into place, I climbed down the ladder, squinting while my eyes adapted to the gloom. LED lamps served as the primary source of light, and while there were bigger, stronger lights hanging overhead, I didn’t know how to turn them on nor did I want to.
The last thing I needed was someone figuring out I knew one of the back ways into Asylum.
Even using the most direct path to the underground city, it took well over an hour to reach my destination, another manhole cover that connected the passage above with one of the electric blocks below. While the streets, cobblestoned works of art meant to imitate an elegant and ancient European city, were monitored, few bothered to look up. Asylum residents always betrayed themselves in Tulsa.
Only a fool—or a resident of Asylum—forgot to keep an eye on the vengeful sky.
Aware an electric worker or a guard could ruin my day, I grabbed the cover’s tug rope, an Asylum conceit, and lifted, cracking it open enough I could peer below.
Bright light spilled into the passage, and I winced. With the overhead lamps on at full blast, nobody would be checking the ceiling for anyone. The lower lights on the walls would eradicate my shadow, too. Asylum’s residents didn’t like when the workers spoiled their precious streets with evidence of their presence. I squinted and triple-checked for potential observers, but the roof beneath me and the nearby streets were devoid of life.
Most would be in the city above unless the sirens went off or they checked the forecast and had opted to stay home. I supposed they checked the forecast, although I had no idea how any news reached them while they hid underground.
Above the streets, technology stagnated, but in Asylum, it likely thrived, although the other quadrants would always remain more advanced than a place hammered constantly with lethal storms.
I descended the enclosed ladder to the rooftop, flipped the latch on the door at the bottom, unlocked as usual, and welcomed myself to Asylum. If I added some fog, some smog, and oil lamps here and there, I’d step back through time to London, England—and it annoyed me that the city’s owner, controller of life and death in Tulsa, shared something in common with me. I loved the early gothic spires and arches of the larger buildings along with the quaint townhouses filling the residential ward.
Above all, I adored the flying buttresses and columns keeping the city above from crashing down onto Asylum, each one a work of art, each one different—each one a tribute dedicated to Benedict Mansfield’s power and influence, an offering from those grateful they dodged certain death.
I hated the man, whose dark nature, greed, and desire for power hid behind a veneer of beauty.
That didn’t stop me from sneaking into Asylum to walk its streets and marvel at its wonders.
Today, I had no time for such luxuries, not with a bounty out for my living head. I’d gotten lucky the first time one had shown up to claim me.
I’d recognized the bounty hunter.
Carlos had a reputation, liked other men more than he liked women, and as such, he only looked at women when they could make him money. The only way he made money off a woman was catching her and turning her in for a reward or bounty. As I made a point of staying on the right side of the law, I’d guessed I’d somehow become the subject of a bounty. If he’d been a little smarter, I might not have figured him out, but that old dog refused to learn new tricks. I’d bolted the instant he’d looked my way twice.
Sandro had only confirmed what I’d suspected, although half of what he said threw me for a loop.
He considered himself ethical, but he’d openly admitted I tempted him. I should’ve suggested he have his head examined for a malfunction. My face didn’t close doors, but it didn’t open them, either. I’d been to every quadrant in the United States, and I’d figured out long ago I’d never rise above a little better than average. My hair opened more doors than they closed, a perfect match for my ears and tail. In the breasts department, I could pretend to be a boy without having to worry about a breast band.
Half the time, I questioned why I bothered with a damned bra.
Then again, even as small as mine were, dealing with their bouncing during a run truly sucked. When a tornado could spawn from the