“So, you know anyone here named Q?” I have to yell my question three times before she hears me over the din of the music.
“Anybody who goes by alphabet letters is either a rock star or incarcerated. But you could get lucky. Try the Alucinari Rooms,” she yells back, pointing to a door at the far end of the room.
“Thanks!” I leave my drink on the bar. Already my face is flushed from the alcohol. I dislike the feeling—anything that makes me, well, not like me. I never understood the neurodrug groupies at school, or the secret ether-injection parties I’m happily excluded from. You always have to face reality again. I don’t need another reality, because the only other one I want—with Dyl back in my life—can’t be supplied with drugs.
I check the black box pendant in my skirt pocket. If this drink is stronger than I expect, I’ll have to put it on soon. Out of the parting crowd, the black-toothed guy zeroes in on me and heads over. Cripes. I duck into a throng of dancers and run through the door.
It empties into a spiral staircase. All the way down, alcoves in the walls contain plaster-like busts of figures. They’re unisex and featureless, except for an open mouth offering a bright-colored pill on an extended tongue. A guy in front of me pauses at a bust and gives it a lascivious kiss, then tosses his head back to swallow the pill.
The plaster bust coos at him. “You’re welcome.” It smiles, then opens its mouth to reveal a new orange pill for the taking.
A girl with a shaved head grabs the guy’s hand and laughs. “You slut! That’s your third, you’re asking for it!” They both gallop downward, ahead of me. It’s hard to avoid being bumped and pushed as I squeeze past people in the narrow stairwell. They cover the steps and walls, talking, drinking, or making out, writhing to the music.
At the bottom of the stairs, a smoky hallway with several doors stretches into darkness. I trip over something. The guy who popped the three pills is lying on the floor with the girl sprawled atop him. She’s yanking his shirt down, biting his neck. The guy doesn’t seem to care one way or another. He claws at the air around her head.
“Oohhhaaaahhh. Look . . .” He’s totally out of it and she’s just having her way with him, right there in the hallway. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re naked in a few minutes.
The only sober-looking girl I can find leans against the wall between two doors. She smokes a tiny pipe, watching the dazed people pass by. I beeline toward her.
“Hey, do you know where the Alucinari Rooms are?”
She removes her pipe, the fuchsia smoke curling out of her nostrils. “Right here, sweets. Pick your poison.”
“Thanks.” I walk down the hallway, perusing the choices. Random body parts float outside each room. A pink-irised eye. An ear. There’s a quivering jellyfish that’s probably a brain. A hand with fingers, stretching and curling into a fist. Down the corridor, more doors and their holograms are hidden by clouds of fumes.
As I pass underneath the disembodied hand, it undulates toward me. A whisper of softness touches my cheek. It’s a hologram, how could it actually touch me? I shake my head. No time to think about that now. If Q is here, I need to find him. If not . . .
Well. I can’t think about that. I take a brave breath and push the door open. A pink pulsating cloud obscures the ceiling and twists frothy tendrils downward every few feet. It’s impossible to avoid the ropes of blushing mist. As I walk in, they softly fall over my shoulders, slinking down my back and arms.
A guy lies near my feet with his hands splayed out, as if beseeching the air. His eyes are shut, and he hums deep in his throat, a human purr. Another couple on the floor pets each other’s ankles over and over again, lost to the repetitive movement. The girl clenches her teeth so hard, her jaw muscles ripple.
Was it the pill buffet on the way down the stairs? Did everyone take something except me? Just then, I step under one of the rivulets of pink smoke, and the coolness dances down my face. I inhale a tiny bit, in surprise. The scent of wine and sugary syrup blossoms inside me. The sweetness hits my throat and my lungs, and, oh god, I feel like I’m sucking in the best-tasting ice cream and chocolate and everything delicious and forbidden straight into my bloodstream.
The pink fog continues to swirl coolly down my face and neck, but it’s not just there. It’s in me, in my fingertips and caressing the backs of my knees from the inside. A warm hand touches my shoulder and I grab it, hungry for the sensation. I want to dig that hand into my body, let it pierce me because the pain would be lovely. Pure and awful and beautiful.
The hand turns me around. Through the brain-fog, I see him. The Mohawk guy who bought me the drink. His eyes travel over my body, fix on my mouth while a broad hand slips from my shoulder to the nape of my neck. Part of me is terrified, but that part is docile and numb, pushed aside by the strawberry clouds mingling in my blood. His teeth glint black like polished coal and part to reveal a thrice-forked tongue.
As he comes closer, his face divides a column of pink smoke. A wisp of it disappears into his nostrils, then more. He inhales deeply, his eyes shutting tight from the rush.
Another hand encircles my left arm. And another. I feel four hands on my body, which computes as impossible in my hazy brain. Are they real? Is it Hex? But all four hands suddenly release me. I watch, fascinated, as the black-toothed guy is pried from my body and pushed to the floor, where he groans in pleasure from the impact.
Whoever pushed Mohawk Guy stands behind me. Hands move to encircle my waist, and I gasp, shutting my eyes when I feel lips meet the nape of my neck. The lips are strong, insistent, and follow the curve of my jaw to graze my cheek. I can’t stand it anymore. I spin around to grasp the face I still can’t see and I crush the stranger’s lips to mine, letting the relentless slow beat push our bodies together.
I am four arms and four legs, and two mouths and two tongues, out of control. The pink smoke rains down on our bodies, but somewhere inside, a tiny remnant of good sense is screaming. What is it saying? I don’t care. Shut up, shut up, I’m busy. My nerves are all on fire and it’s torture and it’s heaven and I’m busy.
Reason shrieks again, so insistent amidst the sick sweetness of candy and wine.
Breathe, Zelia, the voice screams. Breathe!
The zillions of nerves firing pleasure all at once suddenly stop firing. Everything turns off so fast that I can’t catch myself as I fall. Two strong arms slow my descent; they drag me out to the hallway, away from the serpentine hand above the door begging for my return. People step over me, uncaring, as cool air touches my face.
Breathe.
I don’t know if the command is from me or someone else, but I obey, gasping the unadulterated air and arching my back to inhale deeply. My senses slowly become mine again. There is someone by my side, his voice emerging clearer and clearer by the second.
“Breathe! Keep going, breathe now.” I know that voice. I know the hands too. They’re warm. I remember their imprint on my body from just seconds ago. The face comes into focus, and I’m relieved to see white teeth, not black. Charcoal eyes flecked with green and gold watch me.
It’s Cy.
I’M MORTIFIED. DID I REALLY TONGUE-WRESTLE with Cy? Or did the pink mist uncover some unconscious daydream of mine I didn’t know was so . . . racy? I still feel terrible, so I just concentrate on sucking and expelling air while he cradles my head. Cy doesn’t say a word. His black tattooed mask is the tiniest bit blurred already, the ink now looking like he smudged soot all over his face.
“What . . . what just happened in there?” I ask.