Page 2

CHAPTER

TWO

Paigelynn

Every part of my life is a lie.

Including Cam.

Especially Cam.

My bones ache as someone grabs my shoulder and pulls me up to standing, my ankle rolling as I try to adjust, calf screaming, nothing aligning so I can simply be.

Cam – Mario? – stares at me with dead eyes, his smile like a snake on his face.

The Mother looks at me as well, and as I watch them through swollen, tear-filled eyes, I see the resemblance. How could I have missed it?

How could I have missed all of this?

It's a dream, right? A nightmare. I close my eyes as I'm pulled back from the edge of the stage, Cam turning away from me to say something to The Mother – his mother.

His mother.

How much of the last few days with Cam were real?

How much was him playing a role? My skin aches and tingles with a rush of fear as a man who smells like salami and gravel hauls me to the back of the stage, tossing me onto a bench like I am a sack of potatoes.

I fall against another woman, her long blonde hair in a bulky braid that is frizzed along the sides.

Mascara rims her red eyes as we look at each other, my sweat-covered arm gliding along hers.

Both of us have bound hands. She moves hers toward me and links two fingers in mine.

I start to sob, impossible to stop though I know it will make breathing harder.

Her simple touch of humanity makes fear rush through me harder.

We cannot speak, both of us muted by the leather strap and hard ball in our mouth.

A trickle of blood runs down the corner of her mouth.

I suspect she looks much like me, but it's hard to tell with this torture device on her face.

There are three of us on this bench. We all have blonde hair. We all have blue eyes.

We sit across from a redheaded young woman with blue eyes.

We all are gagged.

Every word Cam told me at the bunker was true.

He left out the most important part.

That he, like The Mother, was a sick, depraved part of the network.

I've been handed off, delivered as promised. I'm a product. Someone – no.

Some thing .

Some thing to be harvested. Used for their needs and thrown away when used up .

I'm only alive because it serves them to have me live.

"Ross," calls out the man who brought me to this bench. "Get 'em to bed. They need to be rested up. This one gets her own room." He looks at me, nodding his chin. "Santinos said so."

"Huh," the man called Ross grunts back. He has a thin mustache that curls at the ends and saggy bags under his eyes. Bald and shaven completely, he looks like a circus performer. Under his black jacket I see a gun. "Do we sedate them?"

"No. Not anymore. Blood draw in the morning. You know the drill."

Ross's eyes darken, eyebrows drawn together. "It's been a year, and every year's a little different."

"I got Santinos' prize. You handle the rest. Doctor'll come in and check 'em out before bed."

I'm hauled up by my biceps, the man's grasp firm but not hard. He's taking seriously the rule not to bruise me. The woman next to me lets out a whimper as our fingers break contact and I look at her, willing the words in my head to find their way into her heart.

You matter , I want to tell her. None of this is your fault. You did nothing wrong .

I inhale through my nose, hardly catching air. Crying threatens my life now. I need to turn off every emotion inside me and become a machine.

Machines survive. Machines don't feel. Machines just function.

We did nothing wrong.

Tears run down her face freely now as her chest caves in with the effort to breathe. The man pulls me away, and I stumble as we walk down a long, dark corridor, the scent of delicious food – garlic, rosemary, cumin – nauseating me. I'm starving yet sick. Hungry yet horrified.

People work in that kitchen. They prepare food for the billionaires in that ballroom, sustaining those insane people. They must be insane, right? No one with a healthy mind could possibly do what's just been done to us.

Lure our parents into their cult.

Take us from our parents.

Teach us that we are part of some ancient prediction.

Lie to us for years.

Then sell us off to the highest bidder for –

For parts .

Cam said so, and now I believe him wholly. I believe him all too much. Too well. Too fully.

When I ran away from him at that gas station, I could have escaped to anyone. Anywhere. Any person – and I choose Makiah Rooney.

The worst possible choice.

But at the time, the only choice.

Or so I thought.

" Nnnnngh ," I groan, the reality hitting me harder than I want it to. All those years of being told the outside world was full of bad men who wanted to violate me trained me to distrust them all.

Which was the point, wasn't it?

They couldn't have me here, now, if I wasn't lied to so thoroughly. So seamlessly.

We did nothing wrong.

It was all a coordinated lie. How many other women like me have they done this to? Are doing this to? Cam tried to tell me, as he took me from the safehouse, after he killed Jason and Malcolm.

My skin turns to ice.

Did he really kill them because they were going to betray me? Hand me over to The Basher?

Or did he kill them so he could do... this .

Deliver me to his mother.

Buy me at an auction.

Give her my heart.

Literally.

Racing hard inside my chest, all four chambers quicken as if they can read my thoughts.

My skin feels swollen, ears ringing, my eyes itching around the rim.

The floor changes from tile to a plush carpet, then tile again.

Soon we're in brighter light, wall sconces made of stained glass lending a warm glow to the space.

He stops at a door with a retinal scan, looks at the small pad, and two clicks open the door.

He pushes me in, hand on the small of my back.

I stagger forward, a small chair to my left giving me something to grab for safety.

The room is large, a hospital bed to the far left, an open door to the right showing an unlit bathroom. The steady hum of a refrigerator makes me look to the left. A simple kitchen with a fridge, microwave, and sink is there.

"Your food is in the kitchen. Eat as instructed. Turn around," he snaps.

"Mmm?"

He reaches for my neck and pushes me slightly, his fingers yanking on strands of hair. It's a small, annoying pain but the kind that sets me off, over the edge. I flinch and pull to the right, away from the pain.

He growls at me.

"Quit moving."

Suddenly, a shock of ripping pain hits my arm, but cold air strikes my teeth at the same time, sharp and sweet.

He's released the ball gag and a piece of metal scratches me as the contraption falls to the ground with a thud.

With great annoyance, he yanks my hands and frees my wrists.

He kicks the ball gag into the hallway and without another word, walks out of the room, the lock automatic as he leaves.

I am finally alone.

Step by step, I walk into the bathroom and drop to the ground, lifting the toilet seat up. My nose turns so cold and I shiver, waiting for the inevitable.

The tremors grow, my muscles turning rigid, my gut roiling so tight I fear my tendons will snap inside me.

Can that happen? I know anatomy and physiology.

I can picture all the muscles, fascia, sinew, bones and how they align.

We were taught those basics, for it was our job to always preserve our bodies, to be as healthy as possible.

To be a role model and exemplar for the coming of the dawn of a new time, as we ascended the throne with our king, our –

I throw up.

A lot.

There's nothing in my stomach to evacuate, but the retching goes on and on, as if I'm trying to purge myself of all that I've just experienced.

It is futile.

But biology is complicated.

By the time I'm done, I relish the cool, tile floor against my cheek. It's strangely comforting, my only companion the ringing in my ears and my racing brain. I wish it would pause. Stop. Halt.

Just... leave me alone. Go blank.

Stop tormenting me.

My tongue is dry and nasty, the taste in my mouth making me sick. I slip my shoes off swollen feet, the red marks along the edges of my toes raw. As I stand, my ankle buckles, but no one is here.

No one watches me.

Other than the presumed cameras.

I press my forehead against the wall and breathe. I must stop thinking about what happens next. That's the true horror here. Not what has already happened. Not even Cam's betrayal.

Terror comes from not knowing what happens next, when you know you have no control.

I need to stop fearing the future if I want to survive.

Whether I want to survive is a completely different question.

Slowly, I make my way to the other side of the room, where the kitchen is. In the fridge, I find a small bottle of electrolyte solution, with the words "Drink this first" written on the bottle in black marker.

I obey.

If it's poison, so much the better.

Breathing deep belly breaths, I let the liquid sit in my stomach, small sips turning into larger swallows as my body seeks what it needs to find balance.

The Mother always taught me that balance was perfection. Not too fat. Not too thin. Not too hydrated. Not too dry. Not too excited. Not too calm. Moderation was key in everything, as was optimization.

The perfect princess would become the perfect queen.

And a queen ruled over her dominion not because she was all powerful, but because she was all- perfect .

I snort, the sound making me smile, a small gesture of rebellion that makes me ache inside.

When we were at the bunker, Cam told me everything, that I was a victim of an elaborate, vast conspiracy full of global billionaires who created a cult to generate organs ? Spare body parts?

I didn't want to believe him. I could not believe him. How could it be true?

Preposterous.

Every word he said made no sense.

How many people have turned me into a thing ? A pawn. A play toy. An experimental object?

My parents.

Makiah Rooney.

The Mother.

Cam .

Who else? Who are all of these other people who steal girls away to turn them into organ and baby factories? Who weave a child's fantasy like something out of a romantic book series and turn it into a cult that... actually works?

Gullible people believe anything if the fantasy is good enough.

My stomach lurches again.

"Just breathe," I whisper to myself, my lips feeling like someone else's skin.

Breathe while you can.

I need to lie down, but there are only two options: a short loveseat and the hospital bed. No illusions there: it's designed for someone who will have medical procedures done to them. IVs in them. Monitors on them.

Someone who is a patient.

Not a person.

Winnie . Her name floats through my mind suddenly, yet it flimmers, like I can't quite hold her name in my hand. As if my fingers forgot how to close and hold something, as if Winnie has turned into water. Where is my sweet little doggie?

What did Cam – Mario? – do to her?

The room begins to spin, gold and white spots filling my vision, and the ringing in my ears turns to the roar of the ocean. My skin ripples with a tingle that threatens to overtake me.

And then it does.