Nashira clapped her hands again. Four amaurotics came through a small door, each carrying a platter and the overpowering smell of herbs. Michael was among them, but he didn’t meet my eye. Working quickly, they laid a magnificent spread on the table, all around the bell jar. One poured chilled white wine into our glasses. A lump blocked my throat. The platters were laden with food. Beautifully cut chicken, tender and succulent, with crispy golden skin; stuffing with sage and onion; thick, sweet-smelling gravy; cranberry sauce; steamed vegetables and roast potatoes and plump sausages wrapped in bacon—a feast fit for the Inquisitor. When Nashira nodded, the bone-grubbers tucked straight in. They ate quickly, but without the feral urgency of starvation.

My gut ached. I wanted to eat. But then I thought of the harlies, living on grease and hard bread in their hovels. So much food in here, and so little out there. Nashira noticed my reservation.

“Eat.”

It was an order. I put a few slices of chicken and some vegetables on my plate. Carl gulped down his wine like it was water. “Watch it, 1,” said one of the girls. “You don’t want to be sick again.”

The rest of them laughed. Carl grinned. “Come on, that was just once. I was still a pink.”

“Yeah, come on, leave off 1. He deserves the wine.” 22 gave him a friendly punch on the arm. “He’s still a rookie. Besides, we all had a tough time with our first Buzzer.”

There were murmurs of assent. “I passed out,” the same girl admitted. A selfless display of solidarity. “The first time I saw one, I mean.”

Carl smiled. “But you’re great with spirits, 6.”

“Thanks.”

I watched their camaraderie in silence. It was nauseating, but they weren’t acting. Carl didn’t just like being a red-jacket; it was more than that—he belonged in this strange new world. I could empathize, in a way. It was how I’d felt when I first started working for Jaxon. Maybe Carl had never found a place in the syndicate.

Nashira watched them. She must take pleasure in this weekly charade. Stupid, indoctrinated humans, laughing about the trials she’d put them through—all under her thumb, eating her food. How powerful she must feel. How self-satisfied.

“You’re still a pink.” A high-pitched voice came to my attention. “Have you fought a Buzzer?”

I glanced up. They were all looking at me.

“Yesterday night,” I said.

“I haven’t seen you before.” 22 raised his dense eyebrows. “Whose battalion do you fight in?”

“I’m not part of a battalion.” I was enjoying this.

“You must be,” another boy said. “You’re a pink. Which other humans are in your residence? Who’s your keeper?”

“My keeper only has one human.” I gave 22 a quick smile. “You might have seen him around. He’s the blood-consort.”