LyonTamer2340843345.
Seriously, how many LyonTamers could there be in South Africa? It’s really not that clever of a name. What were the odds that someone else would pick that name, someone born in the exact same year as him? Stoker stands bolt upright as something hits him: What are the odds that he created an account, and then forgot? He shakes his head as he deletes the random numbers until he’s left with the original name. In the password box, he types in his default password. The same one he’s been using for the past twenty years. Yeah, that’s awful. So sue him.
It takes all the strength in the world to press enter.
WELCOME BACK! the screen says to him, Last successful log in, 14 January, 2052.
Twelve years ago.
His avatar projects into the room, a younger version of himself in a full-length gown with a hefty slit, face beaming and so full of pride.
“Curiosity is only natural, son,” Stoker’s mother says from behind him. He doesn’t startle, just turns around. He’d expected this much. “But there’s a time for play, and there’s a time for work.”
“You erased my memory. And Gregory Mbende’s, too, I’m guessing,” Stoker hisses.
“You sound disappointed, dear. You’d rather I murder him instead?”
“I’d rather you tell me the truth. Who are you?”
“Your mother, Wallace.” She circles around him, graceful and elegant as ever, young beyond her years, but now Stoker sees it. That something in her eyes he’d always dismissed as his mother’s eccentricity. “A mother, a thousand times over, to great leaders across the continents. But you, son, will be my best. Your nation is in need. It’s time to set aside these childish things and serve them in this delicate hour. You’ll make a name for yourself. It’s in the blood in your veins.”
“And what kind of blood is that? Human?” Stoker spits the words, though he fears the answer he’ll get.
His mother tips her head and nonchalantly shrugs a shoulder. “More or less.”
“And what if I refuse to do your bidding?” Stoker asks, the words slick across his tongue. His mother thinks she’s got him cornered, but Stoker’s got a trick or two up his sleeve. He gnaws at his manicured nails, a nervous habit as far as she’s concerned. It’ll make her complacent and give him the edge he needs to pull this off. She preys on weakness. Always has. Stoker finishes tearing away a piece of nail, then spits it to the floor. “What then?”
His mother flicks open the closet, pulls out his concert outfit. “You think this is the first of your frilly dresses I’ve had to dispose of?” She looks it over top to bottom, then shrugs. “You do have an interesting sense of style, I’ll give you that. But this is for the best. You’re destined for greatness, son.”
“You’ll wipe my brain again, then. How many times will this be?” Every time he got a little curious about his true self, all she had to do was make him forget. But this time he’s ready for her. Or so he hopes. He nibbles at another nail.
“Not me,” his mother says. Her shadow shifts, dark smoke lifting from the tile floor like early morning fog on the ocean.
Stoker stumbles backward, his hand knocking a roll of athletic tape off his dressing room table. It hits the floor, then wobbles across the room, running into a highly polished loafer that hadn’t been there before. It’s that man from the fund-raiser . . . the one who’d seemed incredibly wise and impossibly old. The man smiles as he takes his spot next to Stoker’s mother, standing so close to her that the backs of their hands touch, linger.
“This won’t hurt,” the man says, raising an accusing finger toward Stoker, punctuated with a thick nail sharpened to a point. “Much.”
Chapter 24
Riya Natrajan
Riya Natrajan stares at her pinkie finger, trying to figure out how to do this without ruining her bejeweled manicure, a work of art in itself. She holds the hammer steady, hovering half a meter, enough to build up the momentum needed to crack bone. She lowers it a bit for the sake of accuracy. Closes her eyes. Cringes.
It’ll only hurt a little while, she tells herself. Then she’ll move on to the next finger and the next, until her vocal cords loosen up and she doesn’t sound like a goose with bronchitis anymore. As if that’s the biggest of her problems. Her opening act didn’t show up for dress rehearsals this morning, and Adam Patel is freaking out about Riya’s last-minute decision not to allow bots into the concert, and not to mention all the ruckus centered on that ridiculous township fiasco.
She didn’t tell Adam about the incident with her father—oh no, that news would’ve made Adam go bat-shit crazy. So she claimed she’d fallen off the grid for a couple days, on a bender. And he’d given her that same old speech about dying young, ODing, or in a car crash, or something fittingly dramatic for a pop diva. But Riya Natrajan is pretty sure she’s above dying after the beating her father had laid on her. She may even be immortal, though that’s not the sort of thing you go testing right away. Start small, then work my way up has been her motto these last couple weeks.
She’d tried cutting for a few days, worked like a charm, ate the pain right up and kicked ass during rehearsal. But she hates the sight of blood, and besides, the effects faded too fast. Then she went for the toes, worked okay, but there’s no room for error, and she ruined her pedicure every time. Fingers, they worked well for a while, but now they’re the warm-up, the appetizer. She doesn’t enjoy hurting herself in the slightest, but it’s a necessary evil if she wants to get out onstage and not look like a complete idiot.
She raises the hammer again, gives the knuckle on her pinkie a practice love tap, enough to hurt but not enough to break. The pain vanishes even before it sets in. Riya Natrajan sighs.
“Got yourself a little home improvement project going on, mama?”
She startles and drops the hammer. It smacks down right on her thumb. Lucky break. Rife’s hands come down over her eyes. She can tell it’s him, because he’s the only one who would dare to do such a thing, plus his hands always tend to smell faintly of pussy. She gut-checks him with her elbow, then turns around to see him, a patch of purple blooming below his eye and his bottom lip swelled up around a deep cut. Riya Natrajan frowns. “What happened to you?” Her words come out more disgusted than intended.
“Dissension in the ranks. One of my dealers got too big for his britches.” Rife winces as she touches under his eye. “No worries,” he says, jutting his chin and making a pistol gesture with his thumb and forefinger. “He got the worst of it.”
Riya Natrajan swallows, then forces the thought from her mind. “So are you here for business or pleasure?”
“A little of both, mama. I want to drop godsend at your concert.”