Page 75 of Hunted

The medlab’s half-glass, half-wood doors loomed ahead. Fluorescent lighting beamed through its windows, illuminating the white tiled floor, white painted walls, white-clad people—white, white, white, white, white.

Mercy, seated in a plastic chair in a waiting area to the left of the entry, lifted a solemn hand in greeting.

In another life, it would be Fleur waiting for me.

In another life, neither of us would be here.

But now—thanks to Pearce and that early dismissal—I lost my chance to soar. I was instead relegated to the flitting, earth-bound nature and appropriately acrobatic lifestyle of a Swallow.

I padded up to the seats and claimed the spare one beside Mercy, ignoring the other girl in the corner with her nameless handler.

Beckett didn’t pause. He strode through the double doors to go and speak with a man in a—shocking—white lab coat. Within seconds, they were speaking heatedly, and the man cowered as Beckett’s tenor rose loud enough to hear through the glass.

“Do it!” he bellowed.

I sighed and turned to the only other person who could possibly understand how I was feeling right now. “You doing okay?”

Mercy huffed an unamused laugh. “Define okay.”

“Point taken.”

Her fingers, clenched in her lap, squeezed once then relaxed. “It’s fine, I guess. I was expecting this.” Her eyes, black in this lighting, shot to mine. “I just really hate needles.”

Snorting, I reached out and grabbed her hand, lacing my fingers through hers.

Several minutes passed while the nameless girl and her nameless handler were called through.

Several more minutes crawled by while Mercy’s handler and two out of three of mine, waited silently in the hall, staring at us both like we were seconds from bolting.

Where would we even go? And if we’d had the know-how on breaking out of this Gothic hellhole, wouldn’t we have done so by now?

The doctor Beckett was arguing with burst out into the hall, stumbling like he’d fallen—or perhaps been shoved. And judging by my lead handler's immediate reappearance just behind him, I’d have bet my last dollar on the latter.

Glasses askew, the thin, mid-forties, pencil-pusher-type doctor straightened, brushed invisible lint from his immaculate coat, and glanced between us. “Which of you is Adelaide Sinclair?” he stammered, edging away from the ogre.

“That would be me.” I squeezed Mercy’s hand once more for reassurance—hers or mine, I wasn’t sure—then rose steadily to my feet.

“Come through.”

Beckett cleared his throat, and the doctor startled. “Please,” he added quickly, side-eyeing the gargantuan with crossed arms and a stance that could rival one of the garden gargoyles’ solidity.

I frowned as I passed him, noting that he and the other two followed as well, like a row of good little ducklings. We were led past a series of hospital-looking rooms to the exam room right down the back. He stood at the threshold, reaching for the door so he could close it as he gestured for me to sit on the bed.

“You three can wait out in the hall while I speak to my patient.”

Beckett simply barged past the man and leaned back against the wall directly across from the bed.

“Like fuck,” Pearce spat, following suit.

“Yeah, that’s not happening, Rick.” Van patted him on the shoulder as he, too, waltzed in, pausing to explain. “Varco’s orders are strict: eyes on the asset at all times.”

“Great,” Doctor Rick muttered to himself.

I was inclined to agree.

Goodbye privacy, hello babysitters.

“Miss Sinclair,” the doctor began, pacing into the room and stopping a few feet short of where I sat. “As you are aware, Blackwing Academy requires several things from its newly assigned Swallow designees.”