Apparently, if the sweetmetals were kept any closer to the surface, they started affecting “dependents” in the city.

Jordan was beginning to wonder just how much of the world had been dreamt.

“How many of these are there?” she asked. The entire place smelled old, but in a classy way. Not like mold, but like fermentation. In addition to the hundreds of wine bottles sleeping nose-out on either wall, there were also a few oak barrels nested at the end of the hall. “On the planet, I mean?”

The sweetmetals had been set up in a stylish display down the aisle. Paintings perched on fabric-draped easels, antique jewelry preened on velvet, sculpture assessed the room from atop carved pillars. Tasteful lighting had been installed to better highlight them. If one didn’t know any better, one might mistake this for an eccentric art sale for discerning buyers.

But the pieces themselves soon corrected that impression. Jordan could feel their collective power radiating toward her. Her body felt awake, alert, ready for action. It was like caffeine. Speed.

No, it was like being real.

“In the whole world?” Fisher asked. She sounded as if she thought the question was stupid. Like Jordan was looking at a puppy for sale and asking how many puppies existed elsewhere in general. Jordan had already pegged Fisher as one of those ambitious young women who had to try harder than others to look as if they cared about people’s feelings; it was obvious that Fisher understood what polite looked like but also obvious she couldn’t always be arsed to step up.

“I don’t have that information with me. It’s not a typical question.” Fisher managed to imply that, by asking, Jordan was indicating she might not be a worthy buyer.

Jordan let this judgment breeze by. “This collection. When was it put together?”

“A few weeks ago, in London. It’s already been to Birmingham and Dublin. It’ll go to New York and then DC and Atlanta after that, if they aren’t all sold by then. Those are real bullets in those guns, by the way.”

“What?” Jordan asked. She glanced at the armed guards by the door. “Oh. How exciting for them.”

“People sometimes get stupid around the sweetmetals,” Fisher said. “Sometimes they try to take them when our backs are turned. And sometimes when they aren’t.”

“Then: Project Bullets.”

“Right. Take your time looking.” Fisher pulled out her phone. “I’m editing contracts.”

With this cool confession, Jordan had the odd sense Fisher would’ve liked to be her friend, in a different world, in different circumstances, possibly because she’d already killed and eaten all of her others. The two young women were probably about the same age, actually. They’d just taken very different roads to get to the same hole in the ground. “On your phone?”

“What else would I use?”