Colm cocks his head at me, his brow furrowed.
“Where else would she put them?”
“I thought we didn’t associate with people who sell kids? That’s Father’s only rule. What the fuck? And incages?”
Colm’s feet stutter to a stop and he turns to look at me, flabbergasted. Then he laughs. A hearty laugh that I’ve rarely heard from his mouth. He can barely talk, he’s laughing so hard.
“Jesus H Christ, Sav. No! They’re fucking foxes. Little yappy screaming fox things. She breeds them and sells them on Facebook as exotic pets or whatever. You know how people love that shit. Although, why anyone would want a wild animal in their home is beyond me. Humans are already enough to deal with.”
His laughter fades as he stops walking again and looks at me more closely.
“You thought that sound was kids screaming?”
“I—”
I don’t know what to say. Yes?
The connection between my physical senses and my brain has been fried until it feels like beef jerky, and only a sliver of information is getting through.
Help me, please God, don’t make me see Father like this. I just want to go back to Micah and sleep until everything makes sense again.
Instead, I shrug. “It’s weird screaming. How the fuck am I supposed to know what a fox sounds like?”
I shove him for emphasis, which makes me feel more normal for about a third of a second, until more pain tears through my side, quickly followed by a wave of nausea. It’s so bad I have to stop for a minute, taking a few rough breaths in through mygritted teeth while Colm watches me with a deliberately blank face.
After a minute, his fingers touch the small of my back. Just slightly, to get me moving forward, but discreetly enough that I don’t think anyone else would notice if they were watching.
“Come on, Sav. Padraig’s waiting. Let’s get this over with and then I’ll take you back, okay?”
One more deep breath in and out, and the nausea fades enough for me to straighten up, taking another step forward. I’ve gotten too used to lounging around Micah’s apartment wearing sweatpants and the soft cotton undershirts he Amazoned for me. Now I’m wearing the clothes Colm brought, which are just normal jeans and a t-shirt, but everything feels too tight.
The denim is rough and scratchy against my skin, everything presses in too hard over my wounds, and the whole thing is so tight I feel like it’s about to strangle the breath from my lungs.
There are too many emotions warring inside of me right now to pick any of them out, which is fine, because I have no use for any of them, anyway. All I need to do is get through today without melting into a puddle in front of Father and the others.
Colm and I stay silent for the rest of the walk. I can feel his concern, but I appreciate that he doesn’t say anything. We’ve worked together for a long enough time that he’s seen me in many of my less-controlled moments and knows what I’m really capable of. And what I’m capable of powering through.
Today is just another day on the endless, interminable trail of days that will ultimately lead to my death.
Which will be the only day in history when Father and I both get what we want.
When we get inside, everyone is sitting around a large, scarred table that fills up the main room. Father is sitting at the head of it, as expected, and the sight of him makes my entire body flush hot and cold with adrenaline. My muscles tense inpreparation for… something, and the last few brain cells I had working to keep me moving seem to blue screen before diving into whatever sewer drain sits at the bottom of my shitty, desiccated frontal lobe.
When everyone sees me, they clap. A few of them stand up to pat me on the shoulder or something equally masculine, each one rocking my body forward in a way that makes my wounds throb and my stomach churn. Once again, I feel like I’m watching it all through plexiglass. I think I’m making the right noises and facial expressions in response, but I’m too braindead to know for sure.
What little mental energy I have left is trained on Father, whose attention is trained on me in return. He’s watching me from his seat. His eyes are focused, but his expression is neutral in a way that always makes me nervous, and my body continues to sing with the urge to flee this fucking situation. Just run. Arms and legs flailing like a Muppet. I don’t care, just fucking run until he can’t see me anymore.
Even if it ends with me bleeding out in a ditch in the woods.
With both hands, I mentally reach inside myself, take hold of my frayed, withered focus and yank at it until the words people are saying start to sound like words I can comprehend.
“—called everyone here, now that Savage is back on his feet, to decide what to do about the Aryans. If we want to answer this contract with a contract of our own, with an all-out war, or bide our time until we can see just how much strength they’re willing to devote to this little passion project.”
Contract?
I swallow around the lump of sand in my throat and make sure my face is contorted in its usual mask of anger and disgust.
“What contract?”
