stage is already disassembled, the day’s business returning to normal. In ten minutes, everything will be gone, all evidence of the event banished to DVRs and recaps and retreads.
That’s when it all comes together. Of course.
There’s only one way they could’ve cleaned up from a crowded live event this efficiently: they didn’t air it live. I raced six blocks to catch a prerecorded program, a set-up, a PR stunt. Any fans within earshot of the promotional push would’ve been here in a flash, the crowd padded out with recruits enticed by the promise of a few bonus credits for an hour’s work. A dozen or so disappointed latecomers like me trickle in, providing some valuable camouflage as they message friends, telling them not to bother.
And now She’s well ahead of me, cloaked in obsidian and glimmering with punk tinsel. The mysterious siren, just out of reach.
Thankfully, every loudspeaker and vidscreen between here and the laundromat blasted us with concert info and the details on the Sugar Skulls’ surprise media blitz. Everyone in Cyrene knows where they’re headed next: the Paleteni Mall Complex, clear across town. The trip here almost had me seeing spots, but I take off once more.
As I run, I ask myself the big question: Why?
I push forward, trying to ignore the pain. There’s nothing pretty or fluid about my technique just now, no flair or pride in movement.
Why are you running yourself ragged all over town for this girl? Is she really worth it?
The rational mind asks questions like that. The rational mind considers the risks, lists the consequences, scorns the errands of fools. But the rational mind didn’t feel what I did at Maggie’s. It doesn’t revel or weep or long for old sensations. It doesn’t sing or cheer or soar or understand how a single song can come to define an entire year, or a person, or an experience.
The rational mind has nothing to do with this.
That vibration in my soul says go . So I go.
V
I don’t get my chance until we arrive at the shopping center. Bolting from the limo, I grab the two closest greyfaces and haul them down the gauntlet of screaming fans. “You guys are with me. Come on!”
“Vee!” Damon shouts. I can’t hear anything that comes after that. Hard to think, much less communicate, over this level of noise pollution. No doubt he’ll have us fitted with earpieces for the next junket, especially after what I’m about to pull.
Under the guise of signing an autograph for a girl crying liquid-eyeliner tears, I flick the latch on the barricade separating the kids from the carpeted entrance to the mall. The fencing twists on its hinges and crashes inward, pinning my handpicked guards to the ground. I take off at a run as rabid teenagers spill onto the carpet, like rubber balls bouncing out of an overturned bin. They catch up so quickly that I ride a screaming wave into the building.
For a few seconds, I severely regret some of my life decisions. I can feel pieces of my skirt tearing away. A buckle on my corset coming loose. Someone pulling one of the tiny silver skulls out of my hair. Souvenirs, I guess. But if I’m not careful, they’ll shred me to nothing.
Twisting and ducking, I fling myself into an open supply closet. Leaning into the door with my shoulder, I manage to get it shut and locked. It’s dark in here, the air reeks of hard scents like ammonia and bleach and plastic that burn as I try to catch my breath. I don’t need to locate the light switch. When I rub my thumb over the screen on Damon’s phone, it flares blue and then settles into a brilliant white.
This might be a safe place for the moment, but I have to hurry. Flicking through menus as fast as I can, I use Damon’s privileged access to open the Cyrano database and type in four letters.
Three seconds later, I’m staring at Bryn.
She’s like sunshine on water. Brilliant blond locks and blue eyes, her smile wide and mischievous and without a single secret. Tiny, according
That’s when it all comes together. Of course.
There’s only one way they could’ve cleaned up from a crowded live event this efficiently: they didn’t air it live. I raced six blocks to catch a prerecorded program, a set-up, a PR stunt. Any fans within earshot of the promotional push would’ve been here in a flash, the crowd padded out with recruits enticed by the promise of a few bonus credits for an hour’s work. A dozen or so disappointed latecomers like me trickle in, providing some valuable camouflage as they message friends, telling them not to bother.
And now She’s well ahead of me, cloaked in obsidian and glimmering with punk tinsel. The mysterious siren, just out of reach.
Thankfully, every loudspeaker and vidscreen between here and the laundromat blasted us with concert info and the details on the Sugar Skulls’ surprise media blitz. Everyone in Cyrene knows where they’re headed next: the Paleteni Mall Complex, clear across town. The trip here almost had me seeing spots, but I take off once more.
As I run, I ask myself the big question: Why?
I push forward, trying to ignore the pain. There’s nothing pretty or fluid about my technique just now, no flair or pride in movement.
Why are you running yourself ragged all over town for this girl? Is she really worth it?
The rational mind asks questions like that. The rational mind considers the risks, lists the consequences, scorns the errands of fools. But the rational mind didn’t feel what I did at Maggie’s. It doesn’t revel or weep or long for old sensations. It doesn’t sing or cheer or soar or understand how a single song can come to define an entire year, or a person, or an experience.
The rational mind has nothing to do with this.
That vibration in my soul says go . So I go.
V
I don’t get my chance until we arrive at the shopping center. Bolting from the limo, I grab the two closest greyfaces and haul them down the gauntlet of screaming fans. “You guys are with me. Come on!”
“Vee!” Damon shouts. I can’t hear anything that comes after that. Hard to think, much less communicate, over this level of noise pollution. No doubt he’ll have us fitted with earpieces for the next junket, especially after what I’m about to pull.
Under the guise of signing an autograph for a girl crying liquid-eyeliner tears, I flick the latch on the barricade separating the kids from the carpeted entrance to the mall. The fencing twists on its hinges and crashes inward, pinning my handpicked guards to the ground. I take off at a run as rabid teenagers spill onto the carpet, like rubber balls bouncing out of an overturned bin. They catch up so quickly that I ride a screaming wave into the building.
For a few seconds, I severely regret some of my life decisions. I can feel pieces of my skirt tearing away. A buckle on my corset coming loose. Someone pulling one of the tiny silver skulls out of my hair. Souvenirs, I guess. But if I’m not careful, they’ll shred me to nothing.
Twisting and ducking, I fling myself into an open supply closet. Leaning into the door with my shoulder, I manage to get it shut and locked. It’s dark in here, the air reeks of hard scents like ammonia and bleach and plastic that burn as I try to catch my breath. I don’t need to locate the light switch. When I rub my thumb over the screen on Damon’s phone, it flares blue and then settles into a brilliant white.
This might be a safe place for the moment, but I have to hurry. Flicking through menus as fast as I can, I use Damon’s privileged access to open the Cyrano database and type in four letters.
Three seconds later, I’m staring at Bryn.
She’s like sunshine on water. Brilliant blond locks and blue eyes, her smile wide and mischievous and without a single secret. Tiny, according
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