He had to admit that Scratch pushed all the right buttons, especially when earlier news reports were about the number of girls, many heavily pregnant, who ran out into the road and were struck by fast-moving vehicles.
It was easy enough to grab the spotlight by reminding everyone that the Others had started this by pressuring humans to reveal the locations of every place holding cassandra sangue. But the general population didn’t know that the Others had forced the issue because the girls’ blood was the main ingredient in the street drugs that had sparked violence in many towns across the continent. It was easy to point the finger and express fear for the girls the Others had taken out of reach, but what, if anything, would be said about the babies who had been disposed of by humans? Go ahead and bang the “we’re all humans” drum but don’t even whisper the words “benevolent ownership,” which might make a few people wonder why these girls with their evenly spaced scars had been shut away in the first place.
The phone rang. Monty almost spilled the wine as he grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
“Lieutenant? It’s MacDonald.”
Had something else happened? Was he being called back to work? Please, gods, don’t ask me to face anything more tonight. “What can I do for you, Lawrence?”
“I got a call from Vladimir Sanguinati. He says the Business Association discussed matters, and they agreed that the girls should return to work tomorrow, and the Denbys should come by as planned. Just wanted to let you know.”
“I appreciate the call. Good night, Lawrence. See you tomorrow.”
“Good night, sir.”
Monty ended the call, drank the wine, and almost dumped the uneaten sandwich in the trash can. Then he remembered seeing a new sign on the bus: WASTE TODAY, GO HUNGRY TOMORROW.
He wrapped the sandwich and put it in the fridge. The bread might be stale tomorrow, but he could warm it in the wave-cooker and have the sandwich for breakfast.
After washing the few dishes sitting in the sink, he headed for bed. But he stopped and stared at the phone. Then he picked up the receiver and called Elayne’s number.
Someone picked up before the answering machine kicked in. Monty waited, but no one spoke.
“Elayne?” he said.
Nothing but heavy breathing on the other end of the line.
“Elayne?” Monty said again.
The person in Elayne’s apartment hung up.
Monty set the receiver back in its cradle and continued to stare at the phone. There was no one he could call in Toland, no fellow officer who would do him the favor of swinging by Elayne’s apartment. He’d been transferred from the Toland police force because he had killed a human to save a Wolf child who had been in human form. He’d been seen as a traitor to his own kind.
It could have been Elayne who answered the phone and decided to screw with him. Wasn’t her typical way of dealing with him, but he wouldn’t put it past her. She had blamed him for her sudden drop in social status and used Lizzy as a way to punish him, refusing to let him talk to his little girl. During one phone call a few weeks ago, she’d informed him that she and Lizzy were going to Cel-Romano with Scratch for the summer—and might not be coming back to Thaisia at all.
She and Monty hadn’t married. He had no visitation rights beyond what she might allow. In fact, the only thing Elayne did for him when it came to Lizzy was cash the support checks promptly.
“Lizzy,” Monty whispered as he picked up the receiver and dialed Elayne’s number again.
“You’ve reached the Borden residence. Leave your name, number, and the purpose of your call.”
Nothing this time. Not even heavy breathing.
Monty went to bed but didn’t sleep. Captain Burke knew a lot of people. Someone in Toland might be able to tell him something. And Vladimir Sanguinati knew some of the vampires who ruled the Toland Courtyard. He’d rather owe Burke a favor than deal with Vlad, but he’d take whatever help he could get to confirm his little girl was all right.
CHAPTER 9
Firesday, Maius 11
The girl dreamed of rain and woke to the sound of something dripping.
Where . . . ?
Not the compound where the white-coated keepers . . . That older girl, Jean, had called them Walking Names. And there was that other girl, the one who didn’t come to lessons anymore. Well, a lot of girls stopped coming to lessons. A lot of girls stopped being allowed to walk outside in the fenced yard. Then one day their places at the table were empty.
But that girl. Her disappearance had been different. And, somehow, she was connected with the fight that destroyed the compound and . . .
They had covered the girls’ heads. They had carried the younger girls, but girls her age were led through the corridors, stumbling over things that squished underfoot. And from the ceiling came the drip-plop of something falling. Something thick and wet.
Even with her head covered, she saw things. Or maybe she remembered some things she’d seen in visions. Bad things. Wet, red things that terrified her. And people who weren’t people, who had teeth and claws and red eyes.
Then she and the other girls were put into vans or cars and taken away from the compound.
This is a village in the Northwest. You’re going to stay here with us now, they had said. They were humans called Intuits.
What’s your name? they had asked her.
Cs821, she’d replied. Her answer made them sad. So sad.
Eight girls had come to this place from the compound. The four unscarred girls were taken to another part of the village. The four girls her age—the ones who had their first set of scars but not too many beyond that—were put together in this single room. A barracks. That was the word for the training image that matched the room.
She wondered who usually lived there and what had happened to them. There were clothes in the lockers and books on the shelves that made up the bottom of the bedside tables.
You’re free now, the new keepers had told her and the other girls. But the girls had no images of “free,” no reference, no understanding of what was required of them in this place made of wood and glass, this place filled with images and sounds that didn’t belong to the compound that, she’d been told her whole life, was the only safe place for girls like her.
She found the toilets out of desperation a few hours after they had arrived. She found that if she stood at the door of the room and asked loudly for food and water, someone would bring food for her and the other girls.
Would you like to eat in the dining room? Would you like to go outside? Would you like . . . ?
The food tasted different, even when it looked like something she remembered eating. The water tasted different. The air smelled different, a wild scent under the smell of unwashed girls.
Too much, too much. All too much. So much too much the other three girls spent most of their time curled up on their beds, and the more their new keepers tried to help, the more things overwhelmed them until they didn’t want to find anything in this terrifying place.
The new keepers had locked up the silver razors, but there were several objects in the barracks that were sharp enough to make a cut.
The Walking Names would not have been so careless.
A shiver of pain followed by relief. No one to listen, but they whispered in the dark, craving the euphoria that would get them through the next barrage of images.
Don’t you want a name? Don’t you want to live?
How was she supposed to know if she wanted those things?
Every night they cut themselves and whispered in the dark. Then, one night, before she began to whisper, the girl saw a glimpse of herself in a vision. So she gritted her teeth and endured the agony of an unspoken prophecy. The pain ate her up inside and she wanted to scream and scream and never stop screaming. But she said nothing—and saw herself with sheets of paper and many colored pencils.