Chapter Eleven
I SEE nothing. Hear nothing. Feel nothing. Until Brody places his hands on my shoulders. I flinch at the contact, but he doesn’t allow me to move away. Everything comes into focus. We’re heading down a long hallway with doors flush against the walls so they remain invisible to the naked eye. A red dot of a security panel is the only indication of a door’s location. I squint at the harsh white LEDs lining the ceiling and floors. When did the HQ lighting system start getting on my nerves? Wait. When did I get to HQ? And who the hell dressed me in jeans and a T-shirt? What time is it? My head spins as we walk.
I say walk but in reality, my legs don’t seem solid. Brody’s hold is what’s keeping me upright and moving. Waking up to a dead body does that to a person. At first I honestly thought it was Bedlam lying dead, despite the absence of scars. Everything was a blur of commotion after I fell off my bed. I don’t even remember getting dressed and going to the Bitterblade Building. That could have been hours ago. I’ve lost all concept of time.
Brody steers me toward a panel at the end of the hallway. Using one hand to steady me as I lean heavily against him, he punches in the code with his other hand. The door slides into the wall, revealing a conference room with a magnificent view of the city. What catches my attention the most is the people seated around the long table. A couple remain standing. My eyes dart from concerned face to concerned face until I settle my gaze on the bandaged racing god I spent the night with. His harsh stare softens slightly, and I have to stifle the urge to run into his arms. His trembling fists at his sides tell me he’s fighting urges of his own.
Having determined that Bedlam is all right, my numbness recedes. My heart pistons hard in my chest. My palms sweat as I clench my hands into fists. My breathing is harsh and ragged. And my brain finally registers the identities of the rest of the occupants of the room—everyone left in the top ten of the Index. Including….
“What the hell are you doing here, Slip?” I blurt out. “You should be resting.”
Slipstream is seated beside Star, drowning in a huge sweater. He scoffs when he replies. “Last I checked I’m still part of the Gathering.”
His pleading stare forces me to swallow my next words. His condition isn’t public knowledge. I return his stare with one of my own indicating we are not done discussing his presence here. The sickly paleness of his skin worries me, but he does seem stronger than last I saw him.
Brody nudges my lower back and says, “Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”
Ace, leaning against the wall at the end of the long table, says, “Someone’s systematically killing off members of the top ten.”
My eyes widen as I take a seat across from Slipstream while Brody moves to the head of the table. He stuffs one hand into his trouser pocket and grips the top of the chair with the other. The leather crunches beneath his hold.
“The matter is still under investigation,” he replies.
“And yet we’re all here,” Star grumbles, crossing her arms, which causes her breasts to press against each other.
“I’m next, aren’t I?” Wrench, a guy with a blue Mohawk, says shakily. I slant him a sympathetic glance. He’s pale. Paler than Slipstream, in fact. Poor guy. I’d jump to that conclusion too since the dead body in my bed used to be eighth on the Index.
“Maybe we should be talking about why we’re really here.” The gravel in Bedlam’s tone sends shivers through me. My gaze immediately seeks him out. He hasn’t moved from his position by the window. The light casts half his body in shadow from the way he’s standing, shoulder resting on the glass. He keeps his eyes on my mentor, so I turn to Brody expectantly. We all do. How can we go from preparing for the Impulse Cup to discussing the murders of our fellow racers?
Brody clears his throat, then leans forward. He presses a button on a panel imbedded into the table and barks instructions. A flat-screen lowers from the ceiling. The windows frost, blocking out the morning light. The image of Hubcap’s mutilated body flashes on the screen. Star gasps, then covers her mouth with both hands. Slipstream grimaces. A low whistle comes from Viper, who currently holds the sixth rank on the Index.
“What does ‘Hubris’ mean?” Ace asks. I get the feeling he’s not really asking for the definition of the word.
My mentor feels the same because he says, “The words seem to be the killer’s calling card.” He picks up a remote and points it at the screen. Soon pictures of Whiplash and Chicane join that of Hubcap. My gaze is drawn to the word “Lust” on Chicane. Bile rises from my gut, and I clamp my mouth shut to keep from losing whatever is left of my stomach contents. I haven’t eaten since last night. And good thing too. The bloody mess that used to be Chicane on my bed is freaking me out.
Brody’s next words return me to the present I so desperately want to escape. “Right now, we have very little to go on except that Wrench is probably right.”
Wrench gulps. He looks about to lose his shit too. “Does that mean I can’t participate in the IC?”
“Brody,” Bedlam barks before my mentor can respond. “You’re dancing around the real issue here. It’s not Wrench who needs to stay home.”
I
