Control

CHAPTER 12

OUR EYES GRADUALLY ADJUST TO THE DARKNESS. The music pulsates in my head and chest, right down to my knees. I wonder if it could do the breathing for me if I let it.

Wicked six-foot meat hooks glide on a track under the corrugated metal ceiling, almost touching the heads of the dancers. Once in a while, an exuberant club-goer grabs a hook and floats through the throng of people. Live meat on display for everyone to grope.

“All right, everybody,” Hex yells over the music. “Be back here in two hours.” He switches on his holo. I’m surprised to see everyone wearing one, for once. “Set repeating alarm transmission for two hours, Wilbert, Zelia, myself, Vera, Cy. Vibe and level eleven sound.”

“Two hours?” Vera whines. She’s already scouted out a group of people nearby, eyeing her like she’s the newest appetizer on the menu.

“Yeah, two hours. Curfew is in three hours, and we need time to get back home in that piece of junk.”

“Hey!” Wilbert protests.

“Two hours.” Hex gives us all a stern look.

Before I can say “Okay,” Vera is gone, her dancing form half obscured by the crowd. Only thirty seconds go by before a tall, handsome, bare-chested guy has his hands on her hips.

“Am I going to have to babysit her?” Hex growls. Vera’s shimmying her vinyl chest at her dance partner. Geez. I can’t watch this either.

“I’m getting a drink,” Wilbert says, pulling the gravy boat handle out of his pocket and pushing his way to the bar. Cy hangs back near me, throwing suspicious glares at everyone around us.

“You think Wilbert will get twice as drunk on a glass of booze, or half as drunk?” I holler at Cy.

“Huh?” He’s peering into the dark, as if searching for someone. His inked mask makes me think he needs to be in a Venetian ball, not a slaughterhouse rave. A stunning, skimpily dressed girl approaches Cy and rubs his chest. He shoves her away, irritated.

I secretly smile. Still, I can’t spend the night watching Cy. It’s time for me to start my search, so I slither forward into the crowd, thinking the bar is a good place to start. Wilbert’s parked himself on a barstool, holding a cordial glass filled with half-green and half-silver liquid, spiraling continually. Several feet away, I squeeze into an opening and motion to the bartender, a girl with a shaved head and three pink metal rods impaling the bridge of her nose.

“Excuse me, do you know anyone here named Q?” I say.

“Drinks first, questions later,” she barks.

“Okay, I’ll take one of those.” I point at Wilbert’s glass. She ducks beneath the bar, emerges with an identical silver-green drink, and then waits.

Oh. I have no silver left. Maybe Wilbert has some more. I look over, but he’s already gone, his glass empty. The bartender’s face grows increasingly pissed off as I search my outfit for nonexistent metal.

“I’ll take care of that.” A barrel-shaped guy with a Mohawk and one-inch ear studs leans over, putting a silver coin on the bar. I spin around.

“No, really, thanks, but—”

“Come with me, and I’ll forgive the debt,” he says, pulling me by the waist onto the dance floor. He’s so huge that I’m airborne for a second before I can push him away.

“I . . . I have to drink this first.”

“Okay, but I’m coming for you later.” It sounds like a threat, though the guy smiles at me, showing dyed black teeth. Monstrous, but very underground-vogue. All my life, I haven’t garnered attention from guys, and now I’m attracting ogres. Awesome.

The bartender gives me a suspicious look for nursing my cocktail, so I hastily take a gulp. It tastes like hairspray mixed with green apple. I’m sure it’s killing the lining of my stomach on contact. Before the bartender walks away again, I wave at her. This time she lands her elbows on the bar.

“So, you know anyone here named Q?” I have to yell my question three times before she hears me over the din of the music.

“Anybody who goes by alphabet letters is either a rock star or incarcerated. But you could get lucky. Try the Alucinari Rooms,” she yells back, pointing to a door at the far end of the room.

“Thanks!” I leave my drink on the bar. Already my face is flushed from the alcohol. I dislike the feeling—anything that makes me, well, not like me. I never understood the neurodrug groupies at school, or the secret ether-injection parties I’m happily excluded from. You always have to face reality again. I don’t need another reality, because the only other one I want—with Dyl back in my life—can’t be supplied with drugs.

I check the black box pendant in my skirt pocket. If this drink is stronger than I expect, I’ll have to put it on soon. Out of the parting crowd, the black-toothed guy zeroes in on me and heads over. Cripes. I duck into a throng of dancers and run through the door.

It empties into a spiral staircase. All the way down, alcoves in the walls contain plaster-like busts of figures. They’re unisex and featureless, except for an open mouth offering a bright-colored pill on an extended tongue. A guy in front of me pauses at a bust and gives it a lascivious kiss, then tosses his head back to swallow the pill.

The plaster bust coos at him. “You’re welcome.” It smiles, then opens its mouth to reveal a new orange pill for the taking.

A girl with a shaved head grabs the guy’s hand and laughs. “You slut! That’s your third, you’re asking for it!” They both gallop downward, ahead of me. It’s hard to avoid being bumped and pushed as I squeeze past people in the narrow stairwell. They cover the steps and walls, talking, drinking, or making out, writhing to the music.

At the bottom of the stairs, a smoky hallway with several doors stretches into darkness. I trip over something. The guy who popped the three pills is lying on the floor with the girl sprawled atop him. She’s yanking his shirt down, biting his neck. The guy doesn’t seem to care one way or another. He claws at the air around her head.

“Oohhhaaaahhh. Look . . .” He’s totally out of it and she’s just having her way with him, right there in the hallway. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re naked in a few minutes.

The only sober-looking girl I can find leans against the wall between two doors. She smokes a tiny pipe, watching the dazed people pass by. I beeline toward her.

“Hey, do you know where the Alucinari Rooms are?”

She removes her pipe, the fuchsia smoke curling out of her nostrils. “Right here, sweets. Pick your poison.”

“Thanks.” I walk down the hallway, perusing the choices. Random body parts float outside each room. A pink-irised eye. An ear. There’s a quivering jellyfish that’s probably a brain. A hand with fingers, stretching and curling into a fist. Down the corridor, more doors and their holograms are hidden by clouds of fumes.

As I pass underneath the disembodied hand, it undulates toward me. A whisper of softness touches my cheek. It’s a hologram, how could it actually touch me? I shake my head. No time to think about that now. If Q is here, I need to find him. If not . . .

Well. I can’t think about that. I take a brave breath and push the door open. A pink pulsating cloud obscures the ceiling and twists frothy tendrils downward every few feet. It’s impossible to avoid the ropes of blushing mist. As I walk in, they softly fall over my shoulders, slinking down my back and arms.

A guy lies near my feet with his hands splayed out, as if beseeching the air. His eyes are shut, and he hums deep in his throat, a human purr. Another couple on the floor pets each other’s ankles over and over again, lost to the repetitive movement. The girl clenches her teeth so hard, her jaw muscles ripple.

Was it the pill buffet on the way down the stairs? Did everyone take something except me? Just then, I step under one of the rivulets of pink smoke, and the coolness dances down my face. I inhale a tiny bit, in surprise. The scent of wine and sugary syrup blossoms inside me. The sweetness hits my throat and my lungs, and, oh god, I feel like I’m sucking in the best-tasting ice cream and chocolate and everything delicious and forbidden straight into my bloodstream.

The pink fog continues to swirl coolly down my face and neck, but it’s not just there. It’s in me, in my fingertips and caressing the backs of my knees from the inside. A warm hand touches my shoulder and I grab it, hungry for the sensation. I want to dig that hand into my body, let it pierce me because the pain would be lovely. Pure and awful and beautiful.

The hand turns me around. Through the brain-fog, I see him. The Mohawk guy who bought me the drink. His eyes travel over my body, fix on my mouth while a broad hand slips from my shoulder to the nape of my neck. Part of me is terrified, but that part is docile and numb, pushed aside by the strawberry clouds mingling in my blood. His teeth glint black like polished coal and part to reveal a thrice-forked tongue.

As he comes closer, his face divides a column of pink smoke. A wisp of it disappears into his nostrils, then more. He inhales deeply, his eyes shutting tight from the rush.

Another hand encircles my left arm. And another. I feel four hands on my body, which computes as impossible in my hazy brain. Are they real? Is it Hex? But all four hands suddenly release me. I watch, fascinated, as the black-toothed guy is pried from my body and pushed to the floor, where he groans in pleasure from the impact.

Whoever pushed Mohawk Guy stands behind me. Hands move to encircle my waist, and I gasp, shutting my eyes when I feel lips meet the nape of my neck. The lips are strong, insistent, and follow the curve of my jaw to graze my cheek. I can’t stand it anymore. I spin around to grasp the face I still can’t see and I crush the stranger’s lips to mine, letting the relentless slow beat push our bodies together.

I am four arms and four legs, and two mouths and two tongues, out of control. The pink smoke rains down on our bodies, but somewhere inside, a tiny remnant of good sense is screaming. What is it saying? I don’t care. Shut up, shut up, I’m busy. My nerves are all on fire and it’s torture and it’s heaven and I’m busy.

Reason shrieks again, so insistent amidst the sick sweetness of candy and wine.

Breathe, Zelia, the voice screams. Breathe!

The zillions of nerves firing pleasure all at once suddenly stop firing. Everything turns off so fast that I can’t catch myself as I fall. Two strong arms slow my descent; they drag me out to the hallway, away from the serpentine hand above the door begging for my return. People step over me, uncaring, as cool air touches my face.

Breathe.

I don’t know if the command is from me or someone else, but I obey, gasping the unadulterated air and arching my back to inhale deeply. My senses slowly become mine again. There is someone by my side, his voice emerging clearer and clearer by the second.

“Breathe! Keep going, breathe now.” I know that voice. I know the hands too. They’re warm. I remember their imprint on my body from just seconds ago. The face comes into focus, and I’m relieved to see white teeth, not black. Charcoal eyes flecked with green and gold watch me.

It’s Cy.

I’M MORTIFIED. DID I REALLY TONGUE-WRESTLE with Cy? Or did the pink mist uncover some unconscious daydream of mine I didn’t know was so . . . racy? I still feel terrible, so I just concentrate on sucking and expelling air while he cradles my head. Cy doesn’t say a word. His black tattooed mask is the tiniest bit blurred already, the ink now looking like he smudged soot all over his face.

“What . . . what just happened in there?” I ask.

“You stopped breathing, so I pulled you into the hallway.”

“But . . . what . . .”

“They lace all the rooms with drugs, it seems.”

“Were you drugged too?”

Cy doesn’t answer me; he’s checking my pulse. I wonder if he can measure my embarrassment under his fingertips. I’m still so fuzzy. Did I imagine everything? Or was Cy in complete control, when his hands were up the back of my shirt and on my thighs and oh my god. What really happened?

“Water.” My throat is so dry that the request is croaked, rather than spoken.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he says, and I return his concern with a coughing fit so violent that tears pour down my cheeks.

“I’ll get you something. Wait here.” He gently scoots me over and props me against the wall. I watch him step over the other people in the hallway, cat-like, making his way upstairs to the bar.

I just concentrate on my breathing and try not to hack up a lung again. This time, I’m taking no chances. There are too many weird vapors oozing out of the rooms here. I put on my necklace, making sure the clasp is secure.

My body responds to the tidal rhythm of the pendant. I relax a little, watching the other people walking by. The door to the room I’ve just left opens again, and a hand claws at the doorjamb. The guy with the black teeth drags himself out of the room, and as his head emerges, he sucks in the normal air, eyes squeezed shut.

I stand up, wobbling to the side. I’m not going to get pawed by this guy again. He opens his eyes and sees me.

“You!” he slurs, dribbling saliva down his chin.

“I’m not on the menu, sorry.” I trot a crooked path down the hallway. My legs feel weak, but I’ve a head start in sobriety. I can hide out somewhere else until Cy returns. As I push my way through a tangle of people by the brain room, I hear a laugh.

I know that laugh.

It’s a girl’s, one that rings like bells, high above the noise of the crowd. I twist around, searching anxiously for the source. I push people out of the way, trying to filter out the noise, wanting to scream at everyone to be silent. And then I see her, supported by two boys who smile smugly at her drug-induced mirth.

Dirty blond hair in ragged curls falls over her thin shoulders. A low-cut green dress is plastered to her frame, and eyes rimmed thickly in smudged blue eyeliner look straight at me, but don’t see me.

I scream.