Catalyst Read online

  “How ‘bout a game of pool? You win, and I’ll get you that meeting.”

  My response is to grab the nearest cue stick and chalk the tip.

  When I break the balls and two solids glide smoothly into the corner pockets, Victor nods his approval. When the next shot lands two more solids in the pockets—one in the far corner and one in the side—his jaw tightens. Victor doesn’t know it, but my father taught me to play pool before I barely had the strength to break the balls.

  Throughout the game, I keep an eye out for the Devil—the biggest crime lord on the Lower East Side of the city. I’ve often heard he owns this place, but he rarely makes an appearance. As a powerful man who has access to all kinds of information, he knows how to keep people loyal, using any means necessary. The two missing fingers on Victor’s right hand are proof of that. Victor works for him and I work for Victor, so I guess that technically makes me an employee of the Devil. Even though I’ve never met him.

  “So tell me, Sienna. Why do you keep hounding me about meeting the Devil?” Victor flashes me a gold-toothed smile as he leans over the pool table to take his turn. “Am I not good enough for you?” The cue ball shoots across the table, narrowly missing one of his stripes.

  Slipping my hand in the pocket of my mini-skirt, I graze the glossy surface of the photo I’ve been carrying around with me for months. “I have my reasons,” I say.

  When it’s my turn again, I lean over the pool table and eye the setup, confident I can hit the cue ball low enough to put a backspin on it and keep it from going into the pocket with the eight ball. Exhaling slowly, I relax my stiff fingers before I give a nudge with the cue stick. I sink the shot. When I turn, I confront the glaring dark eyes of Victor.

  “Looks like I won.” I smirk. “Now you give me the meeting you promised.”

  “How ‘bout another game?”

  “A deal’s a deal.” When Victor just stands there looking at me, I add, “Should I record the results on the house ledger?” I figure he probably doesn’t want people to know he was beaten by a girl.

  Victor’s eyes narrow. “The Devil doesn’t entertain uninvited guests. You should know that, Sienna.” As he leans close, his foul breath rakes over my face. “Didn’t your dad strike a deal with the Devil?”

  After my father died of a massive heart attack, Mom and I heard rumors that he was part of an underground gambling ring while he was alive. That he had “struck a deal with the Devil”—so to speak.

  My hands tighten around the cue, my fingernails digging into my palms. “That’s none of your business.” Through clenched teeth, I hiss. “You promised me a meeting with the Devil.”

  He smiles. “What will you give me? A kiss?”

  That does it. Bile rises in the back of my throat, and anger, like a hot poker, swells inside of my chest. Before I have time to react, a deep voice booms from behind Victor.

  “The Devil will see you now.”

  A dark-skinned man the size and stature of a small bus stands a few feet behind Victor, blocking the doorway to the back room of the pool hall. Smoothing my blouse, I lift my shoulders and toss my hair. I give a stunned Victor a smug smile. He didn’t think I’d gain access to the Devil, and I just proved him wrong.

  Heart pounding, I follow the oversized man through the velvet-draped doorway and up a flight of metal stairs. When we confront a thick wooden door, the man raps softly, a series of knocks broken up by pauses, clearly meant as a code for the person inside.

  The heavy door swings open. A man sits behind an ornate desk, his legs propped up on the reddish wood and a cigar hanging loosely from his mouth. He is older than I expected, with a bald head that reflects the light from his desk lamp and a dark goatee tinged with gray. When he speaks, I’m reminded of sandpaper, rough and grainy.

  “Miss Preston, what can I do for you?” He motions a glittering hand topped with gold and diamond rings to the upholstered chair across from his desk.

  I sink into the chair and inhale slowly to calm my racing heart. Now that I’m here, I’m at a loss for words. I guess because this “assignment” is personal. Like everything else, the things closest to our heart are always infinitely harder to do.

  Clearing my throat and hoping my voice sounds more confident than I feel, I slide a worn photo across the smooth wood of the desk. The Devil glances at it briefly from his laid-back position, but he doesn’t move to take it in his hand.

  “What’s this?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

  “I found this photo in my father’s briefcase the day he died. I want to know who these people are.” I pause. “I was hoping you could help me.”

  The Devil’s mouth turns up into a cruel sneer. “And why would I do that?”

  “Because you know everything. Everyone.” I square my shoulders, trying to make myself appear larger and more formidable than my five-foot-two frame really is. “And because you knew my father. Ben Preston.” Swallowing hard, I plow forward, “You struck a deal with him, and now my mother, sister, and I are suffering because of it—”

  He holds up a hand to stop me. “Miss Preston, your father and I had a business arrangement years ago. Way before your time and before he even knew your mother.”

  “But what about the gambling ring?”

  His eyes narrow. “Your father was never part of any gambling ring.” He pauses, making me think I’ll have to beg for more information. “I can tell you this—Harlow Ryder might be the one to answer some of your questions.”

  Harlow Ryder? The creator of Match 360 and Chromo 120—the genetic matchmaking and modification companies? Why would he know anything about this picture or my father?

  At my confused expression, the Devil clarifies. “Your father worked for Mr. Ryder years ago.”

  “As a professor?”

  He snickers in reply. “No, he was Mr. Ryder’s lead geneticist.”

  My mind spins. What is he talking about? My father was no more a scientist than I am a genetically modified supermodel. “That’s impossible.”

  The Devil gives me a wicked grin as he leans forward, his hands clasped on the desk. “How much do you really know about your father, Miss Preston?” When I don’t answer, he continues. “Years ago, when things went south with his job at the Match 360 headquarters in Rubex, he came to me for help. And I helped him find a better venue.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “You’re not supposed to.” He nods at his guard, who is standing in front of the door with his arms crossed over his thick chest. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  In one swift movement, the dark-skinned guard crosses the room and grabs my elbow, applying enough pressure to convince me not to struggle. He guides me out of the chair and toward a back door hidden in the shadows.

  “The Devil would appreciate it if, in the future, you left him out of your search-and-discovery sessions,” he grunts.

  The demon shoves me out into the night, but right before he closes the door, the Devil casually offers one last bit of information. “Oh, and Miss Preston, although I would advise against repeating it, your father’s name was Mitch Hoover.”

  The guard slams the door, and the sound of metal against metal reverberates through the night.

  Mitch Hoover.

  For a moment, I stand there frozen, staring down a cliché dark and deserted street. I just had a face-to-face meeting with one of the most dangerous and elusive men in the city. And somehow, he knows more about my father than my mother and I ever did.

  CHAPTER THREE

  My bike sits several streets over from Shooters. I’m relieved to find it in the same place, resting against an abandoned casino, this one a little less recognizable than others.

  Once a glittering metropolis of casinos, nightlife, and flashing lights, Legas now looks like nothing more than a pit. Gone are the glitz, glamour, and material wealth of the Casino Age. Gone are the colors of the rainbow blazing across neon signs and white lighted billboards decorating the town. Instead, many of the
buildings sit vacant, a perfect place for squatters at night and vagrants during the day. Now, this is a tarnished, a broken, and a defiled city.

  Obviously, I never saw this place at the height of its wealth and prosperity, but I’ve been told it was an unbelievable sight. But that was before. Before Pacifica’s government got a “moral compass” and made gambling illegal, forcing the shutdown of all casinos. But it’s funny how crime increases when things become illegal. Kind of like Prohibition all over again.

  I throw my leg over my Harley and hike my miniskirt up a little further, my bare thighs pale in the moonlight. The engine roars, and I take off in the direction of the abandoned Megasphere. It was once a thrill-seeking ride, taking its victims far above the city. Now it sits, dark and desolate, lurking like a sentinel at the edge of the Gateway.

  I skid to a stop in front of the Megasphere, the heat from the exhaust pipe licking at my bare legs. This is the place I like to come. To think. To get away.

  The door to the empty building creaks when I open it. At night, everything looks eerie in the darkness. As I switch on my pocket light, the room in front of me glows a sickly yellow. I know this place well and could easily find my way in the dark, but I choose not to. Too many low-hanging beams and rusty pipes make it dangerous and stupid to traipse through at night.

  It takes several minutes to climb to the top by way of the emergency staircase, but when I reach the roof and step outside, the breeze lifts my hair and passes over my bare arms and legs, reminding me it’s worth it. I move toward my favorite spot and settle into one of the abandoned ride chairs. My legs dangle over the city. From here, I can see it all. The vastness beyond. The tiny pockets of light.

  It is only here, at the top of the Megasphere, that I’m able to find peace. The peace that was ripped from me the night my father passed away—the night my world turned upside down. Even though GIGA was willing to let me stay on as a student after my father’s death, I couldn’t go back. I never belonged there anyway.

  I stare at one light pocket in particular. The suburbs where we lived before my father died. Before we couldn’t pay the mortgage and had to move to a double-wide on the outskirts of town.

  When my father died and I found the photo in his briefcase, I became curious. After we found out about his supposed involvement with the Devil, I was angry. How could my father keep something like that from us?

  Anger and curiosity is not a good combination.

  And after months of wanting to meet with the Devil, I now know something about my father I never would have imagined.

  The smell of burning wood fills the air around me, and I squint at the valley below, trying to locate the source. Smoke rises from a burning building on the edge of the Hollow, the area where most of the government buildings outside Rubex, Pacifica’s capital, are located. I’d bet anything it’s the handiwork of the Fringe, an extremist group.

  I suck in a breath and tilt my head back, resting it against the seat. The wind roars at this height. It drags through my hair and prickles against my skin.

  I don’t really like the person I’ve become in the last year, but circumstances necessitate this lifestyle. As a seventeen-year-old dropout, there aren’t many options afforded me. Except one—the art of lying and stealing. The truth is, thugs don’t really care how old you are, as long as you’re willing to do the work.

  A light in the distance draws my curiosity. To get a better look, I slip from the seat and ease to the edge, leaning over slightly. It’s past the city, deep in the desert at the base of the mountains. I wasn’t aware anyone lived all the way out there.

  The sound of shoes scraping against concrete startles me, and I turn quickly, surprised to see a boy close to my age. I use the term boy loosely as he is built more like a man. With broad shoulders and a solid build, he looks to be about twenty.

  He moves toward me, his hands out like he’s trying to calm a raging sea.

  “Let’s not do anything hasty, okay?” His voice is smooth and deep, almost melodious.

  My eyes narrow as I cross my arms over my chest. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He inches closer. “Trust me; you don’t want to do this.”

  My heart pounds. I take a step away from him, wondering if he’s mentally sound.

  He continues. “Nothing can be that bad for you to want to end your life—”

  End my life?

  Anger flares up, hot and heavy. What is he doing here? This is my place. My space.

  My eyes flash, and when I don’t respond, he looks doubtful.

  “You are a jumper, right?” His eyes crinkle in concern.

  “No,” I practically spit out. “I’m not a jumper. And even if I was, it would be none of your concern.”

  His facial muscles relax in response, and his mouth turns up into a grin. I want to punch the smile off his face. Who does he think he is? I certainly don’t need him to rescue me. I don’t need anyone to rescue me.

  He tilts his head and stares at me with a bemused expression. “If you’re not a jumper, then why are you up here? Do you have a death wish?”

  “Do you?” I retort.

  The irony of the situation hits him, and he bursts into laughter. Refusing to stand there and be laughed at, I turn on my heel and stride to the stairs.

  His laughter subsides, and I hear him call after me. “Wait! I’m sorry.”

  I pick up the pace and hurry down the stairs. He’s directly behind me, which causes my heart rate to speed up. I don’t think he’s chasing me, but the presence of him makes me leery. I’d really rather not shove the heel of my hand into his nose, but I will if he tries to touch me.

  My breathing comes in ragged gasps by the time I push through the exit, but the boy sounds as if he’s only walked a few feet. His breathing is smooth and slow, an indication that he’s most likely genetically modified—a GM.

  “Listen, I wasn’t trying to offend you,” he persists.

  I continue to ignore him as I move toward my bike across the street. His hand latches on my arm. Instinctively, I turn, prepared to deliver a forceful blow to his face. But right before my palm connects with his nose, he grabs my wrist, stopping the impact. Of course, he’s quick.

  I wrench my wrist free and glare at him. “What do you want?”

  His mouth turns down in a frown. In the glow of the streetlights, his hair is the color of fresh wheat and his eyes are a warm chocolate brown.

  “To apologize. I’m sorry I assumed you were a jumper.”

  I cross my arms over my chest in the most defiant stance I can muster. “Feel better now?”

  “Yes. I mean, no—”

  I swing my leg over my bike, suddenly self-conscious when his eyes shift to my pale bare legs. Groaning inwardly, I rev the engine.

  “Look, just forget about it,” I call out to him before the bike moves down the dimly lit street. Only as I turn the corner do I venture a glance in his direction. I see him re-enter the Megasphere, and it is then, as I speed away, that I wonder what he is doing there.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The bio fridge hums with its latest addition—a package of dehydrated bologna.

  “The shelf life for product Meat Delite expires in one month and two days,” the automated voice chimes in.

  I sigh in disgust. If I have to eat one more package of that crap, I’ll vomit in my mouth. Seriously.

  I eye the sparse contents inside the gelled portion of the fridge. The tube of yogurt looks decidedly better than the bottled pickles. And definitely better than Meat Crap Delite. I grab the purple yogurt tube, tear into it, and head back to my room.

  The cold blast from the Quik Air unit stings my face as I kneel directly in front of it and suck down the creamy pomegranate-blueberry goodness. Beads of sweat run down my back as I lift my arms to allow the frigid air to flow over me. In the desert, the June heat is horrendous, making me lethargic. But with no impending assignments from Victor, and an overwhelming desire to stay indoors, it’s given m
e plenty of time to think about my father and his connection to Harlow Ryder.

  Problem is, I still don’t have any answers.

  Finished with the yogurt, I gather my long hair into a tangled bun on top of my head and turn, letting the icy air cool my moist neck. It’s days like this that make me want to shave my thick hair down to a nub.

  There was a time when summer heat meant lazy Sunday afternoons spent swimming in our pool or entertaining family friends. My dad would barbecue and my mom would flit about making sure everyone had enough lemonade to drink or snacks to eat. But now, sitting in this humming silence, with nothing keeping me cool but the air unit in front of me, that life seems light-years away.

  Emily bursts into the room, her five-year-old face glowing with excitement, and a brown package resting in her hands. “Si-Si, a package came! I found it outside.” When my sister was two, she couldn’t say my name, so she resorted to calling me Si-Si. I love how she says it, more like see-see than sissy.

  Dropping my hair, I let it fall down my back in a tangled mess and reach for the square-shaped package in her hands. I turn the box over, studying it. There’s no name, no return address—nothing.

  I hop up from the floor and sink onto my bed. Emily settles next to me. “What’s in the box, Si-Si?”

  “I’m not sure. Should we check it out?”

  When I lift the wrapping on both sides, the thick brown paper falls away, revealing a silver, hexagon-shaped box beneath. It is small enough to fit in my palm, and it’s weightless. Yet, when I clink my fingernail against the top, it gives off a distinct metallic sound. I think this package was left for me, but I don’t understand. I always receive my assignments via secret location and from Victor. But I have a feeling this didn’t come from Victor.

  Taking a deep breath, I undo the magnetic latch on top and lift the lid. A holographic image bounces up and shivers in place before it’s replaced by the next image, then the next. An oversized building. A keyless back entry. A glass office. A small, black box.