False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(65)

It doesn’t take long to arrive at the gates. The whole block used to be high-end stores, but now it is all a private residence. I didn’t know this before the SFPD told me in the brainload. The average civilian wouldn’t. Distribution of wealth isn’t as uneven as before the Great Upheaval. Most people make enough to live comfortably, poverty is erased in all but the worst of the Zealots, and though citizens can order vast amounts of goods from the replicator, all can be recycled back. There are still obscenely wealthy people in this city but they tend to keep a lower profile than, say, those in Hollywood, where status and ranking have more pull. Having far, far more money than you need is seen as wasteful.

Nazarin walks through the gates. I approach a minute later, projecting Tila’s invitation from my ocular implant onto a little wallscreen to the left. The door opens with a snick, and I walk in.

In front of us is the large, faux brick building, now made of bomb-proof, acid-proof material. We walk through to the second gate, a replica of the original Art Deco iron arched gate, topped by four rings of brick. Like many buildings, it was destroyed in the Great Quake and rebuilt to be larger than the previous plans. The original building was a store, and now it is a mansion.

Nazarin—no, Skel, he is Skel now—lingers enough that we almost walk into the darkened tunnel at the same time. He does not turn back or acknowledge me, but I’m thankful for his nearness.

I take a steadying breath. I am about to enter the same building as the Ratel King and Queen. It’s what I’ve prepared for. I am now, for all intents and purposes, my sister: a lucid dreamer for a Verve lounge for the biggest mob in the city. None of it seems real. I can’t really be doing this. Still, I place one foot in front of the other, moving closer to whatever is to come.

The tunnel fills with soft lights of green, blue, and purple, and a light fog drifts at waist height, scented with lilacs.

“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree,” I whisper.

Nazarin stiffens and almost turns back in confusion. I guess he’s never read Coleridge.

We enter, still staggered, and the droids take our coats. I shed that outer layer like a carapace, wearing only my silver, shining second skin. Nazarin passes over his gun. No weapons at parties. Nazarin’s eyes slide over me, but I ignore him, staring upward, unable to stop myself from gaping.

The whole ceiling is open, showing the stars and moon above. It’s made from the finest bulletproof glass. Despite the seriousness of the situation I can’t help but be transported by the beauty of it. The main ballroom has a re-creation of the original spiral staircase along its edges but much larger, like the inside of a shell, perfect circles cut out of the sides, like the holes in an abalone. The walls are creamy white, lights tingeing the smooth plaster green and blue. Twining, living vines hang from the ceiling, framing an enormous organic chandelier suspended above the dance floor, twinkling with emeralds and other jewels among the leaves. Elephants drink from a palm-framed water hole, and birds fly overhead. They’re all mechanical, their eyes cameras for security posted in the next room, available to come in at a moment’s notice if needed.

There aren’t as many people here as I would have thought, but everyone looks so sleek and stylish, they nearly put Zenith to shame. Yet they are obviously dangerous too, marked with moving tattoos and wearing their scars proudly. A few dance to music, twining their bodies together, skin pressed against skin. Others huddle together, murmuring among themselves, while some wander from group to group, hovering here to say a few words before fluttering onward, like butterflies sipping nectar from each cluster. Despite their prettiness, I cannot forget the venom they all have the ability to spread. More lines of that poem come to me:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

I straighten my shoulders and put on Tila’s sultry smile. I let her personality settle over mine. I’m Tila. I’m confident and strong. I’m unafraid. A droid leaves the bar nestled at the back and passes by, offering me a glass of champagne. I take a sip and almost choke. It’s real champagne—nothing remotely synth about it. The liquid burns slightly, and my taste buds tingle, the bubbles popping against my tongue.

I recognize some of the faces from Tila’s sketches. I stay calm—my eyes flicker over them quickly, but I don’t see the King and Queen of the Ratel.

Nazarin leaves me, mingling with others before returning. He greets me, giving me one of those small hugs you give people you don’t know very well. “Something’s not right,” he whispers in my ear. “Be careful.”

Before I can ask him more questions, he disappears, and I’m taken aback. I know we can’t be seen too much together, but surely if Tila flirted with him at a previous party, we could take up the same cover again. How can he just leave me here on my own, with what I’m about to face?

Some of the familiar faces from Tila’s sketchbook come to greet me, and I smile and kiss them on the cheeks, greeting them by name, all too aware that the hands gently resting on my shoulders have killed people. All these polite guests are hardened criminals, many with hits under their belts. It’s almost like I can feel the ghosts, a press of the invisible, cold corpses these people are responsible for, crowding the room with the revelers.