The Clan Corporate

In her careful list of what might have gone wrong, she'd overlooked option three: the entire clinic was a front for Angbard's organization, in which case it was no surprise at all that it was doppelgangered. And Darling had known she was a hoaxer as soon as she opened her mouth, because none of the IVF scheme details had been registered with the relevant FDA supervisory committees. Nobody outside the clan had ever heard of W* heterozygotes. So…

She groaned and tried to roll over, away from the too-bright sunlight that was hurting her eyelids, only to be brought up short by a metal bracelet locked around her left wrist. Shit. She opened her eyes to see a whitewashed concrete wall inches away from her nose. I'm a prisoner.

The realization was crushing, and with it came a sense of total despair at her own stupidity. I told Paulie to take care and not go barging in, why couldn't I listen to my own advice? She pushed herself upright and looked around, taking stock of her situation.

She was lying on a narrow cot in a room about five feet wide and maybe eight feet long. Next to the end of the bed, a stainless-steel sink was bolted to the wall. At the foot of the bed she could see a similarly grim-looking commode next to the door. The bed had a foam pillow and a sheet, and that was it. They'd dressed her in a hospital gown, taken her clothes, and handcuffed her to a ring in the wall by a length of chain. There was a window set high up in one wall, through which the morning-or afternoon-sunlight slid, and a naked bulb recessed in the ceiling, but she couldn't see a light switch. There was no mirror over the washbasin, no handle on the inside of the door, and absolutely no sign to betray where she was. But she already knew roughly what this place had to be, and where. It was a doppelganger cell in one of the Clan's surviving safe houses. An oubliette. People could vanish in here, never be seen again. For all she knew, maybe that was the idea-there'd be a sealed room on the other side, air full of carbon monoxide or some other silent killer so that if she somehow unchained herself and tried to world-walk…

Miriam shook her head, desperately trying to dispel the bubbling panic. I do not need this now, she told herself faintly. I mustn't go to pieces. But telling herself didn't help much. In fact, it seemed to make things worse. She'd stuck her nose into Angbard's business, and she'd have to be a blind fool to imagine that Angbard would just slap her lightly across the wrist and say "Don't do it again." Angbard's authority was based on the simple, drastic fact that everybody knew that you didn't cross the duke. Roland had been terrified of him, Baron Oliver and her grandmother the dowager had given Angbard a wide berth, focusing instead on weaklings among his associates-the only person she'd known to openly cross Angbard was Matthias, and he'd just vanished. Quite possibly she was going to find out where he'd gone. If not-she cringed. It wasn't as if she could try to bluff that it was just a stupid, sophomoric prank, an attempt to get his attention. Angbard wasn't an idiot, and more important, he didn't think she was. Which meant that he was bound to take her seriously. And the last thing she wanted was for Angbard to get it into his head that she was looking for-not to use any euphemisms-blackmail material. She glanced at her wrist, halfway desperate enough to try and world-walk anyway, risking the doppelganger room. Then she gave an involuntary moan of despair. Her temporary tattoo was gone.

There must have been a hidden camera or spy hole somewhere in the walls, because she didn't have to wait long. Maybe half an hour after she awakened, the door rattled and slammed open. Miriam flinched away but was brought up short by the chain. Two guys in business suits stared at her from the doorway like leashed hounds watching a rabbit. Behind them stood an older man with a dry, sallow face and an expression like a hungry ferret: "We can do this two ways, easy or hard. Easy is, you sit in this wheelchair and don't say nothing. You don't want hard."

"Do you know who I am?" asked Miriam.

One of the hounds glanced at the ferret for approval: receiving it, he stepped forward and punched her in the solar plexus. She writhed on the bed, trying to suck in enough air to scream, while the ferret watched her. "We know just who you are," he said after a minute, so quietly that she nearly missed his words beneath the noise of her own racking gasps. "Boys, get her into the chair. She'll be easy now-won't you?"

There was a wheelchair waiting in the corridor and they got her into it in short order, transferring the handcuff and discreetly tucking it under her robe. Miriam didn't pay much attention to the ride. Her chest was on fire, she'd lost bladder control when the guard punched her, and she felt too frightened and humiliated to risk meeting anyone's eyes.

They wheeled her to an elevator, then along another hallway, and she caught a brief glimpse of daylight before they pushed her up a ramp into the back of an ambulance, all stainless-steel fittings and emergency kits strapped to the walls. Ferret clambered in with her, and after they secured the chair to the floor both hounds climbed out. They shut the doors, and a short time later the ambulance moved off. Miriam stared at the ferret and licked her lips. "Can I talk now?"

"No." She flinched in anticipation but he didn't hit her. The ambulance turned a corner and accelerated, then the driver goosed the siren.

Ferret caught her looking at him. "Always talking," he said tiredly. "Do you want anything?"

Miriam stared. "Do I want anything?" She shook her head. "Got a towel?"

He reached out and grabbed a handful of tissues from a box, dumping them in her lap with an expression of mild distaste. "When we get where we're going I'm going to wheel you out in that chair and take you to a transfer station. You will use the sigil there to follow me across. You won't speak to anyone, under any circumstances. You will be given clothes, then you will follow me to a room where somebody important will give you orders. You will do exactly what they tell you to do. If you do not obey their orders I will hurt you or kill you, because that's my job. Do you understand?"

The siren cut in again. Miriam stared at him some more: then she nodded, frightened beyond words. This quiet, middle-aged man terrified her. Something about him suggested that if he thought he should kill her he wouldn't hesitate for a second-and he'd sleep soundly in his bed afterward.

The ferret looked satisfied. He shook his head, then leaned back. His suit coat fell open far enough that Miriam could see his handgun. She licked her lips: if she'd been a comic-book heroine, she supposed she would lean forward and make a grab for it. But she wasn't a superhero. Comic-book Miriam lived in the land of make-believe, and it was real-world Miriam who'd somehow have to get out of this mess intact. Comic-book Miriam wouldn't let herself get trapped, beaten, and cowed in the back of an ambulance with a fifty-something goodfella, on her way to an appointment with someone who had the power to have her killed. She wouldn't have pissed herself the first time one of the hounds punched her, or ignored Paulie and Erasmus, or gone in to see Dr. Darling without backup, or tried to get to see Baron Henryk without preparation… I'm a fuckup, she thought miserably. I'm not safe to be allowed out on my own.

The ambulance braked hard, turned, and slowed to a stop. "Remember what I said. And no yakking." The doors opened, revealing an underground car park and both hounds-this time one of them cradled a short-barreled Steyr AUG. Definitely Clan Security, Miriam registered, her knees going weak with dread. They've got me dead to rights, except that as far as Security were concerned, nobody had any rights: the Clan had been in a state of perpetual warfare since long before she was born, and even before that they'd taken a very medieval approach to dealing with dissent.