Page 102 of The Vixen

Fists bunched at his sides, Thorne continues to glare at me. “Take him to the mines.”

“And the girl?”

His eyes flick to Liberty for the briefest moment, and in that moment, all the fire inside of him dims. He turns his head as his expression settles into what would look like cold indifference if I didn’t know better.

“Her too… She isn’t going to work out here. None of them will.”

None of them will.

My head spins with his words, and I try to stand but stumble.

None of them.

They’re scrapping the project. Liberty is no longer needed. Aubry is no longer needed.

I’mno longer needed.

“What should I do with the other one?” the Keeper asks.

Thorne takes his time to respond. “Tell her to start praying she’s with child.”

CHAPTER 27

LUNA

Isit quietly and pretend not to notice them staring.

The town just north of the compound is fairly small, but seven customers still cramp the space of the bank—a couple applying for a loan, a flustered mother holding a squirming toddler as she waits in line, the older gentleman in front of them faking obliviousness. A young man in the bathroom, and two people by the front door who don’t appear to be waiting for anything other than me.

The two women at the door lean toward each other, mouths moving as they whisper and stare pointedly as if I have no eyes. Or ears. Or senses of any kind.

My gaze stays pointed in front of me while my palms sweat onto wool pants that feel far too warm for this building. In the wintertime, they blaze a furnace until the clerks no longer need jackets or even sleeves—the woman behind the counter wears a low-cut pink sleeveless blouse. In the summertime, they blastcold air until the hairs raise on their customers’ arms. In the outside world, seasons mean nothing.

But it’s me who is the freak.

“Is that the cult woman?” the mother with the fussy toddler asks as she steps up to the counter; meanwhile the old man gives a friendly wave and a bellowed goodbye as he tucks an envelope into his jacket and starts to leave. He stops to chat with the women at the door, his voice noticeably louder than theirs. He seems to be the only person who isn’t made uncomfortable by my presence.

From the corner of my eye, I watch the clerk nod and lean over the counter while cupping her mouth. She says something that makes the mother sigh. “I wish you’d put a sign on the door or something. It’s confusing for the kids.”

My chest tightens, but I keep my expression neutral. The urge to look at the child finally pulls my gaze that direction, and I find her staring at me as intently as the others had. Except, unlike the cowards, she doesn’t look away. Her wide, glassy eyes hold so much curiosity, you’d think she was looking at a two-headed raccoon.

I feel my face heat but can’t find it in myself to be angry at the little girl. I know what she’s seeing, what she’s thinking.

Why is your hair white?

Are you old?

I pull my lips into what I think is a small, friendly smile and lift my hand to give a little wave. The mother turns just as my hand lifts. Her eyes are as wide as her daughter’s, but instead of curiosity, they blaze with anger. She shifts her daughter into her other arm and holds her against her chest while the little girl protests.

“Miss Luna?”

Spine straightening, I turn my attention to the pant-suit wearing woman with her hands clasped in front of her. She hasthe same tight smile on her face as always, but today her blonde hair is brown. She must’ve dyed it.

It amazes me how fluid these people’s bodies are. The idea of changing your hair color for the sake of … what? Somehow I doubt people ridiculed her for being blonde.

I bend to pick my black duffel bag off the floor then stand and follow the woman—Brittany—into her office.

She gestures to the chair in front of her desk before plopping in her own. I perch on the edge of the chair and cross my legs, my hands resting on my knees.