Meridian Six

I fell back onto the flat pillow. Even my bones felt exhausted. I wasn’t surprised Sister Agrippa knew the name the vamps had given me. Everyone knew about Meridian Six, model Troika citizen. The instant I escaped I swore I’d never be called that name again, but I didn’t want to offend the holy woman when the situation was still so fragile. "Thanks," I said instead.

She eyed me with frank curiosity. "I assume you are aware I am only able to offer you sanctuary for twenty-four hours. You slept twenty of those away, I’m afraid."

I cringed. Four hours wasn’t much time. I needed to regroup and come up with a plan. "I understand, Sister. I appreciate your hospitality."

"I took the liberty of having my assistant bring a change of clothes." She nodded at a stack of garments on a chair next to the door. "I guessed at your size, but they’ll be better than the filthy ones you wore when you arrived." Her face didn’t betray any judgment but I found her choice of adjective telling. Had my harlot’s clothes and the blood kiss marks on my inner thighs and chest betrayed my status as the Troika’s blood whore?

I wasn’t sure how to reply. Thanking her again would have felt too much like a confession.

"I’ll leave you to your ablutions. The first mass of the evening begins in five minutes. Perhaps you’ll join us? Spiritual renewal may offer you a modicum of strength for your journey."

"I think I’ll pass." I hesitated before adding, "No offense."

"None taken. I didn’t think you’d agree anyway." She moved to the door again. "Go ahead and get dressed. I’ll have my assistant retrieve you after mass, and we can discuss next steps."

"Sister?"

"Hmm?" She paused by the door. The brighter light from the hallways fell around her like a halo.

"Aren’t you going to ask why the Troika are after me?"

She paused and smiled, her small, white fangs flashing in the dim light. "Would you tell me the truth if I did?"

My lips quirked. I liked this woman’s straightforward, no-bullshit attitude. "Probably not."

She nodded and left, closing the door behind her. I sat in silence for a few more moments, trying to will myself out of the warm cocoon of the bed. My soul ached to stay in this quiet place. My body ached for stillness. But my mind wasn’t having any of that. I needed a plan–and fast. I’d have a lot more than aches to worry about if the Troika’s men caught me when I left the convent.

Twenty minutes later, I’d completed my fortieth lap of the small room in the foreign-feeling clothes. The coarse woolen sweater and baggy denim weren’t exactly the quality I was used to. I normally opted for simple garments of the highest caliber fabrics that wouldn’t hamper movement or snag. Castor insisted that my clothes should also show off my form to its best advantage, which was why I didn’t mind the shapeless garments the sisters provided. And the shoes! The soft leather moccasins hugged my feet like a dream. They’d be a hell of a lot easier to run in than the heels the Director of Propaganda insisted I wear.

His face flashed in my mind’s eye. The lascivious gleam when he’d presented me with the dress and shoes. "And don’t forget the hairpiece," he’d said, waving the green silk ribbon. "All birthday gifts should be topped with a bow." He’d giggled and left muttering to himself about how clever he was for thinking of the perfect birthday gift for the Prime.

Me.

A soft knock on the door announced the acolyte’s return. "The Chatelaine will see you now."

I nodded and followed her out into the corridor. I’d considered wandering around earlier while I waited, but I didn’t want to be rude. The corridor’s ceilings hung low over sconces lining the walls, giving off a warm glow. Funny, from the outside this building seemed condemned, but inside it was clean and peaceful.

"Are we below ground?" I asked, noting the lack of windows.

She nodded meekly over her shoulder.

I waited for more information, but she didn’t offer any. The sisters, I guessed, probably built this sanctuary in abandoned tunnels dug during the Blood Wars. I’d heard how the humans and vampire rebels had dug warrens under the cities for quick escapes during skirmishes. Now, the dirt walls had been plastered over, but the echoes of old fear clung to the air like the musk of turned earth.

We reached a door, and the acolyte knocked. "The Chatelaine is waiting."

"Thank you, Sister–"I let the word hang there for her to fill in.

She avoided my eyes and scuttled off. Her red robes swirled around her ankles as she rounded the corner. I wondered briefly how she ended up living in abandoned tunnels below the city, offering succor to fugitives like me.

"Six?" The Chatelaine’s voice pulled me out of my musings. I took a deep breath, raised my chin and marched into her inner sanctum.

She sat behind a battered wooden desk. A single low-watt bulb hung from the ceiling. The threadbare tapestries stretched across sections of the walls did nothing to dispel the chill. One depicted a unicorn bleeding in a cage and another a knight fighting a dragon.

"Nice," I said, more to get the conversation going than out of any real appreciation for the artistry.

"Functional," she countered. "They help insulate against the dankness."

I took the seat she offered. The ancient metal chair creaked in protest. I cringed as the sound echoed through the cave-like room.

The Chatelaine stared into a vid-screen, an alien bit of technology for such an ascetic setting, but, then, she was a vampire. And vampires loved their tech.

I couldn’t see what she was looking at, but whatever it was, she found it damned interesting. Warning bells went off in my head. Noticing my sudden stiffness, she turned the screen toward me.

My own face stared back at me. My stomach fell as I read the ticker beneath the old photo. "Fugitive still at large. The Troika is offering a reward of ten thousand charns for her capture–dead or alive."

"Meridian Six, age twenty-three, daughter of rebel sympathizer, Alexis Sargosa," she read, her brows rising. "Wanted for violation of Troika code 439."

My stomach churned, and my hands grew damp. Given the conditions of the rectory, it was possible the Chatelaine was mentally tabulating the repairs she could make with that kind of reward.

I lifted my chin, waiting for her to make the next move.

"Code 439?" she said. "That’s assault, correct?"

I gave a jerky nod to confirm that was, indeed, the crime assigned to Code 439, but I didn’t feel the need to confess my innocence. After all, if things had gone as planned the charge would have been murder instead.

The nun’s eyes took on a speculative gleam. My fingers slid down my leg toward the shard of metal I’d strapped to my ankle using a bit of bandage the nuns had left in my room. They’d been smart not to leave me with any glass or cutlery, but the metal bracket had torn away from the bed frame easily and its sharp corners could inflict some pain.