Tracked

by Jenny Martin

  So much is on the line. Much, much more than I ever realized. If I don’t perform or dazzle the press, I’m not the only one to pay the price. The rest of my team answers too. I didn’t give anyone else a second thought when I clocked Maxwell, and that can’t happen again. I have to protect the people who look out for me. Even if it hurts. “Where is Bear?” I ask.

  “I arranged a little reunion with his parents,” Benroyal says. “I’m not entirely heartless.”

  “Can I go with—”

  He clucks his tongue, as if I were a misbehaving child. “Out of the question. You will honor your commitments here.”

  He might as well have added or else. I should be glad for Bear, but the selfish part of me whispers and nags. “Is he coming back?”

  “Of course. He’s bound to me—and to you, Phee—by contract.” He crosses the room and stands before a pair of paintings, a rendering of two Biseran nobles. “But I’ll give his parents a few days. Just enough time to drain the venom and convince them this is for the best. It’s not that I couldn’t deal with them, of course.”

  “You leave Hal and Mary alone,” I half whisper, for once afraid to push too hard. My threats are nothing more than a reflex.

  Benroyal’s lips twist into something fiercely perfect, an angel’s smile, so cold and yet so stunning. “Careful now, Miss Vanguard. I’m in such a cheerful mood, but any more of your temper and I’m liable to void your contract. I’d hate to see you in custody again.”

  “Yes, yes,” Auguste says. “I think Miss Vanguard is a little vexed. We’re all tired.”

  “You may leave, Auguste.”

  “As you wish.” He bows, giving me a final warning glance before slipping from the room. “Good night, Miss Vanguard.”

  A swallow and a nod. That’s all I can manage in return.

  Benroyal turns and gestures at the two paintings, skimming his fingers over the first frame. It’s a portrait of a beautiful woman, draped in Biseran silk. “Do you know who this is?”

  I stare into her face. Dark eyes, rimmed with starlight. Their gleam matches the jeweled sparkle of her crown.

  “It’s Her Majesty Queen Napoor. Cashoman’s mother. It was taken from the palace, just after the war.” Benroyal raises his glass to the other piece, a painting of a scowling, spiteful-looking young man. The image doesn’t quite match its companion. The colors are muddled somehow. “I commissioned this one for the queen’s firstborn son, Prince Dakesh,” he adds. “Dak was very pleased to have his royal portrait painted over his late father’s canvas. And I was only too happy to help him erase the old king. Pity he was assassinated.”

  Anger boils in my blood, but I can’t answer him, not even for Cash. Not when it could cost me my family.

  “It’s just as well,” he says. “Prince Dak will make a fine king. Unlike his father, he does what I require and stays out of my affairs in the Gap.”

  I stare at the painting, into the dark eyes of a treacherous prince. One that Benroyal surely put into power.

  “How about you, Miss Vanguard?” Benroyal asks. “Will you do what I require?”

  For now, I tell myself. I force a nod.

  My silence seems to appease him. “Very good. I think we have an understanding. I will look after the Larssens as long as you play your role. Drive around in little circles, as it were.”

  “You won’t—”

  In one swift movement, he raises his free hand. I steel myself for a strike, but instead, he tilts my chin, unbalancing me with nothing more than smooth fingertips. “You will save your little protests for the feeds.” He delivers the threat so softly, a gentle purr that paralyzes me.

  He might as well have both hands around my throat. I have to buy an inch of breathing room. I need leverage.

  There’s only one thing I can think of, Benroyal’s one weakness. I can still hear her voice in the dark. “I met your wife.” I stare. Unblinking. Defiant. “Do your threats work on her?”

  For a second, I’m sure I’ve wounded him. But the soft flicker of pain in his eyes is gone all too quickly, replaced by animal rage. He is going to shout at me and sentence me to death. The wildest part of me roars: Do it. Kill me. I don’t care.

  Benroyal’s mouth twitches again, his perfect smile falters. For a moment, he studies me, as if there’s something in my face that intrigues and repulses him. “This conversation is over.” His hand drops and he stalks out of the room.

  I brace my back against the wall, letting the terrible shiver ripple through me at last.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I stand at the door, but I can’t bear to walk back into my new apartment. My flex buzzes. It’s James.

  JA: STILL IN THE GALLERY?

  PV: NO.

  JA: YOU ALL RIGHT?

  I don’t answer. I’m not all right, not by a long shot, but rust if I’m going to tell him that.

  He tries again.

  JA: ANSWER ME. ARE YOU OKAY?

  PV: I’M FANTASTIC.

  PV: WHERE ARE YOU?

  JA: UPSTAIRS.

  PV: GALLERY?

  JA: NO.

  PV: BENROYAL’S PENTHOUSE?

  A minute ticks by. No answer. He’s there. I know it.

  PV: I’M COMING UP.

  JA: DO NOT COME UP. I’LL CHECK IN LATER.

  Cursing, I shove the flex back in my pocket. If James thinks I’m going to be a good little girl and go to my room, he doesn’t know me at all.

  I turn to leave, but the bolts on Cash’s door snap before I have the chance to duck into the elevator. Bare-chested, he leans against the threshold to his apartment. Probably fresh out of the shower—his hair looks shaggy and wet.

  “Back so soon?” he says, relaxed and lazy. “How was the party?”

  I hesitate.

  “Are you going to just stand there?” he asks when I don’t come inside. In the low light, the gold-rimmed irises of Cash’s eyes wink like dying stars, black holes that could easily pull me in. His hair. His skin. He is all darkness, and I can’t stop myself from staring.

  There’s a voice in my head warning me to back away from this boy and all the trouble he’ll bring, but I take one step. My hands are shaking again.

  “Are you okay, Vanguard?” Cash’s voice is low and husky. He closes in on me until there’s nothing but a breath between us. I tilt away from him. The doors are still open—it’s not too late to leave.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” he says.

  “Benroyal . . . This place . . . I’m not myself.”

  “It’s safe. You don’t have to be anyone here. Not with me.” He grips my arm. If I look him in the eye, I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s so close, and I’m not sure if I want to shove him off his feet or . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . .

  When I face him again, he leans closer. I flinch, as if steeling up for a strike. But then I can’t stop myself. I push him, driving him backward across the room. He doesn’t resist until we’re in his hallway. There, against the obsidian gleam of the wall, he plants his feet and reaches for my arms. I attack first, gripping him by the neck and pulling him down upon me. I kiss him hard, inhaling the warm taste of his lips and damp clean of his skin.

  He is just as lost as I am; his arms hold me just as fast. One hand finds the base of my neck, and his other presses into the small of my back, fusing us from collar to hip. I feel the intense warmth of his body and the hard clench of his stomach against mine. Fierce and tight, this hunger coils between us.

  I can’t pull away, and neither can Cash. We are starving, inhaling quick gasps between kisses that blur my senses. Nothing exists except lips and teeth against feverish skin. His mouth on my neck. My shoulders. The soft underside of my wrists. Again and again, Cash returns to that tender space between my ear and my jaw. Only then does his mouth soften.

  I melt too. I relax and
breathe with him. We fall against the wall, both of us panting. I’m pressed against him, tangled in his arms. I touch Cash’s chest and feel the breakneck thrum of his heartbeat. Its rhythm is the unsteady run, the dockside plunge, the irresistible rush.

  Now that I’ve surrendered to it, guilt floods my system. I look into Cash’s eyes, but I see someone else. The boy I pushed away for wanting me the way I wanted Cash.

  What have I done?

  My fists curl against the smooth muscle of Cash’s stomach. I am a selfish, unfeeling monster, a traitor to those I love best. I shift, edging away from Cash, but his hands find my wrists. “Don’t go,” he begs.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I rip free, slipping toward the front door. My senses are drunk, my limbs are sluggish and unwilling, but I’m no less determined to leave. “I can’t do this.”

  Cash is just as quick to follow. Even as his eyes plead, he doesn’t try to block my way. “Is it me? Did I do something wrong? I thought you wanted me to—”

  “It’s not you,” I answer. “It’s . . . I can’t—”

  “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  He knows.

  “I’m sorry.” I drag myself out and through the front door. The pained look on Cash’s face nearly destroys me. He stands with open, empty hands. I know he’s wondering why he is not enough to keep me here. I can’t bring myself to tell him that’s it’s me. I’m the one who is unworthy.

  Cash doesn’t follow me. And I can’t be alone in this empty place. James is upstairs, in Benroyal’s penthouse, and like it or not, he’s going to let me in. The look on Benroyal’s face when I mentioned his wife was the only thing that rattled him. She’s somewhere up there, unstable and full of secrets, and I want to know why she came into my room.

  She tried to tell me something. Maybe it was nonsense gibberish. Or maybe those mad whispers in the dark are something Benroyal doesn’t want me to hear.

  In the elevator, I swipe the button for the top, the 213th floor. The second I touch the penthouse icon, it glows red, blinking on and off. An automated female voice answers in a monotone that’s both polite and terrifying. “Restricted access. Please authenticate security clearance.”

  My fingers twitch as I reach into my pocket, finding the corner of the stolen flex. I swipe it against the panel.

  “Welcome,” the voice says. “Gold Security Clearance. Surveillance deactivated.”

  The number turns green and I barely have time to stuff the flex into my pocket before the elevator stops again. I step out, scanning the hall for guards. And of course I find one. He stands beside the penthouse doors. Benroyal’s crest is inlaid from hinge to handle, every detail carved into solid gold. The lion seems to stare me down, its mouth open in a savage, silent roar.

  “Good evening, Miss Vanguard,” he says. There’s a waver of shock under the polite facade. Bet nobody comes up here without permission or an escort. “How can I assist you?”

  “James—Mr. Anderssen—told me to come up.”

  “No one said anything about that.”

  I shrug. “Call him. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled you’re wasting his time when he’s waiting for me.”

  The bluff’s a stupid gamble, but it’s enough to get me inside. Now I just have to pray James doesn’t toss me out before I sniff out what’s spooking his sister.

  The doors close behind me. The foyer’s yet another great hall, decorated with the same nod to a history I don’t know. Everything in this enormous apartment—every vase, every rug, every chair—looks like the last of its kind, so beautiful and forgotten.

  I’m halfway down the corridor when I hear a crash. It’s her. With her back to me, Benroyal’s wife moves behind the last open threshold. I didn’t get much of a look, but she had something in her hand.

  Voices. James. She shouts and he pleads. I can’t make out the words over the smash of more crystal, but it’s obvious she’s completely gone, unreachable in lunatic rage. I can’t see either of them now. His voice drops and she quiets. I creep forward, unable to stop myself. But when James appears in the doorway, his jaw slack with surprise, I freeze.

  Startled, I let him drive me back. He pounces—the tiger’s keeper, moving in when someone’s too close to the cage. But I wonder which of us is behind the bars.

  “I told you not to come here. How did you get in?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  I try to get around James, but he’s too quick “Don’t you move,” he snaps. “And stay out until I deal with this. Then I’ll deal with you.” He backs into the room. The door slams in my face.

  I’m pretty sure I know who he’s protecting now, and it’s not me or his sister. I backtrack, ignoring his orders to stay put. There’s no way I’m standing here like a scolded child when I could be snooping around. Back in the main hall, I spy another set of double doors. I flex my way in and turn in to a wide corridor. I stop at a stone archway. One look and I know this has to be Benroyal’s study.

  There’s a fireplace opposite the arch. Blue flames dance, wasting their sap-fueled warmth. Outside, it’s scorching hot, but King Charlie keeps the hearth fires burning, probably just for show. I step inside, letting the flex walls of Benroyal’s inner sanctum hem me in. Quick and quiet, I explore.

  The walls are crowded with interactive feeds screens—one touch and the images pop out, three- dimensional pictures floating in the air, ready to be examined, manipulated, enlarged. It’s almost impossible to focus with so much to look at—I’m not here to goggle at circuit trophies, but I’d be lying if I said the row of engraved Corporate Cups above the fireplace don’t turn my head. Instead, I fight the urge to drool over them and go straight to his desk.

  So many old books. Life of Alexander sits on the edge while another volume is open and waiting. I lean over, catching the title in the upper margin. The Glory of Rome: A History. I flip through it until a familiar illustration catches my eye. For the second time tonight, I see an image that mirrors the circuit track. A giant stone arena, carved to pack in thousands of fans. There’s a footnote under the pen-and-ink sketch.

  The Colosseum

  “The people that once bestowed commands, consulships, legions, and all else, now meddle no more and long eagerly for just two things—bread and circuses.”

  —Juvenal, AD 100

  I don’t understand Benroyal’s obsession with Earth’s history, but still my breath catches in my throat. I turn the chapter back, my ears pricked, waiting to hear something in the crackling of dead pages—the whisper of ghosts, the echo of the arena. The Colosseum. The circuit. There’s a connection between them, and I can almost read the link.

  I step away from the book. On the wall, a giant flex map draws my eye. It’s a floor-to-ceiling rendering of Castra, every ocean and continent vividly detailed in digital paint.

  As I run my hand from Mid-iron to the far western coast, more feeds and photos pop up—Benroyal’s factories, villas, fuel sap stations. I swipe to get a better look at my home, the city he all but owns. Capitoline, a three-dimensional grid of streets and landmarks, unfurls over the map. The second I reach out and touch the tip of the Spire, my pocket buzzes. I pull out the stolen flex, only to find it glowing with blinking text.

  SAFE MODE: ON

  DATA SYNC: OFF

  I can only guess this flex is a key card, a remote control for the room. I run my thumb over the SAFE MODE toggle, to switch it to OFF, but the flex asks for a passcode I don’t have.

  PASSCODE:

  _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

  I’m not risking a wrong answer. It’s only when I turn to leave that it occurs to me. The fragile creature in the dark, trying to give me this card . . . You have to remember. Remember it’s . . .

  Sweetwater.

  I text the letters into the blanks. Before I can react, a smooth Pallurium door slams into place, closing the archway. The shock and noise is
enough to unbalance me. As I teeter against the edge of the desk, the blue flames die and the lights dim. On the walls, new images flicker into place, filling every screen. I gasp at the pictures. This isn’t Benroyal’s study.

  It’s the devil’s war room.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Safe mode might have cloaked this room’s secrets, but now I see them all in the silvery dark. The news screens are gone, replaced by surveillance feeds. All around me, I stare at IP soldiers patrolling refinery fields, aerial shots of buildings, hundreds of other satellite streams. In horror, I recognize one of the feeds—there’s a camera trained on the back door to the Larssens’ clinic. I whirl and scan the rest, looking for a shot of their apartment, but thankfully, I see none.

  Benroyal’s watching everything—our planets, the cities, the Mains. When I touch the Spire again, gleaming red lines ripple out over the streets, crisscrossing Capitoline and beyond like infected veins. I press my fingers against the grid to see what lifeblood pulses at our feet. My breath catches at the answer, what Benroyal’s wife tried to tell me.

  They cook it themselves.

  Black sap. Thanks to Benroyal, the drug flows everywhere, carried by his own transport rigs. Screens pop up over the mapped routes and show me everything happening from here to the Gap. Benroyal’s refineries. His labs. They aren’t just handling fuel. Live feeds show pipes spewing murky, scorched liquid into vials. Workers in hazmat suits carry trays and boxes, loading the drug into interstellar vacs.

  Ships headed for Castra.

  I trace the lines on the maps and press my thumb against the web of tangled intersections. Benroyal has distribution centers all over the place, and most of them are pushing black sap right through Capitoline. I try to take all the images in, but there’s so much more, hundreds of icons and flex documents—lists of dealers, distribution orders, import manifests.

  It’s easy to connect the dots when the pictures spiral out in such straight and terrible lines. Cash’s people aren’t to blame for the black sap trade. While we’re busy pointing fingers at Cyanese “terrorists” and Biseran dealers, Benroyal is hard at work. He takes the dregs of his own fuel sap, and instead of destroying it, he’s running it straight through the heart of my city. No wonder the DP aren’t making that many drug arrests. Benroyal Corp pays them well enough to make sure they don’t.