City of Light (Outcast 1)

In the hallway beyond, a buzzer sounded. The rooms around me suddenly bustled with activity, and, in short order, a small group of men and women were filing out of the rooms and heading for the exit. I quickly joined them, keeping my head down, avoiding looking at anyone as the group made their way through the lobby beyond the door, past a reception area, and out onto the pavement. Pavement that was crisp and clean and filled with people going about their business, not taking any notice of those of us exiting the brothel. The sun was fierce and bright, and its position in the sky suggested it was midafternoon, at least. I’d lost a fair chunk of time traversing that rift. I jogged across the road, dodging air scooters and electric cars, then turned and looked back.

The building was small and narrow—little more than five stories high and four windows wide. Its rooftop was washed with the light of the UVs that lined the slightly taller buildings on either side of it, and it was nestled against a shiny metal wall that towered far above any of the buildings in this street. It was a curtain wall. And not, I suspected, any old curtain wall, but Central’s itself.

The wraiths had a direct line of transport into the city. No wonder so many children had gone missing without the populace ever realizing monsters prowled in their midst.

I shivered and scanned the building again, looking for the brothel’s name. Eventually I spotted a small, discreet sign that simply read DESEO. No doubt Nuri and her motley crew would be able to run a check on the owners of this place, as well as keep an eye on the comings and goings . . . if I contacted them about it, that was. I wasn’t entirely sure that was a wise move—given they hadn’t exactly denied a link to the government.

I turned and headed down the street. I had no idea where I was, but if this was Central, then this road would intersect the main thoroughfare soon enough. Central’s internal layout consisted of a dozen roads; the outer roads were semicircular like the wall itself, but the inner ones were full circles. Victory Street—the only street tha

t ran straight through the heart of the city—intersected each of these roads, which also acted as delineation among the twelve districts within Central. Those near the wall were the poorer sections; the closer you got to Central’s heart—where the main business district and government centers were situated, as well as the only green space available within the city—the more exclusive and richer the community.

I found Victory Street—a spacious avenue that, despite the tall buildings lining either side of it, was still wide enough to allow real sunshine to bathe the street rather than just the UV lights—and headed north, toward the exit drawbridge.

The entire avenue at ground level was a mix of retail premises. At this end of town, closer to the walls, the shops and cafés tended to be smaller, and their contents—be it clothes, food stalls, or tables for the various cafés—spilled out onto the wide pavement, filling the air with a riot of scents and giving the street a wild, almost gregarious feel. It was these areas that I generally stuck to when I came here on ration raids.

The closer I moved into Central’s heart, the more sterile the street and air became. Even the people in this section of the city seemed to have undergone some sort of purity process, I thought, as my gaze roamed across the gently moving sea of people ahead of me. While they didn’t look anything alike physically, there was a common sense of serenity they all shared—an odd, almost superior air. And the fact that they were nearly all clad in white and gray outfits didn’t help the feeling that in these streets, there was an entirely different level of living. One I would never understand or be comfortable with. But at least in my stolen clothes, I didn’t stand out too much . . .

The thought froze as my gaze came to a halt on the wide shoulders of a man. A man who towered above the rest of the populace by a good foot, and whose short hair was the color of blue steel. My heart began to beat a whole lot faster and my footsteps quickened. Blue steel was a very rare hair color, and it was one that was very hard to reproduce in dye. I’d only ever seen that color five times in all the years I’d been alive, and all five instances had been during the war, on the head of a déchet. Not any old déchet, but rather, specialist assassins.

And that surely could mean only one thing.

I wasn’t the only déchet to have survived the war.

Chapter 6

No, I thought, it can’t be. Surely if other déchet had survived, I would have come across them sooner rather than later. Granted, assassins—like lures—were bred with specific skills and abilities built into their DNA, but that didn’t explain the fact that in just over one hundred years of running regular supply raids into Central, there’d never been the slightest suggestion of another déchet living within her walls.

I tried to hurry without being obvious about it, desperate not to let the stranger get too far ahead of me.

Could he be an assassin déchet? Was it possible? Or was the goddess just teasing me? Like us, they’d been an extremely small group—far more lures and assassins had died in the tubes than regular déchet and, of those who did survive, more than eighty percent had not made it to puberty. When it came to the assassins, this high attrition rate was due in part to the fact that they’d used not only shifter and vampire DNA, but actual animal DNA. And the death rate within the blue-steel program—or grays, as they’d become known, thanks to the fact that their salamander blood had given their skin a silky smooth but slightly gray tone—had been ninety-eight percent. Only five had survived past puberty, and I knew at least one of those had died during the war.

Up ahead, the man with the blue-steel hair disappeared into one of the many walkways that made quick access from one street to various others possible. I broke into a run, desperate not to lose him, weaving my way through the crowd with little of the decorum expected in this part of Central.

I turned into the walkway. It was a three-meter-wide canyon between two high-rise buildings and was bathed in UV light. My steps slowed as I desperately searched the crowd moving between Victory and First Streets for any sign of the stranger. There was nothing.

I cursed softly and ran to the end of the walkway, stopping again when I reached First. Still no sign, but a scent teased the air. A scent that spoke of deep forests, dark satin, and something else. Something unexpected and icy.

But there was enough familiarity within that mix of aromas to stir memories of long nights of passion spent in the arms of a man with blue-steel hair. A man I’d been assigned to instruct in the arts of seduction and sex once he’d hit adulthood, and with whom I’d become closer than perhaps was ever wise.

A man who’d saved my life when I’d all but given up hope.

I followed the fragile, teasing scent through several more walkways and came into an area I wasn’t familiar with. I paused, looking around, and caught sight of the stranger up ahead just before he disappeared around Fourth Street’s gentle curve.

But I’d barely reached the spot where I’d last seen him when someone grabbed my arm and hauled me—rather unceremoniously—through a doorway and into more muted light. Before I could react in any way, a hand clamped over my mouth, then a velvety voice whispered, “If you do not wish to be caught by the ranger who follows you, make no sound.”

It was definitely his voice.

Even after all this time, it was as familiar to me as the touch of the sun. I swallowed heavily, then nodded. Confusion, hope, and disbelief churned through me, all fighting to come to the fore and dominate. None of which was surprising, given I’d spent so long believing I was the sole survivor of my race.

His grip slipped down my arm to my wrist, and his large hand clasped mine. His skin was like silk, cool to the touch, but his palm was calloused. It hadn’t been, when I’d known him.

He tugged me forward, through the semishadows, weaving in and out of various rooms and up several sets of stairs. I couldn’t say anything. I could barely even think.

“This way.” He flashed me a brief but all-too-familiar smile that had my senses dancing and desire stirring. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” I somehow managed to say, part of me still unwilling to believe that this was happening, that he was real.

“To our transport, of course.” There was amusement in his tone. “The ranger may be able to trace your scent through the streets, but he cannot fly.”