Forged Absolution (Fates of the Bound Book 4)

by Wren Weston

  Lila jumped as the doors slammed, her head aching.

  Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she pulled the door release and hopped from Dixon’s truck. They’d left soon after she returned to the apartment. While Tristan and Dixon had jogged downstairs to help canvass the area, Lila had retired to the bathroom.

  Unfortunately, cleaning herself up had turned into something different.

  After washing up and disinfecting the scratches on her forehead, she’d poked through Tristan’s cabinets for some bit of his DNA, glad that her attack had happened so near the shop.

  The next time someone came for her, she knew it wouldn’t, and she might not survive. She’d probably live in some apartment alone, with no blackcoats to protect her and neighbors who didn’t care about her welfare.

  She’d die helpless and alone.

  Her thoughts had turned to the baby after that, to the fact that she had no money for rent, for diapers, for formula, for heat.

  Her heart had pounded faster.

  Her temperature had fluctuated.

  She had another spell, another “heart attack,” another bout of stomach issues.

  Luckily, it had passed before Dixon returned. She’d cleaned up and gathered her things, waiting for him to return.

  Hoping she wouldn’t get sick again.

  “I found something last night,” Lila had said when he reentered the apartment. “Connell’s prepping one of the mercs for us.”

  Tell me what happened in the garage again, he’d written, squinting at the scratches upon her forehead, the slash of pink across her mouth where the tape had been.

  She’d only given Dixon the quick version of the attack while he packed, more worried about her heart problems than the masked assailant. Dixon’s fingers had tapped across his palm when she finished, messaging Shirley to come in early and fix her car, warning Dr. McCrae that she’d have a patient as soon as they returned to the compound.

  Then he’d slipped his arms around her, holding her tightly.

  She’d clung to him, not realizing how much she’d needed it.

  After a few moments, she’d pushed him away, finally explaining what she’d found the night before. They’d left for the oracle’s compound soon after, taking her laptop and luggage and the files from the tablets. Somehow they’d managed to avoid Tristan and Katia.

  Dixon left them a note, though, avoiding yet another conversation.

  Lila had hoped it would be the last time she saw the shop, but she knew she’d have to go back one last time. She still needed a DNA sample. She hadn’t been able to grab Tristan’s toothbrush, for three had hung in the holder. She’d tried to snag his hairbrush, but after a quick search, she recalled that he kept it in his bedside table.

  Next to a still-sleeping Katia.

  Dixon whistled, catching her attention. She could always use Dixon’s DNA. He’d do a cheek swab if she asked.

  He’d want to know why, though.

  She wasn’t ready for that conversation, not when she didn’t know if she’d keep the baby.

  Perhaps she could take something of his without him knowing.

  Lila grabbed her satchel and lifted the strap over her head, starting for their cabin. “We’re supposed to meet the oracle at ten. We have twenty minutes.”

  Dr. McCrae.

  “I’m fine, Dixon. We’ll see her later.”

  He patted his belly.

  “Breakfast first?”

  He nodded as the pair entered the cabin. After dropping off his bag, he broke for the kitchen, keen to explore the stocked shelves he’d likely pilfered from the day before.

  She heard a rattle as she laid her satchel on the table. Dixon lifted two boxes of cereal and looked at her expectantly.

  “Cereal? I’ve never actually eaten that before. Chef would have killed me and then herself before letting me have any.”

  So you want to try them both?

  “Yes, please.” Lila left her laptop behind as she dug through the kitchen cabinets, looking for bowls. “When I was a kid, I begged her to let me have some. It never worked, though.”

  Dixon grabbed a jug of milk from the refrigerator. Lila fetched spoons and bowls and joined him at the dining room table. Cereal plinked into her bowl as she shook out the pastel marshmallows and toasted oat pieces. She then added milk, which sloshed over the rim.

  Lila scooped up a large bite, ready to fulfill every childhood breakfast dream she’d ever had.

  But all she tasted was really crunchy sugar. Lots and lots of sugar.

  The oat pieces scratched unpleasantly at her mouth.

  “What’s this even called?” she asked.

  Dixon pointed to the box. An artist had drawn Rain Snaps in large letters, along with bursts of marshmallows falling from warring umbrellas.

  Drink the milk before you try the other.

  “Why?”

  The two shall not mix. Bad things happen when they do.

  Lila took his word for it, watching him tilt his bowl like a child in a commercial. If her mother could have seen it, she would have been horrified, but Lila would have to get used to acting like a workborn.

  Lila tilted her bowl and sipped the milk.

  Then nearly spat it out again.

  “What the heck was I just eating?”

  Dixon pointed to two words on the back of the box.

  Artificial flavors.

  “What does that even mean? Fairy dust and mermaid tears?” Lila dumped the rest of her milk in the kitchen sink, rinsed her bowl out, and timidly tried the next cereal. Fruit Flair covered the top of the box. A cartoon apple, orange, kiwi, banana, and strawberry danced across the front.

  She ate two crunchy bites and one chewy mouthful.

  The rest turned into soggy slush.

  “My whole childhood has been a lie. Are there any granola bars?”

  Dixon pointed over his shoulder. She retrieved the entire box, then grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl.

  “You know, our welcome decorations notwithstanding, I could see staying here for a while, couldn’t you? Everyone seems to care about one another. When Blair didn’t want to be in the family business, they let her do what she wanted. They didn’t pressure her. They seem to take the same approach with their children.”

  It beats the highborn approach.

  “That’s a rather low bar, don’t you think?”

  I miss it, though. We should start our own highborn family.

  Lila raised a brow. It was the second time he’d said such a thing.

  She closed one of the cereal boxes and laid it flat, then snatched up her granola bar and banged it against the cardboard like a gavel. “Honorable matrons and primes,” she said, clearing her throat and speaking to an imaginary crowd seated at the table. “We are here today at this emergency meeting of the High Council of Judges to hear a petition from Dixon Leclair. He wishes to become the thirteenth house of the New Bristol highborn, and the first chairman in the history of the Allied Lands.”

  Dixon sat up. A smile played about his lips.

  “What can you, Mr. Leclair, offer the good matrons of New Bristol? Why should we allow you to become a judge?”

  Every henhouse needs a cock.

  Lila patted his cheek. “And what a lovely little cock you have.”

  BIG COCK!!!

  “Ah, my mistake. I do believe your reasoning is growing on me. It’ll be rather hard for us to counter.”

  Dixon rolled his eyes.

  “You’re right, as always. The High Council of Judges could always do with a bit more cock.” Lila looked around the room. “All who agree that the matrons need more cock, please raise your hands.”

  She pointed, counting all the imaginary hands in the room.

  “I count twenty.”

  Everyone raised bo
th hands?

  “No, both legs.” She winked and struck the cereal box once more. “Mr. Leclair, please tell us what color you’ve chosen for your family.”

  She eyed him up and down, then put her hand upon his notepad before he could write.

  “On second thought, never mind. I’m guessing you pick all of them, you greedy little shit.”

  Dixon burst out into laughter.

  His dimples reappeared.

  “Now for your coat of arms. What animal have you chosen to represent your house?”

  He pointed to his forehead.

  “A unicorn?”

  Dixon sighed and turned to his notepad.

  “Why not unicorns—they poop rainbows, don’t they?”

  Dixon considered her reasoning and offered a stiff nod.

  “Mr. Leclair allows it. With the power invested in me as the only intelligent member of the New Bristol High Council of Judges, Dixon Leclair is now the newest highborn chairman in New Bristol. However, you are hereby sworn to secrecy over your new position. Unicorns are too tacky. We could never acknowledge you openly. Can you live with these terms?”

  Chuckling, he nodded.

  “Excellent.”

  Be my chief?

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Lila leaned across the table and kissed him noisily on the cheek.

  A knock sounded upon the door.

  Connell offered a small bow as Lila answered it. “Good after— What happened to your face?”

  Lila touched her scraped forehead, her eyes flickering to Dixon.

  She recounted the attack while Dixon cleaned up their breakfast dishes.

  Connell punched out a message on his palm. “I’ll inform Dr. McCrae. I want her to take a look at you. In the meantime, you’ll need a new palm. Kara will have one ready for you by lunch. Any idea who could have been behind the attack?”

  Lila did not want to share her thoughts until she had evidence of her suspicions. Someone had wanted to search her car and her palm, perhaps taking her out once they had finished. They’d hunted her, knowing exactly where she would be.

  Only a few people knew that she had an appointment with Helen that morning.

  Only Connell, Kenna, and a passed-out oracle had heard her mention it.

  To Nico.

  “Let’s get you to your translator.” Connell frowned when she said nothing more. “Dr. McCrae will meet us there. I’ll have her check you out before we start.”

  “No. After. I want answers.”

  Lila gathered up her tablet and satchel. The group left the cabin and trudged across the compound, stopping before a squat, one-story brick building, with four wings extending a hundred meters in each direction like a plus sign.

  Connell approached a door at the end of a wing and slid a plastic card through a reader.

  Their boots clicked against the tile in the entryway as they ducked inside. They found themselves in the middle of a lounge. A few screens and couches had been piled on one side. A pool table sat on the other. A mixed group of off-duty militia and office workers argued around it, sticks in hand. A hundred credits sat in the corner underneath a lump of chalk.

  Connell nodded as they greeted him, the game forgotten as they peered at the outsiders.

  The chief did not explain himself. He led Lila and Dixon down the hall, a strip of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, highlighting the pure white walls and a corridor filled with doors.

  “So, this is your security office.” Lila peeked through the windows cut into each door. Beds and furniture gave way to desks and office equipment as they moved closer to the center.

  “I suppose you could call it that. We prefer our militia to stay with their own families, but some of our younger members like to have their own places when they come of age. Other times, people just need a few days away from home so that their loved ones remain their loved ones. We have communal lounges on the end of each wing and break areas. It all helps with security, especially when we have prisoners. No one can enter or leave this building without going past several pairs of eyes.”

  “You arrest your own, then? I’d always heard differently.”

  “We use the old ways to deal with rule breakers: communal labor, counseling, and a great deal of time volunteering with our elderly. Most people just need someone to listen. Others need to learn to wisdom and patience. Offenders need to compensate those they’ve wronged, not scrub pans as a slave. They don’t need a chip in their neck as a leash, either.”

  “It’s funny you should say that. The slavery system was predicated on the old ways, compensation chief among them. The only difference is that we outsource that compensation to other families now.”

  “We never sold anyone in the tribe, nor made slaves of them. Only outsiders. Granted, ‘outsiders’ had a different connotation then. You people have bastardized the concepts of slavery and compensation over the centuries.”

  “So what happens when your rule breakers don’t learn their lessons? What happens when they reoffend?”

  “If they reoffend, then we erred in releasing them too early. They repeat their sentence until they learn their lesson. Sometimes they’re taken to other compounds for a fresh start.”

  “Sounds easy.”

  “How many monsters do you know, Lila? Everyone has reasons for doing the things they do, even if it’s boredom. I’ve only known two people in my entire life who could never be made right, no matter how much time and effort you put into them. We had to deal with them in a different way.”

  “How?”

  “They’re downstairs in the basement.”

  “With our translator?”

  “Security is tight. There are no exits in the center of the building. Anyone who breaks out has to go through quite a few cameras and security personnel to escape. Every room in this place has a button that can sound the alarm for a lockdown. It’s all routed to the monitoring station.”

  “Even the cells?”

  “Yes. We need to know if there’s an emergency. We do prepare them for the consequences of that decision.”

  “Which is?”

  “If it’s not a medical emergency, they get a dose of truth serum. If they meant well, all is fine. If they didn’t, they eat a bullet.”

  The group reached an empty rotunda in the center of the building, the pattern in the marble floor arranged into the oracle’s coat of arms. Connell marched to one side of the circular wall and slid his key through another reader, punching in a code on a panel. A section of the floor slid open, revealing a staircase that led into shadows.

  “How often do you change your code?”

  “Every few months.”

  “You do realize it would take me less than a minute to hack that security panel? That’s assuming I didn’t steal your key card and type in the code I just memorized.”

  “You’d still have to get past my people and the cameras.”

  “Cameras are easy, and you can always get past people if you’re patient enough.”

  The group’s footsteps echoed against the cement walls as they jogged downstairs. As soon as they reached the last step, Connell slid his card through another reader and punched in his code. Above their heads, the rotunda panel closed.

  “There’s a delay of sixty seconds before we can continue,” Connell explained. “A signal has gone off in monitoring, forcing them to confirm our presence visually.”

  “So you can trap someone who shouldn’t be here?”

  “That’s the idea.” He jutted his chin toward a few vents in the walls. “If it’s a prisoner, we fill the room with lion’s kiss.”

  “Lion’s kiss? The sleeping draught? I didn’t know you could buy it in gas form.”

  “We do have our own chemists, Lila.”

  The door opened with a hollow snick, and the group emerged in
a break room. Four purplecoats sat at a table, playing a card game. Two more read quietly in a corner.

  The group hopped to their feet, standing straight as their chief strode past.

  “As you were.”

  The group relaxed as he punched in a code to the next room.

  The door closed behind them, sounding like the snapping of a coffin lid. A long corridor stretched for at least a hundred meters. A dozen purplecoats paced the halls, tranqs in hand.

  “You’ll only find tranqs here. We don’t want a prisoner getting hold of live ammo and going on a shooting spree.”

  “How many militia are stationed down here?”

  “Usually six. I upped the number to eighteen after the mercs joined us. They take thirty-minute breaks after every hour. I don’t want them tired and bored. When they come off break, they count the prisoners before starting their next patrol through the halls.”

  “Have you ever had a prisoner escape?”

  Connell shook his head. “No. Alarms go off occasionally for no reason, like the one on Thursday, but we haven’t had an escape since we built the place thirty years ago.”

  Lila peeked into each window as they passed. Each room had been painted in bright colors and contained a bed, a toilet, a sink, and a shelf with a row of books. The people inside hunched over their breakfast trays, eating waffles and dipping them into syrup. They’d also been given bananas and a boiled egg. Everything could be eaten without utensils.

  The Italian mercs were still alive, all right, but she couldn’t say much more than that. They’d all lost weight. “Do they get exercise?”

  “The room is big enough for running in place and push-ups. They have a pamphlet in their room, explaining different exercises they can do without equipment. We give them a different one every week, and we take each prisoner out every few days to see the sun.”

  Lila opened her mouth, unsure what to say.

  “Don’t act like we’re cruel when we’re not. They drugged our children and put them in dog cages. This is far more humane than that, and it’s far better than how their government treats its prisoners.”