They are all alone.
They are all Brethren property.
I feel Grace freeze beside me, her feet rooted to the polished floor. Her trembling intensifies, vibrating up my arm. I hear a small, choked gasp escape her lips.
“Master…” she whispers, her voice barely a breath. “What, what is this place?”
I don’t look at her. My gaze sweeps over the cells, an owner inspecting his stock. It is a satisfying sight. “These women here broke the rules, just like your parents did.”
“So why aren’t they in Oblivion?”
My lips curl. She really doesn’t understand that there is more to us than Oblivion. That that place is the end, the finale. If we sent every naughty Lady there, we’d have none left to continue.
“Their bloodlines are too precious.” I explain, stepping up close to where the pregnant woman is pressed against the glass.
In slow motion I drag my finger down, toying with her the way one does a tiger at the zoo.
“These women here are all technically Founders. Bastard Founders, but Founders all the same. Lords will pay a good price to mix their bloodlines with them.”
“Don’t they have wives they can have children with?” Grace replies.
It’s hard not to laugh at that. Christ, she’s so fucking innocent.
Instead, I tighten my grip on her wrist and pull her forward, forcing her to walk the length of this gallery of beautiful ruin. Her head is on a swivel, her horror palpable. She sees the women; she sees the silent, white-coated attendants who move between the cells, noting charts, ignoring the inhabitants. She sees the utter, dehumanising efficiency of it.
We reach the end of the main hall and pass through another secured door into a commercial-grade kitchen. Stainless steel gleams under bright lights. It’s spotless, sterile. A kitchen not for nourishing a family, but for sustaining inventory.The contrast between the humanity in the cells and the clinical coldness here is not lost on me. It is the point.
There is one more door, heavy and unmarked. A guard opens it, revealing a staircase leading down into a basement. The air grows cooler, carrying a faint, coppery tang that the lemon polish upstairs can’t disguise.
This is where the day’s real business awaits.
The basement is a contrast to the sleek modernity above. It is raw concrete, utilitarian. Drain set into the floor., hosing equipment on the wall. This is a place for messy work and in the centre of the room, on their knees, are three figures. Bound. Gagged. Their eyes wide with a terror that is both immediate and primal. Two women, one man. My men stand around them, impassive.
I release Grace’s wrist. She stumbles back a step, wrapping her arms around herself and I leave her there.
I walk forward, my footsteps echoing in the damp space as I stop before the older woman. She’s old, her afro hair streaked with grey, her face a map of refined living now twisted in fear. Even like this, dishevelled and terrified, the resemblance is uncanny. She could be her sister’s twin, Ines’s mother’s mirror image.
Ines’s aunt. The matriarch of the little rebellion.
A slow smirk stretches my lips. It feels good on my face.
“We meet at last,” I say, my voice soft, almost intimate in the grim space. I squat down in front of her, bringing my eyes level with hers. She tries to shrink back, but a guard’s hand on her shoulder holds her firm. “You have been a nuisance, but every nuisance has its price.”
My gaze flicks to the younger woman beside her. She’s pretty enough; similar to Ines in the shape of the eyes, the set of the mouth, but it’s a crude imitation. A cheap forgery. There’s a weakness in the chin, a vacuity in the eyes that Ines, for all her defiance, never had. A cousin, perhaps. Expendable.
Then I look at the man. Big, muscular, dressed in cheap tactical wear. His face is bruised, one eye swollen shut. A hired gun. A nobody. His presence here isan insult. Dead weight.
I rise to my full height, my joints cracking softly. The decision is instantaneous, effortless. A mere matter of logistics.
I turn to the guard nearest me and hold out my hand. Without a word, he places a pistol into my palm. The weight is both familiar and comforting, the cold metal is an extension of my will.
Behind me, I hear Grace’s sharp intake of breath. A tiny, muffled sound of protest which I ignore. My world has narrowed to this moment, to this man who is no longer of use.
The hired gun’s eyes bulge above his gag. He makes a frantic grunting noise, shaking his head, straining against his bonds. The stink of urine suddenly joins the metallic scent in the air.
I don’t hesitate, I don’t grandstand.
I raise the pistol and shoot him once, cleanly, in the head.
