Page 1 of Spectral Seas (Spectral Worlds #2)

T HE CLUB WAS A CAVERNOUS ELECTRIC LIGHT STEW of neon, lasers, and strobes, pulsing in rhythm to a deafening beat of techno trance. Yesterday, this concrete hole was an abandoned underground garage. Today, the high walls were lined with tall, brilliant sheets of vid-film depicting animated herds of indigo hued centaurs charging screen to screen, endlessly circling the vast hall. Leading them, lightning bolt in hand, was Doc Bixby—the centaur mascot and namesake of the sprawling party. For decades, Doc Bixby’s had been one of the most popular rotating parties in the Low City.

Tonight was no different. Thousands of revelers had found their way into the lair of the horse, a single writhing organism of Anarchs and Mortals, Umbra and Maro, and—from the catwalk suspended above—Abby tallied each and every one. He was searching for answers and word was he’d find them here.

He leaned forward onto the thin metal rail to scan the floor below and with a twitch of his temple, emerald augments—each framing an eternally youthful face—flooded his vision.

Directly below him, in a small cordoned booth, a shirtless Umbra with black hair straight down to his waist etched a fluorescent blue dragon tattoo onto a woman’s peach smooth ass. Next to her, another partier reclined back in a barber chair, rhythmically rolling her head side to side in her own techno trance as a heavily inked bald woman slid an immensely long needle through the upper edge of her belly button, lighting her torso with an array of neon green paisley.

Spread throughout the laser bathed throng were circular bar stations, their stainless-steel counter tops lined with pyramid stacked clear canisters of the bright fluorescent electric blue hydro. To the side of one, a bartender sprayed a fluid onto his steel bar top, then lit it, instantaneously creating a flaring crescent of fire. The impromptu pyrotechnics led other bartenders to do the same and a roar burst from the dancing mass as a cascade of small eruptions ignited across the dance floor.

Abby’s ocular implants followed the flames, station to station, until beside one, a scarlet augment lit up square on the face of his target, Alfonse Caprieri.

Alfonse was typical of the Kasmine—those special Maro with a fetish for the Alpha Plane and the grandeur of mortal wealth. In his human guise, Alfonse appeared no differently than any of the age modded mortals—handsome, well groomed, and finely clothed—but with the spectrum slightly shifted through Abby’s ocular implants, Alfonse’s eyes burnt the tell-tale ember orange of the Maro.

His eyes weren’t the only thing to set Alfonse apart from those around him. There was the Kasmine air of entitlement and superiority. Sipping from a cylinder of glowing blue hydro, he leered lasciviously at the near naked women dancing beside him.

A second red augment appeared to Alfonse’s right, overlaying a mortal making his way to him through the forest of ravers. Abby had seen the scrawny messenger before. He was Caprieri’s flunky, Joston, a Lumen—a slick haired Maro wannabe. He even wore shimmer lenses so that eyes would appear fiery to the Maro.

Abby snickered at the fool.

The ebb of the crowd comically pushed Joston back and to the side. The Kasmine thrived on idiots like Joston, wealthy Uppers willing to do anything to appease the lurid desires of the Maro. When Joston finally reached Alfonse, he leaned into his ear, triggering a series of nods from his master.

Abby zoomed his ocular lens to magnify Joston’s lips, but the thin Lumen cupped his hands around his mouth. Any other time, Abby would have engaged his chin-chip—the audio boosting sliver of bureau tech embedded in his mandible—but the intensity of the techno music rendered the chip useless. Whatever was said between the two on the floor was lost.

After a final nod, Alfonse set his glowing blue bottle of hydro onto the bar top and the two exited the floor.

“All right then,” Abby said aloud. He pushed himself away from the rail and started toward the exit. Before he reached the stairwell, a towering Maro stepped onto the end of the catwalk, blocking his path. Without hesitating, Abby swung around to exit on the other side, only to be greeted by another massive thug already making his way toward him.

Abby pivoted his head back to the first Maro then returned to the second. “Isn’t this place great?” he yelled. The stone-faced thug appeared not to hear him. “I mean the view from up here.” Still no response.

Pinned from either side, Abby grabbed the rail, peered down, then eyed the first thug again. It must have been obvious to the giant that Abby was going to jump because the thug sped toward him, but he was too slow. Abby threw his legs over the side, slipping away from the giant’s grasping hand. He caught the bottom of the catwalk, dangled for a few long seconds, then let himself drop the rest of the way down, toward the bald piercer.

She leaned back in time for Abby to miss landing on her. Instead, he found himself squarely on the barber chair—and the neon green paisley woman in reclining on it.

The drug addled woman dreamily acknowledged Abby with soft, satisfied grin. He returned the smile. “Excuse me,” he said and leaned back to climb off of her. But as he lifted himself, she wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace, jerked him close, and kissed him.

Surprised to find his lips on hers, Abby returned the kiss, then again pulled himself away. He tilted his head up to the two thugs peering back down. One pointed to the exit, and they both moved toward that end of the catwalk.

“I gotta go,” Abby said to the woman. He gave her a quick peck on the forehead, then fled into the crowd, toward the door.

~*~