, I don’t suppose they are.” Drake stands, moves around the low table to the curtain, ready to get out of there. Reagen pops to her feet as if on a spring. “We won't take up any more of your time.”
“Nonsense. I’m sorry I couldn’t help more.” Victor rises, too, eyes fixed on Reagen, and moves to cut off her escape. “Are you sure you’re not willing to listen to my proposal? You’d top the list in no time.”
“No.” Her eyes dart around the space, her exits blocked by Victor and the sex bench. Trapped, her breath comes faster. Her eyes widen in panic.
Drake’s hand brushes the curtain. “We’re leaving.”
“A little makeup, a different set of clothes.” Victor reaches out, and Reagen flinches away. The bench shakes as her calves slam into it. “A little pheromone spray and you’d have a wait list booked out into the next cycle.”
“Victor, she said no,” Drake growls.
The man’s hand darts out, slides around her waist to pull her close. She freezes. Still like a statue, her panicked breaths cut off mid gasp. Emotion slides from her face to leave a blank mask.
“Don’t touch her!” Drake lunges toward them, and his leg knocks into the table. He catches his balance as Reagen’s right arm flicks out to the side. A flash of white light, and a psy-gun slides into her hand.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
Drake kicks the table out of his way, and it careens into the curtain. Club noises flood the small space. Victor’s eyes widen in surprise as the barrel presses into his face. A quiet whine announces the lethal level is activated.
Drake shoves the man into the sex bench and knocks her elbow upwards toward the ceiling. “Reagen. He’s not worth the paperwork.”
He stares down into her eyes. Cold, indifferent, blank. A void without emotion. This is what she looks like before she kills.
“It’s okay.” He blocks her view of Victor.
“This place makes me sick.” The words sound dragged from her, like she has to relearn how to vocalize. The flat blankness of her eyes fade back into bright indigo. She glances at the space between them, breaths away from touching, and her nose wrinkles.
“Boss!” The guard flings the curtain open and freezes at the scene. Victor sprawled on the sex bench, terrified and disheveled. Drake and Reagen standing close together.
Drake’s gaze shoots to her empty hand, the psy-gun gone. He breathes a sigh of relief.
“Boss, you okay?” Hand on his holster, the guard steps into the small space, and it becomes claustrophobic.
“Yes, just a misunderstanding.” Victor sits up, straightens his tie, smooths out the wrinkles in his jacket. “What’s so important that you interrupted my meeting?”
“There’s a pureblood making a scene.” The guard’s eyes drop to the rectangular table, tipped on its side and halfway out the curtain. “He says some woman stole his datband. He wants compensation.”
“We’re on our way out.” Drake glances at Reagen, and she lifts her brows, professional mask back in place.
“Yes, thank you for visiting. Please come again.” But Victor stays where he is, pressed into the cushions.
Glass shatters in the main room, raised voices drowning out the quiet music.
Yeah, time to go.
COPPER ALLEY
When we exit Penned, dark streetlamps line the street, shut off for the night cycle. Overhead the holo-sky twinkles in Star-Light cycle. Cold air sweeps down the street. The weather crafters shut down the heaters at night to conserve energy and encourage citizens to go home. I didn’t realize we’d spent that much time inside. A few stores down, an empty sidewalk lines The Hut’s wall. People hurry past us, intent on arriving at their chosen destinations before Lights-Out.
I peek at Drake from the corner of my eye. So far, he remains quiet about The Incident, but I doubt he’ll let it slide. All day, I’ve teased him about controlling his emotions, and then I almost kill one of our suspects. I messed up in there.
Drake stops outside the double doors to glance around. A hand rubs through his blond hair, and he faces me. Here it comes.
“Looks like we’ve missed our chance to talk with Troy,” Drake grumbles as he stuffs his hands into his coat pockets.
I stare, surprised.
His breath makes little puffs in the air as he stares back and waits. Looks like we’ll ignore it. I’m okay with that.
“We can come back.” I slide my hands into my own pockets and feel the slick material of a datband. The pureblood deserved to be robbed, but now I don’t want it. With a sigh, I walk over to a functioning incinerator tucked between two buildings.
“Is that what I think it is?” Drake stomps after me, eyes on the silver band in my fingers. “You’re not throwing it away, are you?”
“Why not?” I raise a brow in question. My hand hovers over the incinerator, ready to burn someone else's life away.
“Yeah, the guy was an asshole, but he doesn’t deserve that.”
“Tiffany didn’t deserve what he would have done to her.” The band slides from my fingers to disappear into the burning red opening. I imagine it melted and feel a warm fuzz of happiness.
“Shit, that’s cold.”
“It’s an inconvenience. He can have it replaced.”
“Mountains of paperwork. He won't function for days.”
“I could have used it to hack his accounts and sold his living unit before he got home tonight.”
“Incinerating it seems reasonable.”
“I thought you might agree.”
“You some kind of vigilante?” He scrutinizes my face through narrowed eyes.
“Don’t mistake small revenge for altruism.” I laugh, the sound more bitter than I’d like. I’m tired from the long day. GoGoNow can only take me so far.
A cool breeze sweeps past, carrying the scent of pepper and burning leaves, the sour-sweetness of cherries. I lift my nose, turning to track the smell. An alley across the street.
Another gust adds the sharp, copper tang of blood.
“You hear that?” Drake faces the alley, too, head cocked to the side, ear angled toward the strip of darkness.
A bulky figure steps out of the narrow passage, shoulders hunched against the cold. A stocking cap covers his head as he glances around. When his gaze lands on us from across the street, he smiles and waves.
“Do you know him?” Drake unsnaps his jacket to remove an obstacle between him and his psy-gun.
“Nope.”
“Hey, you guys looking to party?” The stranger calls when he’s halfway across the street.
“What’ve you got?” I call back, pulse speeding up. This could be the break we need.
The man’s steps slow as he gets near enough to see we’re halfbreeds. “Oh, sorry, nothing you want. Maybe next time.”
He makes a wide U-turn and walks to the other side, head swiveling for better customer options.
“Might be Henley's stranger.” Drake’s elbow nudges me. “Lucky us.”
“I don’t believe in luck.” My limbs tingle as I survey the surrounding buildings and the few pedestrians on the street with us.
“Don’t be a spoil sport.” Drake hops off the curb and raise
s his voice. “We might be interested. What do you have?”
“Nothing, forget it, man.” The dealer waves a hand over his shoulder without a backward glance.
I follow Drake, taking a wider angle in case the guy runs for it.
“Don’t be like that. Halfbreeds like fun too.” Only a few steps away now, Drake keeps his pace casual so he doesn’t scare off the target.
“Look, man.” The dealer swings around and jumps, startled to find Drake so close. He takes two quick steps back to put distance between them. “What I got, you and your girl can’t handle. Go find someone else.”
“Let us decide for ourselves.”
I come even with Drake, a few paces away, and the dealer’s eyes skitter between us. His mouth slackens with sudden realization. “You guys aren’t druggies.”
He bolts, right through the space between us, and Drake reaches out, fists the back of the dealer's jacket. The other man stumbles, wiggles, and slides free of the bulky material. He finds his feet and sprints down the street, back toward Penned.
Blood throbs in my veins as I run in pursuit, the mint of his cologne in my nose. It leads me like a tether down the street, asphalt pounding beneath my shoes. Exhilaration for the hunt pounds in time to my heartbeat. I pull air in through my nose. It burns a cold path into my lungs, warms, and flows back out my mouth.
He swerves left, right, looks over his shoulders with wide eyes. The mistake of prey. Too slow, too patterned in his dodging. A red and white t-shirt covers his back, narrow without the jacket. Easy target.
He dodges left again, and I jump, knees slamming between his shoulder blades as he swerves back into my path. I ride him to the ground like a powerless disc-bike. He bounces, skids a couple feet. Stops.
“Good job.” Drake jogs up beside us, psy-gun in hand. “Burn off a little steam there?”
"Shut up." I brace my hand against the navy stocking cap and rise to my feet. The drug dealer gives a pain-filled groan. Stepping over his prostrate body, I nudge him hard in the side. "Get up."
