“Yeah, well, neither do I. One minute I’m sleeping peacefully, dreaming of the life I want at a certain lake house, and the next I’m thrust from my bed by Beth passing out on top of me.” She gnaws at her cheek. “Tried to make it to the door, but …”
I nod, as the last moments I pleaded for help pop up like daisies in my mind.
The room is surprisingly cozy with its red-dipped walls and rich-toned wood accents. The faint scent of tobacco wafts in the air, but when I stand, a sweet, clove smell confuses my senses.
Once my feet stabilize beneath me, I spin, spotting the cameras recessed in each corner of the room, but those aren’t odd. What is incongruous, however, is the sleek modern flat-screen mounted beside the door. It’s turned off, but I wander toward it, catching my reflection in the glossy black.
They’ve curled my hair. It never looks this good without help or taking hours of teasing and product. Yet now they’re loose and springy, swept to the side at the right spot on my forehead. Heavy, smooth makeup sits on my face, and my lashes curl long—longer than they should—and I blink, fluttering in confusion.
“They went all out for tonight,” Juliette chimes in, pushing up from the floor. She walks closer to me, her gaze flicking over my body and then meeting mine in the screen’s reflection. “We’re dressed differently.”
I turn, noting her outfit is black rather than red. “That’s …” Weird. Not right. I don’t know, but we’re always dressed the same for Market. We’ve also never been drugged before either. Unless …
“I don’t think there will be a Market tonight.” Juliette sighs but leans into her reflection and puckers her lips into a kissy face.
The corner of my lip lifts. “What do you mean?”
“I mean …” She straightens and inspects her fingernails painted red, and I immediately glance at my own, now black. “There were rumors, like passed down from girls before me, that they like to cycle the girls. You know, move them out quietly when they stop selling.” She lowers her voice. “But this is different, I think. Every so often they have a Call … no, Cullen? Whatever they call it, it isn’t quiet. It’s an event. They make it a show. If you’re not chosen, you don’t just disappear. You’re made an example of.”
“That’s … sick.”
“And what they’ve been doing isn’t? Welcome to your new reality.” She adjusts her bralette, ensuring their attention lands exactly where she wants it.
I huff. “It shouldn’t be our reality.”
The screen snaps to life with a sharp, slap-like sound, breaking the awkward silence as Juliette grooms herself. A bluish tint bleeds into the warm light cast from the ceiling as the music crackles once. Tiny boxes of camera feed populate the picture, one right after the other, in horizontal lines. Stepping closer, I recognize the movement in the bottom-left corner. I move my arm, and the person in the picture the screen does the same.
Us.
Footage.
I look at the others. Girls. All the girls. Paired by twos in room after room, each dressed in the same red and black as Juliette and me. They all move toward their own screens, some wall-mounted by the doors, some on stands in the center of the rooms.
Even through the grainy feeds, most of the rooms look the same. Some have chairs—unlike ours—but they’re cramped. Seeing them from high above through the corner cameras makes it worse.
I let out a gasp.
A flicker runs across the screen as the feeds sharpen and zoom in, cycling through each room in a haunting carousel synced to the low thrum of dark, ambient music. In the next image, Mercy and Sarah move in restless circles, eyes flicking toward the monitor every few seconds.
Juliette juts out a hip, placing a hand on it. “What? Our own personal hell isn’t enough? We’ve got to experience everyone else’s, too.” The video feed of us pops up on screen, and while her mouth is moving, her words aren’t captured.
I count the girls as the footage rolls. “I think we’re all accounted for, though. That’s good. At least we can see they’re all right.”
She arches her brow and lets out a humorless laugh. Her mouth moves, but the screen cuts out, collapsing back into a grid of tiny boxes. A feminine robotic voice follows, sweet and mechanical, dripping with artificial cheer. “Welcome to the Culling.”
A pit lodges itself at the base of my throat, and I work a swallow, fighting back tears. Why does this false, unfeeling, chipper voice make me want to cry? The voice designed to sound soothing only makes my skin crawl and adds to the pile of disbelief already hollowing out what I know.
The customer service voice from hell continues. “The Chicago chapter would like to welcomeallother Echelon Vanguard chapters from around North America. We are pleased to offer you an exclusive this evening. As in our history and bylaws, chapters are often called on to help other EV chapters.”
“They have bylaws?” I ask, stunned.
Juliette rolls her eyes at me again, and I’m getting sick of it. What is her problem?
“Chicago’s Markets are some of the most renowned across the society, and tonight we have the selected girls participating in an exhibition. Paired together, each set will dance for our chapter members. They will move, engage, impress?—”
I raise my eyebrows. We’ll what?
“Live footage will stream to all chapters, society wide. Viewing members will cast their votes in real time, and their decisions are final. All while our own members watch, unable to vote.
