City of Light

  I wiped the remaining beads of sweat from my forehead, then, ignoring the tremble still running through my muscles, slipped one of the knives from its wrist harness and knelt down. After sliding the edge of the knife under the hinge pin, I moved the blade along until the pin was jammed against the hilt, then hit the hilt with my hand. Unfortunately, I did little more than bruise my palm. I frowned, then sat down and dragged off a boot. A few decent thumps with the solid heel later, the pin came free. I repeated the process with the top pin, then grabbed the door and pulled it sideways, separating it first from the knuckles, then from the main lock. All that was now holding it in place were the chain, the old-fashioned padlock, and my grip on it.

  I carefully peered out. The room was at the end of a long, somewhat shadowed hallway, and there were several other rooms leading off it. I couldn’t hear anything other than the couple in the room above me, and the air was thick with dust and disuse. Whatever this area was, it was all but abandoned.

  I slipped through the gap, then maneuvered the door back into place so that the main lock was holding it upright again. At least it would look closed from a distance.

  I padded down the hall, checking each of the rooms as I passed them by, but, beyond some ancient-looking beds, found little more than dust and cobwebs. It didn’t make sense. Why would the wraiths use a rift to transport themselves into a place like this? Why leave those above alive to go about their business when—up until now—all they’d ever done was destroy anyone and everyone who got in their way?

  I reached the stairs at the far end. The basement door—if that was indeed what this place was—was locked, but this time by a fingerprint scanner. I cursed softly. There was no way I could get past that, not unless the damn power went out. And even if it did, they probably had a backup system . . . meaning there was only one thing I could do if I wanted to get out.

  I pressed my ear against the sturdy-looking door but couldn’t hear anything on the other side. I raised the knife and thrust it, as hard as I could, into the unit. The knife was made from a specialized glass, and was harder than steel without the conductivity, so it presented little danger to me. There was a short, sharp explosion, and sparks flew as the system short-circuited. A second later I was through the door and in another corridor. This one was flooded with light, and the air was filled with warmth, perfume, and the tangy scents of men, desire, and sex.

  I closed the basement door and quickly scanned the corridor. There were eight doors leading off the hall—most of them occupied, if the noises within were anything to go by—and an exit down the far end. Thankfully, none of the people in any of the rooms appeared to have heard the explosion, but I couldn’t count on my luck lasting.

  Instead of moving on, I glanced at the control panel. Though I’d short-circuited the system, the panel on this side looked intact. It might be better if whoever owned this place believed that someone had been trying to get in, rather than out.

  I shoved my knife into its electronic heart, making more obvious the destruction I’d already wrought, then padded quickly toward the exit. But as I approached, so, too, did steps from the other side. I cursed, spun around, and ran for the nearest unoccupied room. I’d barely entered when two people strode into the corridor. With no time to close the door, I simply pressed my body against the wall and hastily wrapped the bright light of the room around me. The footsteps drew closer. I didn’t dare move because I had no idea how secure my screen was, but I could hear and smell, and that was enough.

  It was, surprisingly, two humans—one male, one female. The woman was heavily scented and heavier on her feet; an older woman, I thought. The male’s movements were much lighter, and he smelled faintly woody. He also emitted a vibe that was watchful, tense. A guard of some sort, not a companion. They stopped near the far end of the hall, near the door I’d shorted.

  “Deliberate destruction, from the look of it.” The voice was gruff, masculine.

  “So someone wanted to get in?” The woman’s voice was pleasant without being memorable.

  “I can’t see any other reason to destroy the system like they have,” the male said. “You want me to check if there’s anyone in there?”

  The woman hesitated, and her uncertainty and fear washed over me. “No,” she said eventually. “We’re being paid to ignore the basement, so ignore it we will. I’ll just notify them that something has happened. If they want to check it, they can.”

  Them. They. Not he. Not she. There was more than one person involved in all this, whatever “this” was. But were they also involved with the wraiths? Or did we have two separate events happening here?

  The two strangers retreated. I waited until they’d left the corridor, then released my light shield and looked around. The room held little more than a bed and a large wooden chest. Curious as to what the chest might contain—and whether it might offer any clue as to where I was—I walked across and opened the lid. Inside there was a variety of not just clothes, but sex toys.

  I was, I realized suddenly, in a brothel. Which was a great place to hide something like the rift, because it wasn’t like visitors were going to be overly curious about what might lie beyond the rooms in which they were entertained. But that still didn’t answer the question of who. Didn’t answer the question of why the rift was here in the first place. Surely the authorities had not become so blasé about them that they’d allowed a building to be constructed around it?

  I fished around in the chest and found a silvery gray cape and a gauzy white shirtdress. It was somewhat see-through and would probably reveal more than it covered—especially given that I now wore the clear under-breast shape-tapes, which were not only more comfortable than the old-fashioned bras the HDP had made us use, but far more supportive without in any way restricting movement. But it wasn’t like I had a whole lot to worry about in this form, anyway. I quickly changed, then bundled my clothes and my weapons together and shoved them into a bag I found near the bottom of the chest. Once I’d put the cape on, I headed out.

  In the hallway beyond, a buzzer sounded. The rooms around me suddenly bustled with activity, and, in short order, a small group of men and women were filing out of the rooms and heading for the exit. I quickly joined them, keeping my head down, avoiding looking at anyone as the group made their way through the lobby beyond the door, past a reception area, and out onto the pavement. Pavement that was crisp and clean and filled with people going about their business, not taking any notice of those of us exiting the brothel. The sun was fierce and bright, and its position in the sky suggested it was midafternoon, at least. I’d lost a fair chunk of time traversing that rift. I jogged across the road, dodging air scooters and electric cars, then turned and looked back.

  The building was small and narrow—little more than five stories high and four windows wide. Its rooftop was washed with the light of the UVs that lined the slightly taller buildings on either side of it, and it was nestled against a shiny metal wall that towered far above any of the buildings in this street. It was a curtain wall. And not, I suspected, any old curtain wall, but Central’s itself.

  The wraiths had a direct line of transport into the city. No wonder so many children had gone missing without the populace ever realizing monsters prowled in their midst.

  I shivered and scanned the building again, looking for the brothel’s name. Eventually I spotted a small, discreet sign that simply read DESEO. No doubt Nuri and her motley crew would be able to run a check on the owners of this place, as well as keep an eye on the comings and goings . . . if I contacted them about it, that was. I wasn’t entirely sure that was a wise move—given they hadn’t exactly denied a link to the government.

  I turned and headed down the street. I had no idea where I was, but if this was Central, then this road would intersect the main thoroughfare soon enough. Central’s internal layout consisted of a dozen roads; the outer roads were semicircular like the wall itself, but the inner ones were full circles. Victory Street—the only street tha
t ran straight through the heart of the city—intersected each of these roads, which also acted as delineation among the twelve districts within Central. Those near the wall were the poorer sections; the closer you got to Central’s heart—where the main business district and government centers were situated, as well as the only green space available within the city—the more exclusive and richer the community.

  I found Victory Street—a spacious avenue that, despite the tall buildings lining either side of it, was still wide enough to allow real sunshine to bathe the street rather than just the UV lights—and headed north, toward the exit drawbridge.

  The entire avenue at ground level was a mix of retail premises. At this end of town, closer to the walls, the shops and cafés tended to be smaller, and their contents—be it clothes, food stalls, or tables for the various cafés—spilled out onto the wide pavement, filling the air with a riot of scents and giving the street a wild, almost gregarious feel. It was these areas that I generally stuck to when I came here on ration raids.

  The closer I moved into Central’s heart, the more sterile the street and air became. Even the people in this section of the city seemed to have undergone some sort of purity process, I thought, as my gaze roamed across the gently moving sea of people ahead of me. While they didn’t look anything alike physically, there was a common sense of serenity they all shared—an odd, almost superior air. And the fact that they were nearly all clad in white and gray outfits didn’t help the feeling that in these streets, there was an entirely different level of living. One I would never understand or be comfortable with. But at least in my stolen clothes, I didn’t stand out too much . . .

  The thought froze as my gaze came to a halt on the wide shoulders of a man. A man who towered above the rest of the populace by a good foot, and whose short hair was the color of blue steel. My heart began to beat a whole lot faster and my footsteps quickened. Blue steel was a very rare hair color, and it was one that was very hard to reproduce in dye. I’d only ever seen that color five times in all the years I’d been alive, and all five instances had been during the war, on the head of a déchet. Not any old déchet, but rather, specialist assassins.

  And that surely could mean only one thing.

  I wasn’t the only déchet to have survived the war.

  Chapter 6

  No, I thought, it can’t be. Surely if other déchet had survived, I would have come across them sooner rather than later. Granted, assassins—like lures—were bred with specific skills and abilities built into their DNA, but that didn’t explain the fact that in just over one hundred years of running regular supply raids into Central, there’d never been the slightest suggestion of another déchet living within her walls.

  I tried to hurry without being obvious about it, desperate not to let the stranger get too far ahead of me.

  Could he be an assassin déchet? Was it possible? Or was the goddess just teasing me? Like us, they’d been an extremely small group—far more lures and assassins had died in the tubes than regular déchet and, of those who did survive, more than eighty percent had not made it to puberty. When it came to the assassins, this high attrition rate was due in part to the fact that they’d used not only shifter and vampire DNA, but actual animal DNA. And the death rate within the blue-steel program—or grays, as they’d become known, thanks to the fact that their salamander blood had given their skin a silky smooth but slightly gray tone—had been ninety-eight percent. Only five had survived past puberty, and I knew at least one of those had died during the war.

  Up ahead, the man with the blue-steel hair disappeared into one of the many walkways that made quick access from one street to various others possible. I broke into a run, desperate not to lose him, weaving my way through the crowd with little of the decorum expected in this part of Central.

  I turned into the walkway. It was a three-meter-wide canyon between two high-rise buildings and was bathed in UV light. My steps slowed as I desperately searched the crowd moving between Victory and First Streets for any sign of the stranger. There was nothing.

  I cursed softly and ran to the end of the walkway, stopping again when I reached First. Still no sign, but a scent teased the air. A scent that spoke of deep forests, dark satin, and something else. Something unexpected and icy.

  But there was enough familiarity within that mix of aromas to stir memories of long nights of passion spent in the arms of a man with blue-steel hair. A man I’d been assigned to instruct in the arts of seduction and sex once he’d hit adulthood, and with whom I’d become closer than perhaps was ever wise.

  A man who’d saved my life when I’d all but given up hope.

  I followed the fragile, teasing scent through several more walkways and came into an area I wasn’t familiar with. I paused, looking around, and caught sight of the stranger up ahead just before he disappeared around Fourth Street’s gentle curve.

  But I’d barely reached the spot where I’d last seen him when someone grabbed my arm and hauled me—rather unceremoniously—through a doorway and into more muted light. Before I could react in any way, a hand clamped over my mouth, then a velvety voice whispered, “If you do not wish to be caught by the ranger who follows you, make no sound.”

  It was definitely his voice.

  Even after all this time, it was as familiar to me as the touch of the sun. I swallowed heavily, then nodded. Confusion, hope, and disbelief churned through me, all fighting to come to the fore and dominate. None of which was surprising, given I’d spent so long believing I was the sole survivor of my race.

  His grip slipped down my arm to my wrist, and his large hand clasped mine. His skin was like silk, cool to the touch, but his palm was calloused. It hadn’t been, when I’d known him.

  He tugged me forward, through the semishadows, weaving in and out of various rooms and up several sets of stairs. I couldn’t say anything. I could barely even think.

  “This way.” He flashed me a brief but all-too-familiar smile that had my senses dancing and desire stirring. “We’re almost there.”

  “Almost where?” I somehow managed to say, part of me still unwilling to believe that this was happening, that he was real.

  “To our transport, of course.” There was amusement in his tone. “The ranger may be able to trace your scent through the streets, but he cannot fly.”

  He opened another door and we entered a small parking area that housed half a dozen short-hop vertical takeoff and landing vehicles—or VTOLs, as they were more commonly known. He waved a hand to the small red one. “Your chariot awaits, dear Tig.”

  So I wasn’t mistaken. It was him. His silvery gaze, when it met mine again, was as filled with wonder and disbelief as mine had to be.

  “Sal?” I whispered, still fearing to believe, despite everything my senses and my memory were telling me.

  “Yes, and I have to tell you, I’m finding it just as difficult to believe it’s actually you. That disguise of yours is rather repellant.”

  I smiled. “So how did you know it was me?”

  “Because I would know your scent anywhere, even after all these years.” He briefly touched my face, something close to wonder in his. “It is so good to see you again.”

  “But how did you surv—”

  He placed a finger against my lips, stopping my question. “I’ll explain later. For now, get in, as we’re not safe from the ranger’s pursuit just yet.”

  I climbed inside the small two-seater. He jumped into the driver’s seat and, with little ceremony, secured the canopy and started the VTOL’s engines. Dust whipped around us as the vehicle rose. Then Sal pressed the steering stick forward and the craft shot out of the parking lot and into the bright light of day. I gripped the side of my seat somewhat fiercely and resisted the urge to look down. It had been a long time since I’d been in a VTOL—and I’d never been overly keen on them in the first place. I’d always been of the belief that if I’d been meant to fly, I would have been designed with wings.

  Thankfully, sho
rt-hops were designed for just that. Sal steered the VTOL into another midbuilding parking lot, then stopped.

  “And that,” he said, opening the canopy, “should be the end of the ranger following you. However, we’ll still head somewhere he cannot go, just to be sure.” His gaze met mine. “Then, dear Tig, you can tell me why it’s taken you so long to arrive in Central.”

  Meaning he’d been here all the time? Surely not. Surely the goddess would not have been so cruel as to put us so close to each other and yet never allow our paths to cross.

  But I nodded and followed him back down to Victory Street. He caught my hand again, guiding me across the road to the building that was all glass and delicate steel. Given its proximity to both Central Park and Government House, even the bathroom in this place would come with a very high price tag. It certainly wasn’t the sort of building where the likes of me would be welcome.

  “I’m not sure I’m exactly dressed—”

  “Actually, you’re probably overdressed, given Hedone is, at its core, a very high-end brothel.” Amusement touched his lips as he opened the ornate glass-and-metal door, and waved me through. “Please, inside, so that our scent doesn’t linger.”

  “You work in a brothel?” I asked, though it wasn’t entirely surprising. Assassins, like lures, had been designed to be sexually attractive to shifters, even though seduction wasn’t often on their agenda. If Hedone catered to shifters, he’d be in high demand.

  “No,” he said, the amusement sharper. “I own it.”

  My gaze shot to his. “You own it?”

  “Let’s just say I have made the most of my escape from near death.” He caught my hand again and led me through a foyer that was crisp and white. Sofas and comfortable chairs filled the huge expanse, most of them occupied by men and women as crisp and white as their surroundings. Some were sipping champagne, some were eating canapés, and others were flicking through electronic catalogues, no doubt trying to decide who might be the morning’s entertainment.