I blink twice. Had Greg been protecting me all this time? “Nico?”
He looks away. I scan the documents. “Wait a minute. You want me to marry Cal Sokolov?” It is unthinkable. Cal is the youngest brother of the family that owns Hologrid, a 3D-holographic social media platform currently in third place. The guy is a notorious playboy—no way is he looking for a ball and chain. Could his family be shooting him down the aisle in a power play?
“I see you’re getting it,” my father says, already looking bored. “If we merge with Hologrid, we can kick Malice Media and TimeGem Moments down the ladder—maybe to the ground.”
I have my doubts about that. Malice Media is owned by Thorn Beathach, whom nobody has seen for years. TimeGem Moments, in second place currently, is owned by Sylveria Rendale, who would like to see me in the ground after my fights with her daughters. I’d like to see her buried beneath a pile of concrete for her cruel treatment of Ella, her stepdaughter.
Staring at my father, I try to gather my thoughts. I barely know Cal. Sure, we’ve run across each other at various events, usually bar openings or society parties, and he might have flirted once or twice, but he flirts with everybody.
I glance at Nico, but he’s transfixed by the screen still lit with blue dots as if the answer to every question in the universe is before him.
How could my father think he has any say in whom I marry? We live in the modern age, and it appears as if I have everything, but my only usefulness to him is as a bargaining tool. That reality shouldn’t hurt me after all this time, yet my entire chest aches. “You have lost your mind.” I snap the file folder shut and push it toward him.
“Are you sure we can rise above third place and gain energy for Aquarius with a . . . well, merger?” Nico avoids my gaze.
“I’m sure,” my father says. “This is a done deal. Alana, sign everywhere you’re supposed to sign. You and Cal will meet tonight and make arrangements that will suit you both. We’ll announce the engagement at the Silicon Shadows and Secrets Ball next weekend.”
The ball is held every year to benefit several local charities. We always attend. “Dad, I—”
He continues as if I haven’t spoken. “The wedding will take place the following weekend. Cal’s mother is making all the arrangements, so all you have to do is show up.”
THREE
Thorn
The rain slaps my face and continues to beat against the city sidewalk, scattering used needles and smearing fresh feces. At least the deluge washes the blood off my neck and arms. It has been a rough night already, but I have another errand before we head to the nearest port to take control of a tech shipment that isn’t mine.
Yet.
I maneuver silently down what was once a bustling avenue full of sparkle and light that now has turned to grim desolation. I pass street after street of scenes that belong in an apocalyptic movie, not in real life. Reaching the far end of the current block, I stop at a dirty orange tent, flap billowing in the storm. Before I can grasp the zipper, Justice is in front of me ripping it open, his garnet signet ring flashing in the night.
“I’ve got this,” I mutter, crunching loudly on the burning mint in my mouth, hoping it deadens my taste buds long enough to navigate this night. I rarely let him accompany me, but my recent illness is making me slower, so I agreed. This time.
“So do I.” He reaches in and yanks out two bodies. I would call them human, but it would not be an accurate description. They are two gaunt forms, bruised red and purple, covered in needle scars, open sores, and scabs. They’re both male and could be anywhere from twenty to sixty years old.
One turns his head to the side and hacks wildly, shaking his skeleton-thin frame. Showing no mercy, Justice throws them up against the brick wall of a nearly vacant building. I hear a bone break. The first one somehow manages to shove back his greasy blond hair and glare. “Who the fuck are you, man?”
“I’m with him.” Justice jerks his head toward me.
Both of the wraiths turn and then visibly shrink away upon seeing my face. Or maybe it’s my eyes. I don’t bother to conceal the hatred rippling through my bloodstream.
“You’re Max and you’re Joe. Right?” I ask, nothing but death in my tone.
Joe, his head shaved clean to show all of the mottled sores across his scalp, gulps and nods. “Yeah, man, that’s us. Why? You need product?”
I lean in and regret it as the stench of their unwashed bodies envelops me. So far, the mint is working and I can’t taste their words. “No.”
Max tugs on his ear and blood flows down his arm. “We can get you girls, man. Is that what you want?” He sweeps a hand toward the many huddled tents across the street. “I can get you any age you want.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” I reply. Desolation pounds all around us. Every time I clean up a block, more human filth moves in. “I’m looking for your source.”
“The kids are five tents over.” Joe visibly relaxes and starts to twerk, even his eyelids twitching. The man’s body needs a fix. “You got money?”
The mint continues to blister the back of my tongue. “I have a lot of money,” I say, turning toward the tent. “How many kids do you have?”
“Right now, eight. Any age.” Max sounds triumphant.
I smile and enjoy when he tries to step back. “I’m not asking you again. I want your source.”
“Why?” He tries to sound tough but comes off as petulant. “I’ll get you any age or sex you want.”
I kick his knee and drop him to the pavement. Grabbing his greasy hair, I lean in while shoving my knife between his ribs. Low.
His eyes widen.
I pull out the blade and fresh blood covers my hand. “There’s something you should know, Max,” I say congenially.
“What?” He claps both hands over his rib cage as if to keep the warmth inside.
“I like killing people.” I crouch so we’re eye to eye. “A lot.” I figure I should be honest with the guy since he’s about to die. “You know why?”
Tears flow from his eyes and red snot drips from his nose. “Um, no?” He looks frantically around but Justice has his buddy against the building, and the smell of blood is thick in the air. “Why?” It’s like he thinks he can appease me.
“I’m a sociopath. Maybe a psychopath. Or who knows? Just the fucked-up villain of the piece.” I usually don’t spend much time thinking about it.
He presses harder against his wound. “Please don’t kill me.”
“You’re gonna die, Max. It’s a fact.” I study his breathing, which seems shallow. Maybe I nicked his lung. “But I can make it fast. Who’s providing you with kids?”
