World After

45

WE WALK out of the heart of the monster factory, down the brick passageway, and into another room. I assume this was once a gift shop by the look of the postcards and key chains on a forgotten stand by the door.

Inside, several human minions mix with prisoners. The minions stand out with their clean faces, groomed hair, and fresh clothes. There’s also an air of confidence about them that the prisoners don’t have.

“Madeline,” says Doc.

A woman with the strong lines and the aging-model looks of a ballet instructor saunters over. Every motion is graceful and fluid, as if she was used to being on stage or on the catwalk. The tight bun of her gray-streaked hair only emphasizes her emerald eyes.

“Can you find a place for her?” asks Doc in a low voice.

Madeline looks me over. She’s not just glancing at me to get a quick impression of who I am. She assesses, taking in my hair, my height, every curve and plane of my face. It’s as if she’s memorizing me, cataloging aspects of my appearance. She glances back at the collection of prisoners.

The prisoners are all female and they stand in pairs. There’s a pair of twins with matching strawberry hair and freckled pink skin. The rest of the pairs are probably not twins, but at first glance, they look like it. A set of curvy women with chocolate skin, a set of skinny girls with honey hair cascading down their shoulders, a set of tall women with Mediterranean eyes and skin.

Madeline looks around the room, then back at me.

“Wrong body type, wrong age,” she says.

The door opens and a man ushers in a pair of teen girls. Dark hair, high cheekbones, petite like me.

“How about these?” asks Doc.

Madeline swings her laser focus onto the girls. Then she looks at me.

“These two are better matched,” says the tanned guy who brought them in, gesturing to the girls beside him.

“We’ll have to make do with this one.” Madeline nods her head toward me.

“You’re going to tell the archangel that this is the best match we could find?” asks the guy.

My skin prickles at the word “archangel.”

“Same coloring, same body type,” says Madeline. “After a makeover and haircut, they’ll look like twins.”

“If they don’t, it’s all of our necks on the line, not just yours,” says the guy.

Madeline looks at Doc who nods.

“Switch them.”

The guy’s face darkens. “Just because he’s got your husband holed up in a jail cell doesn’t mean you can trade our lives for his whenever the good doctor snaps his fingers.”

“Daniel, please just do as you’re asked.” Madeline’s voice is commanding with a hint of threat.

Daniel takes a deep breath. Everyone stares at us, feeling the tension.

He assesses the two girls, then takes one by the arm and ushers her out.

The cold part of me says don’t ask. As far as I can tell, it’s to my benefit. And it could help my sister. “You’re holding someone hostage?”

One of these days, I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut.

“We’re all hostages here,” says Doc. “I’m doing what I can to keep someone alive.”

That sinks in.

I take him aside and whisper, “If the prison break doesn’t go down the way it’s supposed to, will you see that my mother is safe?”

“Your mother, the lady running around triggering the alarms?”

I nod.

“I don’t think I can promise that.”

Surprisingly, I feel better about his answer than if he had promised to take care of her because it’s more honest.

“Will you try?”

He doesn’t look happy about it.

“Paige will listen to her, too.” Not entirely true considering some of the things my mother tells us to do, but no need to get into details with him.

He thinks about it, then nods. “I’ll try.”

That’s as good as I can expect.

“And there’s a woman named Clara—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not a magician. I can’t make the hell that is Alcatraz go away. One is all I can promise to try to keep safe.”

He steps back from me and takes Madeline aside. They whisper in the corner, giving me a chance to absorb the situation.

The dark-haired teenager steps closer to me. She’s my height. We have the same figure and the same shade of dark hair and eyes.

Matching pairs of girls.

Archangel.

An image of Uriel the politician walking through the aerie’s club with his matching terrified women comes to mind.

I instinctively reach to stroke my bear-sword, trying to get some comfort from the soft fur, but there’s nothing there but empty air.