Desperation in Death (In Death #55)(3)

They’d talked too long, both knew it, but Mina risked another minute. “We’ve got to get out, Dorian. I was telling Auntie how much I wanted a handsome master to buy me beautiful things, and she said the auction was coming up soon. I wouldn’t have much longer to wait.

“They’ll sell us. We have to get out now.”

Sold, Dorian thought. No more pretending then, and no more Mina to help her stand the pretending.

“I’ll get the swipe.”

“Ten-thirty, infirmary. Something I ate didn’t agree with me.”

It didn’t seem real. For months she’d dreamed and schemed of a way out. But now all she could think of were the punishments if they got caught.

More likely when.

But they had to try. They had to or Auntie would sell them like—like a candy bar in a twenty-four/seven.

She knew, of course she knew, her ancestors had been sold into slavery, and when she’d still gone to regular school, she’d studied about the whole damn war fought over it.

But this was 2061, for fuck’s sake! People couldn’t just sell people.

But they would. They would.

She felt sick to her stomach, and really hot—like maybe she had a fever and she needed the infirmary for real.

But she reminded herself that she had a talent for one thing. She knew how to pick pockets. She knew how to take something from a mark and move on.

With fifteen minutes to Lights Out, Dorian scurried down the corridor to her room carrying a small bag. Since scurrying broke the rules, she knew the hall matron would stop her, issue a demerit and a warning.

“238!”

Heart pounding, Dorian skidded to a stop.

“Running in the hallways, one demerit. How many does that make this time?”

“Three, Matron. I’m very sorry.”

“You should be. What do you have there?”

“Hygienic supplies, Matron.” All innocence, Dorian held out the bag containing a small roll of toilet paper, a tiny tube of soap, and a tube of facial cleanser.

As the matron—a big, beefy woman with a shock stick strapped to her belt—grabbed the bag, Dorian shuffled an inch closer and, ears ringing, palmed the swipe card hooked to the woman’s left jacket pocket.

“I was getting ready for bed, and saw I was out of some supplies for hygiene and skin care. I needed to—”

“That’s two demerits, 238, the second for carelessness. It’ll be three if you’re not in your room and properly prepared for the night by Lights Out.”

“Yes, Matron. Thank you.”

She walked blindly to her room—cell, she corrected. And didn’t allow herself to shake until she’d closed the door.

She prepared for bed as usual because the hall bitch might check on her. But she kept her clothes on under the ugly nightgown.

When the lights blinked their one-minute warning, she got into bed, pulled the sheet and thin blanket up to her chin.

And as she’d feared, her door opened.

Fear exploded inside her as the matron marched to the bed.

She knew! She knew!

The woman stared down at her with mean eyes—monster eyes to Dorian’s mind. She braced for the fire of the shock stick.

But the matron just peered at Dorian’s face, swiped a finger over her cheek.

Her mouth thinned as she nodded, and without a word walked out.

Dorian heard the locks snap. And the lights went off.

She lay trembling in the dark, staring up at the faint numbers illuminated on the ceiling.

10:00 P.M.



She didn’t know. She didn’t know. Yet.

Dorian watched those numbers change, minute by minute, and visualized the Matron Monster checking each door—twenty-eight on this floor. Then she’d use the stairs—please God don’t let her decide to use the elevator this time. And check the other floors. Probably.

There had to be other floors with other rooms because she’d counted at least sixty trainees. And she didn’t think she’d seen all of them. This floor held the Pretty Ones. But there were Servants, Breeders, and Pets.

Since none of the cells had soundproofing—they wanted to hear you—she listened for voices, footsteps, alarms, any sounds.

She heard the heavy door of the stairway thump shut, and closed her eyes as tears leaked.

She still didn’t know.



* * *



In the infirmary, on the narrow exam table, Mina rolled on her side, stuck her fingers down her throat, and puked on Nurse’s shoes.

“Goddamn it, 232!”

“I’m sorry.” She added a few pathetic moans. “I’m sorry.”

Nurse shoved a slop dish into her hands. “Use this if you have to vomit again. Stay there!”

Since the door to the infirmary was locked—the drugs, the supplies, the everything locked—where would she go?

She moaned, held her breath, moaned, then leaped up, dashed to the computer on the desk. Nurse had had to check her in, so no passcode needed.

She’d paid attention in computer class, had a geek friend. She knew what to do.

She pulled up the locks, hit the release for Dorian’s door, crossed her fingers for luck, then yanked open drawers.

Nurse chewed gum. All the damn time.

And there was a pack of it. Mina grabbed two sticks and, chewing madly, dashed back to the exam table.