Tracked (17 page)

By sunrise, I'm still wound in the same sleepless knot.
The
morning
light
and
all
its
warmth . . . it
hurts,
and
it's
not
just the headache brewing behind my eyes. When I open
them,
I
see
a
message
from
Benroyal
on
the
opposite
flex
wall.

Barrett has requested a temporary release. As long as your performance is satisfactory, he is free from contractual obligation until further notice. I will take good care of the Larssens should you honor our agreement.

The pain in my head makes me crumple; I'm a rag wrung out for the last drops. Bear is gone, maybe for good. I pushed him away, and it's probably what Benroyal wanted in the first place. I can read between the lines on the screen. I know what King Charlie will do if I step out of line. For Bear's sake—for Hal and Mary too—I'd better keep winning. The message disappears and a new alert pops up.

An invitation blinks inside one square on a grid. I'm staring at a huge monthly calendar with too many appointments and scheduled appearances. I glance at the entries for today.

11:30 a.m. Follow-up exam, Benroyal Clinic

1:00 p.m. Race debrief (flex interface, satellite link)

4:30 p.m. Stylists arrive, hair and makeup

6:30 p.m. Gala photography, full crew, sculpture garden

8:00 p.m. 50th Annual Grand Circuit Gala, Anderssen Estate

According to the clock on the screen, it's already 10:38 a.m. and I so don't want to get out of bed today, let alone play dress-up and attend the party at James's house. I glance back at the schedule and curse my keepers. I will have to smile today, even though it hurts to breathe.

I hadn't noticed before, but there are several ribbon- wrapped boxes perched on the settee at the end of my bed. The Benroyal logo is embossed in gold on each lid. I scoot forward and eyeball each of the packages. Might as well get this out of the way. I sigh, ripping open the biggest box.

After pawing through sheets of sparkling gold tissue paper, I hold up the dress.

Ugh. I am so not this girl. This mountain of silk or taffeta or who-knows-what will bury me. The black, strapless bodice isn't too awful. It's plain at least. But the skirt. It's all crimson ruffles and flounces, and I think there's actually a rusting train on this thing. I heave the dress on the floor, cringing as it collapses into a monstrous heap, a bleeding stain on the snow-white rug.

I open the other boxes, but of course there are no alternate choices, only shoes and jewelry and some kind of pushup I-don't-know-what-to-call-it thing.

I stare down at the dress again. The ruffles on the gossamer skirt look flimsy enough. Forget the stylists. I'm going to have to simplify this look.

In my room, Penelope, the hair stylist, quietly works on me, but Bijan is crying. Actual tears.

When she sees what I did, how I tore up the dress, she bugs out. I ripped all the whisper-light flounces off and then when that wasn't enough, with a kitchen knife, I cut the bodice loose from the gown. Sure, I knew it would scorch her off, along with the rest of my keepers. That was kinda the whole point.

But now I almost feel bad. Bijan is devastated. She really believed in this dress, with all its false promises, now shredded and strewn on the floor. I can't help but both pity and despise her for it. Anyone who believes the right shoes and the perfect shade of silk make one girl worth more than another is a fool.

“This is a Mondrian!” she howls at me, holding up the shredded remnants of the skirt. “It's an original. Worth over ten thousand credits.”

I smile at the loss. It's only an infinitesimal dent in Benroyal's fortune, but it's a start. “So now it's a Vanguard original,” I say.

Penelope holds her breath and ducks behind the curtain of her thick auburn hair. Her grin is buttoned up, she's too afraid to laugh at my joke. But of course, I can't hold back. A snorty cackle escapes, nearly pushing her over the edge. She turns away, then digs through her makeup kit to find something to conceal the bruising around my stitches.

“I cannot believe you did this, Phoenix,” Bijan hisses.

A new headache begins to flare. “Look. I'll still wear the black bustier thing. And I'll wear the shoes, even though I think the heels are overkill.”

“But—”

“Look. You're lucky I'm wearing half your ugly dress.”

Penelope tries to apply more blush to my cheeks, but I bat her hand away. I stalk to my bed and snatch up the pair of ruby satin shorts I found in my closet earlier. They're dressy and stiff, like something I might sport at a Sixer club. As if I'd ever go to one. “I'll wear these.” I grin.

The color drains from Bijan's wrinkle-free face. She brings her wrist to her forehead. I've pushed her over the edge. I think she might actually faint.

Bijan sniffs. “We'll see about this. Wait until I tell Mr. Chevalier.”

“You do that,” I tell her. She can squawk at Goose all she wants. After yesterday's race, I'm pretty sure I can get away with wearing whatever I want. Victory is the best leverage.

This evening, the sculpture garden is crawling with Benroyal's people. There are photographers, lighting technicians, and, of course, a squad of bodyguards. When I show up, no one says a word or offers directions. Either the worker bees are ignoring me, or I'm not conspicuous enough to catch their notice.

I drift around, wondering if I missed something on the schedule entry. Maybe I got the time wrong. Only when I wander to the far eastern corner of the garden do I finally spy Goose and the rest of the entourage. My crew is all dressed up, standing between the tallest statues, two bone-pale obelisks casting long shadows at dusk.

I barely recognize my pit crew; these sharply dressed guys in ties and tailored suits look nothing like the sweaty, sap-sticky grunts I've come to know on the track. Before me, a sea of Benroyal crests. The familiar insignia is embroidered on everyone's breast pocket. Gil always looks dignified, of course, but I've never even seen Banjo without a hat before tonight. It's hard to believe how well he and the rest of the crew clean up. They all look pretty slick.

As I approach, Goose frowns. “Bijan tells me you did not like the dress she chose.”

“That's right.” He'll get no apology from me.

He gives me the once-over, shakes his head disapprovingly, then pulls a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. He dabs the gilt-edged cloth against his forehead. “I hope your ensemble is worth it, spitfire girl. It will be the talk of the gala. Pray they don't skewer us on tonight's feeds.”

As he leads me toward the rest of my team, the crowd parts and I see Cash.

I stare at him, standing before me in clothes that are cut so finely for his frame, in shades of darkness that match him all too well. Everyone else wears a white shirt and a gold tie under their black tuxedoes, but not Cash. Everything he wears is black, even the ebony thread of Benroyal's mark, save for the long slash of red silk knotted at his throat.

Part of me is too numb and broken and scarred, too wounded to even speak to him, yet my feet keep moving forward until we're face-to-face.

“You look more yourself tonight,” Cash says.

I take a step back. I look down at myself, at my ridiculous heels, my skinny legs, and my ragged-edged bodice. I'm a counterfeit girl, posing in expensive scraps. Suddenly, I wish I'd hidden underneath Bijan's flouncy dress. I could have disappeared in the endless tiers and ruffles.

“I look like—”

“You look perfect,” he says, offering his arm. “We match.”

I nod and take hold of him, looping my arm through his. As we walk toward the gathering photographers, somehow, I sense Cash is right. And it has nothing to do with the colors we wear.

The annual circuit gala rotates among the Sixers—it's held at a different estate each year. James's home is a desert palace, a hulking villa carved from rosy sandstone. While the front end of the property faces a distant Capitoline skyline, the patios and pools on the other side of the house encroach on the barren foothills of the Sand Ridge Mountains.

As uniformed servants usher us through the massive front doors, the rest of my team scatters. The stone and timbered ballroom is packed. There are people—circuit crews and celebrities and Sixers—everywhere. Guards in black uniforms surround Castra's most powerful. The men laugh too loudly while the women twitch and smile, their hair piled just so, their curves artificially sculpted by corset or by knife. In all their finery, they are butterflies, pinned in place for tonight's display.

Cash snags a bloodred Biseran poppy from a centerpiece on an entryway table and tucks the stem through the buttonhole on his lapel. On anyone else, the black-hearted flower would look pretentious. Tonight, on Cash, it's perfect.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “Want to find a quiet corner?”

Before I can answer, a spoon ringing against a glass silences the crowd. Heads turn. It's Prime Minister Prejean, the gray-haired puppet who signs anything the Sixers put in front of him. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “If I might have your attention, I'd like to make a toast.”

A ripple of approval—raised glasses and scattered applause—moves through the room.

“Friends, I'm sure you've heard of Tobias Abasi's arrest. He'll soon stand trial for his crimes, of that you can be sure.”

More applause.

“Thanks to the diligence of our Domestic Patrol”—his voice rises over the buzzing crowd—“Abasi's ties to terrorist groups have been brought to light at last. Even now his accomplices are being rooted out. I think we can all sleep more soundly, knowing that no sinister plots threaten us tonight. I ask you all to raise your glass to peace.”

“To peace!” All around me, people are actually cheering. I can't tell if they are blind to all the lies or if they are one more part of the conspiracy. I'm not sure which possibility is more terrifying.

Another voice calls out for a second toast. I turn and wince at the smiling glint of teeth. Charles Benroyal pours another glass of champagne. “To prosperity!”

The mob repeats his cry.

In the cluster of faces, something else catches my eye. The sweep of long dark hair, a flash of pale skin. She's lucid and smiling tonight, no longer a wraith in the dark.

I freeze. How did I not see it before?

Her hair isn't wild anymore, but pulled up, revealing her delicate features. Despite her rail-thin frame, in the light, I recognize the wisp of a woman drowning in a bustled gown of emerald satin. She is so far away, but when she turns . . . the flicker of life in her eyes, the high cheekbones and the oval face. Long ago, a younger image of her was burned into my memory. She is Benroyal's wife.