Richelle Mead - Gameboard of the Gods

“Yeah. I’d be heartbroken.” Seeing his hopeful look, she sighed. He had a point, after all. “Fine. But I’m not changing.”

He looked as though he might protest but shrugged it off. “Something tells me for you, it won’t matter. Let’s go.”

She didn’t know how many times he’d been in Windsor, but he managed to find the shadiest, most illicit club he could. It wasn’t even an official establishment and was instead housed in what looked like an abandoned warehouse. When they stepped inside, though, she was blown away that a place like this could exist without being known to authorities.

Hundreds of bodies were packed together in relatively little space, and the room reeked of human sweat and smoke from all sorts of substances. It was almost like being in Cristobal’s club, except cleaner and more high-tech. The place was kept dark, lit only by pulsing colored lights that seemed to be timed to the loud, pounding, percussion-intensive music filling the air. People talked in clusters around the periphery of the room, while the middle was reserved for dancing, which mostly seemed to consist of a lot of erratic body thrusting and rubbing.

“Wow,” said Justin with delight, while Mae felt her body respond to the implant. He made a beeline for the bar, and she fell into step with him.

“How is it possible that someone who bemoaned his fate in Panama for four years chooses the most provincial bar I’ve ever seen in this country?” she exclaimed.

“Difference is in the clientele,” he told her. “These people are civilized.”

Glancing around, Mae wasn’t so sure. Some did seem to be from Justin’s demographic: stylish, affluent people charmed by novel vices. Others looked like the dredges of society and would’ve fit in well in Panama. The bartender, whose mouth was completely encircled in metal piercings, seemed to be a prime example.

“Black Bay bourbon. Straight,” Justin ordered. He glanced at Mae. “Can’t get that in the provinces.” He turned back to the bartender. “You got any ash?”

She suppressed a groan, wondering if her position as a soldier of the Republic meant she should be enforcing its laws.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” said the man, handing Justin a small glass of amber liquid. “It’s good, if you want to get something for your fucking grandmother. You want some serious shit, though, you go for the gates of paradise.”

Justin scoffed. “You don’t have that here.” The bartender reached down and held up a small plastic dropper, earning an exclamation of, “Fuck me. Hook me up.”

“The gates of paradise? What is that?” asked Mae as Justin handed over a stack of EA dollars. Their sister country still ran on hard currency, which was fairly easy for Gemmans to exchange. Since it couldn’t be traced in the same way electronic funds could, it was frequently used for purchases like this.

Justin accepted the dropper. “The closest those of us without implants can get to being a god.” Without hesitation, he held it to his tongue and shook out several clear drops. He closed his eyes, shuddering as an invisible wave swept over his body. “Damn,” he breathed. It sounded like a benediction. He opened his eyes again and blinked them several times as though focusing. Even in the erratic light, she could see his pupils dilating. “Heavenly. Would this be wasted on you?”

“Yes,” she said sternly. “I don’t need drugs to wind down after a hard day.”

“Says the woman whose life is dependent on neurotransmitters and endorphins.”

She flushed. “That’s not the same at all.”

“Whatever you say.” He knocked back his drink in one gulp and handed the empty glass and vial to the bartender. “Another bourbon.” He waved grandly to Mae. “And whatever she wants.”

She nearly declined but felt awkward just standing there. “Get me a mojito.”

The bartender gave her a flat look. “Does this look like the kind of place that serves mojitos?”

“Surprise me then.”

He made her a martini, explaining, “That’s the prissiest I can do.”

Mae would’ve expected Justin to start trolling for women, but instead, he leaned near her against the bar in companionable silence. He watched the room with interest, and she wondered if his brilliant observation skills still worked when he was strung out on illegal substances. At least he was sipping the bourbon this time. He wore his typical amused and confident expression, but when she gave him a more scrutinizing look, she swore she could see a glimmer of the sadness she’d observed in Panama.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He glanced her way, and she could tell he was on the verge of denying it. Then, studying her, he changed his mind. “Do you know why the land grants are on hold? Why we’re looking into cults now?”

“Because one of them is responsible for the murders?”

The ghost of a smile flashed over his face. “Well, yes, but I’d much rather solve all of this through placid forensics work—even though I know that’s not your thing.” He grew solemn again. “I got a call from the illustrious Cornelia the other day, letting me know how displeased she was at our lack of progress.”

Even though she wasn’t personally involved with the investigative part, Mae felt offended. “But you’re doing everything you can. Your interviews are…meticulous. You’re getting the data scrutinized again. And we’re not done talking to everyone.”

“You’re a fan after all, huh?” His smile returned, and for a moment, his hand lifted as though he might touch her. Then it dropped. “Meticulous or not, we’re stuck, and Cornelia made me very aware of the ticking clock.” He stared into the depths of his glass. “And so, we’re on to nuts like Apollo’s people—but even that didn’t pan out. I thought it’d be easy, you know. Just a few strokes of brilliance from me, and it’d be put to bed. Now I may be back in Panama before the month’s over.”

“Why did you go there in the first place?”

He looked back up, surprising her with a hint of the sadness she’d seen at their first meeting. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Mae didn’t want to, but she felt sorry for him. No matter his faults, he’d been put into a bad situation—maybe even an impossible one. Bringing him back had most certainly been an act of desperation on Internal Security’s part. “Maybe you can find that woman, Calliope—”

“Callista,” he corrected. “And maybe. I don’t know. Not many people can disappear, but she could. She’s got ties to underground networks of religions, ones that hide from SCI. Those groups stick together and help each other stay under the radar. Most of them wouldn’t go anywhere near a servitor like me, but she’d help me. I know she would.” He finished the bourbon and gestured the bartender over. “More paradise.”

Even the callous bartender looked taken aback. “That first shot should last all night.”

Justin put some cash on the bar. “It’s been a long day.” After a little more hesitation, the bartender swept up the money and handed over another vial. Mae bit her tongue on her own protests and watched as Justin took it down. His depression melted away, or was at least hidden. That dashing charmer returned, and he stepped closer to her. “You want to dance?”

“No. And that’s not dancing.” She cast a contemptuous look at the dance floor before returning her gaze to him, feeling slightly discomfited by his proximity. “It’s just an excuse for people to rub themselves up against each other.”

He leaned close. “If memory serves, you didn’t mind that once.”

“I’m going to ignore that because you’re high off your ass right now,” she snapped. “And if memory serves, you don’t go on second dates.”