He, on the other hand, preferred a softer approach. And clients who wanted the special—and very lucrative—service he sometimes offered afterward found it more satisfying when they could whisper a name while enjoying the thrill of having the commonplace elevated to the exotic. The girls weren’t good sex partners. They were too stoned on their own euphoria to even remember if they’d had a penis inside them. But having sex with a blood prophet provided entrée into some social circles. After all, it took more than money to persuade someone like Mr. Smith to grant a client that extra time with a girl. It took ambition and the potential to become a mover and shaker in the highest of human circles.
The client who was about to face Daisy might be such a man. And depending on what the girl said, he might agree that the girl would enjoy a private session since the client had indicated a desire for the experience.
After seating the client in the chair directly in front of the girl, Mr. Smith sat in the chair a little to the side where he could watch client and prophet. The girl was draped with a blanket from neck to knees. Under that blanket she wore nothing but a G-string made of thin material that wouldn’t hide the juice brought on by the euphoria.
“Daisy,” Mr. Smith said quietly. “This man is running for the office of mayor in his city. He wants to know if using the Humans First and Last platform will help him win. What will the election bring?”
He repeated the same words over and over while the handlers removed the blanket. He’d already had a good idea what this client would ask and had already chosen the skin. A cut along the left side of the belly. The blood trickling from the cut would keep drawing the eyes to the G-string and add another layer of desire for the extra service.
“What will the election bring?” he asked as the handler finished the cut.
Daisy stared at the client, her face filled with the agony that came before the first words of the prophecy were spoken, releasing the addictive euphoria. Their need for that feeling was the reason cassandra sangue would cut themselves two or three times a day if they weren’t monitored and cut on a schedule.
“Tornado,” Daisy said, staring at the client. “Buildings with broken windows. Flowers growing through cracks in pavement. Vines climbing up walls. His face on a piece of paper, and the word ‘elect’ above the face. Paper blowing down an empty street.”
Closing her eyes, she moaned and tipped her pelvis up in invitation as the prophecy ended.
“What does that mean?” the client stammered. “What do any of those images have to do with the election or my chance of winning?”
Hopefully nothing, Mr. Smith thought. “It appears Daisy is experiencing some kind of upset and is unable to offer an accurate prophecy.” He rose. Taking a firm grip on the client’s arm, he escorted the man out of the room.
“What about my prophecy?” the client demanded. “I paid—”
“You will not be charged for today’s session,” Mr. Smith interrupted. “We’ll make an appointment for you next week with another girl.”
“Next week? But I have to make a decision before then!”
Mr. Smith stopped and looked the man in the eyes. “None of my girls are available until next week.” Meaning, come back then or find another establishment. Not as easy to do as it sounded. All the men who took care of cassandra sangue and sold the girls’ abilities recognized the need for some secrecy.
After handing over the client to one of the staff who would escort the man off the grounds, Mr. Smith returned to the interview room and studied Daisy. Her eyes were still glazed, but the euphoria had faded and she was starting to come around.
“Do you want her exercised?” one of the handlers asked.
“No,” Mr. Smith said. “Give her some water and a bite to eat, then let her sleep it off.”
An hour later, Mr. Smith sat in another interview room with the representative of a farming association that supplied food for several cities in the Midwest Region of Thaisia—an association that wanted to fiddle the books and claim a shortage in order to quietly sell grains to Cel-Romano.
He’d chosen Peaches for this cut. She was the most receptive girl he had for farming prophecies.
“What will grow best on our land this year?” the representative said. “What crops will do well?”
Mr. Smith repeated the questions as the handler made a cut above one of Peaches’s ripe breasts.
“Fire.” She sighed out the word. “Fire eats and eats. Water swallows. Plate clean. Food all gone.”
Mr. Smith walked to his office and closed the door. Then, giving in to the fear that had shuddered through him, he leaned his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. His handlers were experienced professionals and knew the girls. It was possible that they missed some sign that Daisy shouldn’t have been put on the roster today, but Daisy and Peaches speaking prophecies that had nothing to do with the questions?
Nothing wrong with my girls, Mr. Smith thought. And that means what they saw did, in fact, answer the questions.
A city’s destruction caused by an election. Fire and flood the only crops a Midwest farming association would harvest this year.
The girls could be wrong. A different decision, a different choice, and what Daisy and Peaches saw today wouldn’t happen.
But the people whose choices might make that difference probably were not on his client list. As much as he wanted to believe his movers and shakers were important men and women, they were only big fish in the small pond known as the Midwest Region.
If he wanted to understand why his girls’ prophecies were filled with so many images of destruction, he was going to have to seek advice from someone whose client list was more … expansive.
He loathed that bastard, but he didn’t know who else to call.
Mr. Smith poured himself a stiff drink, then sat at his desk and placed a call to the man known as the Controller.
CHAPTER 9
Meg pulled up in front of the Pony Barn. No Crows or Hawks or Owls around to report that she’d been there. And there was no reason for her to be there—no extra mail or packages to deliver. In fact, she’d ended up here because there was nothing else to deliver but she didn’t want to go home yet.
Usually she had the Quiet Mind class on Windsday evening and spent time with Merri Lee, Ruth, and Heather. But all the stores were closing at five p.m. because of some special meeting, and Simon had told her not to come back to the Market Square area after she closed the office for the day. Well, now that they were friends again, he had made an effort to sound as if he were asking her to stay away.
Of course, the word please sounded very different when it was snarled. But that was Simon, and friends accepted friends for who they were. She’d read that in a magazine recently.
Ask or order, it amounted to the same thing: the Courtyard’s business area was closed to everyone but the members of the Business Association and whoever else was attending the meeting. Even the efficiency apartments were off-limits tonight. Clearly the Others wanted this meeting to remain private.
So no Quiet Mind class, no friends, and no one but her at the Green Complex until this meeting was over and the Others returned to their apartments.
She hadn’t been alone at the Green Complex since the night men came into the Courtyard and tried to capture her and Sam.