Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators) (6 page)

I shouldn't have come
.

But then she would starve.

She is starving, though, inside. Not just for food. Part of her is incomplete. Pieces of her history are missing. Parents, childhood, friends — these long swaths are all missing from the tapestry of her life. Ripped away by a cruel hand, leaving her empty, wondering, and helpless.

She can't even remember how she got to Karagh.

Oh, but her dreams, they hint. They hint at blood and fire, and the sound of breaking glass; they hint at screams that light up the night like fireworks; they hint at fear, which slices at her like the blades of a thousand knives, and at sorrow that threatens to scatter the pieces of her soul to a thousand winds. Her dreams hint at a darkness that swirls around her heart. A darkness she can feel all the way down to the very dregs of her being.

It scares her, but it's a part of her, and she can't remember.

Truly, that is the worst part.

The music shifts, changing mood — darker, and less sweet. The singer stops her gentle sway and rises to her full height, wrapping her hands around the microphone in a chokehold. “Lost in the
shadows, you once held my hand. Now all the shadows are yours to command. You're no longer the man who I used to know — and now I'm afraid that I might not say no.”

The singer seems to meet her eyes, and for a moment it is Vol and Vol alone that she is singing to. Then someone taps her on the shoulder. She turns around obligingly, feeling more than ever as if she is in a dream, and finds herself staring up at a tall man. Unlike most of the other dances, he is wearing all black. If he held a scythe in his other hand, he would look just like a reaper. Beckoning her to her demise.

And now I'm afraid that I might not say no
.

Ridiculous. It's just a stupid song.

Isn't it? Things have been a little strange around here lately. Vol has the sinking feeling that this is just the beginning, that things are going to get a lot stranger. She has a feeling that
this
stranger is the catalyst.

The exact shade of his hair is impossible to determine in the low lights, but it is dark and falls to the collar of his suit in unruly waves. He isn't wearing a tie or cravat, and the shirt is open to reveal his throat. He has opted to wear one of the glittering masks, which, instead of making him look foolish, makes him look enigmatic and a little dangerous.

While the mask obscures the top half of his face, she suspects he's
gorgeous anyway. His eyes are amazing, as golden and clear as a December sunrise, and his lips are surprisingly full in the harsh, angular frame of his face. He has the kind of bone structure that inspires poems in girls foolish enough to write them.

Vol wonders what he wants, and why he has come to her, of all people, to get it.

“
Yes? Can I help you?” And she could kick herself — she even sounds matronly now.

To her surprise, he holds out his hand, conjuring up an even stronger image of the Reaper she previously imagined. She nearly takes a step back, catches herself just in time. “You want to dance?” she mumbles, not quite sure why else he would be approaching her.

In response, the stranger's fingers close lightly over hers, and he transfers her hands to his shoulders without waiting for her to say yes. This should disturb her, and it does a little, but she is also feeling reckless tonight. None of this seems quite real. Her head is buzzing with the same excitement she feels in the games and it silences the voice warning her to make him get lost.

Tonight, there are no consequences.

“
Vol!” she thinks she hears Tash's voice spike through the noise, high with what could be either recognition or alarm. “Vol?”

Vol stops dancing and cranes her neck, searching the crowd for her new friend. She feels her dance partner reach out and touch her
face, and lurches violently. His fingers — tentatively at first, and then more boldly — stroke down her cheek before cupping her jaw and forcing her head up. He kisses her right there in the heart of the room, and there is something excruciatingly familiar about that kiss. Scorching and carnivorous, it leaves an herbal taste in her mouth that prickles and skins like rime.

Quick as lightning, she tears off his mask, scratching his cheek in the process. He lowers his head, but not before she gets a good, long glimpse of his face. The mask falls from suddenly numb fingers where it clatters to the floor, forgotten.

For one terrible moment, her heart stops beating.

“
You,” she whispers, and though she can barely hear herself, somehow he understands. “You were in the elevator this morning.”

“
I'm flattered you remember our encounter.” He keeps his head bowed like a courtier purposefully not looking at her, but his body is taut with anger. “Your memory seems rather select these days.”

How could he know?
“What the hell do you want?” Then, as her hands jump to her lips and a furious blush colors her face at the cruel smile her outcry results in, she hisses, “Are you stalking me? Following me?”

“
If you want answers, go to GP2 for the next run of Bounty Strike. I'll be there.”

Before she can formulate a response, or even consider responding
at all, he is walking, nearly running, to the exit of the bazaar. And Vol is about to chase him, because she still feels, for the moment, that she is in a dream.

Then Tash is there, pushing through the crowd of gaping onlookers, and Tash grabs her by the shoulders. She is wearing a beautiful red gown that ties over one shoulder with a rose-shaped bow, and which makes her look like an ancient queen. The gown hurts her eyes, and Vol winces.

There is no pain in dreams.

“
Are you okay? I was calling you. You look like you've seen a ghost.”

No. That is not true. There is pain in dreams. It just hurts in different ways. This is the pain of reality — sharp and piercing, like a fresh, raw wound.

Tash's dark eyes, lined with black kohl, flick to the doorway. “Or a demon,” she adds, and her voice is bitter. “Was that man bothering you?”

“
Worse than that.” Vol bites her lip. “He's been following me.”

“
And you're going after him?”

“
I'm not sure. Should I?”

“
No.” Tash's response is immediate, and firm. “You shouldn't.”

Vol shakes her head, wishing she could shake off her own doubts so easily. “I feel like I should, but I don't know why.” She looks at
Tash with an expression like a pair of begging hands, seeking permission, seeking solace. Finding nothing. “Does that make sense?”

Tash sighs. Her silence is worse than condemnation.

“
I think he knows something about me. Something important. He told me to meet him in GP2.”

“
Did he?” Her expression reveals nothing. The Arbatians are a stoic race. They have to be. Their culture is one of immaculate facades, the slightest chip resulting in the destruction of the whole. “We better get out of here. I just saw Suryan getting reprimanded by a woman who looked like she had a run-in with a lightning bolt.”

“
Jillain.” Vol stares at her, jolted from her daze. “Wait, Suryan? You saw Suryan getting reprimanded?”

“
Her hair color is hard to mistake.”

“
That doesn't make sense. Suryan is a saint. She'd never get into trouble unless — ”

But Vol can't complete the thought. Her mind just blinks out. A minor fugue.

“
Vol—” Tash breaks off, perhaps glimpsing something in the other girl's eyes. “Never mind. GP2, you said? Should be crowded. I doubt he'd try any real harm in a public venue.”

Maybe
.
Maybe not
, Vol thinks.
There are different kinds of harm
.

His kiss still burns her lips, kindling like a promise.

“
But just in case, I'm coming too.” Tash links arms with Vol before she can protest, and laughs at her startled expression. “What? Surely you didn't think I'd let you go alone?”

But her eyes, Vol can't help but notice, are worried.

The Tower has been redecorated in both girls' absence. GP2's tube lights have been activated and for once their stingy supervisors have activated the jet function that causes pressurized water to spurt through the pipes. The bubbles catch the light, and gleam like precious stones.

A few Players are already in the lounge, waiting for the next start-up. Vol spies Aron, a Meridian, his brown hair tamed for once. He looks unusually debonair in a white silk shirt and black slacks. He is chatting with Bastien, a Selmairean, who looks bored. Whether this is due to his conversation partner or the scene as a whole is anybody's guess. He's wearing a suit that glints with nanobots, which have been coaxed to emulate a thin, iridescent armor the Selmaireans often refer to, jokingly, as “mithril.” Though nobody can remember the exact origins of the nickname, it inspires a sense of mystery, of magic and faerie tales, and yet sounds at the same time rather imposing.

Others are here, as well. Alisenne, a Selmairean Weaver. Kai, an Arbatian Spinner. The two of them are a team and specialize in
military-type scenarios. Adam, Ginsen, and Cori — Meridian Players, all of them. Sayvra, Drove, and Kyar — Spinner, Player, and Weaver, respectively, all from Bastan. Western Bastan. Vol doesn't know anyone else who escaped from Eastern Bastan before the Regent destroyed it.

Maybe they pushed eastward, to the Balustrade Range that bordered Arbat.

She likes to think so, anyway.

A few of the Tower residents glance in Vol's and Tash's direction before returning to their conversations.  The Marks — their slack-jawed awe and ill-fitting garb purchased last-minute in the bazaar easily identifying them — stare longer, and a couple do more than that.

Tash makes a face as one man, most likely drunk, tries to grab at her. “Which way is the fastest route to the elevators?

“
Cut past the reception desk. There's a second set behind them. Staff entrance only.”

“
What's wrong?” the Mark slurs with a leer, and a half-hearted grab at his crotch. “Not man enough for you?”

“
You're not woman enough,” Tash says coldly, over her shoulder. “Think about it.”

Vol hits the panel. “Activate voice command. Second floor.”

“
This is becoming quite the adventure.” Tash smooths her dress
out where the Mark grabbed her. “Now I guess I know why they call them Marks.” She rubs at a stain.

Vol laughs. “I think it refers to the shooting term. They're targets. For sales.”

“
Targets for something.” Tash releases the fabric with a grimace. “This is why I don't wear dresses. Hopefully Suryan escaped.”

The Master of Games is a girl Vol has never seen before today. Tash seems to recognize her, though. Her face lights up and she hugs the girl fiercely. “Ariel! You didn't tell me you were working tonight!”

“
Yes, I did. Only a couple hundred times.” The girl says it with a laugh, and Vol feels a bolt of something akin to jealousy as she watches their easy, joking manner with each other. “Pay attention.”

Tash points at Vol. “This is the girl I told you about, the one who helped me kick that one guy's ass. Vol, this is Ariel. She moved in on the same day as me. We're neighbors.”

Ariel is a strikingly pretty girl with the ruddy complexion and fawn-colored hair typical of Meridians. She smiles and shakes Vol's hand. “Hello. I apologize in advance if I do anything atypical. The crowd is so pushy and rambunctious — and this is my first night on the job.”

“
You're doing great,” says Vol.

“
That's kind of you,” Ariel says dryly. “Especially considering the
fact that Jillain could only afford to give me four hours' worth of training.”

“
Is there a run starting soon?” Tash asks. “Like, now-ish?”

“
Tash, you saw the line out there. Lynchings will begin to occur if I allow people to cut.”

“
Pleeeeease? They'll be fine. I promise. A little bit of patience will do them good. Besides, there's nothing out there to hang rope from. I checked.”

Ariel says. “Oh, all right. Go find a cubicle before I find something to hang you from.”

“
It's a date,” Tash says, and bounds down the hallway like an oversized puppy.

“
That girl is a walking advert for headache medicine,” Ariel comments. She smiles as she says it, though her smile dims as she turns to Vol. “There's an available cubicle down the next hall. I just checked the equipment. It should be good to go, and I presume you know how to get yourself hooked in. Summon me if there's a problem.”

Vol gets the feeling Ariel doesn't like her much for some reason. She forces some extra friendliness into her voice. “I don't know what you're worried about. You seem pretty on top of things to me.”