Simra shrugged. “I’m not allowed to talk aboutmyengagements.”
Because I was still reeling from her previous revelation, it took me a second to realize she’d just revealed another gap in Vandekamp’s security system. Abigone. “Thank you!” I seized themarid’s hand and squeezed it.
Simra looked puzzled. “Why does that make you so happy?”
I hadn’t even realized I was smiling. “Because Vandekamp denies us information and communication to isolate us, even from each other. To keep us weak, scared and dependent. Every single thing we learn that he doesn’t want us to know is a victory. It’s a crack driven through the chains keeping us here. And you only have to break one link to destroy a chain.”
Simra frowned, her fingers grazing the front of her collar. “Is that what you’re doing? Trying to break the chains?”
I had to think about that. I hadn’t been consciously planning an escape. Where would we go, even if we could break free?
“That’s what she does,” Zyanya said softly, passing by us on her way from the bathroom. “That’s all she knows how to do.”
“I’m just keeping my eyes and ears open,” I insisted. I had no concrete plans—no real ideas—and I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.
Themarid’s eyes sparkled even more than usual. “Yeah. Me too.”
Mirela frowned at Simra as she stepped into the bathroom just ahead of us. “You’ve been here almost a year, and you’re just now figuring out you can speak in generalizations?”
“It never occurred to me to try, before. I mean, talking typically hurts, so...” Themaridshrugged.
“So you all just stopped trying,” I finished for her.
Simra nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“But none of that answers my question,” Mirela said. “Why would Vandekamp let—or make—Mahsa shift if he knew that would also allow her to bite?”
“He didn’t know.” I shuffled forward in the line again, and the closer we got to the bathroom, the better we could hear water running in the sink. “His long-term captives quit trying to fight back, so he had no true gauge of the limits of his technology. It’s trial and error.” Because Vandekamp wasn’t just trying to exert control over us. He was still testing his technology. He had to be, if it had been implemented so recently. “Now that he knows about the weakness, he’ll fix it.” I tuned back to Mahsa. “Were you punished for biting?”
Mahsa flinched and stiffened for a moment, and I realized that trying to answer had triggered pain from her collar. Then her eyes brightened with a new idea. She twisted and lifted her scrub top to show me a fresh, oblong bruise slanting across her rib cage.
“That’s from a baton,” Simra said. “But if that’s all they did, there must not have been any complaint from the customer.”
“No complaint?” Mirela echoed as I finally stepped into the bathroom. “But she took a bite out of him.”
Simra shrugged. “Some of the customers like that. They seem to think the scar makes them look tough.”
“Sick fuckers,” Lenore said, as she stepped up to one of the available sinks.
“Yeah, and that’s the one thing the Spectacle won’t give them. We’re not allowed to hurt them, no matter what they want.”
“It’s probably a legal liability,” I explained, as more of Vandekamp’s business model began to fall into place in my head. “They may think they want pain—and some of them truly may—but most will change their minds when the reality sinks in. Others will go home to husbands and wives who have objections. A single lawsuit could put the Savage Spectacle out of business.” And cripple any future endeavors.
“We should be so lucky.” Light shone brightly on Mahsa’s pale brown skin as she stepped up to the sink beside Lenore. “I bet—” But the shifter’s words were cut off by a piercing scream from the other side of a row of toilet stalls.
“Rommily!” Mirela took off toward the showers. Lala and I raced after her to find Rommily still screaming in front of the communal shower block, where water already poured from one of the heads. Her eyes were wide with panic. A handler loomed over her, pointing into the shower with one hand, holding a handful of her shirt in the other. According to the embroidery over his heart, his name was Sutton.
“It’s been five days!” he shouted. “If you’re not willing to meet the minimum hygiene standard, I’ll meet it for you.”
“Wait! She just needs—” Mirela reached for her sister, but the guard turned to block her, his forehead furrowed, eyes narrowed, and too late, I realized he’d mistaken her gesture as an act of aggression. He let go of Rommily, then shoved the butt of his rifle at Mirela’s head.
A spray of blood burst from her nose and she fell backward, clutching her face with both hands.
Eyes full of tears, Lala pulled Mirela across the floor, away from their middle sister and the guard. She grabbed a handful of brown paper towels from a dispenser on the wall and held them to her older sister’s nose.
Sutton turned back to Rommily and tried to pull her shirt over her head without losing control of his tranquilizer rifle. When the material ripped, her screaming intensified. But then he grabbed her exposed shoulder, and the oracle fell eerily still and quiet. Her eyes glazed over with a white film so thick that her irises and pupils were hardly visible beneath.
“Sepsis.” Rommily’s voice sounded strangely hollow and detached. As if it belonged to someone else. “Our staff didn’t find the bedsore until it was too late. What a tragic way for a young man to die.”
