Dominic had been on my side all along. I was an idiot.
Margaret pressed her lips into a thin line, glaring at me. “That’s right, you succubus, we know. We know you led Dominic De Luca from the paths of righteousness, just as your ancestress led Thomas Price into sin. Hemay still be forgiven, but youare beyond saving.”
“You know, if you’re comparing me to Grandma, the one thing we have in common is that we’re both descended from the Healys,” I said, trying to push aside the cold, sick feeling in my stomach. “What does that say about your family, huh? Have you seduced and betrayed anyone recently?”
She didn’t punch me this time. Instead, she slapped me, her palm landing hard and stinging against my cheek. I rocked back in my chair. The manacles dug into my wrists, and I barely managed to bite my lip hard enough to keep from crying out.
“You’re a selfish little bitch, just like everyone else in your tainted bloodline,” spat Margaret. She sounded like she was about to cry. I blinked at her, not saying anything, and she continued, really getting her rant on now: “Do you have any idea what it’s like to grow up knowing you’re descended from traitors? That once you would have had this amazing family legacy, this endless parade of heroes and saviors and saints, but some self-absorbed idiots had to take all of that away from you? You’re an aberration, a monster-loving plague upon the human race! Your parents are no better than you, and we’re going to find them, and we’re going to make them pay until my family name is clean! Do you understand me?”
“I understand that you’re upset,” I said carefully. Also a little obsessive,I thought. “But I’m not your redemption. I’m just a woman who happens to be distantly related to you, and whatever hell the Covenant may have put you through for being a Healy, it’s not my fault. Okay? It wasn’t me who chose to leave, or my parents, or my grandparents. Hell, it wasn’t even my great-grandparents. Isn’t there a statute of limitations on the sins of the father?”
“Yes,” said Margaret coldly. “Even to the seventh generation. You are still responsible for the things they did to our family, and as they can’t pay for them, you will.”
This time, when she slapped me, she was a lot less gentle about it—and she hadn’t been pulling her punches the first time. A thin trickle of blood ran down from my nose, pooling along the top of my lip. I couldn’t wipe it away, and so I simply sat there, glaring helplessly.
“You’re going to tell us everything,” she spat. “How many of you there are, where we can find you, what your defenses are like— everything. And then, when your blasted family is safely in our custody, we can discuss whether or not you should be held accountable for what our ancestors have done.”
“You need a hug,” I said. “Or maybe therapy. Or maybe—I know—you need to be kicked in the throat. How about you unchain me, and I’ll hug you before I kick you in the throat?”
“You’re a violent little thing, aren’t you?” she asked. “Peter told me how shamefully you treated him. I honestly expected more ladylike behavior from you.” As she spoke, I realized that even when she was slapping me, she’d been careful to keep most of her body at an angle that would be virtually impossible for me to kick. She was smart. She learned from the mistakes of others. That just meant that I couldn’t give her time to take notes when the time came for her to make her own mistakes.
“What can I say?” I asked. “Some of us grow up in the care of global terrorist organizations. Others aren’t so lucky.”
For a moment, Margaret actually looked sorry for me. I itched to slap that expression right off her smug little face. “We’re not terrorists. We’re the good guys. And now it’s time for you to start earning that redemption.” She stepped away from me. “Gentlemen, she’s ready. We can begin the interrogation.”
The Covenant’s definition of “interrogation” wasn’t nice. It wasn’t gentle. It also wasn’t going to leave any scars, so I suppose I ought to thank them for that—although it’s hard to thank anyone who thinks that, say, beating the bottoms of my feet with a wooden baton is a sociable thing to do. They weren’t interested in my long-term dance career. They weren’t even interested in my being able to walk normally the next day. What they wanted was information, and they were more than happy to hurt me if it would help them get it.
As I had suspected, Robert was the most efficient of the three. Margaret was happy to help Peter hold me down, and Peter grinned disturbingly the whole time, but it was Robert who kept producing common household tools from his little box. He looked disappointed every time he had to get a new one, like I was letting them down by refusing to break.
“You could end this now, you know,” he said, pulling what looked like a blood pressure cuff out of the box. “All you need to do is tell us your name. That’s all I’m looking for today, is your name. We know your surname is ‘Price.’ Why not buy yourself a bit of a rest, and tell us what your first name is?”
“Go to hell,” I said.
“I’m afraid you’re going to beat me there,” he said. Margaret took the blood pressure cuff, fastening it tight around my upper arm. I tried to squirm away. Robert raised a finger. “This will hurt less if you hold still.”
“Why the hell would I start believing that now?” I demanded.
“Because I might be telling the truth, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if I were?”
I didn’t say anything. I just glared mutely, willing him to fall down dead. Maybe that would have worked, if I’d been Sarah and he hadn’t been wearing an anti-telepathy charm and oh, right. If we lived in a comic book universe where the rules said that the bad people would be punished, and the good people would always come out on top. Too bad we didn’t live in that kind of world. Too bad we never had.
And then the cuff around my arm began to expand, and the needles I hadn’t previously been able to feel began piercing my skin. After that, I forgot about everything but screaming for a little while.
“What’s your name, love?” asked Peter.
I screamed.
“Just tell us your name and this can all be over for now. What’s your name, love?”
I screamed. The more they inflated the cuff, the more the needles dug into my arm. The fact that it was designed to let air slowly out again meant that I never achieved equilibrium; the cuff would inflate, the needles would dig in, the cuff would deflate, the needles would shift positions, and then it would all start again. It was a new, exciting way of hurting someone, and I wanted nothing to do with it.
“What’s your name, love?” asked Peter.
I screamed, and kept screaming, until the sound ran out and I slumped, practically boneless, in the chair. Robert stopped inflating the cuff, letting it collapse with a soft hissing sound. Then he leaned in, wrapped his hand around the now-deflated cuff, and squeezed.
Somehow I found it in myself to scream one last time, wailing like someone’s family beán sidhe. Robert kept squeezing, grinding his hand against the cuff so that the needles danced inside my flesh. His expression was sad, almost disappointed, like he hadn’t wanted any of this to happen.
“What’s your name?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“V-Verity,” I replied. “Verity Price.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Verity Price,” he said, and took his hand away. The needles were still there, but the sudden reduction in pressure was such a blessing that I started to sob. “Take it off. We have what we need for right now.”