ARC: Crushed by Eliza Crewe Page B

down. “Tough crowd,” I mock. I look to the Sarge, the only unsurprised face in the house. Her lips are thinned to the point of nonexistence.
    “What?” I ask innocently, then let some of my anger creep into my tone. “I assumed I was the entertainment for this little party.”
    The Sarge doesn’t bat an eye. “I am not amused.” The Sarge has this way of saying things, I don’t know if it’s her raspy growl or her one-eyed glare, or maybe just the knowledge that she knows more ways to kill someone than everyone on death row combined, that makes it really hard to disrespect her.
    “Oh, I’m sorry, you were expecting a comedic routine?”
    I said it’s hard, not impossible. At least not for someone as gifted in the art as I.
    I clear my throat and affect a stand-up demeanor. “A funny thing happened on the way to this meeting…”
    The Sarge interrupts my joke with a lifted hand. It’s probably better that way – me kicking Isaiah’s ass is probably the kind of funny you had to be there for, anyway.
    “Miss Melange,” she says, all business. “We can play silly games all day, or we can get this over with in time for dinner.”
    She gave me too big an opening to pass up. There’s one part of my nature no Crusader can, ah, swallow without disgust. Rude teens, they probably have. Rude teens who eat people…What can I say? I’m one-of-a-nightmarish-kind.
    “My kind of dinner or yours? Because I admit, I’m starving.” I say the last bit lustily with a wide display of teeth. I cast eyes around the room. “I don’t suppose anyone’s brought any–” I pause deliberately, “ one to eat?”
    The Crusaders aren’t a squeamish lot, but I still hear a sharp intake of breath on the last question, and a few shift in their seats and trade looks amongst themselves. The reaction of the delegate I’m most interested in, Graff, is disappointing. He leans back in his cheap plastic chair. I can’t see his hands, but his elbows are wide, so I’m guessing they are neatly folded on his lap. I lock eyes with him and raise my eyebrows defiantly, but still get no reaction. I decide to push it.
    “I can’t help but notice you’re all arranged a bit like a buffet–”
    “That’s enough, Miss Porter,” the Sarge cuts me off, her tone as bland as the expression on the Corp’s face.
    “Melange.”
    She ignores me. “Your feeding is scheduled for a week from Thursday. You might be interested in knowing that Crusader Bergeron will be making the delivery.” She emphasizes the name.
    Luke Bergeron. He was my mother’s best friend and fiancé before she was kidnapped and impregnated with yours-truly. After I was rescued from the demon headquarters, I learned that he and my mom had kept in touch over the years. I get the feeling he sees himself as a kind of stepfather to me, and I have to respect that kind of courage. After all, I murdered both my real parents. True, one was an accident.
    But one wasn’t.
    I have a short supply of friends (granted, that’s partially my fault), and an even shorter supply of parental units (entirely my fault), so it’s always a treat to see him.
    Delinquent-foster-kid-Meda shrugs like she doesn’t care.
    The Sarge doesn’t wait for me to respond, but launches right into the meeting. She doesn’t thank me for joining them, but wouldn’t have even if I hadn’t waltzed in like an ass. She’s too military to bother pretending I had a choice.
    “You remember the delegates from the Northern Chapter, who were introduced this morning.” She indicates the Corporates. “Also joining us are representatives from some of the other Chapters.” She nods toward the far right, almost in the back corner and I twist to take a look. I can’t help it, what I see causes my sneer to crack for a minute. Floating about two feet off the table are the heads and most of the shoulders of Crusaders I don’t recognize. I’d heard of the communication spells the Crusaders use to talk to one another