by Michelle Kay
On their walk home the evening before, he'd ensured her that his request for the data they needed would be flawless, but refused to say anything else.
"I told you last night not to worry about it. My answer isn't going to change." He turned back to the mirror. "No matter how much you stare."
"You know I could force you to tell me, right?"
The long, withering look he gave her said he didn't believe her. "You agreed to trust me, and right now you need to trust me when I tell you that not knowing will keep you safe, and keep us from looking suspicious."
Clover didn't want to believe him, but buried under her pride—where she kept the rational part of her brain—was the nagging suspicion that he was right. She shoved herself off the door frame and went to the mirror by the closet to tame her hair into the bun she wore to the Bureau. She hated to admit that he could be right about something, but as long as she got results, it didn't matter what his excuse was.
It was only Clover's third day inside the massive cinder block room, but already it felt normal. She was startled by how quickly she'd acclimated to the work, and understood how people might wake up to find themselves cleaning the same halls twenty years later. The work blended into itself, and without the choice to pursue other jobs, falling into a blurred routine seemed easiest.
At the same time, three days felt like an eternity. It was Friday already, which meant it had been a week since her last transformation. That also meant she only had three weeks left until the next full moon—tomorrow night would be the first quarter. She felt naïve now for thinking her mission would be an in-and-out sort of errand.
Jeannette seemed to be back to normal after her day of suffocating comfort. She’d barely spoken until they’d stopped for water near lunch time. As they rested, a small group of baby-faced agents was led in by a man in his fifties. Immediately, Clover noticed yellow triangles on their name badges—similar to Elliot’s.
"They’re students,” Jeanette said, seeming to notice Clover's interest in the group that had stopped to listen to their tour guide. "You can tell by the triangle. When it’s just an outline like that it means they’re still at the academy. If it’s solid it means they’re doing their internship or residency."
“They sure do like their ranking systems, don’t they?” It all seemed unnecessarily complicated to Clover. "And the white shoulder guards?" Clover had watched Elliot arrange his uniform several times now—painstakingly tucking and straightening the fabric against his body—but had never asked what the color of his shoulder guard or his pins meant.
"Evaluators. They choose their position before they even get here. Most stay in the same department for their whole career. It’s the time of year for groups like this from the academy."
"Evaluators…” Clover wasn’t sure what that meant, but didn’t particularly like the sound of it.
"Who was yours?"
"My...?"
"Your Evaluator. Who evaluated you after you were picked up?"
The heat drained from Clover’s face. She didn't know how to answer her. But what she meant was clear. Somehow, the insinuation made everything feel a little worse. The fate that her father was likely set to face, the over representation of women in the indentured work force—someone had to make these choices. Someone had to hand pick the most submissive to be sent to finishing schools. And who would be better equipped to make such an important decision than an Evaluator.
The color must have drained away with the heat, because Jeanette looked worried again. "Sorry. I, um, don't remember who mine was." Clover’s lie sounded weak, but it might have been because it was hard to speak at all.
She didn't know why she felt so sick. Was she shocked? Shocked that Elliot signed death warrants for people just like her? Or was it betrayal that she was feeling? In the last twenty-four hours she'd all but accepted that Elliot was no longer her prisoner, but her partner in crime. But now his words from the evening before echoed in her head. He'd told her that she had none of the traits that would have landed her in a finishing school. Now she knew that he was talking from experience. Would he have sent her to her death? She felt foolish for even wondering.
"You know, Isaac was evaluated by your Montgomery,” Jeanette said, like she knew what was really causing the horror that must have passed over her face.
Clover looked at the older woman and she knew her mouth was hanging slack, still trying to process the realization she'd just come to. Then she looked at the only young man in their group. He sat alone, taking measured sips of his water. This was the first time Clover had heard his name. Despite having noticed him on her first day, her attention drawn to his feminine features, she'd not noticed anything exceptional about him since.
"Psst." Jeanette waved a hand at the boy, avoiding Connell's attention in the process. With another wave of her hand, he moved to sit closer to them. "I was just telling Clover that Montgomery Jr. was your Evaluator."
"I don't know if I want to hear this," Clover said, her voice sounding strangled for reasons she couldn't quite explain. She should be furious, not disillusioned.
"Did you not know what he did?" Isaac asked.
Clover didn't answer, afraid of giving herself away. What slave wouldn't know what her master did for a living?
"He was really nice," Isaac said, as though he knew the real reason she was upset. "He stood up to his mentor when the other Evaluators wanted to send me downstairs."
Clover wondered what she must look like to other people. At a glance she might fit her role, but to other werewolves who she mimicked, she was a lost child. She knew, because they all seemed prompted to explain themselves. She wondered if she just had a permanent air of confusion about her.
"I was lucky because I was a late bloomer." He chuckled a little, like he was telling some embarrassing story, not one about becoming a slave. “Since I was already under developed for my age, Mr. Montgomery told me about a program that helped men get placed instead of being sent downstairs. Usually it’s for boys who haven’t gone through puberty yet, but he did everything he could to prove that my testosterone levels were still low enough to qualify.”
Clover shook her head. "I don't understand. What program?"
Jeanette and Isaac exchanged glances.
"It's a castration program," Jeanette said softly. "Most schools won't take men or older boys because they're considered to be too aggressive. Some special candidates can be placed as long as they're clipped first."
A hand covered Clover's mouth, and a second later she realized it was her own. If they thought they were helping Elliot's reputation by telling her that supported the mutilation of young boys, then they were more confused than she was.
"It's not as bad as it sounds," Isaac insisted, brushing his chocolate colored hair from his face. "He saved my life. And he spoke with me very seriously about it first. He asked my opinion about it. He was the only one who ever considered my feelings after I was caught."
"You know, death rates have already gone down a little since your master started his residency. That’s saying a lot since he’s not even an official Evaluator yet." Jeannette was rubbing Clover's back now.
"You said downstairs..." Clover's voice was dry. "What does that mean?"
"It’s where they send the ones that finishing schools won't take," Isaac said.
"The lower basement. It's where they keep the incinerator."
A jagged hole in the ground with flames licking the edges came to her mind. And along the rim of this hole to Hell, men in black uniforms pitched her kind over nonexistent railing. That's what Elliot would have signed her up for if she'd been caught for real. She’d convinced herself, while they were arguing behind the boutique, that he had said “incinerator” figuratively. Somewhere inside herself she knew she’d just been shielding herself, but it was still a shock to know that he’d meant it very literally.
"Break's over." Connell's voice broke their conversation as Isaac scuttled back to his original place, seeming uneasy be
ing caught talking to them. Without another word, their small cleaning caravan left the room and the tour group of executioners.
Elliot was an Evaluator. Not only that, but he was one by choice—she even recalled Rainer chastising him for making it. Vaguely, she wondered why Rainer had opted out of a role that would make him both judge and jury. Thoughts of the pack he’d obliterated on the west end made it clear where his interests lie, though. Any choice that wasn't death, with a capital "D," was too lenient. And if that death didn't come by his own hand, she knew he'd be disappointed. Maybe she did understand how Elliot's decision seemed soft. It was hands off. He'd never be the one to get dirty.
Clover used work to distract herself as the day went on. Despite the confusion and subtle pain that was taking root inside her, she found a kind of reprieve as she scrubbed every spot from the ground, as though removing those marks would fix the things in her real life. She had no idea what to expect from Elliot any more. Maybe when she got back to the cinder block room there would be agents waiting for her. Maybe that was the real secret Elliot was keeping from her. Maybe he'd known from the beginning that she was a liar.
As they began their trek back to the hub they started every morning in, Clover was half-heartedly going through the possibilities that could be waiting for her. What she wasn't expecting was Pierson showing up in their hallway before they'd even made it back, the woman's hair braided into a deceptive halo atop her head. She went straight to Connell, ignoring the workers. Agents like Pierson and Connell, who worked with werewolves every day, must have become talented lip-readers, because they whispered to each other so quietly that even Clover's sensitive ears could only pick up a few sparse words. Toward the end of the conversation she thought she heard Pierson, in a slightly louder voice—a threatening voice—say "Don't you tell him." The red-haired man looked over Pierson' shoulder, then, his eyes zeroing in on Clover, and she felt like the bottom of her stomach had just dropped out.
Pierson and Connell seemed to come to an agreement, then Pierson turned and made a bee-line for Clover, who shuffled back before she'd had time to think at all. Taloned fingers latched onto her arm, and without explanation, Clover was led away from her group. She could hear Connell’s voice addressing her crew from behind her.
"She has paperwork to catch up on. You will be careful to follow the rules regarding gossiping and unnecessary conversation.”
Clover didn't believe for a second that this was about paperwork.
The farther she and Pierson walked, the faster her heart raced, and it wasn't from physical exertion, either. Not wanting another bruise on her face, Clover said nothing, but she was quickly having to mark off possible places she was being taken as she tried creating a mental map of their journey. Soon she realized that Pierson was leading her down halls that had no attachment to major departments. The number of agents they passed began to dwindle, and then they were completely alone.
Down a bare hall, Pierson stopped at an unimpressive door. The plaque on the outside was bare—an unoccupied office maybe—exactly the sort of place she'd expect to be taken if someone didn't want her to be found. And before the door had opened fully, she knew who that someone was.
"Well." Rainer was leaning against the desk as they entered the room. “It’s about time we got the chance to talk in private. Don't you think?"
Pierson closed the door behind them.
- 16 -
Clover tried to swallow the lump that had grown in her throat, but only managed a pathetic warbling sound.
"Now, now," Rainer said around the farcical smile she'd seen from him once before. "There's no reason to be scared."
The tightening of Pierson' claws around her arm made Clover think he was lying—not that she needed convincing.
"How's my baby brother doing?" The conversational lilt of his voice made Clover's lip curl before she'd realized she'd done it. "Go on, you have permission to speak."
"He's fine," she mumbled, trying to keep the shivering from her body. "Sir." Clover knew she was being tested, so being in control of her answers and her own body-language was essential.
"Oh?" Rainer pushed himself from the desk and closed the space between them in two easy steps. "I heard he's working on a very serious case study right now," he was almost whispering and Clover felt a wave of nausea hit her as he tucked one stray curl behind her ear for her. "A big enough study that he had to request quite a bit of material from Central Records."
Closing her eyes to keep any more disgust from her face, she swallowed with a bit of effort. News really did travel fast.
"You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?" Pierson hissed against the shell of her ear.
"He doesn’t—" Clover had to clear her throat. "He doesn't tell me much about his work."
"Now that's not quite true, is it?"
Clover's body jerked on its own as she felt his fingers caress her earlobe before moving down to the first button of her collar. She wanted to slap his hand, his face, to force him away from her. Instead, her lip quivered as he undid the top button of her uniform.
As he folded the flap back, exposing her collarbone—which suddenly felt like a very private part of her body—he continued his questioning. "I'm sure he's shared more than his bed with you. What has he told you?"
"N-nothing." Clover was surprised she'd managed to speak at all. "I swear."
All at once, his guise of conversation was gone and his hand clamped around Clovers chin with a bruising force. From behind her, Pierson's grip tightened as well, holding her steady under the force of Rainer's scrutiny.
"Who are you? Where did my brother find you?"
Clover's pulse hammered the insides of her ribs and she'd given up hiding the tremor in her limbs. She closed her eyes, as if not looking at him would keep him from seeing through her charade. If he looked for even a second longer, she thought he would finally recognize her.
"Where are you from?" His voice was lower this time, sounding more like a wild beast than she ever did.
Panic threatened to breach the levies she'd built inside herself. She could lie. She could make up some sob story, some finishing school. Of course, that would give them the chance to fact-check her, and eventually they would realize that she'd not come from any finishing school at all. If she stayed quiet, though, they might take that as its own sort of answer. Would they connect the dots? What she did know was that once they figured her out she would only have one place to go: the basement. They would throw her into the fire pit she'd concocted in her head.
Her third option was to try escaping. She could punch Rainer in the throat, elbow Pierson in the solar plexus and be out the door before either could recover. Getting out of the building would be the hard part. If she failed, at least she'd die having had the satisfaction of damaging Rainer's pride.
"You have three seconds," he warned, his voice barely registering around the rivers of adrenaline that flowed into Clover's veins.
Clover opened her eyes again, not trying to hide the hatred this time. She'd chosen option three. Her face hardened as she tried to decide between gouging his eye and breaking his nose, and for a second she saw her change register in Rainer's features. It didn't matter. He still wouldn't have time to defend himself.
Her fist clenched in preparation, but before she could do more than twitch, the door behind Pierson opened.
"Don't you two have anything better to do?" Elliot voice was winded, but overlaid with a film of indifference that made Rainer's hand tightened briefly around Clover's jaw.
"Took you long enough." Rainer said through clenched teeth, seeming to forget the flash of defiance he'd seen in Clover's face.
Clover stumbled as Rainer shoved her away from him. Elliot's arm caught her and tucked her close to his body even as Pierson was still releasing her. With her face and fingers buried in his uniform, Clover pretended it was an act, that she was playing the submissive slave they expected her to be. In reality, and in the part of her mind she was tr
ying to ignore, she couldn't think of a place she'd rather be at that moment.
She could feel through the rough material that he was hot and damp with sweat. She could hear his heart racing where her forehead rested. He'd been running. He'd ran to find her.
"If you two don't stop harassing her, I'll file an official complaint," Elliot said, the vibration of his voice migrating from his own body into Clover's, stilling the tremor in her knees.
"What a delicate flower she must be," Pierson seeped.
"And I guess this was a love tap?" Rainer said as he thumped the faint bruise Clover had left on Elliot's cheek during their kitchen brawl, making the younger man jerk in surprise.
Immediately, Clover felt Elliot's arm tighten around her shoulder again, then she realized why. He'd felt her move on instinct, her body trying to hurl itself, fists first, at the dark haired man. Luckily for both of them, her movement only came across as a minor twitch. It was embarrassing to know that her temper was so predictable.
"You're out of line, Dominic."
"Tell me what you're up to, and I'll leave your pet alone." The taller man took a determined step closer, an obvious ploy to intimidate his younger brother.
Elliot didn’t budge an inch. "I'm not up to anything."
"Why did you request those files?"
"You can read my request in Central Records if you're that curious. It's not private."
The two stared at each other, returning to their long-standing power-struggle. They waited, presumably for one or the other to back down. When it became clear that neither would, Rainer jerked his chin toward Clover.
"Why did you get her?"
"She appealed to me." Elliot answered so quickly, and with such ease, that even Clover came close to believing him.
It was surprising to hear him playing the role that only a day before he'd been embarrassed about.
"What school did you get her from?"