After a few jerky accelerations and stops, I start cruising through the deserted side streets. Compared to a mag, the char is clunky and a lot less fluid. But I like feeling the earth underneath the wheels. The movements vibrate right into my seat, and the car engine hums beneath my fingertips as I steer. I hit the accelerator. The surge forward pushes my body into the driver’s seat. There’s no magnetic magic here, just the realness of the road and a machine.
Damn. I think I like driving chars.
Before long, we’re in the club district. A few glowing signs issue from different buildings, and there’s music thrumming from close by. Clusters of young people gravitate toward the lights. I pause at an intersection.
“Which one?” I say.
“That one.” Hex, Vera, and Wilbert simultaneously point to three different destinations.
“We’re going to this one. It’s the only one we can pay for,” Hex says, pointing to the most decrepit-looking building. Vera pouts her disappointment and Wilbert turns white. Lovely. I park the char behind a half-demolished building with a roof blackened from fire.
We head for Hex’s choice, an old warehouse down the street with a faint green glow coming from the floor-level windows. It’s a boxy monstrosity of metal and glass that resembles a broken machine from Wilbert’s workroom.
I notice Cy is hunched over, sweeping his eyes across his left shoulder, then his right. He’s a walking advertisement for paranoia.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“This is a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come.”
“Ah, but you did,” I say playfully. He answers me with a glare.
We shuffle closer. Vera ends up using me as a human cane, since the rubble on the street keeps tripping up her heels. Before long, we pass a decaying metal sign that reads MARGE NATHAN MEATPACKERS, INC on the fence surrounding the club. People huddle around the entrance, sporting hairstyles that resemble extinct animals. Above the rectangular arch of the doorway, only a few of the letters in the company name remain, underlit by the glow of a single white light.
arge N t
“Argent,” Cy murmurs. “Argentum. Silver.”
“You speak Latin?” I ask, impressed.
“No, I speak the periodic table of elements,” he answers, deadpan.
“Oh! We’re going to Argent? This place is new! I’ve heard some sick stuff about it. Okay then!” Vera shuffles to the entrance and we follow her.
“How are we going to pay to get in if we can’t use F-TIDs?” I ask Hex.
“Lots of clubs take alternate forms of payment. Here, I’ve been collecting these from our scavenging expeditions.” He pulls out a fistful of glistening metal and hands everyone a portion. I touch my cold, tiny handful, consisting of a few old rings and a broken necklace. Vera’s got two spoons and Wilbert, a tarnished gravy boat with a handle barely attached. He breaks off the handle and pockets it.
“Silver? What is this, a gigantic pawn shop?” I say in wonder.
The doorman, a hulking man wearing a black mask, takes Vera’s offering of precious metal. One by one, we each pay for the hope of something inside.
For Vera—a kiss, maybe more. For Hex and Wilbert—a night to be normal. For Cy—I honestly have no idea. And me? I hope that silver just bought me a little bit of truth, and with it, a step closer to Dyl. I force a deep breath inward and let the darkness suck me forward.
I’m here, Q. Come find me.
CHAPTER 12
OUR EYES GRADUALLY ADJUST TO THE DARKNESS. The music pulsates in my head and chest, right down to my knees. I wonder if it could do the breathing for me if I let it.
Wicked six-foot meat hooks glide on a track under the corrugated metal ceiling, almost touching the heads of the dancers. Once in a while, an exuberant club-goer grabs a hook and floats through the throng of people. Live meat on display for everyone to grope.
“All right, everybody,” Hex yells over the music. “Be back here in two hours.” He switches on his holo. I’m surprised to see everyone wearing one, for once. “Set repeating alarm transmission for two hours, Wilbert, Zelia, myself, Vera, Cy. Vibe and level eleven sound.”
“Two hours?” Vera whines. She’s already scouted out a group of people nearby, eyeing her like she’s the newest appetizer on the menu.
“Yeah, two hours. Curfew is in three hours, and we need time to get back home in that piece of junk.”
“Hey!” Wilbert protests.
“Two hours.” Hex gives us all a stern look.
Before I can say “Okay,” Vera is gone, her dancing form half obscured by the crowd. Only thirty seconds go by before a tall, handsome, bare-chested guy has his hands on her hips.
“Am I going to have to babysit her?” Hex growls. Vera’s shimmying her vinyl chest at her dance partner. Geez. I can’t watch this either.
“I’m getting a drink,” Wilbert says, pulling the gravy boat handle out of his pocket and pushing his way to the bar. Cy hangs back near me, throwing suspicious glares at everyone around us.
“You think Wilbert will get twice as drunk on a glass of booze, or half as drunk?” I holler at Cy.
“Huh?” He’s peering into the dark, as if searching for someone. His inked mask makes me think he needs to be in a Venetian ball, not a slaughterhouse rave. A stunning, skimpily dressed girl approaches Cy and rubs his chest. He shoves her away, irritated.
I secretly smile. Still, I can’t spend the night watching Cy. It’s time for me to start my search, so I slither forward into the crowd, thinking the bar is a good place to start. Wilbert’s parked himself on a barstool, holding a cordial glass filled with half-green and half-silver liquid, spiraling continually. Several feet away, I squeeze into an opening and motion to the bartender, a girl with a shaved head and three pink metal rods impaling the bridge of her nose.
“Excuse me, do you know anyone here named Q?” I say.
“Drinks first, questions later,” she barks.
“Okay, I’ll take one of those.” I point at Wilbert’s glass. She ducks beneath the bar, emerges with an identical silver-green drink, and then waits.
Oh. I have no silver left. Maybe Wilbert has some more. I look over, but he’s already gone, his glass empty. The bartender’s face grows increasingly pissed off as I search my outfit for nonexistent metal.
“I’ll take care of that.” A barrel-shaped guy with a Mohawk and one-inch ear studs leans over, putting a silver coin on the bar. I spin around.
“No, really, thanks, but—”
“Come with me, and I’ll forgive the debt,” he says, pulling me by the waist onto the dance floor. He’s so huge that I’m airborne for a second before I can push him away.
“I . . . I have to drink this first.”
“Okay, but I’m coming for you later.” It sounds like a threat, though the guy smiles at me, showing dyed black teeth. Monstrous, but very underground-vogue. All my life, I haven’t garnered attention from guys, and now I’m attracting ogres. Awesome.
The bartender gives me a suspicious look for nursing my cocktail, so I hastily take a gulp. It tastes like hairspray mixed with green apple. I’m sure it’s killing the lining of my stomach on contact. Before the bartender walks away again, I wave at her. This time she lands her elbows on the bar.