Radiane’s read the books about asylums, too.
Her wrist aches a little: sparring and bag work didn’t really prepare her for laying out a grown man, even one with a glass jaw. It’s cold in here. There have been no howls or rattling chains yet. She has noticed that the doors on these rooms are heavily secured, though, and the man at the entrance had no convenient ring of keys.
Georgette is shivering, but following; Iala is pale. “You do have a plan,” she murmurs, “as to what to do when we find her?”
Proserpina says nothing, just strides grimly on.
It takes about twenty people to run the world, and you only get to do it if you’ve been really, really awful.
There’s a waiting list.
“So what’d you do?” asks Barclay, peering through a porthole into the center of the Earth. Inside, ragged men shriek and stumble on the treadwheel, watched and occasionally electrocuted by cold-eyed imperators.
“Finance,” says Mathers shortly. “You?”
Barclay checks his phone again (still no service). “A little arms,” he says, “a little dope.”
“I invented the Electric Slide!” says Wellburn, which is just his little joke, he actually killed a lot of old people.