The Breeders Series: The Complete Box Set

by Katie French

  But we’re slaves, just as much as that girl. The only power we have is the power to hurt each other, to make each other feel small and ashamed. I watch Sabrina run her hand over her head, naked as a baby’s. We focus on the drama of getting pink flowers embroidered on our gowns, on who gets ribbons and who doesn’t, and we miss the bigger fight.

  The worst part is even though I know I’m a prisoner, I don’t fight either. What good would fighting do? There is no freedom, nowhere to run even if I could escape. Why does it matter if I’m a prisoner here or out there? Why does any of this matter?

  It’s the saddest thing of all.

  Sabrina sucks in a stuttering breath and picks at her green beans. My hand goes to her back and rubs in circle. Sabrina matters. Nanny Bell matters. That’s why I want to stay. Because pain shared is better than pain swallowed alone. Together, we can endure so much more.

  When dinner ends and we’re herded to the common room to watch Leave it to Beaver or Father Knows Best, I swing by the front desk. Nanny Grenda is on duty.

  “What is it?” she asks, setting down a manila folder with a stack of papers inside. Her wrinkled face curls into a smile. “Not interested in the show?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve seen it. Any deliveries I can take for you?”

  She swivels around in her chair, scanning the cubbies marked with floors and departments, seven rows labeled with things like “Receiving,” “Staff Kitchen,” and “Labs.” She finds a stack of forms in the cubby for “First Floor Janitorial” and pulls them out.

  “Well, this, but it could wait until morning if you’re—”

  “I got it.” I reach for the stack of work orders and take off before she can change her mind. “Thanks, Nanny Grenda.”

  “Just be back before lights out.”

  I hoof it to the elevator as if I’m expecting someone to stop me, but there’d be no reason. As a courier, I run forms and packages all over the hospital. Even though evening runs are unusual, I’ve done it before. Still, I’m sweating as the elevator doors close. The delivery may be legitimate, but the rest of what I’m planning is definitely against the rules.

  The elevator hums steadily down. It doesn’t stop on every floor like it does during the day. This is why I like night runs. The hospital grows quiet and it’s just me slipping down the halls, going where I like. It has to be close to what freedom feels like.

  The ding for the first floor startles me and I jump a little, wrinkling the papers clutched in my palms. The elevator doors slide open.

  The first floor is quiet. Black-and-white checkered tiles count off down multiple hallways that lead to doors for which I have no clearance. Big, heavy doors with scan card locks replace the tiny residence room doors we have upstairs. There are labs, storage spaces, and janitorial closets on this floor. I’ve delivered and picked up items from each. But there are also rooms—vast, cavernous rooms based on how few doors lead to them—that I cannot name. My scan card only works on the elevator on this floor. And there are more cameras and alarm systems than anywhere else.

  My skin crawls as I step into the dimly lit hallway. My slippers echo so loudly on the tile I want to jump back into the elevator and press the close button until my finger breaks.

  Instead, I clutch my papers and tiptoe toward Janitorial, a tiny desk staffed by maintenance men who always look at me like I’m a fragile doll, but with fear in their eyes, like looking at me might lose them their jobs. It’s a strange dance we do.

  When I reach the chipped, wooden desk—cluttered with papers, old tools, spools of tape, and a package of lightbulbs—it’s empty. The stiff chair is pushed back as if someone flew out of it in a hurry. I scan the hall left and right. Somewhere a scraping sound echoes off the tile. I shuffle after it, the papers still clutched to my chest.

  Please let it be him, I think as I turn the corner.

  But it’s not who I’m seeking. A hunched form in a dusty, leather jacket stands rifling through a supply closet in the dark. I freeze, totally shocked. Is it someone from the outside? Is it Rukus?

  The figure turns.

  Heart pounding, I turn and sprint blindly. My slippers are useless, and I kick them off. I take a right, skidding around a corner and almost slamming into the wall. Behind me, footsteps pound my way.

  The elevator should be around this corner, but will I make it? The man’s harsh footfalls thunder on the tile. He is fast. Faster than me.

  I skid right. The elevators shine like exit signs.

  I run to the card swipe panel and fumble for my card. Twice my hands slip. I curse, throw my papers, and grab the card. Wave it under the scanner frantically.

  Please, please!

  The footsteps pound closer.

  The green light flashes. I pound the up arrow. “Come on. Come on!” Seconds feel like eternities.

  The elevator doors slide open. I duck in and smash the close button, smash all the buttons. Nothing happens. I stare in terror at the dim hallway and pray for the doors to close. Hot tears trace down my cheeks.

  Nothing happens. When I remember, I want to kick myself. I have to swipe my card here, too! I fumble for the rectangle of plastic.

  A hand reaches into the elevator, grabs my wrist, and yanks me out.

  Chapter 4

  Janine

  I scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth and nose. I’m drawn into a body, male and large. As he drags me backward, I struggle and kick, certain he’s going to kill me.

  “Quiet,” he whispers.

  The voice is familiar, but my brain’s buried in fear. I struggle against huge arms that drag me down the hallway. The hand wrapped around my body releases, and I hear the scrape of a metal latch. He’s opening a door. I turn to run, but rough hands yank me back and my shoulder twangs with pain. I yelp into his thick fingers.

  “Stop fighting,” he says, but his voice isn’t demanding. It’s almost…pleading.

  He shoves us into a dark space. The door clicks shut, plunging us into blackness. I want to strike out, punch, kick, whatever it takes to get away, but I can’t see anything.

  A light clicks. Dr. Houghtson is blocking the door and panting.

  “What in the world?” I say, staring at his reddened cheeks. “What’s going on, Dr. Houghtson?”

  He lifts an awkward smile and runs a hand through his brown hair, making it stand on end. He looks like an outsider version of himself with flushed cheeks, wild eyes, and a dust-covered jacket.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He holds out his empty hands as if to show he isn’t holding an implement of murder. “When I saw you in the hallway and you ran…” He shrugs. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “What’re you doing down here?” I ask. The nannies would die if they heard me talking so assertively, but all propriety has flown out the window.

  Dr. Houghtson flushes deeper. “I was looking for something, but that doesn’t matter now. I’ve been thinking about your situation.” He takes a step forward.

  “M-my situation?” I ask. Suddenly, everything seems strange between us. He’s looking at me differently than he ever has, and the air in the closet is thick and hot. My heart begins to pound anew.

  “About being put out,” he breathes. “There’s another way. A better way. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.” He reaches out, and I cower a little. His fingers pause in mid-air. “Are you scared of me?”

  I shake my head. “It’s just, I was scared before…that you were an outsider.”

  He smiles and his hand continues until he grasps strands of my hair. He rubs them through his fingers. “Don’t be afraid, Jan,” he says, his voice like a purr. “I want to help you.” His chest is heaving. “On rare occasions, doctors have been known to buy infertile girls from the hospital as…wives. A few live as families up on the top floor here.” His fingers slide through my hair. “I could do that for you. I’ve been saving money for some time. I could save you.”

  My heart pounds so hard I almost miss what he’s saying
. All I can do is keep my body still and concentrate on the inches between his space and mine. Ten inches of space.

  Licking his lips, he leans forward. He smells like night air and desire. “What do you say?”

  I look at his mouth, at his wild eyes. I’m frightened, but I’m not sure why. Dr. Houghtson has always been kind to me, but then I remember his probing fingers as he gave me my exams. How he looked at me afterward. And now he wants to buy me?

  “C-can I think about it? I mean, w-we have two months.” My voice is such a small thing compared to his body. I doubt he can hear it at all, but his look of want fades.

  “We don’t have much time. I need to start working on Dr. Bashees right awa—”

  A knock on the door. We both freeze. Dr. Houghtson whirls around.

  “Is someone in there?” the voice calls from the other side of the door.

  Dr. Houghtson clicks off the light, plunging us into darkness. His hand grabs my arm and his lips brush my ear. My fear is at my throat again.

  “Go out there,” he whispers. “Tell them you were looking for cleaning supplies. Don’t mention me.”

  He shoves me forward. I stumble toward the door, fumble for the handle, and turn. When the fresh air and dim hallway light hit my face, I almost cry with relief.

  I stagger out. Standing there, mop in one hand, is the man I came down here looking for. Robbie, the janitor, stares at me with wide-eyed wonder as I lean against the door and breathe.

  “What were you doing in there?” he asks, cocking his head and spilling his dirty-blond curls to the side.

  I can’t speak. Grabbing his arm, I tug him in the direction of the receiving desk.

  Robbie follows and we walk at a clip, his mop bucket rattling over grout lines. He doesn’t pry as I nearly sprint away from the storage closet, and I’m grateful. The lie Dr. Houghtson gave me won’t make any sense, and there’s no way I can tell Robbie the truth.

  When we find the wooden desk and the shelves cluttered with odds and ends, I tuck myself down behind it and sit on the floor. Robbie looks at me like I’ve grown horns, but he doesn’t ask. He offers me a package wrapped in wax paper. When I unwrap it, I find a fish sandwich.

  “This is your lunch,” I say, staring at the thick brown bread around the flaky white fish. “Or whatever you night shifters call your mid-meal.” I hand him his food back.

  He takes it and folds the paper back gently. “We call it lunch. Weird, right?”

  I smile, but I still clutch my knees to my chest as if they will protect me. “What do you call the last meal before you sign off?”

  “I call it lucky, since we’re lucky if we get anything,” he says, coming around to rest a hip on the cluttered desk. “Did you need something from me?”

  “Oh, darn it. I dropped the forms by the elevator.” I punch a hand into the tent my gown makes across my knees.

  He reaches around and draws out a tube of paper from his back pocket. The requests. He hands them to me. I smile and press them to my chest.

  “It isn’t like you to lose your forms,” he says, looking at me from under his mop of curls.

  It’s his way of asking what happened, but I dodge it. “What’s new on level one?” I ask, peering at the desk. “Anything thrilling?”

  He gestures to the mop in his fist and then to the lightbulbs on the desk. “A clogged toilet on three. A squeaky door on two. That’s thrilling, right?” He twists his mouth, thinking. His face is comforting with his round cheeks and deep-set eyes.

  “How’s the puzzle book?” He mimes a book with his hands.

  “Wonderful,” I say. “And almost gone. God, can you imagine what it used to be like having books like that at your fingertips? I can’t fathom what that must’ve cost you.”

  He waves a dismissive hand. “I found it in a garbage pile.”

  “Liar,” I say, smiling. “Anything happening outside?”

  “A lot more raids of the night bazaar. I guess some major gambling ring has been going on. Lots of money won and lost. Mostly lost. Make everyone do crazy things, so they’re shutting it all down.”

  “Nothing you’d get into?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and scratches a hand through his half-inch beard. “No ma’am. Straight and narrow is the path for me. My dah taught me right.”

  I nod, remembering that Robbie was raised by a foster father in the shantytown outside the hospital, just like most of the male workers here. Boy babies born to Breeders girls are given to willing fathers with a stipend and reared until age thirteen. At that point, the boys have to fend for themselves. Many die. Some, like Robbie, show enough promise to come back and work for the hospital. He’s lucky, by all accounts. Maybe that’s why I’m here. I hope some of his luck rubs off on me.

  “Do you still talk to your dah?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “He died.”

  “How?”

  Robbie sniffs. “At the night bazaar. Some trader, high on devil’s weed, stole a knife and went after some boys. My dah stepped in. The trader spilled his guts and ran off.”

  “Sorry, Robbie.”

  “I was twelve. Able to take care of myself by then anyway.”

  I let the moment sit, thinking about Robbie and his dah. He pushes the mop bucket aside and comes to sit beside me on the floor.

  “What were you looking for in that closet? You looked shaken as a cockroach on a stagecoach when you came out.” When I giggle at his choice of words, he blushes. “Sorry. Something my dah used to say.”

  I nod, tasting metal in my mouth.

  “Anything that I can do?” he asks, tugging at a hole in his work coveralls.

  My fingers form letters in my lap that I don’t know I’m signing until I’ve spelled several words. “No, but thanks for asking.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” He digs into the breast pocket of his coveralls and produces a thin, red satin ribbon. He drops it in my palm.

  “Robbie, it’s beautiful,” I say, almost crying. “How much did it cost?”

  He shakes his head, smelling like lemon cleaner and warm earth. His presence makes me wish I could stay behind this desk with him, my friend, for the rest of my life.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, tucking the ribbon in my pocket. “Sabrina will be so happy.”

  He nods, his beard quirking into a smile. “I can get you things, too. Whatever you like.”

  I smile and pat his hand. “I have all anyone could get me.”

  “Well, I got you something anyway.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a small box.

  I study it as he holds it out to me. “What is it?”

  He shrugs. “Thought you could tell me. The guy who sold it to me said it was a puzzle, but it looks like a regular old box to me. Bastard probably ripped me off.” He drops it in my hands.

  I roll the small, wooden box over in my hands. It’s tiny, about the size of a pack of cards, with a faded Chevron symbol burned into the side. As I turn it over in my hands, I notice one section of the box is more worn than the others. I push on it. That section of the box slides. I flip it over and find another panel, one that’s been worn away by many fingers. When I push this section, the panel slides back to reveals an empty compartment.

  “It is a puzzle,” Robbie says, leaning over me to study it. “You’re really smart.”

  “Not really,” I say, handing it back to him.

  His warmth is comforting. I let my arm brush his. We sit and enjoy each other’s company for the short moment we’re allowed. It will be over much too soon.

  When I tiptoe into our room, Sabrina’s already snoring. I pat my pocket with the red ribbon and the puzzle box. I’ll show her in the morning. With all the hormone treatments she’s on, Sabrina never sleeps well. Often, she wakes me up whimpering in her sleep. I never ask her about her dreams. It’s better if she doesn’t remember whatever it is she sees.

  I creep into my bed and ease myself in. The springs are old, the mattresses thin. D Hall residents get all the hand-me-
downs. I wiggle a little to settle myself and stare at the shadows on the wall. Sleep is a high ceiling, just out of my reach, and black thoughts hover between. Dr. Houghtson’s words cling to me. He wants me to be his wife. I roll this thought over and over, tasting it. Dr. Houghtson’s not a bad man. He has always been kind to me, always offered me sweets or a soft word. I’ve heard stories of doctors striking infertile girls, and he is definitely not that kind of man. But there’s something about him that makes my skin crawl. Maybe it’s that he always seems to be touching me whenever he gets the chance. Tonight, when my hair was slipping between his fingers, my reaction was to bolt. If we marry, how could I let him touch me in every place like that?

  The image of the girl on a leash appears. What scars does she hide beneath her tunic? Around her heart?

  A life on the outside would finish me. A life with Dr. Houghtson might be okay. I could live in the hospital. I could see Sabrina, Nanny Bell, and Robbie.

  Another shiver courses my body at the thought of Dr. Houghtson’s hands. I roll over, stare at the window, and watch the clouds skim past a harvest moon. I have to get pregnant. I have to.

  I lie in the silence and will my body to flower.

  I wake to thunderous footsteps on the tile floor. My eyes pop open. In the dawn light, Dr. Bashees and two other doctors stare at me.

  “Janine of D Hall?” Dr. Bashees says, glancing at a clipboard.

  “Y-yes. Yes sir, that’s me.” I stand. My heart is pounding and my head spins. On the other side of the room, Sabrina sits up and looks at me with fearful eyes.

  “Janine, you have been unable to produce offspring for the good of the cause. Is this correct?” His voice is even, his face unflinching.