Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators) (2 page)

You're going to need it?

She isn't sure what this is supposed to mean, but whatever it is, it probably isn't good.

Here are the things Vol refuses to think about as she rides the elevator to the third floor:

She is not going to think about what Kira meant by that last, cryptic statement.

She is not going to think about where she will find a dress at such late notice.

She is not going to think about laundry, or anything else pertaining to housework and upkeep.

She is not going to let herself think about the dreams.

It occurs to Vol that she has just forbidden herself to think about the things that normally occupy her mind during any given hour of the day. Besides, for this to work, she is going to have to add a new item to that list —
I am not going to think about the things I am not going to think about
.

There is no escape
, she thinks.
If I get any more burdened, I am going to explode and then Jillain Towers will dock me my pay for exploding when I should have been working
.

Vol laughs, and then looks around guiltily as if afraid someone might have overheard, even though she is the only one in the elevator. The smile fades from her face. Her expression is sober as she walks into the cafe. Aron, another Player, has apparently been roped into manning the register. He gives her a blank look that may or may not show recognition.

She hazards a look at the display. The food is ridiculously overpriced — only a step below highway robbery. She ends up settling on an agrarian wrap and a bottle of caffeine concentrate. The wrap is okay and she can forgive the concentrate for tasting like shit as long as it wakes her up.

Chewing, she presses the button for the elevator and the doors slide open. She walks in and as she does hears the sound of footsteps walking — not running — and a male voice saying imperiously, “Hold the doors — please,” with the 'please' thrown in as only the
merest of afterthoughts.

Vol is inclined to pretend she didn't hear, but then again he did say 'please.' She palms the override button.

A man slides in through the doors, ducking so he won't hit his head on the ceiling. His features are distinctly Arbatian — a resinous gold complexion, hair the silvery black of a raven's wing feathers, and an aquiline nose that gives his handsome face a fierce, almost hawkish quality. Instead of the more usual brown, though, his eyes are a shock of gold and amber, and add to his feral appearance.

He glances at her, with that striking chilly gaze. Cold amusement plays there, though what he finds amusing she can only guess. Then he turns away. “Thank you.” And it is like he thinks he is tossing her a treat by saying it.

Distaste fills her. She wishes she let the doors close after all.

“
First floor, if you don't mind,” he drawls, folding his arms over a chest she is finding it hard not to look at.

She has had enough. Even though she is nearest to the panel, she snaps, “Do it yourself!” She cannot stand the sight of him slouching against the elevator wall, like he thinks he owns the world. She is nobody's servant.

That makes him smile — a cruel, icy smile. The smile of a man far too used to getting his own way. He saunters over in her direction and she finds herself taking a step back, hating herself for it even as
she does so. His hand hits the wall, temporarily caging her in, and he presses the button for F1.

“
Have it your way,” he says softly.

Vol notices, distantly, that he has an accent. Slight, but guttural — his syllables are clipped and he rolls his R's so that they are almost a growl. But mostly, she is aware of his hand, which is fairly close to her shoulder, and the heat that radiates from his body.

Vol glances at his hand and then at his face. Her stomach performs an alarming somersault. “A little space, please.”

His smile sharpens. “You have quite the attitude.” He lowers his hand but does not step back. “In my country, there are ways of dealing with women like you. Women who need to be tamed.”

Vol chooses not to grace this with a response.

He is looking at her closely now, inquisitively. “In fact, you remind me of someone.”

“
Who?” she asks warily, curious in spite of herself. Of course he ignores her question.

“
Attitude aside, the eyes are all wrong. But still, the superficial resemblance is quite striking.”

The reference to her eyes makes her bristle. She is aware of how dry they feel behind her contacts, and she is aware that he still has not answered her question. “Stop talking about me as if I'm not here — I'm not in an art exhibit.”

He laughs and like his speaking voice, it is low and deep. “Well, well, well. It has claws.” He leans closer and she catches a whiff of something herbal. “I wonder what else it has…” His eyes flick over her, taking inventory. “What's your name?”

“
Kira.” It is the first name that comes to mind. Besides her own, of course.

“
Well, Kira…you have a nice face.” She jolts when she feels his hand tilting her face upwards. “Interesting. Not quite pretty — but all cats are gray in the dark. And I like a woman who can hold her own.” If he moves any closer they will be kissing. “If you ever want to make a little extra on top of whatever it is that you do, come find me, and we'll see if the rest of you is as wild as your tongue.”

She can barely breathe.
This cannot be happening
, she thinks.
He can't mean what I think he means
.
Nobody says things like that
.

“
I have a job,” she says coldly, but her voice trembles. She is not certain where to look. He has the sinful mouth and deadly eyes of a cobra, magnetic, repellant, and beautiful. When his teeth close down lightly on his full lower lip, Vol flushes as if she has just caught him pleasuring himself. “I — I work in the entertainment industry.”

“
And I'm offering to pay you to entertain me.” Another smile. “Should be right up your alley.”

“
I — ” She can't tell if he's teasing her, or if he's genuinely soliciting her for sex. Both bother her, but the second bothers her
more — because she feels that it speaks more about her than him. Vol refuses to let her eyes drop to her dress. “I think you're making a mistake,” she says at last, quietly.

“
Oh?”

Vol jerks her chin out of his loose hold and feels the burn of his fingers on her skin like a brand. “Yes. We don't provide that kind of entertainment here.”

“
I don't recall specifying a time or a place for our arrangement,” he says, “let alone the cost. How much do you want? Six tokens for an evening — seven if you spend the night?”

That's enough money to buy several days' worth of food. She wonders who she reminds him of — a girlfriend? An ex-girlfriend? An ex-wife? — and why he's willing to pay her so much. He's certainly good-looking enough to hold his own. The scruff on his chin and cheeks suggests he's old enough to be married, maybe even several times over.

He probably has been, if he talks to all women like that
. Though, looking at his hand now, she doesn't see a wedding ring.
Maybe he's between wives at the moment
.

She would be lying to herself if she said the offer wasn't at all tempting — that's what disgusts her the most about this situation. She has always thought of herself as a reasonably moral person and he has just made her feel like a cockroach scrounging around in a
back alley. “My answer is no.”

He looks amused now, but that desire — that need to acquire — still hasn't left his eyes. With a sigh, he says, “Oh, very well. I suppose I could spare ten. But you'll have to work for them.”

When it comes down to it, Vol would do anything to keep from starving. Anything to survive.

Even that.

But she isn't starving, so she slaps him instead. The sound rings out like a gunshot in the otherwise silent elevator. She can't believe what she has just done — only her stinging hand convinces her of the outcome. “Get away from me.”

The imprint of her palm is etched in red on his swarthy skin. He retreats a step back. She stares at him with blatant dislike. At his expensive suit and his proprietary stare. She can't imagine what it must be like to just walk up to someone and assume you can buy them, like so much else. But she knows how it makes her feel: it makes her feel cheap, and she knows that she will never be able to wear this dress again without remembering this encounter and that look, and those mocking eyes.

At her side, her hand forms a fist.
I liked this dress
.

He raises his own hand and she tenses with wary readiness, but it is only to rub the cheek she hit. She hopes it hurts — and that the mark lasts long enough to serve as a badge proclaiming what an
utter prick he is. But no, it is already fading. His kind doesn't scar.

The elevator reaches the first floor. The doors slide open, but neither of them moves. “I never want to see you in here again.” He smiles lazily in response, prompting her to add, “Consider yourself blacklisted.”

He sidesteps her to get to the doors. “That may be difficult, especially since I happen to be interviewing for a position here at this moment. You might be seeing me on a regular basis. And unless your name is Jillain, I doubt you have the authority required to do anything about that.”

She stares at him, her jaw dropping slightly at hearing her boss's name dropped so casually from that devil's lips. Her mouth works, but no sounds come out. His lips curve.
             

“
I doubt your name is Kira, either — unless there are two of you. I was already assailed by one upstairs. She appeared to be going from door to door. As, I imagine, she came to yours.” His golden eyes lock with hers and she fancies that she can see the sparks lighting up between them from the friction of it. “I bet if I described you to her she would be able to tell me your name — unless you'd care to save me the trouble.”

Vol said nothing. She couldn't.

“
No? Then I suppose I'll be seeing you.”

She grabs his sleeve. It's made from a material that manages to be
both coarse and soft, just like him. She yanks hard, almost cruelly. He freezes but makes no move to turn around and without becoming the slightest bit less afraid or confused she begins to feel something akin to rage. “Look — ”

“
Changed your mind, have you?”

The words, and the lazy dispassionate tone they are spoken in, send an unexpected frisson through her. That makes her even angrier, and her anger makes her bold. She gives him a shake. “Why do you want to know my name? Who are you — and why do you think you can own me?”

At that, he turns. His expression is unreadable. “First impressions are everything, darling.” With a firm step he crosses the threshold of the elevator doors, freeing himself from her grasp.

Darling?
She puts her hand, now empty, on the wall. The other tightens around the neck of the bottle of caffeine concentrate which, until now, she has forgotten. It announces itself with a crumpled protest that makes her jump. “That doesn't answer my que — ”

The doors slam shut.

“
Stion,” she finishes, and stares in disbelief at the rising numbers on the panel as the elevator climbs upwards again. Like the street children who sometimes come to the Tower to wreck mischief and havoc both, he has pressed the buttons for all six floors. The elevator will go to every single floor before stopping at the first again — the
floor she actually needs.

That son of a bitch
.

2.

By the time Vol makes it back to the first floor of the tower, she is five minutes behind schedule.
Bastard
. If she sees him again, she isn't sure what she might do. Only that it will include grievous bodily harm and possible grounds for her own firing.

Suryan Lafever, the presiding Master of Games for this shift, smiles pleasantly as Vol walks through the automatic doors. Her smile slips, though, as she catches a glimpse of the expression on the blonde-haired girl's face. MoGs are moderators; it is their job to see that the safety precautions are adhered to, and that the game rules are properly followed. Their omnipotence and omnipresence within the games gradually earned them the nickname of “God Mods.”

Half-Bastani, half-Meridian, Suryan's flaming red hair and amiable demeanor make her far more recognizable and popular than any of the other MoGs. When people call Suryan a God Mod, especially to her face, it lacks the usual aftertaste of bitter condescension and is more like a pet name than anything else.

She blinks her large eyes. “Um…good morning, Volera.”

“
It's a bit too early to be good, isn't it?” She tries to joke but it sounds resentful.

Suryan smiles a polite, bland smile. “I have you registered for Bounty Strike today. Is that right?”

“
If that's Kira's game, then yes.”