Promised by Caragh M. O'brien Page B

His cool eyes scanned her trenchantly from head to toe and back up again.
    â€œThe blood work?” he asked.
    â€œAs we’ve hoped,” Mabrother Iris said. “In every possible way. It’s a miracle. She’s even O negative.” He stepped to the computer desk and touched his fingers over the surface. “Dr. Hickory checked everything twice. He’s ecstatic.”
    â€œWhat did you test me for?” Gaia asked.
    â€œYou carry the anti-hemophilia gene,” the Protectorat said calmly. “Like your mother did.”
    The information at first confused her, and then fury coursed through her. He’d mention her mother so casually, as if she’d been nothing more than an experiment to him. “You killed her,” she said. “You confined her until she was so weak and sick at heart she couldn’t live!”
    The Protectorat crossed the room, took the strap that confined her, and coiled it around his hand. She tried to withdraw, but he drew her wrists inexorably against his chest. With his other hand, he reached toward her face, and when she ducked away, he took her right ear and pinched inward with his thumbnail. The pain was so sharp that Gaia gasped, cringing, but trying to twist away was impossible.
    â€œActually, I believe you had the honor of killing her,” the Protectorat said. “We were caring for a fragile pregnant woman as best as we could. Feel that?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    The pain increased, piercing and radiating.
    â€œYes! Please, stop!” she said, gasping.
    â€œYou will not speak rudely to me,” he said.
    â€œI’m sorry!”
    â€œI didn’t hear you.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mabrother!” she repeated. “I’m sorry!”
    He released her abruptly, and Gaia lifted her hands to her pulsing ear, feeling blood where he’d gouged into her tender skin. Her heart was racing, and a rushing noise filled her head. The Protectorat took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped blood from his fingertips, and held out the handkerchief to her.
    She had to step near to him again to take it, and as she did so, she found she was shaking, so thoroughly intimidated she was. Her episode in V cell had shaved away all her reserves, and now she, the Matrarc of New Sylum, had been reduced to a frightened girl in a matter of minutes.
    â€œAnd what do you say when a gentleman hands you a handkerchief?” he prompted her.
    â€œThank you, Mabrother,” she said softly, and pressed the white cloth to her ear.
    He regarded her dispassionately. “What’s this about you bringing my son back?”
    She was too rattled to reply. She was still trying to figure out the significance of the anti-hemophilia gene. It even seemed like they’d been planning for her, but they couldn’t have known she was coming until they’d arrested her scouts. Did having the gene put her in more danger or make her more valuable, or both?
    â€œSpeak up, girl,” the Protectorat said briskly. “Do you have Leon with you or not?”
    â€œWe do.”
    â€œAnd how many others? Two thousand? Answer my questions. Don’t act stupid.”
    â€œThere are eighteen hundred of us. We want to set up a new community, New Sylum, just below Wharfton. We’ll need a supply of water to survive.”
    â€œLet me correct you,” he said. “You’ve brought me a political nightmare. An army of rats, swarming outside my walls. In the last hour, I’ve had a dozen do-good busybodies pounding down my door and insisting we open the gate for you, and twice as many others clamoring to know how I’m going to protect them from your diseases and criminals.”
    â€œWe just need some time for your people to become better acquainted with ours,” she said. She kept her voice respectful and quiet. “We’re not criminals, or unhealthy.”
    â€œYour scouts gave me the same hogwash.