At one time I would have jumped right in, dancing up a storm and working up a sweat. But tonight I was just too exhausted. I decided to head up to the VIP room and wait for Suzy’s stupid boyfriend to make an appearance. That way I could also say hi to Craig if I caught him between sets. Show him what a good and dedicated girlfriend I was.
I pushed my way through the crowd and soon made it to the VIP gateway. The bouncer, a new guy I didn’t know, checked his list then unclipped the rope. I climbed the stairs to the elite, private lounge, where only Manhattan’s finest were deemed worthy enough to hang. I felt a bit like an intruder, being far from Manhattan’s finest. If only I had some kind of sign around my neck, saying I’M WITH THE DJ, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten so many suspicious stares.
Since it was still early, there were only a few other guests. A handful of women, tightly wrapped in form-fitting bandage dresses and hoofed with red-soled Louboutins. A few Armani-clad Japanese businessmen, eyeing them with interest. The lot of them lounged on smooshy couches and velvet chairs, sipping champagne and blatantly ignoring the NYC smoking ban. Trent, as Bruno had predicted, was nowhere to be seen yet. Fashionably late, as per usual.
I sank down into a nearby chair and allowed a cocktail waitress to take my drink order. Diet Red Bull—I was desperate for the caffeine. I caught Craig’s eye over in the nearby DJ booth and waved. He grinned, probably thrilled to see I’d really shown up, and blew me a kiss. I returned the kiss laughingly, feeling myself relax as I cuddled into the comfy chair, for the first time in a while feeling kind of good. Even with these newfound cheesy clubgoers, I always felt at home at Luna. It was safe here. Familiar. And best of all, loud enough so I wouldn’t fall asleep and dream.
That last dream—the one in class—still hadn’t left me. In fact, Glenda’s words had been banging around my consciousness all day.
“You’re almost ready …”
I shook my head. Had to give my subconscious credit; it sure was creative. Wait until the real life Glenda heard about her starring role in my mental breakdown. Especially the part of her writing the weird symbols on my—
I stopped short, the laughter suffocating as my eyes fell upon the spidery handwriting scrawled across the back of my hand.
I leapt from my seat, my pulse racing as I stared down at the message, hardly believing what I was seeing with my own eyes. It was impossible. Crazy. How could words from a dream be written on my hand in real life? They weren’t there before. Were they? Surely I would have noticed.
You won’t know where you are. Or even who you are …
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. This was stupid. There had to be some logical explanation. I must have written it myself. Sleep scribbling. That was a thing, right?
But if I had done it this morning, why was it only showing up now?
I shoved my hand under my thigh, turning back to the DJ booth, wanting to find Craig again. To focus on something real. But before I could turn my head, a flash of hot white light blinded me, hurling me backward in my chair. My hands flew to the armrests as the floor buckled, as if jarred loose from an earthquake. Panicked, I frantically scanned the room, waiting for the screams, the stampedes, the clubgoers tripping over their stilettos as they fled the premises.
But there was nothing.
The other clubgoers were talking. Laughing. Drinking. Could they not see the streaks of electricity arcing down the center of the room? Could they not feel the aftershocks? Smell the sulfur in the air?
I sat frozen in place, my heart banging against my rib cage as my fight-or-flight mechanism kicked in. Something was really wrong here. Really, really wrong. Was it me? Was I finally losing my mind for good?
“I’d like a Jack-and-Coke, please,” a man said. I turned to watch him order his drink, hoping to regain some semblance of normalcy. Focus on something mundane. Something real. Something not ripped from a psycho, delusional brain. A stranger ordering a drink. No big deal.
My heart stopped.
The man across the room was not a stranger at all. In fact, I would have recognized him anywhere. Broad shoulders, trim gray beard. And though he was dressed differently—in a black blazer rather than a silver suit, he was as familiar as the back of my hand.
The man from my dream. The one who’d chased me down. Caught me on the ladder. Sent me to the moon. He looked over, caught my eye, gave me a friendly wave.
My world spun off its axis.
I started to scream.
FIVE
I open my eyes. I’m no longer at Luna, no longer safe and sound in the VIP section of my favorite club. Instead I find myself confined to some kind of box the size of a telephone booth, with all four sides projecting dizzying scenes of swirling color—as if I’ve somehow crawled inside a kaleidoscope. The ceiling is a mess of wires and tubes and the floor seems to be made out of a metal grate. The air is thick, with a sickly sweet odor that’s nearly overwhelming, and I cough.
My hands find my face, and I realize I’m wearing some kind of dark sunglasses. Pulling them off, I blink a few times, my naked eyes struggling to accustom to the brightly lit walls. I feel a tug at my fingers and realize the glasses are attached to some kind of retractable cable. I release them and they’re sucked into the ceiling, disappearing from view. I swallow hard, staring up at the mass of wires above, hoping I didn’t need them for something.
Where am I? What’s going on? I have no idea. All I know for sure is I need to find a way out of this box. Forcing down my rising claustrophobia, I desperately feel around for an escape route. Finally, I find a lever and push down on it, breathing a sigh of relief as the wall in front of me collapses, revealing an exit. But an exit to where?
Stepping outside the box, I enter a long hallway, carpeted with crimson-colored shag. Every few feet there’s an identical door to the one I just exited, each with a small gray pad just adjacent, with two tiny red and green lights beside it. All the red lights flash in sync, except for the door closest to me, which glows a solid green. Each door is painted entirely black and emblazoned with a gold crescent moon. My heart stutters. More moons. Glenda’s warning comes screeching back to me.
Whatever you do … don’t look into the moon.
I avert my eyes, feeling a bit silly for doing so. I mean, how can a door hurt me? But still … I draw in a breath.
Half of me wants to shrug this off as just another dream. But at the same time, it feels different than the previous ones. More solid. More real. Not to mention I know I didn’t fall asleep in the club. There was no way with all that shaking and bright light. Unless that had been part of the dream.
You won’t know where you are. Maybe even who you are.
Glenda’s words echo through my mind, making me frown. But I do know, I remind myself. I may not know where I am, but I certainly know who I am. Skye Brown. Manhattan teen. Club kid and gamer geek, currently awaiting men in white coats to drag her away to a padded room, forever.
I look down one end of the hallway and then the other. Each seems to stretch off into infinity. Which way to go? I haven’t a clue. I force myself to choose a direction and start walking. A moment later I slam into a cleverly angled and mirrored door; the endless hallway was just an illusion.
My hands search the door, wrapping around a hidden handle. Could this be the exit? Or a step into danger? I look back down the hallway. I realize I don’t have much of a choice so I turn the handle and push the door open, cautiously stepping out into the next room, a bit terrified to learn what I’ll find on the other side. If this is one of the dreams, it could be anything. It could even be my death.
“Ah, you’re awake. Did you enjoy the trip?” asks a small, wizened Asian man, bowing low. He stands behind a counter, dressed in an old-fashioned suit, like a character out of a Charlie Chan movie. His name tag simply states PROPRIETOR. I stare at him, not sure how to respond.
“What trip? Where am I?” I ask, completely bewildered.
The man only laughs.
&nbs
p; I look around, trying to take stock of my surroundings. The place is gaudy. Red velvet sofas, shiny mirrored coffee tables. Elaborate decorative lamps with golden fringe hanging from their shades. Total Las Vegas brothel chic. I notice a few other teens lounging on couches nearby, chattering and laughing among themselves, their nonchalance making me relax a bit. No one seems to be worried. No one seems to be in danger. That’s something, at least.
The girls are dressed in colorful tank tops, flouncy miniskirts, and thigh-high stiletto boots: manga characters come to life. The guys are even stranger, in long belted tunics over tight leather pants—not exactly Jersey Shore couture. I surreptitiously check out my own reflection in a nearby mirror. I’m still wearing my club clothes from Luna. Black corset top, short plaid skirt, platform boots. At least I somewhat fit in.
I look back at the group. One of the girls has pulled out an inhaler that looks exactly like mine. She takes a quick puff, then waves good-bye to her friends as she heads toward the hallway I just exited. I watch her go, puzzled as she disappears behind the door.
I realize the proprietor is still staring at me. I reluctantly turn back to him. He looks me over carefully before speaking.
“A man came looking for you,” he informs me. “He left a card.” He takes my hand in his own wrinkled grip and presses a piece of paper into it.
I stare down at the card, confused. Someone was looking for me? Here? It’s then I notice the name. Reginald Duske, Senator.
A chill trips down my spine. The guy Glenda was talking about, the one I’m supposed to avoid, has been here. Looking for me. That seems bad in so many ways. Underneath the name there’s another one of those long strings of dashes and dots—like the one written on my hand. “What does this code mean?” I ask the proprietor, my voice trembling.
The man looks at me as if I’m insane. I can’t say, at this point, that he’s entirely wrong in his assessment. “Phone number,” he says in a total “duh” voice. “You need to use the phone?” He picks up a silver, crescent-shaped object that looks like no phone I’ve ever seen and offers it to me.
“Um, no. I mean, yes?” I decide, having no idea what else to do. I glance down at my hand. Sure enough, Glenda’s warning is still inscribed on my palm. Then I shift my focus back to the business card.
Reginald Duske. Who is this guy? Is he really a senator? And what about this other person—Dawn. How does Dawn fit into all of this?
The proprietor frowns and taps his foot impatiently. “Just make the call,” he demands, and suddenly the whole situation seems a lot more sinister. After all, why should he care? Unless … he’s in on it somehow.
Whatever “it” might be.
I press my lips together, trying to decide what to do. The man continues to stare me down.
“Can I … have some privacy?” I ask at last, stalling for time.
I see a hint of annoyance flit over the proprietor’s face, but he forces it back and smiles at me. He’s got perfectly white and shiny teeth. “But of course,” he says, bowing again. He steps back from behind the counter and heads to one of the unoccupied couches. The other teens have all vanished into the mirrored corridor. I wonder what they’re doing in there.
I shake my head, forcing my attention back to the situation. I stare down at Duske’s card, then at the name on my palm. What should I do? Who should I call? Should I call anyone? I close my eyes, desperately searching for answers. For some reason Dawn’s name drifts through my consciousness—a shard of glass washing up on the shore, dulled by the sea. Dawn can help me, I determine. Glenda wouldn’t steer me wrong.
I set down the card and use the code written on my hand instead, then bring the phone to my ear. It rings twice before a man answers. “Yes, what is it?” he asks impatiently.
“I’m, um, looking for Dawn?” I stammer, not quite sure what to say now that I’ve made the call. I’m having this weird dream and my personal trainer thought Dawn could help me with it? He’d probably hang up right then and there.
“This is Dawn.”
“Oh.” I pause, taken aback. “Right. Um …” Now what do I say?
Silence. Then, “Mariah?” the voice asks with a thread of incredulity. “Is that really you?”
I frown. What is it with this girl Mariah? Why does everyone think I’m her? “Uh, no. This is Skye,” I correct him. “And, well, I’m not actually sure why I’m calling. It’s just I woke up in this weird place and had your phone number written on my hand.” Jeez, he’s going to think I’m some drunk chick he met at a bar last night. “I know that sounds really bizarre, but—”
“You’ve got a hell of a nerve calling here, Mariah,” Dawn interrupts.
I frown. “I told you. I’m not Mariah. I’m Skye. I don’t know who this Mariah person is, but I can assure you—”
There’s a heavy sigh on the other end of the line, followed by more silence. Then: “Where are you?”
Good question. I glance around. “Uh, I don’t know. I woke up in some small room with movie screens or something, and walked down a hallway into some weird brothel-looking place and— “
“A Moongazer palace. I should have known,” Dawn concludes, not sounding too happy about the fact. “Which one?”
I glance around, looking for some sort of locator. “Um …” My eyes fall upon a business card, lying on the counter. “Area 52?” I read.
Dawn snorts. “Slumming it, are you?” he says, his voice laced with bitterness. “What, the Senate wouldn’t pay for a trip from one of the high-class joints?”
“What? I don’t—” I couldn’t be more seriously lost in a conversation if I tried.
“Well, at least you’re close. There’s a rabbit hole on Fifty-third. I’ll meet you there in five.”
“Uh, I’m not sure …”
But I realize I’m talking to no one. Dawn, whoever he is, has already hung up and is presumably on his way to collect me. I really hope I didn’t make some huge mistake calling him.
I notice the proprietor is staring at me suspiciously from the couch. I pretend to continue my conversation. “Oh yes, Duske. It’s great to talk to you, too,” I say loudly, forcing a laugh. “I’ll see you soon. Good-bye now!”
I click END on the phone and set it down on the counter. “That Duske,” I say, shaking my head and smiling as the Asian gentleman rises from the couch and walks back to the counter. Luckily, he seems to be buying my act. “He’s coming to pick me up. I’m going to wait outside.” I start heading for the front door, wanting to get as far away from this unsettling scene as possible.
“Wait!”
I freeze. Now what? My heart pounds as he shuffles over to me. To my surprise, he reaches out to wrap his fingers around the necklace I’m wearing.
“I need the charm,” he says firmly.
“Wait!” I grab for the necklace but he’s too quick, yanking it away. The delicate clasp gives way and the chain pools into his hands. “That’s mine! My mother gave it to me for my birthday.”
He rolls his eyes. “This is my necklace,” he says firmly, palming it as he heads back behind the counter, opening a cabinet. I gasp as my eyes fall upon the contents—hundreds of silver necklaces, identical to mine. The Asian man slips my chain beside the others and then proceeds to close the cabinet door. “All right then,” he says, turning back to me and giving me a toothy grin. “Goodbye for now. I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” he adds, a bit too knowingly for my liking.
“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter as I push open the door. As if I’d ever return to this creepy old place. I step outside, my eyes widening as they take in my surroundings. I’m not sure what I expected the outside to look like, but it certainly wasn’t this.
Like in my dreams, I appear to be underground, with a rock ceiling stretching high above. The neighborhood is lit with dim street lights, casting a sickly orange glow on crumbling cement buildings. Everywhere I look I see barred windows, battered doors, chipped paint. Dawn wasn’t kidding when he called this place a slum. At the e
nd of the road, a large fan, embedded into the rock, is blowing hot, stale air down the street and stirring up dirt and debris. But it’s the smell that’s the worst of it—an overwhelming stench of decay and garbage, inescapable and nauseating.
I turn back to the building I just vacated. Moongazer Palace appears to be the one shining neon gem in this otherwise sepia-palette world. It’s big and red and gaudy as hell, with a sign reading MOONGAZE HERE! that buzzes and flickers with age—the Z almost burnt out completely. Its tagline —“Are you ready to look into the moon?” —is more than slightly unnerving, and I force myself to turn away.
Across the palace is a narrow brick alleyway—the kind you’d expect to be tagged with colorful graffiti. But instead of art blooming in the den of darkness, I see only a crimson stain splattered against one wall. Red liquid drips down, soaking into a grimy puddle. Is that blood? Human blood? I glance around nervously, taking an involuntary step backward. Maybe I should have waited inside after all.
A shadow crosses my vision. I whirl around to see a dark silhouette stepping into the alleyway. Terrified, I back up, only to hit the brick wall. I’m trapped. And the stranger steps into the light.
It’s a guy—around my own age. Tall, lean, and wearing a black leather trench coat and scuffed brown boots. His eyes are hidden behind mirrored shades and long layers of translucent platinum hair fall into his face, almost but not completely obscuring high cheekbones. I catalog him quickly: he’s unearthly-looking, hot as hell, and both completely strange and so damn familiar all at the same time. Unnerving déjà vu, once again pricking at the edges of my brain.
The boy stares at me for a moment, then leaps forward almost too fast for my eyes to follow. He reaches me in an instant, grabbing me and squeezing me so tightly he practically cuts off my air supply. Head buried in my hair, his fingers dig into my back. I’m his prisoner—flush against him and pinned to the wall.
“Let me go!” I demand, squirming. But it’s no use. He’s too strong. And all I can focus on is the smear of blood dripping down the opposite wall.