The first time, I had cried. Just once, and it had made no difference. After that, I learned to seal off a part of myself. I separated into my body and my mind, and only the body was hurt. Eleven Renewals, eleven men, and I knew the name and crime of every one of them, just as I knew which of them broke down, which embraced their fate with vicious abandon, which cried for their mothers, which begged for mercy. I bore their names inside of me.

One last time.

Compulses were only strong suggestions—they could not control a person entirely. My safety lay in the hands of the Masked Sister behind the bed. And although my body flinched, I never made a sound.

When it was over, they took him away. I shut my eyes. He might have been infected before he ever set eyes on me. The Order made the best use of its resources; a multitude of Sisters could perform the rite with the same man. A few weeks, then the signs would show. Maybe longer, maybe less time. It varied. But whether by my body or another, his degeneration was inevitable. Once he had outlived his usefulness, the Sisterhood would banish him to Ventris. Drop him like a stone into the clouded abyss, so he would never disturb Aytrium again.

The Masked Sister performed the gesture for gratitude and bowed out of the room.

We could not conceive without the rite, without sex, without this. We could not just take their seed and bury it in our bodies. That had been tried, over and over, but it seemed that for a Sister to fall pregnant, a man needed to suffer infection.

And so, somewhere below, my father and grandfathers stalked the unknown dark. My victim would join them, and wander, and hunger. Haunts never die.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

His name was Declan Lars, I later discovered. Murderer.

Swallows crisscrossed the sky. They flew low and swift over the slate roof of the dormitory and down to the street, veering without warning. I watched them through the open bathroom window.

Attending Kisme’s party was the last thing I felt like doing. I shrank down so that my mouth was submerged by the bathwater. But I would, of course. A bruise cut across my ribs; I traced it with my fingertip. Of course.

Rhyanon’s cab was probably already waiting. I needed to pull myself together.

I rose, sending water splashing over the rim of the tub, and wrapped a towel around my chest. My hair had curled into a wild tangle of black ringlets; I tugged it into order with my fingers. Outside my window, I could hear other Acolytes returning from work. Snippets of conversation, the rusted squeak of the front door, raucous laughter from the dining hall.

With a pang of unease, I realised I had last eaten yesterday. Between Rhyanon and the Renewal, it had slipped my mind.