would have had cyborg circuitry implanted. Alouette guessed it was a made-up title. Something they told girls to make them feel more comfortable. To make the establishment feel more professional.
A blatant lie.
There was nothing professional about murder.
Despite her disdain, Alouette forced herself to smile back, trying to match the woman’s kind, open expression. If she was going to get any answers here, she couldn’t let her disgust show.
“We’re glad you came to visit us tonight,” said Clodie, still smiling. “Would you please come with me?”
The woman led Alouette into an adjacent room as dimly lit and shabby as the reception area. But there were no sagging couches or faded rugs here. Instead, the bare floor was grimy and stained—with what, Alouette shuddered to imagine—and in the middle of the room sat a long row of reclining chairs with tattered leather seats and rusting armrests. Next to each chair was a sinister gray machine covered in wheezing pumps, clanking pistons, and small spinning filters. Half of the recliners held young girls, some seemingly no older than twelve, whose spindly arms were connected to the whirring contraptions by long tubes filled with dark crimson liquid.
The other recliners were empty.
Waiting for their next victims.
Alouette watched in horror as Heloise climbed onto one of the empty chairs, pushed back the ragged sleeve of her blue dress, and extended her left arm. Next to her, another woman in dirty scrubs prepared a long needle. Alouette’s stomach flipped at the sight, and she had to look away.
“Right in here,” said Clodie, ushering Alouette through another door. This room was small and held nothing but an old desk and two scuffed chairs. Clodie closed the door and took the seat behind the desk before gesturing for Alouette to sit. “I’m just going to ask you some preliminary questions.” She flashed Alouette another fake smile.
“Actually … ,” Alouette said, glancing nervously at the closed door. She turned back to Clodie, who had pulled a TéléCom from the desk drawer and was now tapping into it. “You see … I was just hoping I might speak with whoever is in charge.”
“The madame is very busy,” said Clodie dismissively. “What is your age?”
“I really need to speak to her.”
Clodie’s smile grew tighter. “I will check if she’s available as soon as we’re done here. Your age?”
“Sixteen.”
The woman tapped something into the TéléCom and looked up again. “And where do you live?”
“Can you check if she’s available now?” Alouette asked, growing restless. “It’s very important.”
The woman pursed her lips and spoke into the TéléCom. “Client prefers not to divulge location.” She turned back to Alouette. “Have you recently been exposed to any metals or disease like the rot?”
“Please,” Alouette said. “I only need a few minutes of her time.”
The woman sighed and stood up. “Apparently, we have to do this the other way.” She reached into the drawer of her desk, pulled out a small spherical object, and handed it to Alouette. “Hold this please.”
Alouette took the object and studied it curiously. It looked like one of the marbles Jacqui used to let Alouette play with back in the Refuge when she was little, except this was twice the size and had strange rectangular indentations covering the surface. “What is—OUCH!” She dropped it on the desk and stared at her index finger, which now had a small pin prick of blood on the tip.
Clodie picked up the sphere and turned it around, examining a row of tiny colored lights that had appeared on the surface. “Oh my,” she said delightedly, a genuine smile swiftly replacing the artificial one. “You are a prime candidate for extraction. Your blood nutrient level is off the charts.”
Alouette tensed, frustration coursing through her nutrient-dense veins. The woman had tricked her.
“I’m happy to report we can offer you fifty largs in exchange for an extraction. The procedure is quite simple. And painless. We don’t actually take your blood—that’s a popular misconception. We simply draw it out, a little at a time, extract the nutrients we need and return the blood back to your—”
“No,” Alouette said, narrowing her eyes.
“If you need something to help you relax, we can offer you that too.”
“I’m not selling you my blood. I want to talk to the madame.”
Clodie flinched but quickly recomposed herself. “It’s a very competitive offer. More than you can expect from any other establishment.”
Alouette jumped out of her seat. This place was making her too anxious. Maybe she should just forget the whole thing. The madame probably didn’t even