Spectacle (Menagerie #2)(24)
“Simra, how long have you been here?”
“They don’t give us calendars.”
Fair enough. I knew exactly how difficult it was to keep track of time when every day was just a cruel repeat of the day before.
“How many fall seasons have you been at the Spectacle?”
“This is my second. I came north to look for Adira after she was stolen from her groom before they could wed by terrorists trying to prevent an alliance between the marid and ifrit kingdoms.”
I blinked, stunned by the story Sultan Bruhier had evidently told his people. Was he trying to avoid conflict with the ifrits?
Either way, it was not my place to deny her the bliss of ignorance.
“I was going to help bring her home,” Simra continued. “To prove my worth as a companion.”
“So you’ve been here about a year?”
Simra nodded.
“I grew up free too.”
“And you really think it’s better to live in a rolling cage and eat scraps than to be here, in a room with showers and toilets and decent food to eat? Woodrow says we’re lucky. We’re not in cages. We’re not being starved. We’re not being dragged from town to town in the back of a stifling, germ-filled trailer. Or being injected with toxic chemicals in lab tests.”
And that was the true danger in the propaganda the Spectacle was feeding its captives—the idea that they weren’t being abused or exploited just because they weren’t being starved or experimented on.
Chains and cages were only one way to crush a person’s soul.
“So what is happening to you?” I asked as I followed her into the dorm room. “What does Vandekamp do with his collection?”
“Whatever the client wants. It’s different for everyone. For every engagement.”
She tried to turn away from me, but I ducked into her path again. “What is it for you?”
“I can’t tell you that.” Her hand went to her collar and her mouth closed. Her jaw tensed. Then she stepped around me and practically ran to the other ride of the room.
“What was that about?” Lenore’s question floated on a fresh, minty breath as she stopped at my side.
“Vandekamp has his captives convinced that they’re lucky because they’re not lab rats or circus exhibits, yet they’re not allowed to talk about what goes on in these ‘engagements.’”
“They aren’t?”
“Not all of it anyway. The collars won’t let them. And I see no more logical reason for that than for the fact that we can’t talk at night. Vandekamp’s just trying to exert as much control over us as he can. It’s like he gets off on it.”
“Delilah.”
I dragged my focus away from Simra and turned to meet Lenore’s concerned gaze. “What?”
“You can’t help people who don’t want to be helped.”
But the furiae inside me disagreed.
“It’s not that they don’t want to be helped. It’s that they truly think this is the best life has to offer.” If I couldn’t help them, why the hell had fate saddled me with the vengeful beast already stirring restlessly inside me? “They just need to see someone stand up to these remote-wielding bastards. Once they know it’s possible, they’ll fight for themselves. For each other. Humanity doesn’t have the market cornered on courage and justice. That’s not human nature. It’s just nature.”
Gallagher
Gallagher glanced around the police station in disgust. The floor was grimy, but he’d certainly seen worse. The handcuffed detainees on the bench next to him were ill-mannered and angry, but no more so than the handlers and grunts he’d spent the past year working alongside in the menagerie. It wasn’t the people or the building that offended him.
It was the process.
Redcaps—the fear dearg—had never needed handcuffs or records or rooms made of bars. If a man sacrificed his honor, he forfeited his life. Even children understood that. Guilt was never in question, because the fear dearg could not lie.
Humans, though, could build entire kingdoms on a foundation of lies. They spun tall tales for their children, used fibs to avoid their parents and fed falsehoods to their lovers like chocolate and wine.
Human men would move heaven and earth for profit or pleasure or even base cruelty, but they wouldn’t lift a finger for honor.
The police were no exception. The worthless pieces of tin pinned to their chests weren’t badges of honor, they were badges of authority, and in the human world, authority was little better than a high tower built on a small footing.
It was bound to crumble eventually.
Gallagher had understood the moment he’d woken up in a police van with Alyrose, Abraxas and Kevin that Vandekamp’s men had mistaken him for human. He’d spent twelve hours sitting in a holding cell, waiting to be processed with half a dozen other prisoners who lacked the nerve to meet his gaze.
He had let the police take their pictures and restrain him with handcuffs that would hardly close around his wrists. He’d even exchanged his clothes for an orange uniform that rode high above his ankles and gaped at his stomach when he lifted his arms, because the police would speak more freely around him than would anyone at Vandekamp’s specialized cryptid prison.
But the end of the charade was near.