by Meg Cabot
Because it seemed like, without a doubt, those bracelets or whatever they were had some kind of significance.
I turned around and, ignoring the guard who’d snubbed me, hurried back over to Gabriel and Nikki, who’d been waiting for me back at the doors to the ballroom.
“What was that all about?” Gabriel asked.
“There’s something going on upstairs,” I said. “We need to get up there.”
“Em,” Gabriel said, pulling out his cell phone. “We’re needed onstage for the Stark Angel show, which is going on live in approximately…two hours.”
“Where’s Brandon?” I asked. I looked around the ballroom and finally saw him, slow dancing with someone who looked a lot like Rebecca. I was halfway across the room before I realized it was Rebecca.
When she lifted her head from his shoulder after I poked it, her shrug was eloquent.
“What can I say?” she asked. “I’ve still got it. He thinks I’m hot. And anyway, what do you care? You don’t want him.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I said. “I just need to borrow him for a minute.”
“Well, make it snappy,” Rebecca said. “And you better not be having second thoughts about his three hundred million. You let them slip through your fingers, missy. You can’t blame me for scooping up your leftovers.”
I knew she was referring to Brandon’s money, which she’d always encouraged me to try to snatch up by getting myself engaged to him. I guess she figured if I wasn’t going to go for it, she would.
“You’re entirely welcome to him,” I assured her. I’d take penniless supervillain Christopher, whom I wasn’t even sure wanted me, over multimillionaire Brandon any day.
I only wished Christopher would realize it.
“Fine,” Rebecca said. “Brandon, Nikki’s here. She wants to ask you something.”
Brandon looked scared. “Oh, no, not Nikki. She’s a bitch.” Then, when he saw me, he smiled. “Oh, that Nikki. Okay. Hi! Have you got your brawron?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” I grabbed Brandon by the arm and steered him a few feet away from Rebecca so we couldn’t be overheard. “Brandon, I need you to get me upstairs. Your dad’s having some kind of meeting up there, and I want to see what it’s about without him knowing I’m there. Is there some way I can get up there other than the main staircase? He’s got a guard there, and the guard won’t let me by.”
“Sure,” Brandon said. “Servants’ staircase, in the back. This way.”
He slipped an arm around my shoulders and led me from the ballroom and toward the French doors out to the back garden. I’m sure everyone who saw us must have thought we were leaving the party to go hook up. Even the people who were in the garden with the fountains and the architecturally sculpted bushes would have seen Brandon lead me from the ballroom, down the paved path, and up to a door the caterers were using to bring the food in and out…it led straight into the massive, industrial-size kitchen. Everyone in there working stared at us as we walked by the chilled trays of shrimp and tiny goat cheese-filled canapés in our evening wear.
“Hey,” Brandon said, spying these. “I didn’t see those.” He plucked up a few and popped them into his mouth while I rolled my eyes.
Then Brandon opened a door and we were in a dingy hallway, with a narrow stairway that curved upward.
“See?” he said. “Servants’ staircase. I used to spend hours playing in here when I was a kid. I pretended I was an orphan and some loving parents were going to come and adopt me and take me away from this terrible place. Ha!”
His bitter ha! echoed up and down the staircase.
“Thanks, Brandon,” I said. “Would you let Gabriel and Nikki know I’ll be back as soon as I can? And that if I’m not…they should call the police?”
“Sure,” Brandon said affably. “That’s Nikki back there, with the black hair?”
“Yeah,” I said, not sure I wanted to hear what he had to say about that.
“She looks kinda hot now,” Brandon said. “But you know who’s really hot. Your agent. What’s up with that?”
“Yeah,” I said, really sure I didn’t want to hear about that. “I don’t know, Brandon. I have to go now.”
“Okay,” he said. “You’ll let me know if you find out anything I can, you know, use to send old Robert to the big house. Because I really hate that guy.”
“Consider it done,” I assured him.
Then I started climbing the twisted staircase.…
I wasn’t quite sure what I expected to find when I got to the top. Certainly not what I found.
Which was a maid in a black uniform and a white apron opening the door just as I was about to. She was so startled to see me, she nearly dropped the entire tray of empty champagne glasses she was holding.
“Oh, my goodness!” she cried. “Can I help you?”
I had no idea if she’d recognized me, let alone what I should do. I didn’t want her to turn me in to the security guard.
But I wasn’t sure that she didn’t know I had no right to be on that floor.
“I— I think I made a wrong turn,” I stammered. When all else fails, and you’re a blond supermodel, acting like an airhead never fails to work wonders. People pretty much expect it of you, anyway, and invariably find it charming. It’s stupid and sexist, but it works.
Even on other women, especially if they’re older than you. It brings out their maternal instinct or something.
Well, it probably wouldn’t work on my mother. But it works on almost everyone else.
“I— I was looking for— for the little girls’ room,” I stammered.
Thank you, Lady Whose Name I Forget.
“Oh,” the maid said, with a laugh. “It’s two more doors down, honey.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, giggling. “I’m such a ditz. I was wondering where all these stairs were going. Thanks so much.”
“You’re so welcome,” she said warmly.
It had worked. Thank you, God.
I slipped past her and out into the hallway. Unlike the scene downstairs, it was hushed and quiet. There was deeply piled carpeting on the floor— gray, of course— and stark seascapes hanging on the walls, each lit with its own individual painting light…the only lighting to see by. I waited until I couldn’t hear the maid anymore on the stairs, then listened to hear if I could detect any other sounds.
And soon enough, I heard it: the drone of a human voice coming from a room a few doors down from where I stood. I padded toward it, my stilettos silent on the plush carpeting.
Pressing my ear to the thick door, I listened as closely as I could. It was a woman’s voice. It sounded nice.
But I couldn’t tell what she was saying. I could hear no other sounds.
What should I do? Open the door and go in? Who knew what lay on the other side? What if I walked into some kind of Stark shareholder business meeting or something, and everyone turned and looked at me?
And Robert Stark— who had to be in there— had one of his security goons shoot me?
Or worse, drag me out in front of everyone? I’d be so embarrassed. Getting shot would be preferable. Then I’d just be dead, not mortified.
What if it wasn’t just a business meeting, though? What if Project Phoenix was really what Christopher said it was… whatever that had been? I had a moral duty to go in there and find out. He was trusting me to find out. My whole relationship depended on it.
Turning that doorknob and seeing what was going on in there was what I’d gone to all this trouble for in the first place, right? I had to do it.
My heart was beating so hard in my chest. I was acting, I realized, like one of those heroines in Frida’s books— the Too Stupid to Live kind. Going into that room would be a stupid thing to do. Any girl who’d do it was an idiot. If I was watching this unfold on a movie screen, I’d yell, “Go home!” at the TV.
“Excuse me?”
I jumped nearly a mile and whirled around, then relaxed a little as I saw that the maid w
ith the tray was behind me. Only she’d restocked her tray with glasses that were now full to the brim with sparkling champagne.
“I just have to get by you,” the maid said, sounding embarrassed.
“Oh, of course,” I said, and then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, I opened the door for her, since she had her hands full.
And after she went in, I followed her.
Nineteen
IT WAS DARK INSIDE THE ROOM.
That’s because it was some kind of media room, like the one Brandon had at his beach house, for showing movies. There was a huge screen at one end of the room, where images were flashing. All the Stark shareholders— even in the dark, I recognized the ladies I’d met downstairs from the diamonds around their necks— were seated in wide, comfortable, red velvetcovered chairs in front of the screen. They were watching the images flashing on the screen with rapt attention.
I shouldn’t have worried about anyone noticing me come in. No one cared. They were too busy watching the presentation.
I found an empty chair and sat down to watch the show. The maid, noticing this, offered me a glass of champagne, which I accepted with a smile, just to be gracious. There was a little table next to my high-backed theater chair on which I could set the glass, so I did, knocking something over in the dark. This was embarrassing. Also dangerous. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, even though I was in the back, and there were only a few other people seated in my row.
I scrambled around on the carpeted floor for whatever I’d knocked over. I found it almost at once. It was some kind of gaming joystick, I realized as soon as my fingers closed over it. It had a cord attached to it that disappeared into the floor, but only a single button on the joystick. I was careful not to press the button, but I kept the joystick in my lap, since I noticed everyone else in my row was doing the same thing.
After that, I turned my attention to the presentation that was going on. The nice female voice I’d heard out in the hallway was much louder now. It belonged to an immaculately dressed, very beautiful Frenchwoman who was standing to one side of the screen. She was in charge of the presentation, I saw. She was holding a joystick, too, but it was more of a clicker, like the kind you use during a PowerPoint presentation. In fact, that’s what the presentation we were seeing was. PowerPoint.
I had to stifle an automatic yawn. Seriously? PowerPoint? I almost wished someone would shoot me.
Then I saw what the PowerPoint was about and sat up a little straighter in my seat.
The slide the stunningly beautiful Frenchwoman was showing us was a photo of a muscular, slim-hipped young man who wore cargo pants and no shirt, grinning into the camera with his arms around a collie. The collie had a bandanna around its neck.
“This is Matthew,” the Frenchwoman said in her cool, emotionless voice. “Matthew is a twenty-year-old college student studying philosophy and is on his dormitory’s Frisbee team. Matthew is six foot two and one hundred and seventy pounds and has a small tattoo of a fish on his left ankle. Matthew is a vegetarian and believes in abstaining from drugs and alcohol to keep his mind and body pure.”
With fingers that felt numb, I opened my purse and took out my cell phone. It wasn’t easy to do without drawing attention to myself.
But I found the film application. And I pressed record.
I wasn’t sure what was happening. But based on what Christopher had said on the phone, I was beginning to have a very creepy feeling.
And I just wanted to be on the safe side.
“Matthew has no history of heart disease or cancer in his family,” the Frenchwoman went on. “And will become available when he leaves for a trip to Honduras to volunteer for Habitat for Humanity over spring break this April. Matthew’s starting bid is at five hundred thousand dollars. Please begin your bidding now.”
Around me, I heard the sound of clicking joysticks. I looked up from my cell phone, wondering if what I thought was happening could really be happening.
Because it just didn’t seem possible to me that Christopher could have been right.
“Five hundred fifty,” the Frenchwoman said tonelessly. She was staring at a little computer monitor on her desk. “Six hundred. Six fifty. Do I have seven hundred? Seven fifty. Eight hundred. Eight fifty. Matthew has a naturally fast metabolism and grew up in an area with fluoridated water, so no cavities or dental issues at all. He really is a prime specimen. You could not ask for a healthier young man. Nine hundred thousand. One million. I have a bid for one million dollars. Matthew, going once. Going twice. The bidding for Matthew is now closed at one million dollars. Thank you.”
The image of Matthew vanished from the screen, and the clicking of the joysticks around me stopped. Almost immediately— way before I’d even had time to process what I’d just witnessed— a new image appeared on the screen. It was of a young woman with long, straight black hair. She was lying on a bed, laughing up at the camera, holding a gray-and-black tiger-striped cat. She was wearing a pair of cute shorts and a tank top. On her wall was a poster that said Save Tibet.
“This is Kim Su,” the Frenchwoman said, in the same slightly bored but completely businesslike voice. “She is nineteen years old and is five foot two and weighs one hundred pounds. She has no tattoos and is a lifelong vegetarian. She has no health problems, including no history of dental issues. She’s a freshman at a prestigious university and works out regularly. Her family is extremely long-lived, including one set of great-grandparents who are still living and are now in their hundreds. Having yourself transplanted into Kim Su would make an outstanding investment, as she has not only incredible beauty but longevity on her side. Because Kim Su is such an amazing find, the starting bid for her is eight hundred thousand. Kim Su will become available this summer when she leaves to be an au pair in the Hamptons.”
The clicking was even more enthusiastic for Kim Su than it had been for Matthew. Bidding immediately went into the millions. I wasn’t that surprised when the lady with the sparkles on the bottom of her dress got her for a cool three point five.
“Yes!” she cried, almost jumping out of her seat.
Several of the other ladies leaned over to congratulate her on her excellent buy.
I just sat there, feeling kind of sick. I think maybe I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it was true. It was all true, everything Christopher had said on the phone. Project Phoenix was exactly that: people buying more attractive people’s bodies to have their brains put into them.
Those kids we’d seen online— well, most of them had been kids. Teenagers, really— all the ones who’d bought Stark Quarks. The reason Stark had saved their information…the reason they’d combed through it so carefully, saving some and not others? It was because Stark considered them donors.
Like me.
I was Project Phoenix. The prototype.
Of course. The doctors at the Stark Institute for Neurology and Neurosurgery had said there was a waiting list of wealthy candidates wanting the surgery— candidates with perfectly healthy brain function but whose bodies maybe weren’t all that they used to be— a little flab here, a little wrinkle there. Maybe some male pattern baldness. And that the only thing stopping the institute from doing more surgeries was a shortage of donor bodies. And that the donor bodies they had weren’t always the most desirable…the body Nikki got was of a drunk driver killed in a DUI.
And Nikki nearly died during her surgery because the body she got was so unhealthy. So why wouldn’t Stark do this? What was stopping them?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
I felt cold all over. And it wasn’t because of my way-too-short dress.
I don’t know how long I sat there, watching image after image flicker across the screen and get bid on, before my view was obscured by a large male figure.
Not one of the males on the screen that I’d just seen sold off, either.
This was a male dressed in Stark security garb.
“Miss Howard?” he said softly. “
Will you come with me, please?”
I was busted. I shouldn’t have sat there so long.
But how could I move? What Robert Stark was doing…
…it was the most disgusting thing I’d ever seen in my life.
All the Stark shareholders turned to look as I was escorted from the room, even though the Frenchwoman said in her calm voice, “Please pay no attention to the slight disturbance in the back. It is only a minor interruption. Shall we turn to the next candidate?”
I heard the murmurs and whispers. And then I heard Robert Stark himself assure his shareholders, in his booming voice, “Don’t worry, everyone. It’s only Nikki Howard. You’ve all met her! She’s one of you…or what all of you will be shortly. She just wanted to stop by to make sure you’re choosing wisely!”
This caused a ripple of laughter through the room.
I didn’t hear any more. That’s because by then the guard had pulled me out. I stood there in the hallway, staring at the floor, not really caring what was going to happen to me next. So what if Robert Stark had me killed, like he’d tried to do to Nikki?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in a world where people did this kind of thing, anyway.
“Well, that wasn’t smart, now, was it?”
I glanced up from my feet to see Robert Stark himself standing in front of me, adjusting his tuxedo’s bow tie, looking like a cat someone had stroked the wrong way.
“What did you hope to accomplish in there, anyway?” he asked. He leaned over and snatched my purse away. Then he opened it and dumped the contents on the floor. My iPhone fell out with everything else. He leaned down and picked it up.
“I suppose you were recording all that,” he said. “And thought you’d be slick and send it to someone. CNN? Well, nothing’s going to come of that.”
With surprising force, he turned and hurled the phone as hard as he could toward the far end of the hallway. It smashed into a thousand pieces when it hit the wall.
I flinched. The phone exploding reminded me of the way my body must have looked to Christopher, exploding under the weight of that plasma TV.