Worth Dying for (A Dying for a Living Novel Book 5) by Kory M. Shrum Page A

No desensitization.
    She was terrified out of her mind, sitting on the floor, having been freshly scrubbed and re-shackled like the rest of us. A bar ran along the four walls and the girls waited in the pitch black room. As uncomfortable as it was to sit on the concrete floor with a thin nightgown on, it was preferable to the alternative. An aching, bloodless arm was unmeasurably better than being chosen for Chaplain’s nightly film.
    The door opened and a triangle of light fell on us. It was a mixed blessing. In the light, the quiet crying stopped. In the light, the consuming, obsessive, repetitive thoughts would cease if only for a moment. Of course, the light also meant the monsters had come.
    Instinctively, each one of us shrank away from the light. Even I tried to tuck myself deeper into the corner as far away as the wall would allow. The girl beside me convulsed horribly. I didn’t know if it was from fear, or if the drugs had worn off. She’d caused a scene earlier and Chaplain had one protocol for that. Act a fool and you were dosed into submission. Behave and you’d stay clean.
    I preferred the latter.
    That night when the guard and Chaplain entered the room, they took Niv. She’d thrashed, screamed, begged.
    “This is no way to behave. You’re a professional, Nivedha,” Chaplain purred. He used the sultry voice that lured us into the trap to begin with.
    “Let me go. Please. I won’t tell anyone what you’re doing here. I swear. I won’t say a word to anyone. Just let me go.”
    “You can’t think only of yourself,” he purred, trailing his fingers over her wet cheeks. “We have half a million subscribers to satisfy.”
    They’d grabbed her by the hair and drug her kicking and screaming from the room. No drugs. That was always a very, very bad sign. It meant a particularly gruesome film where full-blown hysterics were not only welcome but expected.
    I blink back the past and try to focus on the creature in front of me. She’s speaking.
    “—already apologized to two strangers,” she says. She looks me up and down. “What are you wearing?”
    “Whatever the hell I want,” I snap. My $2300 Versace dress would’ve been a significant confidence booster for the task ahead. No one told me I’d have to murder someone wearing a potato sack! But I’m not sure it can be helped. I must remain steadfast in my aim.
    “I’m in disguise, Niv. I told you.”
    Niv’s stricken face softens, but not entirely. I’ve lost some ground. “At least it’s not white. I can’t ever wear white.”
    That made two of us. Anything in the white or cream family reminded me too much of the uniforms Chaplain gave us.
    “I’m hoping we can go somewhere safe where we can talk?” I prompt her.
    Nivedha nods. “Sure. If you think it is safe to walk on the streets. Your face is all over the news.”
    “We won’t be seen,” I tell her, wrapping the scarf around my head. “Don’t worry about that.”
    Bundled up, I follow Nivedha out of the library and into the street. Thankfully, she’d chosen a meetup near her apartment, and we wouldn’t have to get on the subway again. We walk seven city blocks in relative silence. Nivedha keeps looking around, probably half-expecting someone to leap out and start attacking us as they would in an action movie. I know better. They never kill you in the open. They kill you the moment you’re behind doors.
    At least that’s what I intend to do.
    “This is me,” Niv says to me before turning to greet the doorman. We cross the lobby of a very nice apartment building. Her red-bottom heels click across the marble floors toward a man who holds the elevator open for her. The elevator man gives me a disgusted look after a once-over at my current attire. I resist the urge to pick him up and hurl him across the room. But my eyes never leave his face as he leans in and presses the number eight button on the panel inside the elevator.
    “Have a good day, Miss Nivedha.”
    “You too