Free Hard Light by Elizabeth Hand

toward the couch and Mallo grabbed my elbow.
    â€œDon’t leave,” he said. “If you do, you’ll never get back home.”
    He turned and headed toward his wife.
    I hurried to join Adrian. He wore the same moth-eaten jacket he’d had on that morning, and his pointed leather shoes were stained with damp. His brow creased as he stared at me.
    â€œYou,” he said.
    â€œHa!” The redhead beside him held up a screwdriver. “I told you I had one.”
    â€œThat’s lovely, Gretchen.” Adrian gave her a perfunctory smile. “Go on now, love, see if you can find someone to stick it in.”
    She stumbled to her feet and lurched off. Adrian gently pushed Krishna aside so I could sit.
    â€œCassandra, is it?” he said. “Krish couldn’t remember if you were here or not.”
    I stared at Krishna, leaned down to touch her cheek. Her skin felt slick and clammy. I knew if she opened her eyes, they’d be pinned. I recalled what I’d seen earlier—Morven slipping something into Krishna’s hand .
    â€œDoesn’t look like she can remember her own name,” I said. “She’s nodded out.”
    â€œWhat’s in a name? A nose by any other name would find blow as sweet. Here.”
    He slid a hand inside his jacket to produce a vial with a tiny spoon attached and passed it to me. I did a couple of spoonfuls and handed it back.
    â€œBetter?” he asked.
    â€œDefine better. ”
    I drank a glass of champagne someone had left on the side table, and thought of Mallo’s photo of me holding Dagney’s stolen passport. Quinn was going to kill me, assuming I lived to find him. I set down the empty glass and buried my head in my hands.
    â€œThere there. The cake’s very nice.” Adrian indicated a plate on the table. “Have a bite.”
    â€œI don’t want any fucking cake.”
    â€œNo need to be rude. Oh, look. Our host.”
    He rose to greet Mallo, who cut him off with a black look.
    â€œMy office,” said Mallo. He pointed at me. “You too.”
    He stalked from the living room. Adrian glanced at me in dismay. “How do you know Mallo?”
    â€œWe bumped into each other in the bathroom.”
    Adrian said nothing, but his expression grew dire.
    I followed him past the kitchen and down the hall to a small windowless office. Industrial shelving was filled with stacks of flattened cardboard cartons, FedEx envelopes, and packing materials. Rolls of candy-colored wrapping paper protruded from cubbyholes where loose coils of ribbon cascaded to the floor like a melted rainbow. Laptops and smartphones in charging stations covered another shelf. On a cheap Ikea desk, a framed photo of Mallo and Morven at the beach leaned against a glass paperweight shaped like a dachshund. It looked like a home office belonging to an eBay dealer, though with no indication as to what, exactly, was sold.
    Mallo sat in a swivel chair by the desk. When he saw us, he turned to open a drawer, reached inside, and withdrew a silvery object. Light glinted off a wedge of steel blade as he spun his chair to face us. A cigar cutter. I heard the hiss of Adrian’s breath.
    â€œCassandra.” Mallo beckoned me toward him. “Please. Come on in.”

 
    11
    I didn’t move. Mallo watched me, then turned. He dropped the cigar cutter, opened another drawer, and removed something else. Without a word, he tossed it to me.
    I caught it: a neatly wrapped box, roughly the size and weight of a brick. Foil wrapping paper imprinted with cobalt stars, a fizz of blue and silver ribbons.
    â€œI’d like you to deliver that to a friend of mine,” Mallo said. “In the Barbican. He won’t be expecting you. Just tell him it’s a birthday present.”
    I stared at the package. “What’s the Barbican?”
    â€œAdrian will show you; he’s good at finding his way in the dark. Drop back by here when