Anne Bishop - Written in Red

“But you didn’t say the shortage would be caused by people being killed!”

“And you didn’t ask about anything but profit when the girl was cut.”

An uneasy silence. “I should have phrased my request more carefully. I didn’t mean to imply I had been given an inferior girl.”

Quiet menace. “You paid for a cut on one of my best girls, and that is what you received.”

“Yes, of course. You run the finest institution, and all of your girls are of exceptional quality. But for my next appointment, could I reserve cs759?”

“Cs759 is not, at present, on the roster.”

“That’s a shame. She has the finest skin. It’s like she begins to attune to a prophecy even before the cut. When will you put her back in the roster?”

“Soon. I anticipate that she will be available again very soon.”

Meg sat back on her heels and stared at the Wolf pup, who stared back at her. Sam seemed shy, which made sense since she was a stranger, but he also seemed interested in getting to know her. At least, he seemed that way while she refilled his food and water bowls. But when she reached into the cage with a couple of paper towels to pick up the poop in the back corner, he snapped at her—and kept snapping every time she tried to reach in farther than the bowls, which were in the front of the cage.

“Come on, Sam. You don’t want to smell poop all day, do you?”

The pup talked back at her. Since she didn’t speak Wolf, she had no idea what he said, but she had the impression he was embarrassed, and her noticing the poop only made things worse, but she didn’t know what to do about that. The terra indigene weren’t human, didn’t think like humans even when they were in a human skin. She’d learned that much in the week she’d been working for them. But they did have feelings. She’d learned that too.

She glanced at the wall clock and sighed. If she didn’t get moving, she’d be late for work again.

She secured the cage door. “All right. You win, because I have to go to work. But this discussion isn’t over.”

He talked back, then lowered his head.

She’d bet a week’s pay—if she had a paycheck yet—that Simon didn’t take that kind of lip from a puppy. Of course, she didn’t think Simon Wolfgard took that kind of lip from anyone.

She got to her feet and studied the pup. Why was he in a cage? If she asked, would anyone tell her?

He wasn’t always in the cage. Sam had been outside the other night. Simon would rip her to pieces if she let Sam go outside and something happened to the pup. But there had to be something she could do that would keep them both safe so she could take him outside.

“I’ll see you when I get back from work.” No response to the words, but as she locked Simon’s front door, she heard Sam’s squeaky-door howl.

Telling herself she shouldn’t feel guilty about leaving Sam by himself—after all, Simon did it all the time—she hurried to the garage, unhooked the BOW from its power supply, and headed for work. She still tended to stomp on the power pedal when backing up. Remembering all those training images from movies—clips of cars speeding up a ramp backward and sailing over another vehicle—kept interfering with the reality of a flat exit. But she was feeling more confident about forward driving, especially now that the main roads in the Courtyard were down to pavement.

She turned the sign on the office door to OPEN one minute after nine o’clock. As she poked her head out the door to say good morning to the four Crows on the wall and the Hawk who had claimed the top of the wooden sculpture—and the best view inside the office—she noticed Elliot Wolfgard coming out of the consulate.

Good clothes. Power attitude. Most of the men who had come to the compound and looked at her skin with a greed that was almost sexual had good clothes and that attitude.

Giving him a brisk nod, she withdrew and went back to the sorting room, closing the Private door partway. Then she braced her hands on the table and closed her eyes.

It had been a week since her last cut. Fear of making a bad cut with an unfamiliar blade had sufficiently dulled the craving for the euphoria. Fear and remembering things Jean had told her.

“ They cut us so often for the money. I remember my ma saying that the more you cut, the more you want to cut. But Namid gave us the good feelings as a reward for cutting when folks need help.” Jean paused. “Of course, when cutting is the only thing that makes you feel good, most girls won’t fight when they’re put in the chair.”

Was this what withdrawal felt like? The Walking Names always said the girls needed the cutting. Truth or lie? Did she really need a cut or did she just want the euphoria? Since she could make her own choices about her body, did it matter?

Top side of the arms would be the safest place without a watcher. Or the legs, as long as she stayed away from the inner thighs.

Slipping her hand in her jeans’ pocket, Meg caressed the razor, her thumb running over the cs759 engraved in the handle. A designation, not a name. And that did matter.

She heard the thump of boxes being set on the counter. Pulling her empty, trembling hand out of her pocket, she went out to take the first delivery.

Asia bought two takeout cups of hot chocolate at A Little Bite, then walked over to the Liaison’s Office.

She’d spent an evening at Lakeside University, hanging around the girls who liked taking a walk on the wild side. She had hoped to glean some ideas for getting that kind of interest from the Others, but after an hour, she realized there were boys out there claiming to be what they weren’t, and the girls who thought they had romped with a Wolf or a vampire had never seen a real one.

That gave her an idea for a way to get in by a side door, so to speak, but it still meant becoming pals with Meg. She was bound to learn something of interest by hanging around the Liaison’s Office, and she’d also be able to scope out any possibilities working at the consulate.

And there had been that interesting phone call from her backers, who had heard from their contact in the mayor’s office. Apparently, Meg had been a naughty girl, and White Van was looking for a thief, not a runaway spouse. So keeping tabs on Meg could be profitable all by itself.

A deliveryman held the door for her. Asia flashed him a smile, but she didn’t bother to flirt because Meg was at the counter, looking baffled, and that made her curious.

“Problem?” she asked, setting the cups of hot chocolate on the counter.

“This store sent me eight catalogs,” Meg said. “Why would a store send me eight of the same thing?”

“So you could distribute them?”

“For what?”

Just where did you come from that you don’t know about ordering from catalogs?

“Haven’t you noticed the ads in the Lakeside News ? There are only so many newspapers that can be printed each day, and they’re allowed to have only so many pages. When a store is running a special or a sale, they list the page number of the catalog where you can find the description. Even when there isn’t a sale, lots of people check catalogs before going to a store and using up gasoline for the trip.”

Meg’s face went from baffled to excited. “This is good! Or it could be if the Others understand how to use catalogs. I can send one to each complex and can keep one for reference.”