Page 11 of All Saints Day
“Yeah, like what?” I lean forward and pull a small plum from the tray—my mouth parched and dry, but the cup in my hand is an absolute last resort. Even if it hasn’t been drugged, I’m alreadydehydrated, and the thought of any alcohol after so long inverted this morning makes me want to wretch.
“Well, there’s the matter of your… comfort.” She gestures to the chair in which I sit, the tray from which I eat. “Your public life as Louise Penny is, unfortunately, over, but that’s not to say that there couldn’t be other arrangements made for you by the Windmill—by me personally that would be a great improvement over this; hell an improvement over your life as a cog in the federal machine.” She continues pulling a delicate checkerboard sable cookie from one of the durable plastic plates before nibbling daintily on one of its crumbling corners.
“You mean a cell with a view?” I ask innocently, savoring a juicy bite of the plum.
“I mean a luxurious estate, everything and anything you’ve ever wanted or needed taken care of.”
For a split second, I allow myself to imagine that she means allowing me to reunite with my fated mates, but I know that’s not what Susan is playing at.
“And why does the Windmill feel like offering me such a great deal when I’ve been a non-cooperative sack of shit since you picked me up?” I press, tossing the plum pit onto the floor without a care. It’s nothing compared to the things I’ve seen washed off the white tile beneath my bare feet.
“Well, once the Windmill cracks the code on the cure—while you won’t be strictly necessary any longer, there will be the matter of the period of adjustment between when the Windmill releases their strain of the Zeitnot virus into the general population.”
My blood runs cold as Susan continues her grim explanation.
“Of course, we can’t just immediately appear with a miracle cure. That would be too indelicate, too crude.” She drinks down the rest of her mimosa and places the empty plastic flute at the edge of the tray. “Once the climate is ripe for us to sweep in with the panacea—we’ll appear with an appropriate deliverance.” Susan spreads her handsbeneficently.
“Step one, create the problem; step two, be the only one who can solve the problem, step three—profit.” I shrug. “Standard politician bullshit,” I yawn, plucking a cube of watermelon from a plastic bowl.
“During that time, we’re bound to lose quite a few sigmas and omegas to the Zeitnot.” Susan sighs—sweeping a carrot stick through a cold creamy dip.
My blood runs cold.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there are new mandatory reproduction requirements put in place by the Department of Reproduction in order to safeguard our future.” She waves the bit of crudite through the air whimsically before crunching a bite down loudly.
“I’m too old to be a breeder for the cause.” She looks at me meaningfully. “But you will most certainly become an incredibly important resource for rebuilding the population of our great nation, once things reach that point.” Shamelessly, Susan double-dips before adding,
“How exactly you get to participate—could be up for discussion.” Lowry raises her flaxen brows suggestively.
“What, I get to decide whether I want a porthole room or a suite, on the fucking Titanic, before it goes down?” I growl at her, my nails making tiny half-moon indentations in my palms as I clutch my fists tighter and tighter.
“You could find yourself in an incredible manor house in the south of France with several eligible alphas from the Windmill, all awaiting a worthy mate to carry their heirs—or, with regular visits from a turkey baster filled with the semen of said alphas if that were to be your preference.” She shrugs coldly. “I’d personally rather not go through a heat touch-starved, but to each her own.”
“And if I were to continue to be uncooperative? If the Windmill didn’t extend me the invitation to be luxuriously kept as breeding stock?” I sneer, slamming my drink down on the table with a messy slosh of fizzy orange liquid.
“Well, you’d likely find yourself in a space much like this one,” Susan pauses to take stock of the room, her pale eyescircling slowly over the sterile white tile. “But decidedly more glory hole—until you get knocked up, that is—then you’ll go to the wing with the rest of the pregnant mothers until you give birth.”
Susan must catch something in my expression, because her eyes flash with cruel delight as she adds, “Once the brat is out of you, we’ll send it off to a proper mother—and then you’ll be back in the breeding pens until someone else has filled your womb.”
The words make me want to gag. I know her well enough to know that she isn’t bluffing.
“Then there’s the matter of the White Knight,” Susan moves on casually, as if we were discussing summer BBQ plans at our quaint little brunch.
I notice how hard I’m gripping the blueberry scone just before I completely crush it to crumbs.
“A little bird told me you were interested in exacting your revenge on the man who took your parent’s life.”
My heartbeat thuds in my ears, my face flushing with pinpricks of heat as I blurt out,
“Like you’d ever give up one of your own so I could get my revenge.”
At this, Susan smiles warmly.
“Darling, what makes you think that he’s one of ours?” she purrs, re-crossing her legs, lifting a teensy fruit tart off the tray to pop between her painted lips.
I say nothing, my fists balled in my lap so that I don’t do anything stupid.
“Even if he is, you might underestimate how much more valuable to me it would be to have your cooperation than it would be to have a White Knight,” Lowry baits me.
