“And you’re right!” Nazirah cries. “Like you said, we’re intermix! We mean nothing to them! Why would you betray us?”
“You’re too naïve, Nation,” he says. “I need to look out for myself, because no one else will. Haven’t you learned by now that everyone has a price? Especially intermix.”
“Take what you want and screw everyone else,” she spits. “Is that it?”
“Now you’re catching on.”
The vehicle stops after a short journey. Grum drags Nazirah outside into a minefield of armed guards, reporters, and news vans. Nazirah recognizes the skytower instantly. She’s seen it countless times on television and in the papers and books back home. It’s the capitol building of Renatus, the country’s symbol of power. Here at government headquarters, the Chancellor conducts his business … sermons from the pulpit of hell.
Grum pushes Nazirah through the entrance, but not before having to turn over his pistol to one of the guards. They walk quickly across the large lobby, where government employees idly chat.
The entire room immediately goes silent. A man with lilac spectacles spills coffee down the front of his shirt, but doesn’t bother to wipe it. An emaciated secretary shrieks and runs into a wall, knocking the steel bouffant off with a dull clang, revealing her shaved head beneath. Several people light cigarettes and take deep, shaky drags.
Grum pulls Nazirah through the extensive elevator bank and into a waiting glass lift. He presses the button for the top floor. The doors close with a hiss. The lift rapidly shoots upwards, climbing thousands of feet. Nazirah watches the city fall and fold beneath her. She glances at Grum, noticing he appears queasy. Nazirah considers trying to take him out. But she isn’t eager to test the strength of this glass cage.
They exit at the top, walk down a luxurious hallway plated in gold towards an ornate door. Grum enters without knocking, dragging her inside. Nazirah looks around, needing no introduction.
She’s been here before.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
There were once tigers.
And electric blue champagne, restrained laughter, even a fuchsia piano. Now there is only emptiness … threatening emptiness. The grand room of the Morgen penthouse is cold and lifeless, a mausoleum of sepulchered hopes and marble dreams.
Men smoke cigars around a circular table, drinking and gambling. A pile of gold bars and jewels rests before them. A row of girls, dolled-up in makeup and luxury, quiver in a line nearby. As Grum pulls Nazirah closer, she can see they are chained to one another. “Full house!” one man says, showing the others his cards. He greedily rubs his hands together, claiming his winnings.
“Fine, Roskum,” another sighs. “Pick one.”
The man named Roskum stands. He walks down the line of girls, scrutinizing each one. They squirm under his stare, eyes averted. He stops before a girl with ebony skin, barely a teenager, clearly fighting back tears. Roskum touches her exposed shoulder. “Has she bled yet?” he asks.
“No,” someone casually responds.
“Then I’ll take this Deathland bitch.”
Another man slams his hand on the table. “I wanted her,” he complains.
“Armison, I’ll let you have her when I’m done,” Roskum says, laughing, “if you deal with the disposal.”
“I don’t share,” Armison snaps, looking up. “And I don’t want anyone’s sloppy.…” He spots Nazirah, eyes bulging and then slanting. “Gabirel … how much for the pretty intermix?”
Roskum scans the lineup of girls again, confused. “There’s no intermix in this.…”
“She’s not for sale.”
Everyone looks at the Chancellor, then at Nazirah in shock. Armison says, “Name your price.”
“Nothing you can afford,” Gabirel says, rising elegantly. He approaches Nazirah, flanked by two young female bodyguards armed with machine guns. Nazirah is unnerved by how much he resembles Adamek. But his eyes are black, burning coals, not striking green. Just one glance and her stomach turns over. They may look alike, but the similarities end there. “You’re late, Nazirah,” Gabirel chides, taking a long drag of his cigar. “I was so worried you wouldn’t be able to make it.” His voice is soft, with an unnaturally singsong cadence. Gabirel blows smoke in her face, singeing her lungs, as he observes her bloody appearance. “You are pretty, I’ll give you that. But for all your pretty holes, you cannot hide that filthy blood.”
“I believe you have something for me,” Grum snaps.
Gabirel retrieves a gold bar from his pocket. “It’s rude to speak out of turn,” he says, tossing it Grum’s way. “But how could someone like you know any better?” His companions snicker, watching in amusement. “And your eleventh hour associate?”
Nazirah tenses and Grum shrugs noncommittally. “Taken care of.”
Gabirel looks at Nazirah quizzically. “I see.”
“Are we done here?” Grum asks, flinging a guard the key to Nazirah’s handcuffs.
“You can go, intermix.”
“Thank you,” he sneers, turning.
“On second thought,” Gabirel says, inspecting his nails, “I think I’m rather displeased with your attitude after all.”
Grum faces Gabirel stiffly. “Apologies, Chancellor.”
“Do you value your life, intermix?”
“Yes, Chancellor.”
“Then you should know not to bite the hand that feeds you.” Gabirel nods at his guard, who passes him a machete from her belt. “I’m in an unusually literal mood today,” Gabirel says, fingering the blade. He shivers excitedly. “Oh, it’s sharp!” Gabirel extends it to Grum, who cautiously accepts it. Nazirah knows something very bad is about to happen.
“Chancellor?” asks Grum warily.
“Cut it off.”
Grum looks at him, shocked. “M-My hand?”
“Y-Yes,” Gabirel mocks. “You’re not leaving here any other way.”
“Please, Chancellor!” Grum cries, dropping to his knees. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t beg,” he says. “It’s not flattering. You intermix need to learn a lesson in appreciation. Do it now and keep your life, or die. It’s your choice. Be grateful I’m giving you one.”
Nazirah doesn’t want to watch. But she can’t look away. The guards raise their guns, pointing them at Grum. Grum looks between them hopelessly, shakily raising the machete. He begins hyperventilating and crying. Nazirah almost feels sorry for him. He shuts his eyes, grits his teeth, and in one swift motion hacks off his hand at the wrist. It rolls across the marble floor.
Grum’s screams echo through the room. He cradles the remaining stump against his chest, wailing, collapsing on the ground. Blood gushes as he crawls towards the exit. Several girls cry out, gagging and looking away. Even the men appear nauseous.
Grum leaves pools and trails of crimson in his stead. Nazirah refuses to cower. Because that’s exactly what Gabirel wants. The Chancellor looks at her expectantly. “He deserved it,” she says, calmly as she can, trying not to betray her emotions.
Gabirel smiles wickedly, standing before her. “She has a voice,” he says, running a finger along her jaw. “She has a tongue.”
“You’re repulsive.”
“I’m repulsive?” He chuckles, turning around. “Did everyone hear that? The intermix finds me repulsive!” His friends laugh uncomfortably. “Remove her handcuffs.” One of his guards quickly unlocks them. Gabirel grabs Nazirah’s wrist, hisses, “You, little intermix, are the repulsive one! You and your dirty blood that taints everything it touches. Here, let me give you the mark you so desperately crave.”
Gabirel holds the burning end of his cigar just above Nazirah’s forearm. He keeps it there for several seconds, patiently waiting, staring into her eyes. Only when Nazirah flinches does Gabirel lower the tip to her skin, satisfied. Her flesh sizzles, the stench of fear and loathing. Knees buckling, Nazirah bites her lip until it bleeds. But she doesn’t cry out.