Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(46)

The most troubling thing was that Greyson was beginning to like it. Never before had he had blanket permission to do something wrong—but now, “wrong” was what his life had become about. It kept him awake at night. He longed to talk to the Thunderhead about it, but knew it couldn’t give him a response. He did know, however, that it was watching him. Its cameras were there in all the clubs. The Thunderhead’s continual, unblinking presence had always been a comfort to him. Even in his loneliest moments, he knew he was never truly alone. But now its silent presence was unnerving.

Was the Thunderhead ashamed of him?

He would invent conversations in his mind to quell such fears.

Explore this new facet of yourself with my blessing, he would imagine the Thunderhead telling him. It’s fine as long as you remember who you truly are and don’t lose yourself.

But what if this is who I truly am? he would ask. Not even the imaginary Thunderhead had an answer to that question.

? ? ?

Her name was Purity Viveros and she was as unsavory as they came. It was clear to Greyson that the big red U on her ID was by design and not due to an unfortunate accident of circumstance. She was exotic. Her hair was drained of pigment—beyond being merely white, the strands were clear, and her scalp had phosphorescent injections in multiple colors, which made the ends of each strand of hair glow with radiance like fiber-optic filaments.

Greyson instinctively knew that she was dangerous. He also thought she was beautiful, and he was drawn to her. He wondered if he would have been drawn to her in his old life. But after a few weeks of being immersed in an unsavory lifestyle, he suspected his criteria for attraction had changed.

He met her at an AWFul club—one across town that he hadn’t been to before. It was called LokUp, and was designed to resemble a mortal-age facility of incarceration. Upon arrival each guest was manhandled by guards, dragged through a series of doors, and thrown into a cell with a random cellmate, with no regard to gender.

The idea of incarceration was so foreign and absurd to Greyson that when the cell door was slammed shut with a nasty clank that reverberated in the concrete cell block, he actually laughed. This type of treatment could never have been real. Surely, this was just an exaggeration.

“Finally!” said a voice in the upper of the two bunks in the small cell. “I thought they’d never bring me a cellmate.”

She introduced herself and explained that “Purity” was not a nickname, but her actual given name. “If my parents didn’t want me to embrace the obvious irony, they should have named me something else,” she told Greyson. “If they had named me ‘Profanity,’ I might have turned out to be a good little girl.”

She was slight of build, but by no means a little girl. Currently she was twenty-two, although Greyson suspected she had been around the corner once or twice. Greyson would find soon enough that she was strong and limber, and very street savvy.

Greyson looked around the cell. It seemed pretty simple and straightforward. He tested the cell door once, then again. It rattled but didn’t budge.

“First time in LokUp?” Purity asked. And since it was pretty obvious, Greyson didn’t lie about it.

“Yeah. So what are we supposed to do now?”

“Well, we could spend some time getting to know each other,” she said with a mischievous grin, “or we could yell for a guard, and demand a ‘last meal.’ ?They have to bring us whatever we ask for.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They pretend like they won’t do it, but they have to—it’s their job. After all, this place is a dinner club.”

Then Greyson guessed the real gimmick of the place. “We’re supposed to break out—is that it?”

Purity gave him that same licentious grin. “You’re a quick one, ain’t cha?”

He wasn’t sure if she meant it or was being facetious. Either way, he kind of liked it.

“There’s always a way out, but it’s up to us to figure it out,” she told him. “Sometimes it’s a secret passage, other times there’s a file hidden in the food. Sometimes there aren’t any tricks or tools but our own smarts. If all else fails, the guards are pretty easy to outsmart. It’s their job to be slow and stupid.”

Greyson heard shouts, and running feet echoing from somewhere else in the cell block. Another pair of guests had just broken out.

“So, what’ll it be?” Purity asked. “Dinner, escape, or quality time with your cellmate?” And before he could answer, she planted a kiss on him, the likes of which he had never before experienced. When it was done, he didn’t know what to say, except, “My name is Slayd.”

To which she responded, “I don’t care,” and kissed him again.

While Purity seemed more than ready to take this as far as it could go, the passing guards and escaping inmates who leered at them and made hooting noises as they went by made it far too awkward for Greyson. He pulled away.

“Let’s break out,” he said, “and . . . uh . . . find a better place to get to know each other.”

She turned it off as quickly as she had turned it on. “Fine. But don’t assume I’ll still be interested later.” ?Then she called a guard over, insisting they eat first, and ordered them some prime rib.

“We don’t got any,” the guard told them.