holds me roughly by one arm, as though I can’t walk on my own. Every few paces he stops, his head swiveling around. Looking, listening. His movements are so quiet it’s as though I’m with a ghost. I hold my belly with one hand as tiny, razor-like licks nip into my skin and tiptoe awkwardly beside him, trying my best not to stumble. The rest of the team is nowhere to be seen.
He slows when we reach the corner. Over Jared’s shoulder I catch a glimpse of a big man in a crisp white uniform, a goofy grin on his face as he whistles down the hall. Jared hauls me back with a look so dark it’s painful. Then he slips out as the attendant puts his finger to the identi-pad outside a door. I hear the sickening crick of the man’s neck as it snaps. He falls in a heavy pile on the thinly carpeted floor. Jared holds open the door and motions me over. I try not to gag as he lifts me over the body and into the room. I tell myself I should be better at this. I see dead bodies all the time. Dominion is riddled with them—although rarely this fresh. I can’t even blame Jared. I would do anything to save Margot, and I’m grateful to him. Still, I’m struck by how unmoved he is, how routine this seems for him. As he ushers me into a small control room where the Clinic processes paperwork for the samples they take, it’s as though the death means nothing to him. He moves around the room with the stealth of a professional soldier, eyes glowing with bloodlust. I shiver and wonder not for the first time who it is I’ve gotten tangled up with.
Jared cocks his head like he hears something. His nostrils flare as he sniffs the air. All I can hear is quiet-quiet, the pounding of my heartbeat, the faint tinkling of piano music outside the room. He mouths at me, what’s in there? and points to a nondescript door leading from the anteroom. I mime a needle sinking into an arm. Protocols , I mouth back. He nods and pulls me back to the side of the door.
His breath tickles my ear. “Stay here.” He bends into a half-crouch.
A second later he explodes into motion, so fast I can’t see his limbs move. The door splits, partially tears from its hinges. Through the splintered pieces I can see into the samples’ room. A tall man in white turns in surprise from an examination bed, holding a slightly bloodied syringe on a pan. A second man with a slack-jawed expression, also in the crisp white linen uniforms of the Clinic, gawps at us from behind a third. I can only see the top of his head, a scrap of his white uniform. A syringe with extra long tubing. And two slack, lily-white legs.
“Just one more,” coaxes the man before my sister. He draws the words out, long and thin. “One more.”
The cramping in my belly intensifies, as does the dreamy sense of floating outside my body as I stare at the pale face of my sister. She’s on an operating bed, both hands stretched out and loose above her head as she cries out in pain. It takes me a second to process the thick bands holding her in place, the bright, cheery pink hue of her hospital gown in sharp contrast to the black leather of the bed. A purple bruise kisses the skin on her jaw. With her eyes closed, I can ’ t tell if she ’ s passed out as the man pulls the long tube of the syringe, glistening with fluid, from my sister ’ s body. My belly feels so heavy with cramps it feels like death.
It takes me a second longer to place the blank and hungry look of my sister ’ s captor to the plain face of the man we ’ ve known for years. The man who ’ s brought us flowers every year since we were ten and the testing started. The jocular, chivalrous Protocols nurse. Clive.
A growl fills the small room, a low bass rumble that sets my teeth and hair on edge. Jared lunges at the men. I see only pieces of him: teeth extruding in long, sharp points as he tears into the necks of the two uniformed men. The ripping of sinuous throats into long pink ribbons left to dangle from thick holes. He moves
He slows when we reach the corner. Over Jared’s shoulder I catch a glimpse of a big man in a crisp white uniform, a goofy grin on his face as he whistles down the hall. Jared hauls me back with a look so dark it’s painful. Then he slips out as the attendant puts his finger to the identi-pad outside a door. I hear the sickening crick of the man’s neck as it snaps. He falls in a heavy pile on the thinly carpeted floor. Jared holds open the door and motions me over. I try not to gag as he lifts me over the body and into the room. I tell myself I should be better at this. I see dead bodies all the time. Dominion is riddled with them—although rarely this fresh. I can’t even blame Jared. I would do anything to save Margot, and I’m grateful to him. Still, I’m struck by how unmoved he is, how routine this seems for him. As he ushers me into a small control room where the Clinic processes paperwork for the samples they take, it’s as though the death means nothing to him. He moves around the room with the stealth of a professional soldier, eyes glowing with bloodlust. I shiver and wonder not for the first time who it is I’ve gotten tangled up with.
Jared cocks his head like he hears something. His nostrils flare as he sniffs the air. All I can hear is quiet-quiet, the pounding of my heartbeat, the faint tinkling of piano music outside the room. He mouths at me, what’s in there? and points to a nondescript door leading from the anteroom. I mime a needle sinking into an arm. Protocols , I mouth back. He nods and pulls me back to the side of the door.
His breath tickles my ear. “Stay here.” He bends into a half-crouch.
A second later he explodes into motion, so fast I can’t see his limbs move. The door splits, partially tears from its hinges. Through the splintered pieces I can see into the samples’ room. A tall man in white turns in surprise from an examination bed, holding a slightly bloodied syringe on a pan. A second man with a slack-jawed expression, also in the crisp white linen uniforms of the Clinic, gawps at us from behind a third. I can only see the top of his head, a scrap of his white uniform. A syringe with extra long tubing. And two slack, lily-white legs.
“Just one more,” coaxes the man before my sister. He draws the words out, long and thin. “One more.”
The cramping in my belly intensifies, as does the dreamy sense of floating outside my body as I stare at the pale face of my sister. She’s on an operating bed, both hands stretched out and loose above her head as she cries out in pain. It takes me a second to process the thick bands holding her in place, the bright, cheery pink hue of her hospital gown in sharp contrast to the black leather of the bed. A purple bruise kisses the skin on her jaw. With her eyes closed, I can ’ t tell if she ’ s passed out as the man pulls the long tube of the syringe, glistening with fluid, from my sister ’ s body. My belly feels so heavy with cramps it feels like death.
It takes me a second longer to place the blank and hungry look of my sister ’ s captor to the plain face of the man we ’ ve known for years. The man who ’ s brought us flowers every year since we were ten and the testing started. The jocular, chivalrous Protocols nurse. Clive.
A growl fills the small room, a low bass rumble that sets my teeth and hair on edge. Jared lunges at the men. I see only pieces of him: teeth extruding in long, sharp points as he tears into the necks of the two uniformed men. The ripping of sinuous throats into long pink ribbons left to dangle from thick holes. He moves
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