by A. W. Cross
How could he answer that? With the truth? Or his suspicions? He chose truth. “I don’t know.”
She nodded, but the excitement had gone from her face. She looked pale and drawn and vulnerable, and again the desire struck him to push her back into the shuttle and leave. It would be so easy to let shining stars and sweet air be her memory of the night.
Too easy. This sweetness would be more lethal than the hornet’s nest he was about to take her into. This was all beauty, all good. She needed to see the ugliness in order to truly understand what was at stake.
“Are you ready? We can still—”
She straightened and smoothed her skirts. “I’m ready.”
He kept glancing over his shoulder as they made their way to the manor in which the ball was being held. At least it wasn’t within the city walls. That would’ve made it a lot harder to get Beauty in. She moved like a ghost through the countryside, a specter swathed in gold. He had to keep waiting for her to catch up, so easily distracted was she by even the smallest flower illuminated by shafts of moonlight.
And he…he was smiling. That was almost as surreal as what they were about to do. Are you sure you’re not dreaming? For a long time after his injury, he’d lingered in a gauzy dream state, warm and peaceful. When he’d finally awoken, it had taken him a long time to adjust to living again in the real world. Now, with Beauty floating over the grass, raising her hand in reassurance every time she spotted him, he could almost believe he was back there, straddling the line between life and death.
He shook himself. Get your head on straight. We’re almost there. You need your wits about you. The grass changed abruptly from weeds and wildflowers to the expertly manicured lawn of the manor. As he stepped onto the paved driveway, the great house loomed in front of him, a triumph of wealth and architecture. No one knew how old it really was. Not that it mattered to Grace Alpha. They’d gutted much of the inside, covering the timeworn stone with materials more suited to their modern tastes. Materials taken from the hands of those in The Vault. A tribute to their devotion they would never get to see.
He glanced back. Beauty was standing still, her eyes fixed on the manor. Was she going to back out now? Well, if she turned around, he would too.
But she didn’t. She stepped onto the drive and raised her hand to the locket. Catching his eye, she nodded once.
That’s your cue.
He approached the front door, the hair standing up on the back of his neck as it always did. Couples were walking through the open double-doors in front of him, and beyond them, the main floor of the manor appeared to be packed. It looked like almost everyone in Grace Alpha was there. Good. The more people, the easier it would be for them to blend in.
And for you to lose each other.
The man on the door inclined his head at Cillian. He’d been a soldier as well, though not of Cillian’s squad. But like him, he bore the marks. Under his mask, a long scar bisected his face, one side man, the other machine.
“Cillian.”
“James. Good to see you.”
“I’m surprised to see you. You don’t normally entertain these things.” There was no suspicion in his voice, just curiosity.
“I know. But I was given a hint that maybe I should make an appearance.” He shook the other man’s hand. “You know how it is.”
“Don’t I just. Well, it’s going to be a busy one tonight. If you find yourself at a loose end, feel free to join me out here. I know you can’t stand the crowds.”
“I may just take you up on that.” Gold flashed in the corner of his eye; Beauty had nearly caught up. “Well, I’d better go be seen.” He gave James a companionable smirk then stepped over the threshold. Almost immediately, he was swallowed by the crowd. Now to find somewhere he could keep an eye on Beauty. He scanned the room, searching for the best vantage point. There. On the stairs.
He’d just taken up his post when Beauty came through the door, followed by a low bow from James. Was it just him, or was there a slight hush when she entered? No heads perceptibly turned, but…how could they not notice her? She moved with a grace that far exceeded the other young women there. Years of scavenging in the most unlikely places had given her an agility that these pampered socialites would never possess. Although her head was held high, her eyes were cast demurely down, just as he’d instructed her.
It must’ve taken every ounce of her self-control. If she’d thought the night sky was opulent, what must she think of this house and the people in it? He wished everyone was gone but her. He could imagine her running from room to room, her exclamations of delight. But she would understand soon enough the rot this golden veneer covered. Indeed, she was already beginning to, if the tremors in her hands were anything to go by. Surely she’d seen enough to convince her he’d been telling the truth?
“Cillian. What an unexpected surprise.”
Damn. He didn’t have to turn to know the speaker. “Aren’t all surprises unexpected?”
The man laughed. Gideon Black. Cillian’s handler and a basic bastard.
“How are you doing? It’s been a while.” His onyx mask boasted a long, curved beak and gold-rimmed eyes. A cuckoo. A parasite.
“It’s been busy.” Cillian gestured to the crowd. “We’ve had a lot of requests.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about that too much longer.”
Cillian turned, trying to keep his expression neutral. Inside, his heart doubled its rhythm, and phantom pain tingled in his fingertips. “Oh?”
“Resources are getting scarce, as you know. I doubt we’ll be able to squeeze The Vault much longer. How long do you think? Until it’s stripped bare, that is?”
Gideon knew the answer as well as Cillian, so why ask? Cillian sighed. “About a month. With the exception of agriculture, of course.”
“Yes, that’s what I figured as well.” He tugged on the bow at his neck, pulling it straight. “What a shame. It was great while it lasted.” He bared his teeth at Cillian. “Oh, well. That’ll still give us enough time for the GA-85126 to be ready for deployment.” Androids were to take up the labor needed to support Grace Alpha, now that the sentient androids in the rest of Foxwept had been emancipated. They would continue to build and to serve.
“What will happen to The Vault? When it’s over?”
Gideon narrowed his eyes. “Does it matter?”
Do thousands of lives matter? “Just curious. I do live there, after all.”
“Not for much longer. Once The Vault is finished, your role there will be too.”
My usefulness, you mean.
“And then The Vault will be collapsed.”
“Collapsed? What about the people inside?” He couldn’t possibly mean—
“There are always casualties in war, Cillian, as you well know. This war needs to be finished cleanly, no loose ends.”
“Loose ends? Those are people, Gideon. People who’ve lived their lives on their knees so you can stand on their backs. They’ve been promised a future in return, a life.” At worst, Cillian had thought those in The Vault would be abandoned, the people released into the outside world despite Grace Alpha’s promises to give them a home—a fate that had already sickened him. But at least then they would’ve had a chance to build something for themselves, even if they had to scrape and claw their way from the bottom to get it. This…this was cold-blooded murder of the very people who’d made Grace Alpha possible.
Gideon laughed. “Why so melodramatic, Cillian? Where could they possibly fit in with Grace Alpha? With Foxwept Province? They were against us, remember? All this devotion you’re talking about wasn’t to us, it was to our enemy. They’ll get what they deserve. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Cillian’s mouth went dry. It was all he could do not to drive his metal fist into Gideon’s sneering face. How could the man be so merciless, so cruel? Those people, people like Beauty… The image of Beauty’s body—covered by a layer of gray ash, lying twisted and broken in the rubble of their home—flashed through his min
d. Would she call out for him? Or would she curse him?
It doesn’t matter. Because that’s not going to happen. Not to her.
The seams where his flesh met metal burned, mocking him and the deal he’d made with the devil before him. Over the roaring in his ears, he barely made out more of Gideon’s lies.
“…and anyway, you don’t have to worry. You’ll get what’s coming to you, as we discussed. A home in Grace Alpha, eh? Won’t that be nice. Retirement, at your age? I wish I was so lucky. And hey, you can settle down. It’s not like you’re short of admirers.” He nudged Cillian in the ribs and nodded toward the grand foyer.
More than one woman stared up at them, raking over his body with hungry eyes. And at the back, near the wall, Beauty. She gazed up at him as well, the expression in her eyes unreadable. As one of the women noticed Cillian’s attention had shifted from Gideon, she made her move, slinking up the elaborately carved staircase to where the men stood and running her hand over his cyborg arm with a lascivious slowness before standing on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. Whatever entreaty she made, he didn’t hear.
Beauty was gone.
12
Beauty was nearly blinded as she crossed the threshold. Never in her life had she beheld such color, such shininess. Everything gleamed—the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the people…even the food seemed covered with a glossy sheen. It was so different from the muted browns and grays and grime of The Vault that her eyes couldn’t make sense of it. A soon as she was able, she retreated to the wall, pressing her back against it for comfort.
The longer she looked, the more her eyes adjusted, and at last, she was able to truly see what was before her. She’d never seen anything so grand. It was just like the castles in her books, the vast room decorated almost entirely in gilt. She’d hadn’t known so many shades of gold existed. It covered everything, from the soaring, arched ceiling to the silver-veined marble floor. Even the walls were a textured gold that seemed to shift before her eyes. Had Cybel known when she’d chosen Beauty’s dress, hoping it would help her blend in? If so, it worked. Hardly anyone seemed to notice her, and she took the opportunity to stare.
Just off the main foyer was a large doorway leading to a ballroom, where couples dipped and spun, their masks and clothing a swirling, glittering myriad of rich color painful to look at. It didn’t seem real. She’d expected to see people at a party, of course, but the amount of wealth, the sheer flaunting of it was staggering.
In the corner where she stood was a large painting of a young woman reclining on a chaise, her face pale and wan but for two rosy spots on her cheeks. She was dressed all in white frills, and her hand was raised to her forehead as though she’d been caught in a swoon. Beauty knew the painting well. She’d recovered it months ago. In fact, if she looked closely enough, she could still make out the specks of blood on the underside of the frame where Red had touched it after slicing herself on a shard of exposed metal. She’d caught a fever from the wound and almost died.
Beauty hadn’t doubted Cillian, not really, but the painting was a fist to her stomach. All that time she’d truly believed that the rarities they’d been risking their safety for had been sold to other countries in exchange for aid, or broken down, or sent to the front as symbols of inspiration to the forces there. But no, here they were, just another luxury among millions, a momentary pleasure soon forgotten. Everything Cillian had said was true.
Cillian. Where was he? She’d promised to keep him in her sight. Beauty pushed herself away from the wall, her eyes scanning the cavernous room. There. On the staircase speaking with a man in a bird mask. Whatever they were talking about, Cillian didn’t look happy. His face was creased into a frown, his shoulders stiff. And yet, in his suit, with his silver hair falling over his eyes, and his cyborg hand gripping the rail, he was striking. His physical presence dwarfed the man next to him even though they were of a similar height. He seemed different here, among these people. He stood straighter, his head higher.
Despite what he’s accused them of, he can be himself here among them.
The Beast. But he wasn’t. That title belonged to the architect of The Vault. Was that person at the party? Was it the man standing next to Cillian? The air seemed to go out of the room then, and Beauty blinked, trying to push down the panic rising inside her.
Cillian. I need to speak to Cillian.
But how? She couldn’t go up to him. Could she signal him, somehow? She stared at him, willing him to look her way.
And he did.
But as their eyes met, a woman in a beaded violet gown slid around him, caressing him, up his arm, over his shoulder. She smiled into his face, pressing her lips to his ear. What was she saying? She certainly didn’t seem to consider him a monster. Just the opposite. Her hand left his arm and slid lower, and—
Beauty couldn’t watch anymore. Something burned behind her eyes, something new and fierce. She wanted to push through the crowd, grab the woman by the hair, and snarl at her, like a feral animal.
Get your hands off him. He’s— What? Mine? I barely know him. And I certainly don’t know him in this world.
She had to do something or she was going to scream. When had she gotten things so confused?
I have to get out of here.
But she couldn’t. She might not be able to find her way back to the shuttle. And then what? There didn’t seem to be any fighting going on, but who knew what else lurked out there?
Her gaze was caught by the buffet table and she made a beeline for it. If Cillian could tear himself away from that woman, he could find her there. If not…well, at least she could keep herself busy until it was time to leave.
The table practically groaned under the weight of the food on it. Meat, cheese, exotic fruits…and pastries. So many pastries. How do I even remember what one is? But the thought was drowned out the moment she bit into one, the crust flaking between her teeth. Heaven. But then The Vault crept into mind and the tart turned bitter in her mouth. She tried to swallow and nearly choked.
“Here, drink this.” A statuesque woman masked as a horned horse handed her a slim glass flute of something sparkly.
Unable to speak, Beauty accepted the glass and poured the contents down her throat, gasping as the effervescent alcohol burned all the way down.
“Better? Lura’s tarts can be a bit dry. Problem with her program, I think.” She gave Beauty a crooked grin.
“Thank you.” Beauty tried to cover her mouth as she coughed at the lingering sting. What must this woman think of her? Cillian had said to blend in, and here she was, choking on the tarts.
“It’s a lovely party, isn’t it?” her savior asked. Her gaze was oddly intense, and Beauty got the feeling the question wasn’t a simple one.
She straightened, brushing off a crumb that had fallen onto the neckline of her dress. “Yes. It’s very…luxurious.”
The woman’s scrutiny didn’t ease. “That’s a diplomatic way to put it.” She stepped over to Beauty and leaned in close. “Disgusting would be a better word, don’t you think?” Her gaze traveled over Beauty, lingering on the locket.
Was it a trick? What could Beauty possibly say? Of course, she agreed, but…this woman was one of them. What if she said the wrong thing? All she could do was stare back, like the rats she sometimes stumbled over in dark corners, their eyes wide in the beam of her light. She stalled for time, clearing her throat. “I—”
“Don’t be deceived by what you see with your eyes.” The woman glanced up to peer over Beauty’s shoulder. “Though something tells me that perhaps you aren’t.”
What does she mean—
“Excuse me? Could I have this dance?”
She turned. The man who’d been speaking to Cillian stood behind her, bowing from the waist as he offered her his arm. She took it gratefully; anything to get away from the other woman’s knowing look. But before she could step away, the woman hugged her, pressing her cheek against Beauty’s. “Watch out for that one,” she whispere
d. Then she was gone.
The man led her through the swirling crowd to the middle of the dance floor then clasped one of her hands in his and wrapped the other around her waist, drawing her close. Too close.
“I don’t think I’ve met you before, little rabbit.” The hooked beak of his mask curved over her shoulder, prodding her closer to him.
What did she do now? There was something about the man that made her skin crawl, something wrong. Cillian had told her to stay as inconspicuous as possible, and she’d blown it. But what could she have done? He didn’t seem like a man easily refused.
Stall. You’ll think of something.
“Oh?” She kept her voice low, modest. Hopefully he would mistake it for shyness.
“I thought I knew every young lady in Grace Alpha. And yet, here you are.” His hand tightened on hers; he expected a reply.
She had to say something. Cillian, where are you? But she didn’t dare look for him. This man was like a viper, a creature you didn’t take your eyes off, no matter how much your mind screamed to run the other way. Do that, and he would attack.
“I normally prefer reading to dancing.”
That seemed to amuse him. He threw back his head and laughed, too loudly. He pulled her even closer and smiled down at her, prompting the couples closest to them to grin knowingly as he bent to whisper in her ear.
“Are you sure? Does this not please you?” He closed what little space remained between them, the length of his body pressing against hers. The hair on the back of her neck prickled with an unpleasant heat, and she tried to lean away from him, but he held her so tightly it was as though her body was welded to his. A bead of sweat trickled down her back.
He spoke again, all playfulness gone. “Who are you?”
“I—”
“May I cut in?” Cillian appeared at the man’s elbow. The light in his eyes flared as his gaze passed over them.
“Must you, Cillian? I haven’t met this young lady before, and I have to say, I find her very intriguing.” His smile was friendly, his tone anything but.
