Gameboard of the Gods (Age of X #1)(10)
Author: Richelle Mead

Mae almost hoped one of the locals would start something. Her emotions were still in enough turmoil from the funeral that she would’ve welcomed the physical outlet. But although she received a few bold looks and dirty comments in Spanish, the tattooed teenage gangsters lingering outside her hotel left her alone. Most of her trip across town to Cristobal Martinez’s club was by hired car, and although the driver made no attempt to hide his leer, he too kept his distance.

In fact, the most significant encounter she had was with someone who wasn’t interested in her body so much as her soul. About half a block from the club’s entrance stood a man with a shaved head and ragged coat. He was beseeching everyone who walked past, waving crudely drawn pamphlets at them. Mae didn’t speak Spanish, but she did pick out words like “dios” and “salvación.” She didn’t know if he was peddling an old religion or one of the many newer ones that had popped up after the Decline, but it didn’t matter. They all ran rampant and unrestrained out here in the provinces, and one was as bad as another. She had no use for any of them and made that clear when the man ignored her polite refusals. After a harsh shove into the wall, he decided to keep his salvation to himself.

Women met little resistance at the door, much like at the nightclubs of her homeland. Unlike any Gemman establishment, however, this one had a gun check. It boggled the mind. The RUNA saw absolutely no reason for civilians to carry guns, and Mae watched incredulously as poshly dressed playboys and call girls strolled up to the guards and surrendered weapons as casually as their coats.

Inside the club, high-powered air-conditioning vied for control with the heat generated by so many people packed together. The latter was winning. Equally oppressive was the smell, body odor mixed with smoke from cigarettes and other substances. It created a haze in the dim room that made her eyes water. Between all of that and the deafening music, Mae’s senses were in overdrive. It might have been a party, but it was a dangerous one, and her wariness woke the implant up.

She didn’t entirely understand the intricacies of Panamanian gender roles, though she knew they were tied to class. There was an aristocratic demographic that kept its women out of the public eye, as well as a newer upper class emerging that was looser in its rules for the sexes. That latter group made up the majority of the club’s guests tonight, though there were also a number of less affluent women around who had no qualms about making themselves available to men of greater means. Being alone suggested to others that Mae was in that group, so she was eager to complete her task before anyone decided to test the theory.

As it turned out, she was hit on five times before finally finding Cristobal Martinez. Only one of her “suitors” turned hostile at her rejection, but a sharp look from a passing security guard saved Mae the trouble of standing up for herself. It was just as well, for the sake of discretion, though her increasingly darkening mood was still trolling for a fight.

She located Cristobal near an automated bartending machine, an antiquated one with poor voice recognition that gave Mae tequila when she asked for rum. Cristobal was a big, gregarious man who was energetically telling a story to his friends. When he noticed Mae standing near him, his face lit up.

“My pretty party crasher,” he said in English. He spread his hands out expansively. “Welcome to my humble home. Well, one of them.”

“Thank you for your hospitality.” Mae smiled as though they were having tea on the Nordic land grant. “I was wondering if you could give a message to Justin March.”

“You can give it to him yourself. He’s right over…” Cristobal turned and scanned the part of the room that held gaming tables. “Well, he was over there. No telling where he’s gone now. Probably in someone’s bed.” He looked apologetic about that. “But it’s hard to say. You might not be too late if you want him.”

Mae tightened her smile. “I just need to get this to him.” She produced the envelope from her purse. “Can you help me?”

“Of course.” He slipped the envelope into his pocket as deftly as a magician making coins disappear in his fingers. “Now, what else can I do for you? Name it, and it’s yours.” His show of generosity was as much for the onlookers as for her. “I like you Gemmans. I want to encourage more of you to come visit me.”

Mae nearly mentioned the rum but instead gave him a head-shake and another polite smile. “That’s more than enough. I have to go—but thank you for your help in delivering that to Dr. March.” She felt the need to mention it again because Cristobal’s personality seemed a little distractible.

He clasped his hands over his heart in mock pain. “So cruel, you Gemman women. No wonder Justin left. I hope you’ll at least make the rounds before you break my heart further. There’s food in the room over there, and I have an ash dealer around here somewhere—he’s got the real deal. Not that crap that gets smuggled into the RUNA. And the band absolutely cannot be missed.”

He was right about that. It was impossible to ignore them, no matter how much she tried. She thanked Cristobal again, hoped he’d remember the envelope, and then started to turn toward the door she’d come in. A group of men had just entered, all from the same gang, judging from the matching tattoos. They were dressed in the flashy attire of questionable taste that passed as high fashion around here and had the self-satisfied swagger of those on the prowl. Not wanting anything to do with them, Mae abruptly changed course and headed toward the doors she could just barely make out in the back of the room.

It took her a couple of tries to find one she wanted. One led to a room of people snorting some mysterious powder off a round glass table. Another looked like a storage room, though an enterprising couple had decided to turn it into a bedroom. At last, she found an exit and stepped gratefully outside to an alley—and into a fight.

The adrenaline shot up in her system as soon as she recognized the signs of an altercation, even though she knew none of its context. Six thugs with more of those face tattoos were shouting in Spanish and advancing on a lone man. She recognized the markings on his jacket as an EA diplomat’s, and within seconds, she was in motion. Loyalty to the RUNA’s sister country kicked in, as did a simple dislike of seeing someone facing such overwhelming odds.

The odds weren’t that overwhelming for her. They were kind of pathetic, really, but an easy fight was still better than no fight. She needed this outlet, and at least here, there were no morals about disrupting a funeral. Plus, if she took care of this quickly and quietly, she might still get away with being “discreet.”