We stood and walked sideways from the room, Mana-ma watching us go.
“What the hell were you doing?” Taema asked as soon as we were out of the church and walking down the dirt road toward home. “What was the point?”
“She does that to us, wrapping us around her finger. I wanted to see if I could do it, too. And I could.”
It was easy, and sort of fascinating even if I knew, deep down, it was wrong. Like picking legs off of an insect.
It made me wonder what else I was capable of.
THIRTEEN
TAEMA
I wake up completely disoriented.
My mouth feels like cotton wool and my vision is blurry. The room hums with the soft whirr of machinery. I try to move, but there are wires poking from my veins, holding me in place. I panic, not sure where I am. Have I come out of surgery again? My arm tries to move to my scar, but it can’t.
“T,” I whisper. Where is she?
“Is she OK?” asks a male voice I think I recognize. “It doesn’t normally take this long to wake up, does it?”
“It’s her mechanical heart. Usually when people are … excited in the Zealscape, their heart pumps faster—works through the drug quicker.”
I blink, shaking my head. A man leans over me. “You OK, Tila?”
I start at my sister’s name, still trying to figure out where I am. I shake my head, but the man gives me a warning look. I squint. He’s a detective. Detective Nazarin. I remember. I focus on my breathing, everything coming back to me as the last vestiges of Verve leave my system.
The orderly is taking out the needles from my arm. I shudder as I feel them slip out of my skin. Seems strangely barbaric and old-fashioned, but intravenous is still the best way to administer the drug to make the immersion in the Zeal or Verve world complete. You must know it wasn’t a Zealscape, I want to say. How much have the Ratel paid you? Have you contacted them? If he had, wouldn’t they already be here? I feel the aftereffects—a buzzing in my veins, a twitching in my muscles. If it was actually Zeal, my urge to kill and maim would be diminished. I’d feel happy and glowing. Because it’s Verve, I feel more keyed up than ever. I keep grinding my teeth together in anger, clenching my hands into fists.
Mia’s still deeply dreaming, lying flat on the Chair. Time can go a bit funny on these drugs. It felt like I was only there for an hour at most, but it’s been three hours out here. According to the clock on the wallscreen above her head, she still has eleven hours of depravity before she has to wake up and remember what she did in the harsh light of day. Perhaps eighteen hours before she’s here again, ready for more. How can she bear to do this, day after day?
The orderly finishes and I get off the Chair, unsteady on my feet.
I lean closer to Mia, and then I swallow hard. I’m almost sure I see the barest hint of bruising around her throat, and another thin mark where the scalpel nicked her. But that can’t be possible, can it? I clench my hands into fists deep within my pockets.
Nazarin looks a bit better than I feel, though not by much. He’s decidedly green around the gills. I want to ask him what he saw. Were his urges to kill just as strong, and if so, who did he hurt in that shared dream world?
Nazarin tips the white-coated orderly extra, and he responds with an obsequious nod. He opens the door for us and smiles, but to me it seems more of a leer. I squeeze past him, as does Nazarin, and the orderly leads us down the hallway, his perfectly coiffed hair solid as a helmet under the dim lighting. He motions toward the discreet side exit.
I brush off my arms after we leave, as if I can shed all the horror of what I’ve seen. I’m shaking, even though it’s a warm San Francisco night. I let out a breath, my ears perked for an alarm, my eyes to the sky for any unmarked hovercars to take us away. I’m grateful we made the effort to wear masks, and can only hope the orderly didn’t lean in close enough in the dim light to see the seams. They’re not something that works well in the bright light of day, but are usually reserved for costume parties or nights out on the town.
We walk along beside the garish advertisements of the Mission district. All the smiling, bright men and women seem to be cackling at me.
“We need to talk about what happened,” he said. “But not here.”
“Back to the safe house?” Though I don’t feel comfortable there, between the Chair and seeing that spread of false blood in the upstairs room.
“There’s another safe house, closer. Just around the corner. We’ll regroup there, then head back to the main one.”
He sets off, and I trail him.