Miranda's Mate

by Ann Gimpel

  “Señorita.”

  Miranda plodded toward the boarding house where she’d bought a week’s worth of lodging. No reason not to take a break, have a bite to eat, and gear up for the evening.

  “Señorita, stop.”

  Surely he can’t be talking to me. She glanced around the nearly deserted street. A swarthy man draped in a colorful serape motioned to her from one of the clubs she’d wandered into. Miranda tapped her chest and cocked her head to one side. She’d be damned if she’d shout back at him.

  He nodded enthusiastically, so she trotted toward him. Her pulse quickened. Maybe her luck was about to change. She struck a seductive pose right next to the tall, dark man with greasy hair. “Yes?”

  “I talk to boss man. You have place to stay?” His Mexican accent was so thick it wasn’t easy to understand him.

  Miranda shook her head. “No money. It’s why I went in your bar huntin’ work.”

  He beamed at her, displaying yellowed teeth with several missing. “This your lucky day, señorita. Come with me.”

  “Scratch my last transmission. Things are popping.” Miranda shifted her weight to her other foot and pushed her breasts forward. “Where you takin’ me, handsome?”

  “Special house. You stay there.”

  Miranda did her best to look distressed. “I told you. I got no money to pay rent.”

  “No rent. Free for pretty señoritas like you.” As if sensing her hesitation, he added, “Food too. You hungry?”

  Miranda nodded. A tear slid down one cheek. Shit! I should have gone to Juilliard. “Um, I’m just not sure. Where is this place?”

  “Not far. Car coming.” Beady eyes turned away from her and scanned the street. “Just turn corner.”

  A shiny black Cadillac motored right toward them and screeched to a halt. Her Mexican companion tugged the back door open. A quick glance showed her the inner rear door handles had been removed. No point in trapping herself unnecessarily. She hung back. “I get carsick. Need to ride in the front. Or I could walk if you’d give me an address.” She smiled brightly.

  The Mexican looked uncertain. He leaned into the car and spoke with the driver in the Mexican patois of gutter Spanish mixed with a few English words. Miranda felt the driver’s gaze settle on her. She did her best to look harmless and sexy. It worked. The driver leaned over and pushed the front passenger door open. “Get in,” he grunted. His English was considerably better than the other man’s.

  Miranda settled herself, taking care to flash an expanse of thigh before she tugged her long, slit skirt together. She ignored her seatbelt. The driver wasn’t wearing one. “Where we goin’?”

  The car lurched forward, hung a U-turn, and accelerated. “You’ll find out when we get there. It ain’t far. The girls can walk from there to work.”

  Miranda assumed work was where they’d just been. “It’s kind of you to help a stranger—” she began.

  “Quiet. I ain’t interested in conversation. Or sex, so you can just keep your skin to yourself.”

  Well, that’s a relief. The taciturn driver was balding and at least fifty pounds overweight. He looked like he came from somewhere in the Mediterranean, but his accent was pure Brooklyn.

  Five minutes later, he pulled up in front of the ISL compound. Miranda peered out the window and pointed. “Is that it? You were right, it wasn’t far at all.”

  “Get out. Knock on the glass door.” His brow furrowed. “You got any stuff?”

  “Nope. In-laws dumped me. All I got’s in here.” She patted her shoulder bag and pursed her lips, aiming for an expression between sad and angry. “They would’ve taken everything, but I fought ’em for my bag.”

  “Fine, sister. I don’t give a fuck. Just didn’t want you leaving anything in here. Get out. Taxi ride’s over.”

  She walked smartly to the double glass doors and pushed. Locked, which wasn’t a surprise. Once she got in, getting out would take some doing. She’d be surprised if they let her out to work or do anything else until they were certain she wouldn’t make a break for freedom and turn them in.

  “I said knock,” the driver yelled out his window.

  Miranda raised a fist and knocked.

  It took a while, but an overweight woman with gray hair pulled into a bun eventually clumped down the staircase Miranda could see across the dingy lobby. She pulled a ring of keys from her belt and undid a series of deadbolts. Wires were visible in the glass. An alarm system.

  The woman pulled the door open. “Needing a place to stay, are you?”

  Miranda nodded. “I got no money.”

  The woman waved her to silence. “No matter. We’ll take care of you. Come on with me, I’ll take you to your room. Dinner’s in fifteen. We’ll pass the dining room along the way so you can see where it is.”

  * * * *

  Miranda sat at a trestle table filled with chattering women. Children ran through the dining room as if they owned the place. If she hadn’t known better, the ISL compound would have looked like a college dormitory for unwed mothers. Her roommate, a sullen Asian woman with doll-pretty features, hadn’t said three words to her. Miranda had tried to say hello and been met with, “English no good.” The woman, Tara, sat across the room with a gaggle of other Asians.

  Miranda’s gaze scanned the dining room. Perhaps fifty women—and a few very attractive men—filled the tables. Other men, presumably guards, milled around the room. The bulge of weapons showed beneath their jackets. It wasn’t obvious, but she knew the outline of a semiautomatic pistol, no matter how subtle.

  Adrenaline thrummed. It was hard to choke down the stringy, dried-out pork chop on her plate. The mashed potatoes had the consistency of gluey cardboard. A dollop of applesauce tasted watered down. She took a sip of over-sweetened iced tea.

  “Hey.” The woman nearest her jabbed Miranda. “You gonna eat that?”

  “Probably not. I’m a little nervous, being new and all. Is this a, um, whorehouse? Is that why they feed us and give us a place to sleep?”

  The woman—actually she didn’t look a day over sixteen—had spiky red hair and a face full of freckles. She rolled her green eyes. “They ain’t sat down with you yet. You’ll get the skinny soon enough. Your dinner?”

  Miranda smiled. “You can have it. What’s your name?”

  “Becky.” The young woman sidled closer. Her gaze skittered around the room. “It’s against the rules,” she hissed into Miranda’s ear. “You got to eat what they set in front of you. Think they got the calories all planned out or something. Just enough to keep us fit enough to work.”

  “I’m Miranda. I’ll just reach over you for the tea.”

  Becky got the picture. In the split seconds while Miranda’s body acted as a shield, she transferred the meat and half the potatoes to her plate. The girl ate hungrily. Miranda tried to choke down more of the potatoes, but they were truly vile. She was just contemplating returning to her room when one of the guards headed toward her table. Miranda dropped her gaze and took another mouthful. Damn! Had he seen her sleight of hand to allow Becky more food?

  A heavy hand settled on her shoulder. “Come with me.”

  Miranda sucked in a breath. “I, um, I’m not quite done eating yet.”

  The guard snorted, blowing spittle in her face. “Ask me if I care, bitch. I ain’t gonna ask again.” The hand on her shoulder slid forward and settled over one of her breasts. Miranda cursed her formfitting top, which left nothing to the imagination.

  “Hey, sister.” Becky nudged her. “It’ll be okay. It’s just orientation. Happens to all of us when we first get here. They won’t put you to work for a few days. Got to get your health clearance back first.”

  Miranda ducked from beneath the guard’s hand. She longed to grab hold of it and break his wrist. It’d be easy enough to do so long as she got the angle right. “Okay. Okay,” she said. “I’m coming.”

  The guard followed her out of the dining room. “Left. To the end of the hall.”

&
nbsp; Miranda gathered as much intel as she could. Her room was the opposite way, so she hadn’t been down this hallway before. It was lined with closed doors. At the end of the hall, the guard tapped on one. It opened almost immediately. He shoved her inside; the door snicked shut behind her.

  She kept her eyes on her feet. This wasn’t the place to look anything but cowed.

  “Timid one, eh?”

  Miranda looked up for a moment. She tried for a deer-in-the-headlights look before she studied the carpet again. A stunning man sat behind a carved wooden desk. Dark hair framed his clean-shaven face and fell to his shoulders. Dark eyes held cunning and a keen intelligence. Tailored clothes set off his broad-shouldered frame to perfection.

  Her nostrils flared. Expensive aftershave applied with a too-liberal hand filled the smallish room that looked like a study.

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?”

  “No. Just nervous, I guess.”

  “You can look at me. I don’t bite.”

  Ha! I’ll just bet you don’t. She met his gaze. “It was, um, kind to take me in since I don’t got much. I, er, understand I got to work. I’d applied at some of them clubs—”

  He waved her to silence. “I said you could look at me. I do the talking, Miss—” he raised a questioning brow.

  “Oh. I done forgot my manners.” She blushed prettily. “Miranda Buckley. Guess it’s really missus, ’ceptin’ my husband threw me out. Buckley’s my family name—”

  “For Christ’s sake, woman. Shut up.”

  “Sorry.” She looked down.

  “You’ll work in the clubs starting in a week or so. Maybe here. Maybe in another city. We make those decisions. Eat everything you’re given. No sex with the other residents—male or female.”

  She ginned up a hopeful look. “When I’ve earned me some money, can I go shopping? I ain’t got much in the way of clothes.”

  “Perhaps. It will be a while before we trust you to leave any of our facilities on your own.”

  “Huh?” Her forehead creased. “I’m not followin’ you, sir.”

  “What are you, brain-damaged? No one gets something for nothing, Miranda Buckley. You belong to us.”

  “F-for how long, uh, sir?”

  “Forever, Miranda. Stand still. I’m going to take some blood out of your arm. We need to test you for VD and HIV before we turn you loose on our customers.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a syringe.

  She drew back. No way was she letting him stick her with whatever might be in the syringe under the guise of drawing blood. “Ain’t that supposed to be like wrapped in plastic or somethin’? ’Sides, I’m clean. Just had an abortion, and they did all them tests.”

  “Really?” He advanced toward her, syringe in hand.

  “Yes, sir. I got no call to lie to you.” Miranda backed toward the door and readied herself to fight. “I am not okay with you stickin’ me with that needle. I ain’t no junkie. Hate needles and that one don’t look clean.”

  Maybe something in her face changed his mind. He inclined his head slightly. “The nurse will be by tomorrow. She’s here once a week. I’ll have her drop by to get your blood.”

  Miranda squared her shoulders. “How’s about I call the clinic and have them fax all that test shit here?”

  His eyes narrowed and turned into fiery, dark holes. “No. Better get used to the word. Now get out of my sight.”

  Miranda blew out a tense breath and scuttled out of the room. The same guard waited outside the door for her and escorted her back to her room. Tara stood in front of a mirror applying makeup, presumably for the night’s activities. The guard sashayed into the room and pinched her butt before he left, slamming the door behind him. The second he was gone, Tara’s porcelain-doll face twisted into a grimace. “Bad man. Rules say no sex.”

  Miranda thought about clarifying that the no sex rule only applied to inmates. Instead, she stretched out on her twin bed. Maybe, once everyone had left for the evening, she could do a bit of prowling.

  Tara padded over to her. “You lucky. No work tonight.”

  “How’d you end up here?” Miranda kept her voice low. She didn’t see a mic anywhere, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one tucked in a crevice somewhere.

  Tara shook her head. Shiny black hair fell in her face. “You no want know. Once here. No leave. Family think me dead.” A tear formed in one almond eye and slid down her cheekbone. Her tiny hands balled into fists. “No cry,” she hissed. “Punish for cry.”

  Miranda wanted to hold out her arms to comfort the woman but didn’t. Closed-circuit television was a distinct possibility. Once Tara left, she’d check the room over. “Aw, it’s probably not as bad as you think.”

  “Is worse than bad dream. You just get here. Not know.” She lifted a corner of her kimono-esque top and displayed a bruise that ran around her entire torso. “Men,” she spat. “Bastards. You find out soon enough.” She gathered a small bag and left.

  Miranda glanced at the time. Nine. “Report,” echoed in her head. Garen’s voice. Mind speech couldn’t mask how worried he was.

  “I’m in. No work for a week, but I shouldn’t be here that long. Fifty residents. Maybe ten children. Six guards I’ve seen, but there may be more. One man who runs things.”

  “Describe him,” Lars cut in.

  Once she was done, she heard a hissing intake of breath. “I suppose he could have a clone, but I’m nearly certain his name is Alejandro,” Garen told her. “He’s one of ILS’s top agents and extremely dangerous. Do not underestimate him. Do not turn your back on him. He’s a mountain lion shifter. I’ve fought him as a cat before.” A hesitation, then, “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Abundantly. Once everyone has left for the evening, I plan to take a little look around.”

  “Report top of every hour.”

  “Understood.”

  Miranda waited until nearly ten. In the intervening time, she went over her room carefully and found both video camera and microphone. I’ll have to find a way to tell Tara to keep her mouth shut. No wonder they’re beating her. She took a shower, got back into her clothes, and doused the lights, grateful when the camera didn’t light up with an infrared beam. That meant it was either off or that it couldn’t transmit in the absence of light. After her ten p.m. check-in, she went to the door and turned the knob. Miranda was shocked it actually opened. She’d been certain they’d lock her in.

  She eyed the doorknob and doorjamb. Insofar as she could tell, the door didn’t lock—from either side. Makes sense. The building is locked, so there’s no reason to lock us in our rooms. She looked up and down the empty, dimly lit corridor hunting for closed-circuit cameras now that she knew what they looked like. Sure enough, they were mounted at about shoulder level. She was fairly certain if she dropped to the floor and belly-crawled, she’d be beneath their electronic beam.

  Miranda dialed in her lycan hearing and stood absolutely still. Maybe the guards had gone with the prisoners. The compound was quiet. Her room was on the middle of three floors. The dining room and the room where she’d met Alejandro were on the first floor. An idea blossomed. She shut the door noiselessly and retreated to the room’s single window. It was large enough to crawl through. She inspected the sill and sides. Wired. She’d expected as much. She peered into the darkness but couldn’t see enough. Anyway, it didn’t matter. The window wasn’t of any use as an escape route if she couldn’t open it without alerting someone.

  Back to Plan A. Miranda crept from her room, dropped to her belly, and slithered to one of several internal stairwells. Adrenaline made her nerves tingle. She inspected the stairwell door carefully. It was the same one she’d gone through on her way down to dinner. If it were wired, she couldn’t see any evidence. Mouth dry, she opened it and stepped through, expecting to hear the pound of footsteps. She had a story ready about going to the kitchen for a snack, but she didn’t need it since no one materialized.

  She headed up to the top flo
or. Maybe there’d be a way to access the roof. Fat fucking chance. If nothing else, she’d get the lay of the land. She had hours before the human slaves—and their keepers—would return. She’d just opened the door at the top of the stairwell when someone yanked it out of her hand and slammed it against the wall. She shrank back, but she wasn’t fast enough. A hand snaked out and grabbed her upper arm.

  Maybe I can play innocent. After all, I’m still inside the building. It’s not as if I jimmied a window or an outside door. “Ouch. You’re hurting me. I couldn’t sleep and decided to walk around a little.”

  The hand dragged her up the last step and into the upstairs hallway. Alejandro’s patrician features came into view. They were twisted into a scowl. “Nice try, Miss Buckley. Or was that Miss Miller?” He leered at her.

  Her heart sped up. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir.”

  “Like hell you don’t. Although I must admit I expected you’d at least try to blend in for twenty-four hours before you put your spy training to good use. Green Berets, wasn’t it, Miss Miller?” his voice continued, silkily smooth. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was part of your last operation in Afghanistan—on the other side, of course.” The hand that wasn’t holding onto her hauled off and slapped her across the face.

  “I’ve been compromised.”

  “I heard that. In fact, I’ve heard every mind transmission you’ve sent since you got here. How many are out there?”

  “If you can hear me, you should be able to hear them too.”

  He slapped her again, hard enough to rattle her teeth. “I asked you a question,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

  “You actually think I’d tell you?” Miranda borrowed his phrase from earlier. “What are you, brain-damaged?” She employed an aikido maneuver, using his strength against him, and wrenched herself out of his grasp. Hands raised, she stared at him from a few feet away. “So, are we just going to duke it out here in the third-floor hallway?”

  He shrugged. “We could. Or I could simply shoot you. It would save everyone a lot of trouble.”