The Captain’s face was, as Dian had thought in the Strangers entranceway, undistinguished—oval face, hair so short as to lack texture, ears flat. A slight gap between her two front teeth lent her an incongruous air of congeniality, rather like the woolly face of a lamb concealing a wolf’s fangs, for no one who saw this woman’s eyes could ever think her simple and congenial. Set beneath nicely arched brows and between full lashes, her irises were a peculiar light orange-brown darkening to black-brown at the edges. They drew a person. They invited confidences. They were the eyes of a fanatic, of a mesmerist, of a woman to love and to hate and to kill and to die for, and for several long seconds Dian forgot the grinding aches in her limbs and head, and saw only the Captain’s eyes.
The amber gaze blinked, finally, slowly, like a reptile, and the Captain tipped her head slightly toward the closed curtains.
“Eyes hurt?”
“Head,” Dian admitted.
“I told Margaret to give you painkillers.”
“She did. I stopped it. I don’t like what they do to my brain.”
“The hell with what you don’t like, I want you next week.”
For a startled instant Dian heard the words as a lover’s assignation, but on the heels of this came the awareness of the Captain’s flat disinterest—this was only a command to report for duty.
“You can have me today, what there is of me.”
A very slight sharpening of the orange gaze was the only outward sign that she had heard the words, but Dian was in no doubt that she was pleased. The feelings this woman gave off, even in Dian’s present low state of sensitivity, were unmistakable, great waves, powerful and primitive that shifted now to a humorous approval that made her paradoxically even more dangerous.
“That’s true” was all she said, and broke her gaze to nod at the women near the door. The strange Angel brought the medical bag and put it on the table, then knelt on the floor, opened its mouth, and reached inside with the attitude of a person putting her hand into a nest of snakes. However, she merely drew out a piece of paper and a stained and battered metal ink pad, laying both on the table next to the bag. She took a pen from an invisible pocket inside the neck of her shirt, uncapped it, and looked up.
“Name?” the Captain asked Dian.
“Dian.”
“Family name.”
“MacCauley.” Rarely used, nonetheless it had belonged to Judith’s mother, so it was Dian’s.
“Birth name.”
“Why?” Dian started to ask, but before the syllable was even out of her mouth the Captain’s hand flashed out, unbelievably fast and with absolutely no warning. Dian grunted involuntarily at the pain that reverberated up and down her extremities until her fingernails ached; after a long minute she eased herself back upright. The face in front of her was neither less nor more friendly than before.
“Birth name,” the Captain repeated.
“Elizabeth. My birth name was Elizabeth MacCauley. Middle name Escobar.”
The kneeling Angel wrote the names on the paper and placed it in the Captain’s hands. She in turn held it out to Dian and waited until Dian’s recalcitrant fingers had closed against it before she let it go.
“Read the words.” Some vague shift in her voice lent the brief command weight, as if she were edging into liturgy. Dian looked at her sharply, then at Margaret, but received no clue. She ran her eyes down the page:
I, Dian Elizabeth Escobar MacCauley, do swear, by the strength in my hands and the blood in my veins, that I shall serve my Captain and my fellow members of the Ashtown Guard, that I shall obey her commands and dedicate myself to her happiness, and declare that from henceforth all the days of my life, if it be her pleasure, I shall lay me down and die for her.
Dian read it again, deciding against a mild jest based on the lack of strength in her hands, and commented lightly on the implications of a latter phrase. “Sounds pretty final.” She was unprepared for the response of her audience. The Captain sat up sharply, the guard twitched, Margaret almost cringed against the door when the yellow and brown eyes sought her out.
“You did not tell her?” the Captain began, her voice silky. “You did not prepare this woman for her vows? You were told—”
“Yes,” Dian interrupted rapidly. “I’m sorry, but, yes, she did tell me. I forgot.” The fanatic’s eyes loosed Margaret and came back to stab at Dian.
“You would protect her?” she asked Dian.
“Only against unfair accusations,” Dian replied evenly, and added in a flat voice, “I am not in the habit of giving charity.”
She endured the Captain’s hard scrutiny without giving way to the urge to squirm, until the Captain looked away at Margaret and then at the guard.
“The Hand,” she ordered. The guard opened the bag wide and gingerly drew out a heavy glove made of metal cloth, large of finger and thick across the palm, with a plate of metal embedded there. It was evil, Dian’s mind whispered to her, it was death, and the Captain took it with a casual familiarity and began to draw it over her right hand.
“Speak the words,” she intoned. “Speak the words, that you may be bound by them.” Dian tore her eyes from the living machine into which the Captain’s hand had been transformed, and looked at the words on the paper, and knew that she had no choice. She cleared her throat, suddenly tight and very dry.
“I, Dian Elizabeth Escobar MacCauley,” she began to read, and although she had no intention of keeping this promise extracted under duress, she could not keep herself from wondering, superstitiously, if she would ever see Judith again, “. . . and die for her.”
The assistant Angel flipped open the ink pad, took Dian’s right thumb and wet it against the frayed surface, then positioned the thumb over the paper and pushed down, rocking it slightly. Then she held out the pen, saying, “Sign your name or a mark on the line.” Dian managed an X on the line beside her black thumbprint. Her hand was shaking badly, not only from the injuries already inflicted on it, but from the danger warnings that were pouring into her, from all three women and from the silver glove, and from the sure knowledge that there was not a thing she could do to protect herself from whatever was coming.
The Captain took the pen, signed on the line below Dian’s mark, folded the paper, and dropped it into the bag. She flexed her hand lovingly inside the glove.
“Prepare her.”
The Angel and Margaret came around the back of the couch. Margaret undid the loop fasteners at the top of the robe Dian wore and opened it to expose Dian’s upper torso, oddly pale and free from bruising below her breasts. The women each took one of her arms, firmly but not without gentleness, and stretched them out across the back of the sofa. The Captain shifted forward to wrap her knees around Dian’s legs, hooking her feet under Dian’s ankles. With her victim now completely immobilized in this intimate embrace, the Captain leaned forward to look into Dian’s face. Dark, orange, gloating eyes, glowing with passion and terrible joy, met tight blue ones fighting fear, and losing. The Captain laid her gloved hand, cold and soft and alive, across the top of Dian’s left breast, nestled its flexible mechanical weight into the burgeoning softness of early pregnancy.
“You are mine, Dian MacCauley. From this day forward you belong to the Captain of the Ashtown Guard, to have and to hold. When I and my successors say ‘breathe,’ you will draw air into your lungs. When we say ‘die,’ you will cease to live. You will honor and protect me, and in my turn I will give you all. From this day forward, Dian, I claim you as mine.”
Then came the pain, first a sharp, wounding jab deep into the breast, and then the fire, the glove growing hot and then hotter, burning itself into her flesh, building into something beyond fire, into acid that seared and bubbled its way deep into her, and there could be no fighting the body’s response to it, no self-respect or control, no dignity, nothing but the pain. Dian arched back against the glove and a scream came from deep in her throat, a full, deep shriek of outraged agony. After long seconds something insi
de the orange eyes was satisfied, and the glove was withdrawn.
The imprisoning arms instantly let her slump into the soft cushions. The Captain sat back, untwined her knees from Dian’s legs, removed the glove and tossed it casually into the open mouth of the bag, and sat studying Dian. Under her gaze Dian fought for control, forced down the whimpers spilling from her throat, tried to make her lungs breathe normally instead of grabbing great gulps of air, concentrated on relaxing the bruised muscles of her yammering arms and legs and head, fought more than anything to keep from her face any sign of the hatred she felt for this woman, sitting patiently between Dian’s trembling knees, watching her calmly, oblivious of the sickly stench of burning flesh that filled the room.
I will kill this woman, Dian swore to herself, kill her and bring the place down around her ears. In response, the Captain’s jaws clamped down as if she was biting through something, and she leaned forward again and slid one hand around the nape of Dian’s neck, pulling her forward until her mouth was on Dian’s, forcing Dian’s lips apart with her slick, cool tongue. Before Dian’s abused limbs could react, the wicked, hot taste of blood washed into her mouth, and then the Captain sat back, pulling a clean square of white linen from a pocket, deliberately wiping the smear of blood from her lips while before her Dian gagged and spat and dragged her sleeve painfully across her mouth in a desperate urge to be rid of this woman’s lifeblood. The Captain paid her no heed but folded her handkerchief, stood up, and looked down at Dian’s face, filled with loathing and mortal fear. She smiled gently.
“You are mine,” she said conversationally, “and my name is Breaker.”
. . . THE QUEEN WAS A DOUBLE PRISONER OF BOTH HER BODY AND HER HEART.
TWENTY-FIVE
WHEN MARGARET CAME BACK IN SHE FOUND DIAN naked in the bathroom, water running in the basin and the sour smell of vomit strong in the air. There were droplets of blood sprayed across the basin, the floor, the mug, and the toilet, most of it from a new gash in Dian’s hand where she had hammered at the tap in a fury of frustration. Margaret soundlessly wrapped the ice she carried into a wet cloth, replaced the cloth Dian was holding to her breast, and went efficiently about the business of cleaning and bandaging the new cut.
“Fuck,” croaked Dian after a few minutes, “what was in that glove? I can’t get it to stop burning.”
“You won’t. It fades with time, but it never goes away. Some kind of acid. It irritates the nerve endings but doesn’t quite kill them. You do get used to it,” she added, and under her breath, “sort of.”
With exquisite care Dian peeled the cloth from the angry flesh and saw, for the first time, the emerging brand that she would live with until the day of her death: a stylized figure an inch and a half tall, two sweeping lines forming a rough triangle surmounted by a pair of wings. An angel.
“But why? It’s—diabolical!”
“Oh, yes. It’s a very effective reminder of who we are. You know what they call us?”
Us, thought Dian. Us. “Angels?”
“That’s nothing, even we call ourselves that. The civilians call us Vampires, when they think we can’t hear. It’s not allowed, of course, but they whisper it among themselves, write it on walls sometimes. Can I get you something to drink, other than the water?”
“Something hot and sweet. And can you help me up first, I can’t—”
Margaret put an arm around Dian and pulled her up onto the toilet seat, rubbed her hand in simple affection between Dian’s bony shoulder blades, and went out. Dian heard the sound of water running into the kettle, and as if in sympathy her gorge rose, vomiting the water she’d drunk back into the basin. In a minute, Margaret returned to bathe Dian’s face with a wet towel. Dian rested her bruised cheek against the porcelain and closed her eyes. It’s over, she told herself. She’d wanted in, and she was in, and that she had paid a price did not change that. In a few minutes she vomited a final time and allowed Margaret to clothe her in the other black robe from the closet. She sat on the toilet and tried to gather the shattered pieces of herself together. In a few minutes Margaret brought her an infusion of hot mint and honey, brushing casually against the door in passing so that it swung nearly shut. The Angel held the cup to Dian’s lips and helped her to drink. The process was painful, but the tea warmed her and cleansed her mouth of the raw taste of bile and the lingering impression of another’s blood.
“The bathrooms aren’t usually monitored,” Margaret said in a low voice.
“What?”
“The other rooms in our apartments occasionally have listening devices and viewholes, but we’re allowed the privacy of our bathrooms, so long as we don’t seem to be ducking in too often.”
“I see. Thank you for the warning.”
“You didn’t give me to her today.”
“No. Why didn’t you tell me? I thought she was going to rip your head off when she saw I didn’t know what was going on.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t. No, really, I don’t. Stupid, my God, but the idea of preparing you—I started to, any number of times, but I just couldn’t face it. It wouldn’t have made any real difference to you, though, even if I had,” she added.
“I see,” Dian said again, and she did, if dimly. “But look, next time you get the urge to commit suicide, give me a chance to get clear first, okay?”
“I know. It was a hell of a thing to do. Temporary insanity,” she said, and smiled, not very successfully. Dian smiled back, with her eyes if not her swollen lips.
“Help me to bed,” Dian asked, and once there she touched Margaret’s hand and said, “I’ll have one of your painkillers, I think. A mild one.” Margaret went away and came back with a needle, and Dian slept until the afternoon.
A knocking woke her, followed by the deep burn of her breast and then the tedious shooting aches and pains in the rest of her. The knock came again a minute later, and she realized it was at her door.
“Come in,” she called, and heard the sound of someone opening the door in the next room, depositing a rattling tray in the kitchen, and Margaret was at the bedroom door.
“You knocked,” Dian commented. “I didn’t think anyone here bothered.”
“Not for a C, no, but as of noon you’re a B4. You got status now, lady. Can you get up?”
“I think so. Open the curtains a little, would you?”
“Glad your headache’s going. Can’t say the same for the women who have to work down near where your dog is kept. He’s howling now—at least, they assume it’s him and not a banshee or a generator about to blow up.”
“That’s Tomas. Can I get him now? Thanks.” This last was for Margaret’s help with an errant and ridiculous fuzzy slipper that had appeared at the side of the bed while Dian slept.
“Eat first.”
“I’d rather get Tomas first,” she protested, although the smells that awaited her at the door to the kitchen sent sudden spurts of saliva into her mouth.
“Orders,” Margaret said succinctly, and handed Dian the wrist-spoon. She managed most of her lunch before the muscular shakes set in, despite the morning’s treatment, and told Margaret she thought her teeth could manage something firmer that evening. She half-expected a joke about bacon or steak, but Margaret only nodded, deposited the bowls in the sink, and disappeared into the bedroom. She came back with the black jumpsuit over one arm.
“Think you can get this on without help? It has a zipper,” which put it into a realm of luxury goods beyond anything Dian had ever owned before, including the Meijing silk blouse—God only knew where it was. “Can you handle the zip?” she asked a few minutes later. “I tied a loop through it.”
Dian did manage it, by hooking the thumb of her left hand through the loop, though she needed help getting the soft cloth shoes—black—onto her feet. She followed Margaret out, and as they turned left into the maze she glanced at the plaque next to her door. It did indeed say Dian—B4. Thoughtfully, she followed Margaret through the hallways filled with Angels. Before
long she could hear Tomas, whose full-chested, eerie hound howl made even Dian’s hair stand on end and set her teeth on edge, two changes of level, a ninety-degree turn, and a hundred yards of corridor before reaching the room where he was being kept. She stood outside the remembered door, and the next time he paused to draw breath she addressed the wood with one sharp word.
“Tomas.”
The silence was deafening. Two half-shouted conversations down the hallway cut off abruptly, and half a dozen Angels looked out from various doorways at Dian, relief dawning on their faces. She nodded at them and turned back to the door.
“Tomas, down on the bed,” she ordered, and heard an instantaneous scrabble and thump from within. She looked at Margaret.
“He’s going to need to run it off. Is there someplace I can let him out? He’ll hurt himself in the hallway.”
“There’s an entrance to the garden straight below. Will he be dangerous when you let him out of there?”
“Oh, no, just fast.”
“I’ll have someone spread the word downstairs, then. How long?”
“Ready when you are.”
“Three or four minutes ought to do it. Hold on a second.” She went to consult with one of the onlookers, who made rapidly for a door and disappeared. Dian waited for Margaret to come back and work the bolts, and she went in.
Tomas lay on what was left of the mattress, onto which he had pulled what had once been Dian’s clothes. He was barely down, lying up on his haunches, quivering all over like a huge furry pressure cooker about to explode. She did not look directly at him, lest she set him off, but limped across to the bathroom door, saw that he had been drinking, stepped around several putrefying hunks of meat and his chosen toilet corner (what room lay beneath this? Dian wondered, secretly amused), and went out the door.
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