One, two, cha-cha-cha…
She laughed delightedly, tossing back her golden-shaded hair. "See — you're getting there."
"Yer just being polite, Honey. These feet ain't exactly made for dancing."
Her petite hand encircled two of his gnarled, knobby fingers as she fluidly led him along. "You can do anything you want, Joe. You can be anything you want to be."
He glanced at his reflection in the heavily-ornated mirror as they waltzed past. "Yeah. Except be a supermodel."
He knew all his life he was ugly. Ogreish was how one of his teachers described him before Joe sent him to the hospital with six broken ribs and a concussion. He couldn't argue with the description, though. He looked every bit like a creature that might lurk under bridges and eat children for fun. His face was a misshapen slab with a jutting forehead, massive brows, beady eyes, lumpy nose, and wide, disproportionate mouth. His blotchy skin resembled the rusty underside of an old car, pitted and hideous. He lurked just over eight feet tall, built like a tank. Nothing pretty to look at, which was fine with him.
Because he surrounded himself with beauty.
One, two, cha-cha-cha…
The condo was on the one-hundred-first floor, high enough to make the lower city a distant memory. Spacious, brightly lit, floor-to-ceiling windows all around with spectacular views, especially of Haven Core, which loomed like a rising moon, glimmering and mysterious. The décor was glam and luxe, with accents of silver and gold, white rugs and throws, royal purple throw pillows and shades. Crystal goblets, marble countertops, metallic backsplash, gleaming dinnerware and cutlery. Silk and linen on the bed, rosewater sprayed on the pillows. His tailored shirt and slacks were of the finest cut, shipped from Italy in bulk because he constantly bust through the seams at work despite the custom fit.
He and Honey were the toast of the town. Despite his monstrous looks, he was still a fixture at star-studded events, rubbing elbows with Neo York's finest. He had Honey to thank for that. She could charm anyone, negotiate anything through a combination of allure, intelligence, and sharp wit. Nobody could resist her, least of all him. He'd do anything for her.
Anything.
She stood on the top of his polished monk-strap shoes to reach up and touch his face. "Baby, you don't need to be a supermodel. You're all I need just the way you are."
"Yer the best, Honey. Now, howzabout we switch things up a bit? This music is killing me."
"You don't like charanga?
"I like it just fine. Just not as agile as you are."
She smiled, performing a graceful spin with her hands above her head. "Well, I suppose we can always—"
Joe Blow turned from lifting a brandy decanter at the bar. "What was that, Honey?"
She shuddered, eyes staring in terror. "Joe, I—" Convulsing, she slumped to the exotic hardwood floor, foam bubbling from her mouth, eyes rolled back in her head.
"Honey!"
Joe Blow's heart nearly exploded. Dropping the decanter, he rushed over and scooped her up. She hung limply in his arms as if her bones had melted. He tapped the emergency button on the massive platinum holoband on his wrist. It flashed with a bad receiver signal.
"Damn it!" Turning, he yelled at the digital assistant panel on the wall. "Braxton, pull the car from the garage and have it ready in front of the building."
The elevator dinged as it stopped in front of his foyer. He stared as the doors opened, and a dark figure stepped out, face hidden by shadows.
Joe Blow's teeth gritted. "How the hell did you get access to my place?"
"Does it matter?" The man's voice was flat and mechanical, unrecognizable. "Your synoid companion just had her system shut down. That's not good. But trust me — it can get a lot worse."
"You did this?" Joe Blow's Egyptian cotton shirt split in the back and shoulders when his muscles clenched. "You're dead."
The man pointed a metallic hand, and Honey gasped in Joe Blow's arms, eyes unnaturally wide, blue blood dripping from the corners like tears. She shuddered so violently that he feared her bones might shatter.
"Okay, stop! Please." He heaved a sigh of relief when the man lowered his hand, and Honey went limp. Joe Blow glowered at the intruder. "Who are you?"
The man stepped into the light. His expensive black-on-black, three-piece suit would have fit in anywhere in the condo complex were it not for the gleaming skull that covered his entire head. Gunmetal-grey and intricately detailed, it made the intruder instantly ominous. The black eye sockets stared back at Joe Blow like endless pits.
"You know who I am."
Joe Blow swallowed. "What… do you want?"
"You allowed Vigil to enter the sanctum and attack the Beasts. Did you think there would be no repercussions?"
"You want to punish me, then do it. Leave Honey out of it. She's innocent."
"Innocent?" The skull tilted slightly. "She's a synthetic humanoid. She doesn't exist. Not in the literal sense of the word, anyway. But that's not how you see it, is it?"
Joe Blow glanced down at Honey. She leaned against his chest, eyes closed, hair plastered against her face. His jaw trembled. "No. That's not how I see it."
"I can wipe her mind right now. Erase all the history you've built, all the moments you shared together."
"No. Please don't. I'll do whatever you want."
The intruder clasped his hands together. "I know you will. Now, set her down and come with me."
Joe Blow gently set Honey down on the leather sofa, nearly sobbing when her eyes blinked open. "Joe — what happened? Did I pass out?"
He smiled, running a finger through her hair. "Just over-exerted yourself, sweetheart. Rest up. I'll be back soon. Have some work I have to do."
She looked up, eyes shining. "Okay, Joe."
He straightened and turned. The skull-faced man's expression was hidden, but Joe Blow felt his amusement anyway. The man gestured to the elevator.
"Shall we?"
Joe Blow fell into place, entering the custom-built lift. He towered over the intruder, could probably tear him apart without breaking a sweat. But he knew there were contingencies in place. Honey would die, and he just wouldn't be able to bear it. He glanced down as the doors hissed shut.
"Where are we going?"
"You failed to stop Vigil last time. We're giving you another shot."
"He's a ghost. How am I supposed to find him?"
The man pressed the button for the garage. "Not to worry. He'll find you."
Freddy Flava strutted down the street, fresh out of the salon. Hair permed with the ends flipped, looking so clean he almost didn't want to put his Panama back on his head. It was too hot for the full suit and silk shirts, so he had to make do with breathable linen and a thin scarf hanging over his shoulders. But his gators were blue and tipped with chrome, flashing with every exaggerated step. He wiped his brow with a satin handkerchief. It was time to check on his filly around the corner. She had two hours to make some notes, and it was time for a pimp to get paid.
Cutting across the alley, he placed a manicured hand on the gold-plated pistol in his pocket. Always a chance some fizzle wanted to get nuck and go for the bezzle. Freddy Flava was always ready, especially since that crazy bull jumped him in the bar a few months back. It cost a grip to fix his pretty face, and he only wished he could catch up to the mofo again so he could get some payback. If he even caught a glimpse of—
The figure appeared from nowhere, leaping from the shadows like an armored phantom. Freddy Flava saw a V-shaped flash of red, realized who it was, started to scream, but his breath caught in his throat when Vigil snatched him by the collar and slammed him into the side of the building so violently that he bit his tongue. He gurgled helplessly, trying to break Vigil's iron grip.