Chapter 21 The Socialite Finds A Flaw In The System
The Socialite Finds A Flaw In The System
PHILOMENA
The party is tomorrow.
It feels like a lot of effort and time were consumed getting ready for this damned thing, so it had better be fantastic.
I’m tired of hearing about it. I don’t think they will appreciate all our hard work.
The boys say that when they have a bad feeling, their fangs twitch.
I’m sure it’s a metaphor—good on them for using it correctly—but if I had fangs, they’d be twitching like crazy with this mess.
The girls and I made our own plans for this fiasco.
From the beginning, I’ve worried that the days of having a community-wide party to honor the birthdays of the doubles and droids have become passé.
The last few have done more to stir up trouble than to have a good time and because of the madness of some of our members, I think gathering everyone in one place and giving malcontents an audience is like bringing an ice cream truck to a dieting convention—a recipe for a riot.
By the time I have the patio checklist half completed, my left eye is twitching.
I’m keyed up and irritable from the endless hours of labor that have gone into prepping for this event.
The surface sheen—the illusion of effortless, well-oiled celebration—directly results from three weeks’ worth of harried prep, most of it invisible to the untrained eye but glaringly obvious to the people who actually made it happen.
I walk the length of the trellised corridor, mentally cataloging every garland, every string of lights, every tastefully disguised camera and motion sensor tucked between swags of imported flowers.
There is satisfaction in this; I want everything perfect, and perfection demands vigilance.
The boys, once again, are nowhere to be found—typical. All the actual work is shouldered by the girls: organizing, coordinating, troubleshooting. It doesn’t go unnoticed, even if it’s never acknowledged. I’m used to it, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating.
Hex and Leo decreed that the food stations be laid out like a map of the old country, which meant I spent six hours last night moving tables centimeters at a time to satisfy their idiotic nostalgia.
It’s not even their country; they have no ancestors and no sense of smell, so what’s the point?
Beyond that, every single decorative element had to be triple-inspected and cross-referenced with the guest list to avoid triggering any of the more sensitive attendees.
The droids are easy; the clones, less so. The human contingent is, as always, the wildcard.
After the boys pronounced the job done, it was time for Sandrine’s security sweep.
To be fair, if anyone is going to spot a flaw in our perimeter, it’s her.
She approached the review with her usual obsessive thoroughness, stalking the property line with the silent focus of a predator, her black hair a streak behind her as she scuttled from sensor to sensor.
She took notes on a battered tablet, lips pursed, ignoring everyone around her.
She missed nothing—except, apparently, the gap near the driveway, which is exactly where my well-practiced paranoia had warned me to check.
The cat’s loyalty is unwavering, but her attention drifts, and when it does, she leaves holes.
I take it upon myself to double-check everything after her pass.
It’s not a lack of trust; it’s a form of love, or at least something close to it.
I want her safe as much as I want the rest of us safe, even if it means cleaning up after her.
With the master list in hand, I walk the outer path, runway-walking out of pure spite at the undulating garden path, and inspect the faint shimmer of the security wards.
They look solid, but I know better. There’s always a spot that catches on the wrong frequency.
I find it two meters to the left of the main drive, just past the ornamental fountain.
I note it, then toggle my phone to ping Sandrine’s shadow, who is supposed to be monitoring for lapses.
She’s not where she should be, obviously—she’s in the kitchen, harassing Leo—so I make a mental note to have the tiger dispatched outside to recalibrate.
I know with absolute certainty from lived experience that if a problem arises tomorrow, it will come from this blind spot.
The possibility is remote, but possible, and if there’s anything all those years of training have taught me, it’s that remote possibilities are the only ones that ever matter.
Worse, we have an entire squad of party crashers who would kill for the drama of a full-scale security incident.
Not literally, hopefully, but the lines between performance and reality have blurred beyond all meaning in this group, and I would not put a single thing past any of them.
The coyote has clarified that this is a chance to shake up the system.
Her posts in the group chat oscillate between self-deprecating humor and the kind of radical rhetoric that makes you worry about the cutlery.
If anyone is going to fuck with us tomorrow, it’ll be her or one of her hangers-on, and that means the line between us and them is more than just metaphorical.
I am so lost in this internal monologue that I almost miss the high-pitched ringing in my inner ear, which is the telltale sign of a perimeter breach.
At first, I think I’ve just imagined it—my mind is so saturated with worst-case scenarios it invents dangers for fun—but no; the sensation is real.
I check the readout and see an alert pinged from the sensor array down by the pool house.
Of fucking course it’s the pool house.
The single most disgusting, inhospitable, off-limits place on the entire property, and someone is tripping sensors down there on the eve of the event. I roll my eyes so hard I almost dislodge my own visual sensors.
The structure was once just a pool house, before the droid boys decided it would be a good idea to re-engineer the ecosystem inside with imported insects.
Now it’s a festering swamp of carnivorous plants and bio-engineered beetles, the air so thick with pheromones and humidity that you can practically see the moisture beading on your skin when you walk inside.
It is the last place I want to go on the best of days, and today is not the best of days.
I check the internal cams and see nothing out of the ordinary, which means the interloper is either cloaked or small. Either way, it’s a headache. I send a silent curse to whoever it is, then walk toward the back entrance, heels stabbing the flagstones with more force than necessary.
Halfway there, Sandrine comes sprinting out of the kitchen, arms pumping, knives already out and gleaming in the morning light.
The sight would be comical if not because she moves fast and low, a flash of black and pale skin, hair whipping behind her like a streamer.
This is how she earned her nickname; she’s all reflex and muscle, a barely contained explosion of violence in the guise of a bored grad student.
As she races past me, I see the abomination attached to her shoulder: Buzz, her personal mutant bug.
He’s a mutant in the truest sense, and even after all this time, he gives me the creeps.
He latches deeper into Sandrine as she accelerates, and I wonder, not for the first time, what it would be like to have a symbiote that actually respects personal space.
They make it to the pool house in under ten seconds, and I follow at a more dignified pace, heels now echoing in the sudden silence.
The rest of the household is, predictably, oblivious.
No one comes to help, or even observes, which is just as well.
I don’t want an audience for whatever fresh humiliation is about to unfold.
The door to the bug house is ajar, and there’s a faint trail of muddy footprints leading inside.
Sandrine pauses, knives at the ready, head tilted like she’s listening for something.
Buzz detaches and scurries up the wall, disappearing into the gloom.
I hang back, keeping a safe distance—if there’s trouble, it’s better to let the cat take the first hit. I’m not stupid.
There’s a crash inside, followed by the unmistakable sound of terrified screaming.
Not human, or at least not entirely. I see Sandrine leap through the doorway, blade glinting, body language taut with anticipation.
There’s a scuffle, a tumble of shapes, and then a silence broken only by the occasional slap of an errant insect against the glass.
I count to five, then follow. The humidity is oppressive.
I make my way through the tangle of ferns and carnivorous plants, stepping over puddles and avoiding the vines that droop from the ceiling.
By the time I reach the center of the room, Sandrine has subdued the intruder—a small, wriggling shape pinned against the dirt floor—and is interrogating it in low, menacing tones.
It’s one of the clones, or at least a knockoff thereof created by Victor.
“Don’t kill anyone until we know what’s going on, for vodka’s sake!”
My heels click as I walk across the patio, annoyed beyond the telling of it.
The alarms don’t go off for random vermin.
They’re set specifically, so this is some idiot sneaking in from the back to do some foolish prank or damage.
Either pisses me off because I have a schedule and now we’re going to get behind.
It’s rude and unacceptable.
When I walk around the back of the bug shed, I find Sandrine holding Heather and her droid Chance by the scruffs of their necks.
Her expression is murderous, and I can only assume by her scantily clad leather attire that the alarm has interrupted something I don’t want to know about with our resident chef and subbie.
“What in the name of Dolce and Gabbana are you doing here?”
Heather blinks at me, looking sheepish, and Chance smirks. I could smack the grin right off him, but that won’t accomplish anything. “Hiya, Queen P. Nice to see you again.”
“Knock it off. Why are you here sneaking around Mercury’s bug hut?” Sandrine growls, looking ready to explode right here. Perhaps they interrupted a very crucial moment in her sex-capades.
“Funny story, that. We thought we might slip in early for the party, you see. Then we’d get the best guest room. I like the one at the end of the hall—”
I roll my eyes. “Both of my legs are fine at the length they already are. No need to stretch one. Neither of you is dressed for the party.” My eyes slide over them, and I arch a brow. “At least, I hope to hell not.”
Heather looks down at her messy sweats and a dirty tee shirt, face turning red. Chance shrugs, giving me that grin that the fangy boys used to charm the humans.
Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t work on me. I have the right body parts, but I lack the soft spot for their shenanigans that the other ladies have. “Well?”
“We hoped the guys could help. My lady’s hopeless with that stuff. Her head is buried in a book, not a fashion mag.”
Sandrine snorts and rolls her eyes. “Ever heard of a phone call?”
He grins and tilts his head. “Look at you all grown up and growly little sis. It’s been a minute, and here you are, as ill-tempered and explosive as the rest of us, even without a pair of pointies to back it up.”
Her eyes narrow, and I smile.
Oh, he has made an error with that remark.
While he and the other boys created my cohort in crime here, and she’s not made from a fanged fiend template as most of the males are, she is not to be trifled with.
None of us ladies are as they may vary our templates, but we’re all vicious and smart in different ways with powers that the males don’t have. She’s going to tear him a new one.
The flash of one of her knives draws my attention as she drops Heather in an ungainly heap.
Hoisting Chance off the ground until his face is an inch from hers, she holds the point of the stiletto to the tip of his nose.
“If you think you can take me, step on up. Otherwise, knock off the testosterone.”
Chance is still smirking until Buzz crawls over her shoulder and clicks his mandibles, making a hissing sound that is downright terrifying. I don’t know what the hell Mercury cross-bred that spider with, but it’s the size of a purse dog and whatever it’s getting ready to do, I don’t want to see.
He pales, and Sandrine smirks this time, tossing him aside as if he weighs the same as a feather. “I thought not.”
“Look, you two. We’re busy setting up for tomorrow. That’s enough of this nonsense. Go in through the backdoor with your stuff and find your room. There’s a dry erase board on every door for people to label who is where, so we don’t have any mix-ups unless they’re intentional.”
Heather nods, grabbing her bag, and Chance does the same. They walk across the patio, muttering to one another.
“Hey!” Sandrine shouts, watching them like a hawk. “No pranks! Until the party starts, no messing with anything that will screw up all our hard work, you ninnies!”
When they are out of sight, I turn to her. “That spot’s covered for alarms, but the traps aren’t tight enough. They got too far in before we heard.”
“Right,” she says, looking at the area. “Once I’m free, Siren and I will walk the entire perimeter and think about it from a new angle.”
“Excellent. I’ll have the boys monitor their buddies up there.
Chance is cocky enough to have ignored your warning.
You might have shown him he underestimated you, but like as not, he’ll keep testing us.
They all think that because they helped Vic create us, we’re their younger, less capable siblings.
Let’s dispel that notion. I’m over it like gaucho pants. ”
She chuckles and shakes her head, walking towards the house. Buzz crawls back into his hidey-hole as they move, and I sigh.
Without me, this place would be a damned zoo.