He smiled sadly, like one might at a misguided child. "Are you aware that the Troika has been doing experiments on humans for years in the work camps?"
I crossed my arms. "I've heard whispers, rumors."
Icarus snorted. "They're not just rumors." He sounded too confident for the information to be from hearsay.
I shrugged because I didn't have a response. They'd tell me what they wanted me to know soon enough.
Saga saw me mentally dig my heels in and smiled. "Isn't it possible they also conducted experiments on the humans they collected for the dormitories?"
I narrowed my eyes and tilted my head. "The Troika is capable of a lot of things, but they are not able to falsify memories or emotions. And if you know what is good for you, you will stop trying to convince me that the memories I have of my mother are lies." I delivered these words in a voice edged with steel. It simply was not an option to even entertain what they were suggesting. My memories of my mother were the only warmth I had to cling to when I was young and huddled in the cold, white dormitory bed at night. When it was dark and the sniffling of my cellmates punctuated the air and the loneliness pressed in so hard I could barely breath. The fact Saga even attempted to fuck with my head like this made me want to walk out of that book tomb and damn the consequences.
"I wouldn't act on the thoughts behind those wild eyes of yours."
"You don't know what I think, old man."
He dipped his chin to acknowledge that he didn't have the ability to mind read. "I wouldn't presume to, but I can see the anger boiling there. But it is displaced. We aren't your enemies."
"Aren't you? Ever since the Chatelaine brought me to this group I have been treated like one."
"Do you know what the human rebels call you?" Saga asked. I shook my head. "The Troika's Concubine."
“Why dress it up in big words, Scribe? You meant to say I was the Troika’s whore, correct?” I asked with a raised brow.
"I still say we shouldn’t trust someone whose reputation is pro-Troika." Dare grumbled.
I couldn't afford for these people to see how their obtuseness over the reality of my life with the Troika affected me, so I tossed my hair back and raised my chin. "So why didn't you kill me on sight?"
"For some reason the Chatelaine trusted you. That saved you at first." Icarus met my eyes. "You will only remain alive if you can prove yourself useful to the cause."
I'd had enough. I was tired of being told what I would or would not do. I crossed my arms and looked him in the eye. "You can shove your cause up your ass. I don't answer to you."
Hard metal slammed into my soft temple. Ripples of pain pulsed through my head, but fear was strangely absent. Shock, probably. Or just resignation. It wasn't the first time a man had pressed a gun to my head. Castor loved a little gun play before he fucked my vein. More times than I could count, I'd taunt him into rages hoping he'd just pull the trigger.
But Icarus wasn't Castor and I hadn't escaped only to die less than forty-eight hours later. I gritted my teeth against the pain and glared into his eyes. "Fine, you want information?" I’d give them something they couldn't refuse. Then they'd have to let me go. "I can tell you how to destroy the Troika."
Dare snorted. "Bullshit."
The gun's pressure didn't ease up, but Icarus's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
I licked my dry lips. Time to talk fast. "Rebels have been fighting minor skirmishes with the Troika for years, but not making any major headway, right?" He nodded reluctantly. "Well, what if you could deal a major blow to the vamps' infrastructure?"
"I'm listening."
"Do you know who Pontius Morordes is?"
"He's a murderer," Icarus spat.
I glanced at him but the hatred in his eyes made me look away quickly. Good thing then that I didn't mention that I knew Morordes by more than just name. He'd attended several of the Troika parties where I'd been paraded out like a show pony. Unlike the other vampires who pawed me and looked me over like an objet d'art, he'd had a kindly smile and seemed to look down on the others who treated humans like toys. I'd even visited him at his lab a few times. Sure, he'd taken my blood and done a few tests, but he'd always had a ready smile and a gentle manner. Still, I didn't object to Icarus's characterization because I figured it wouldn't be very good for my health.
"In the camps they call him Doctor Death," Icarus said. "For years he's been collecting human specimens and conducting experiments. Many of which have left the test subjects mutilated or dead. What of him?"
I stretched my neck a little, trying to get some room between me and the bullet-spitter, but it followed me. "A few months ago he figured out a prototype for synthetic blood."
The Scribe and Icarus exchanged a dubious look. "Synthetic?"
I nodded. "They've been having trouble in the blood camps. The stress of constant bleeding is killing off a lot of the humans, and the breeding program isn't producing enough people to replace them fast enough." Because blood type is determined by genetics, the Troika had to have enough humans of the right blood types to procreate a new generation of sacrificial lambs. Since children couldn't survive long in the bloodletting wards, the Troika had logistical problems. Along the way, one of their scientists proposed the idea of creating a synthetic alternative to human blood as insurance against a blood shortage.
"The Troika would never give up High Bloods," Saga said. High Blood was the name for humans with the most desirable blood types. Like me.