I picked up one of the drinks and took a sip. The sweet taste barely masked the caustic burn of the liquor, which sizzled all the way from my throat down to my stomach. Brooklynn was in more of a hurry and guzzled hers, downing half her glass in three long swallows.
I rolled the chilled glass over the sting on the back of my hand, where the girl at the door had stamped it. I glanced down and could see the angry red outline of welted skin Bd outed skinin the shape of a crescent moon.
I didn’t need a black light to see it now. No one would.
I felt off, out of sorts. I knew that whatever was bothering me was probably just the drug from the hand stamp finding its way into my system. Paranoia was always a potential side effect.
Brooklynn pointed across the room. “Look, they’ve got the good stuff here,” she said in a voice that was thick like honey.
Above the dance floor, on the opposite side from us, a man with a daring grin stood at the railing overlooking the tangle of bodies below.
He had captured Brook’s interest.
It was nothing new. Men of all types enthralled Brooklynn. She’d been boy crazy since we were little girls; she’d only had to wait for her body to catch up. And now that it had, there was nothing to stop her.
“Here,” she said, draining the rest of her drink. “Hold this, I’ll be right back.” And over her shoulder she added, “We need an appetizer.”
Typical Brooklynn, I thought as I searched for a place to set her empty glass. I tried not to look too abandoned as I eased myself toward the railing to watch the dancers while I prepared to wait, getting comfortable.
I rested my elbow against the steel balustrade and again tried to figure out what was wrong with me. I should be having fun; we’d made it past the bouncer at the door. And, more importantly, the bartender.
I was sure it had more to do with what had happened earlier at the restaurant than the drug-laced stamp on my hand.
Around me, I listened to conversations spoken in every tongue, and was never forced to look away, or even to pretend I couldn’t understand what was being said. None of these people would ever realize I actually knew what they were saying.
Because here there were no rules.
I was born into the Vendor class, to a family of merchants. Other than Englaise, the universal language of all people, Parshon was the only language I was permitted to know. It was the only other language I should have been capable of comprehending.
But I wasn’t like the others.
I was like no one.
For me, that was part of the appeal of these underground clubs, places where class didn’t matter, where the social boundaries were blurred. In places like these, the military sat beside the wanted, the degenerate, and the cast-aside, and they all pretended, at least for a short while, to be friends. To be equals. And a vendor’s daughter could forget her lot in life.
It was everything I’d ever dreamed of.
But I was pragmatic. I didn’t spend my days dreaming of a different life, of ways to escape the limitations of my class, mostly because there were none. I was what I was, and nothing could change that. A place like Prey was only make-believe; the reprieve was only for the night.
I moved away from the railing and drifted into the sea of bodies, noticing the colors. I always noticed the colors. Here, clothing didn’t have to be uti Bdnto be utlitarian—dull shades of browns, blacks, grays. In a place where class division didn’t exist, colors materialized. Brilliant hues of emerald and scarlet and plum blazed in the form of clothing, temporary hair dyes, tints for lips, and polishes for nails. Somehow even the indigos and blacks were deeper and more intense within these walls.
Brooklynn fit right in, wearing a shimmering gold dress that revealed a generous expanse of her toned legs and glittered beneath the flashing lights. I, on the other hand, wore my usual drab linen tunic that fell just below my knees.
I glanced at the people around me. Mostly, they were like us—the underage crowd. Youthful and energetic, with not enough outlet in their real lives. They—we, I corrected myself, even though my dress was dull and boring—created a bizarre human rainbow.
I worked my way toward the stages, positioned high above the dance floor, where scantily dressed girls danced for the crowds below. Their bodies, and the way they moved, were utterly hypnotic. They provided entertainment for the evening.
One particular girl caught my attention as her hips rocked in perfect rhythm to the song pulsating through the air. A blue spotlight shone down upon her, making her skin glow an unnatural shade of sapphire. The beads she wore were strung from a slender collar clasped around her neck and draped to a belt that was slung loosely around her hips. When she swayed, the beads clattered together, moving, shifting, parting. Just like every other girl up on the stages, the beads covered almost nothing, but I was certain that was the point.
Her long legs were willowy and graceful, as if she’d been trained to perform in this manner. And she probably had been. The outcasts lived a different lifestyle from everyone else, doing jobs that were considered objectionable to those living within the class system.
Dancing would definitely fall into that category. Especially the kind of dancing that this girl did.
I watched her for several long moments, admiring the freedom she had up there, on that stage. A vendor’s daughter would never be permitted to perform for a living.
“I’m glad you decided to come.” The deep voice rumbled from behind me, interrupting my musings.
I spun around, my eyes wide, embarrassed to be caught staring at the dancers.