by Lyn Forester
We stop in front of the elevators and the doctor steps forward to scan her badge before pressing the call button.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” The doctor’s quiet voice breaks through the tension, echoes once, and falls flat.
“Can we look at her personal effects?” I shove my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels, eager to be off this floor. The sanitarium has a vibe that crawls beneath my skin. Silence presses in on all sides with the weight of soundproof walls.
“I’ll have her box brought to the front desk, where a security guard can assist you.” The elevator door slides open, and she gestures for us to go ahead of her. “I’ll see you down, but then I need to get back to my rounds.”
I resist the urge to spring forward. Instead, I wait for Drake to step on before I join at a sedate pace. The doctor joins us and once more scans her badge before pressing the button labeled Lobby.
“Has anyone come forward to sponsor Miss Saline?” I ask as the elevator begins its descent.
“Not so far, but she hasn’t been with us long. If you’ll just give me a moment.” The doctor pulls out her palm-port, presses a key, and holds the device to her ear. After a moment, she says, “Please have patient 451A’s personal possessions brought to the front desk.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
“How are the patients designated?” I watch the doctor adjust the clip on her badge, fingers twitchy, but I resist the urge to lift it off her. If we need further access to the sanitarium, I’ll get it by other means.
“By floor level, entry number, and ward. Margie is patient fifty-one in the new aphremore ward.” The doctor’s lips fold into a micro smile. “It makes it easier to process their rehabilitation.”
“Is there a high success rate for blood fever recovery?” Drake paces in front of me, just as eager to be done.
“We don’t have enough experience with the effects of aphremore overdose to have a statistical success versus failure rate.” The doctor’s eyes narrow with censor. “Black Corporation is usually more diligent at monitoring their supply. I hope they handle the situation quickly. We’d hate to have to make a permanent ward to treat blood fever cases.”
Drake tenses, back rigid with anger. Is he upset about the slur against his boss, or the distributor that put Ash on the street? Either way, the doctor’s right. Black Corporation takes extreme precautions to regulate aphremore and make it safe for humans to use. The recent Ash distribution is another matter entirely. Someone has taken the pure liquid drug and powderized it for dirty distribution on the streets, with zero concern if buyers overdose.
Somehow, a halion employed with Black Corporation came into contact with the drug. Highly dangerous for halfbreeds and deadly for purebloods, his death brought Drake and me together.
I owe fealty to Mr. Black as my representative in Roen. Without his company’s sponsorship, I wouldn’t be able to do my job with Investigators, Inc. In five years, this is the first time he’s chosen to pull my strings so hard.
Saddled with an unwanted partner, we’ve been tasked with locating this distributor and putting a stop to it before the situation gets out of control. Unfortunately for me, this case can get me killed. Slightly less endangered as a halfbreed male, Drake at least accepts the increased mortality risk as part of his job with the mob. I had no way to refuse.
The chains rankle.
“Thank you for your time,” I murmur as the elevator comes to a stop. The doctor scans her badge once more, and the doors open.
“I’m glad to help. Knowing someone’s hired an I.I. rep to look into the problem gives me hope.” She reaches out to shake my hand with a genuine smile. Her cool palm presses against mine in a firm grip. Then she turns to Drake and extends the same hand. For an instant, his eyes widen in surprise before he accepts the offer. He must have forgotten she thinks he works for Investigators, Inc., too.
With a last goodbye, the doctor steps back into the elevator and leaves us behind.
The hallway only leads to one place, and the security guard is already waiting for us when we step out into the reception area. A plastic tub sits on the counter next to him and he holds a clipboard.
“You the ones wanting a look at patient 451A’s stuff?” The halfbreed man, slim in his uniform, glances over me before he takes a slower assessment of Drake, deeming him the more dangerous person.
One halfbreed to another, natural strength gets cancelled out and time at the gym starts to count more. This guard doesn’t look like he spends a lot of time building muscles, relying too much on the natural advantages inherited from his halion father.
“Yes,” I answer as I slide in front of Drake, limbs loose at my side, shoulders relaxed.
The guard is stupid to disregard me just because I’m a woman. But it’s good to be underestimated. I stop in front of the container to peer through its milky plastic.
“You need to sign before I can open it.” The guard holds the clipboard out to Drake even though I stand closer.
Drake takes the clipboard and scrawls his name across the line at the bottom, and I’m glad they use such an antiquated system. A datband scan would have labeled him a Black Corp employee in an instant. It shouldn’t matter, but the doctor’s unhappy with his employer right now. No need to see if the guard shares the same distaste.
“Do we both need to sign?” Drake steps up to my side, clipboard extended.
“No need.” The guard intercepts him, takes the register sheet back, and places it on the counter out of reach. Like I’m desperate to put my name on it. Asshole.
He grips the lid of the container, snaps the locks open, and lifts it away to reveal the contents.
Or lack of contents.
“Where are the rest of her belongings?” I blink, but the view remains the same.
“Blue guards took them as evidence.” The guard shrugs. “When they were done, this is all she had left.”
In the bottom of the bin, a yellowed pair of underwear lies, broken elastic sticking out of the band.
Drake scrubs a hand over his face, stepping away in disgust. I linger a moment longer, as if sheer denial will make the contents change.
“Thank you for your time,” I say at last as I move to join my partner.
“If you need to take another look, just let the front desk know.” The guard smirks as he snaps the lid back in place.
We sign out at the front desk, collect our weapons and my satchel, and head toward the entrance. A pair of cuffs dangles from the bar on the wall, empty. On our way in, they’d had a pureblood Rothven man locked up in the hall. The site of him had come as a shock. The halion-run white guard takes care of its own people. He should never have entered Ripfield Sanitarium. Drake had encouraged me to report him to the white guard’s anonymous tip line.
Now, only the halion-reinforced cuffs remain behind. They no longer glow, the magic in them inactive without a prisoner. Relief fills me, glad the white guard came to collect him before we had another run-in.
I pause at the cuffs to give them an experimental tug before leaving them to swing.
“What, you want them?” Drake teases.
“Yeah.” I glance up to meet his surprised stare. “I haven’t been able to get my hands on a live set.”
“I have a pair.”
I blink at him, unsurprised and trying not to visualize what he uses them for. “Of course you do.”
“I’ll trade them to you.” He heads toward the door.
“For what?” I stretch my legs to catch up so we exit the building together.
“Let me think on it.”
I stop at the curb, hands on hips. “What’s to think about?”
“Well, I’m pretty fond of them.” His smirk confirms my suspicions. If he trades them to me, I’ll need to sanitize them. Twice. “And they’re not easy to come by. I’ll need something equal in value.”
Since I haven’t been able to acquire a pair myself, I can’t argue. Blue guards sign their cuf
fs out, and not even my status as an I.I. agent qualifies me to carry a pair.
Unlike Drake, I want them for professional research.
If I’m ever in a situation where I find myself bound by them, I want to know how to get free. Standard issue cuffs are child’s play, but the halion-designed ones suppress the natural strength and speed of anyone with halion blood. The locks on them won’t be simple.
Not that I ever plan to be on the wrong side of the blue guard. But it’s good practice to prepare for all eventualities.
Just part of what makes me awesome.
I glance up at the holo-sky overhead. Fluffy, white clouds drift across a vibrant blue sky. Ripfield took a while, first in the trip down to Level 5, then in our wait while they located a doctor to escort us around. We’re further into the Day-Light cycle than I’m comfortable with.
“Tell me about the man Margie saw,” Drake demands as he stops by my side.
I cut him a glance from the corner of my eye. “Is that what you want to trade for the cuffs?”
His brow furrows as he studies me. “So the information is valuable to you.”
“I didn’t say that.” I allow my lips to form a smirk. “Is it that important to you?”
“I bet you’re good at poker.”
“You want to play some time?”
His head tilts. “Would you tell me if that’s what I wanted in trade?”
Would I trade information about March? No. Not even for halion-suppressing handcuffs. “Let’s head toward Pink Skirt Motel.”
“That’s a clumsy topic change.” He gives a real smirk. “That means it’s important to you.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Or do I just want you to think it’s important?”
His face morphs into a scowl. “So, Pink Skirt Motel?”
The next stop in our investigation will take us back to the case I worked right before Mr. Black called me in. The skeevy, rent-by-the-hour motel will allow us to pick up the signal from my surveillance cameras across the street at a local delicatessen. We hope the footage they contain will give us insight into what happened to Clark, one of the men found dead of Ash overdose. I recognized him as one of the customers at the high-class delicatessen my target frequented. At the thought of food, my stomach rumbles, and I pat my pant leg, sliding out a Bell-E Up bar.
Drake eyes the meal replacement bar in my hand. “Aren’t we stopping for lunch?”
“This is lunch.” The metal tang of minerals and sour cherry burst out of the wrapper as I tear it open.
“This is not a meal.” Quick fingers snatch the bar away. “Why don’t you eat real food?”
“We’re in a hurry.”
“Since when?” He takes a bite and half of it disappears into his mouth. My new partner is a bottomless pit.
“Since the weather crafters could decide to turn on the cleaning cycle early.” I pull out a second Bell-E Up. Good thing I have a pocket full of them or things might have just gotten violent.
“Okay, this time, sure.” He polishes his off and waves fingers at me in a gimme gesture. I slap another Bell-E Up into his hand. The freaking glutton. He swallows and unwraps the new bar. “But what about every other time? Why don’t you eat normal food?”
“Maybe I’m on a diet.”
“You need to stop. You’re way too skinny.” His eyes rove over my body, appraising. “But that’s not the reason. So what gives?”
I take a bite of gummy paste, chewing slowly. In the street, a disc-bike rumbles past, quad-rings of energy dim in the brightness of Day-Light. Once it passes, we’re alone again. A strange feeling for the middle of the day. Ripfield isn’t in a business district. There should be more people out and about, especially on a weekend. The seclusion rubs at me, makes me want to find a crowd to get lost in.
I finish my bar and Drake still waits, shocking me in his show of patience. There’s no value in the information. No reason to share, no reason not to share. Except that his curiosity will make him ask again. Which could be annoying.
“I have a high metabolism and food’s expensive, so Bell-E Up is an easy solution.”
“But Black Corp is comping our meals. You can splurge right now.”
“But I don’t care about food. It’s necessary, but it wastes time.” His mouth tips down at the corners, brows coming together as he tries to wrap his brain around the idea. “And if I’m eating it, I want to know where it came from.”
“So that’s why you didn’t eat with Mr. Black? That was some rude-ass shit you pulled.”
“Did you eat the sandwiches?” I watch his face, catch the shift in his eyes. “You did, didn’t you? Drank the tea, too, I bet.”
“What’s wrong with that?” His arms cross over his chest, chin rising.
“Do you know how many people want Mr. Black dead? That’s not rude; that’s self preservation.”
“We have top-level security. Mr. Black is safe in his own office.” His frown morphs into a full-on scowl.
“Oh really. How’d the last Mr. Black die?”
“No idea. You?”
He’s lying.
The muscles in his face tense, going hard, and his lips thin into a narrow line. His eyelids twitch as if he wants to blink and is resisting the urge.
From what I’ve heard, the change in power took place in one night, coordinated and blood filled. By morning, a new figure sat as the Mr. Black of Roen, and business continued as normal. The exact details are kept quiet, a safeguard against future coupes.
He’d been in power for four years when I arrived in the city, in the clothes of his would be assassin. I’d used the purloined schematics to my best advantage and gained the right to become a registered citizen.
When the next assassin arrived in Roen a week later, Black Corporation’s new security measures thwarted him before he even left the landing docks.
I hadn’t guessed Drake was around before that time, but his closed expression speaks of intimate experience, active participation in the current Mr. Black’s rise to power. Mentally, I add levels to his value in the corporation. A line of danger exists, where life and death are balanced by knowledge, and I stand at the edge of it.
This curiosity isn’t worth dying for.
I blink, a brief veiling of the eyes to break contact, and glance at the street. “We should go.”
Nice and controlled, I reach into my satchel and pull out my disc-bike, a plate-sized, metal disk. A press of the button on top releases the lock mechanism inside and the top and bottom separate, held together by a central rod. A moment later, Drake joins me at the curb. His heavy steps vibrate the ground at my back, and I keep my muscles liquid, shoulders loose.
From inside the disc, I extend the body shaft and snap the handlebars into place. I hold it at waist height, pressing the power button. A comforting buzz of energy fills the air as three glowing orange wheels spin to life.
Drake’s higher-tech disc-bike unfolds to my right in a burst of yellow light. He swings a leg over, hooks his heels in the drop-down stirrups, and wraps his hands around the directional lever between his legs.
He turns to look at me, the smile on his face stiff. “Wanna race?”
“Sure.” My own smile feels forced, but I’ve practiced it often enough to know it comes off natural. I swing into my seat, get my feet anchored in the wired stirrups, and air whooshes past me as Drake takes off.
“Asshole!” I yell at his back as he shoots off down the street.
His bike nears the end of the block as I bend my legs, the stirrups ratcheting up toward my butt, and activate the boosters. The rings spin faster. I drop low over the handlebars, opening the energy valves. My bike leaps forward, and wind whips against my face as I shoot after him in pursuit.
~
“It doesn’t count as a win.” I finish dismantling my disc-bike and return it to the satchel at my hip.
“Don’t be a sore loser.” Drake clips his own, much smaller, disc-bike to the back of his belt. He smooths a hand over wind-ruffled,
blond hair and the short locks obediently shift back into place. Asshole looks ruggedly well groomed again. Magazine quality.
“You cheated.”
“Duh. That’s why I’m the winner.”
I had him at the last turn, but unexpected traffic in Sector 4 slowed me down. He got a lucky break and slid between two transport trucks, through a gap too small for my tri-ring to follow. I comb tangles out of my hair, glad I keep it short.
“So you admit you only won by cheating.” I point a finger at him.
“You just agreed I won.” He hooks his thumbs in his pockets, rocking back on his heels so he can stare down his nose at me. A smirk twists the corners of his mouth.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.” Eyes narrow, I tip my chin up but he still has a few inches on me.
“I want sweet rice.” His smile spreads to a full-on grin.
“Fuck no.”
“With strawberry syrup.” He smacks his lips as if already tasting the imagined treat.
“Who says you get a prize?” I huff, irritated.
“The winner does.” His hands come up to form loose fists at his waist, moving left as his hips shift right, then going the opposite direction. Shoulders and feet join the dance. “Drake’s a winner, Reagen’s a loser. Drake gets prizes that Reagen buy-zes.”
“That’s not a word.” He continues his shuffle dance, singing louder. “Shut up before someone calls the blue guard on us.”
He pauses mid arm swing. “Sweet rice with strawberry syrup?”
I glare, and he swings his arms left, hips moving right. He won’t quit until he gets his way. “Fine. Just stop dancing. It’s embarrassing to be seen next to you.”
We’ve gathered a small crowd of onlookers, most of them women. And as ridiculous as Drake looks, his magnetic personality blinds the majority of them.
“Being seen with me is a privilege.” He shoots a smoldering gaze at an enraptured woman who sways forward on her toes.
“Ugh.” I don’t get the draw. “This does nothing for your ego.”
“This does everything for my ego.” It comes out in a rumbling purr, and the woman stumbles forward a step, a helpless victim of the attraction vortex.
