“No,” I say, mood plummeting with every step. “You would never mistreat someone, not in your grand land of plenty which you never shared.”
“Lucy.”
I shoot Taylor a glare. “What? People starve everywhere, and Wolfshield’s never spared so much as a thought to anyone else.”
“Neither has Piccolo,” the woman chimes in, and at least they’ve stopped smiling.
“Yeah, but my father never claimed to be the kind of person Wolfshield thinks she is. He’s an asshole, but at least he’s upfront about it.”
“Looks like it runs in the family,” a soldier replies.
“Oh, fuck off.”
As we near the glass door entrance, Taylor holds out her arm for me to stop. “Soldiers, give me a moment to talk with Miss Piccolo, please?” They nod and enter through the doors, speaking to each other in low tones on the other side of the glass. Taylor peers up at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.” My lying is effortless. “They are smug and I have had about enough of bearing the brunt of everyone’s attitudes toward my father. Soon he will be dead and everyone can shut the fuck up.” Arms crossed, I shrug. “It’s not easy, okay? This is a reminder of the life I’ll never have again: a family, a region, a home. And she gets to have it all. She gets everything. She gets to have what I want and it isn’t fair, okay?”
She reaches out. “Lucy?—”
“Don’t.” I step away from her potential grasp. “Wouldn’t want your new friends to think you are on the wrong side. ‘Miss Piccolo’ will do.”
Clearly wounded, she nods solemnly. “As you wish.”
If I possessed every shooting star in the sky, I wouldn’t use a single one to wish for this. “Let’s not keep your partner waiting any longer.”
Brow creased, she opens the door for me and we follow the others down the hallway. Gray slate turns into high-gloss white walls as we burrow farther into the compound. Finally, they usher us into a room and close us in, alone. Every surface is a creamy white, fluorescent lights pinging off the waxy reflections and illuminating the room like the inside of an opened refrigerator. A long, sleek metal table sits proudly in the center of the room flanked by twelve chairs, perfectly poised in two neat rows. Bare and antiseptic, clean and reflective, except for one wall boasting a black television screen many feet across, which flickers to life as we near it.
After Wolfshield’s symbol flashes, the woman herself appears in full Technicolor.
She looks older than I remember, but still as stately and imposing. Her pin-straight black hair curtains her face on both sides, down past her breasts to dangle over her stomach. Wherever she is, she’s standing in a white room as well. Her gray ladies’ suit contrasts the white background, giving her the appearance of a wolf in snow.
“Soldiers, I’m glad you got here safely.”
“Yeah, the welcoming committee was a nice touch,” I reply with an eye roll.
Leader Wolfshield chuckles and looks at me through the screen. “I’m not a woman who takes chances.”
“Where is Hunter?” Taylor doesn’t waste any time, fingers itching near her holster.
“Truly Theia’s girl, aren’t you? First, you will disarm and place your weapons on the table in the center of the room. Second, once you’ve been cleared, my soldiers will escort you into the next room and we will discuss negotiations.”
“Nothing happens until I see Hunter,” Taylor says. “I will not disarm until I know she is alive and unharmed.”
Patricia’s eyes glance off-screen. “You did say she was stubborn. Come here.”
Of course, Hunter is the most striking woman I’ve ever seen. She’s somewhere between mine and Taylor’s height, with gorgeous black-brown hair waving down from her scalp and twisting over her right shoulder, glimmering against the lights. A pair of wide-set, penetrating brown eyes sit beneath long lashes, her skin a flawless olive tone. Her physique is like Taylor’s, athletic and strong. She must be in what passes for a casual uniform for them, gray pants and a slouchy white shirt, which falls carelessly off her shoulder.
When her eyes meet Taylor’s through the screen, she gifts us a megawatt smile. “Long time no see, kid.”
Taylor makes barely audible noises and disarms without taking her eyes off the television. “Miss Piccolo, disarm, please.”
As promised, two soldiers enter the room from an unseen door in the wall and pat us down. One of them is a handsome Native American man, built like a brick house. His bulletproof vest exposes rippling muscles with stark black tattoos. The other soldier is a stern, equally muscled woman with a shaved head, equipped with a snub-nosed pistol.
“All clear,” she says.
The handsome soldier motions toward the door with a thick, double-barrel shotgun in his hands. “Let’s go.”
“Escort them into my room, please.” The television screen goes black.