Dammit. I knew that’s what was going on.
“It’s funny you should call it resistance to the Bride Lottery,” Roya continued. “That’s what we are. The resistance.”
Great. Without even realizing it, the legal system was putting resistance members in touch with each other, grouping them together in one house and giving them reason to think there were a lot of like-minded people on the planet. Which there probably were—we just didn’t all hang out together, as a general rule.
Until now.
“We have a lot of big plans,” Roya continued. “We’re hoping you’ll be interested in joining us.”
My stomach dropped. Involuntarily, I glanced back over my shoulder, even though I could no longer see the prison behind us.
Roya caught the motion. “You don’t have to decide right now,” she said. “I know getting out of that place is fresh for you. But just keep in mind that the Bride Alliance takes a basic freedom away from human women—the freedom to choose who we spend our lives with.”
She wasn’t wrong. And when it came down to it, I agreed with her—that was, after all, why I had talked Sammy Wesson into marrying me straight out of high school. We planned to get divorced after the mandatory five years, but somehow had never gotten around to it. It hadn’t seemed important—at least not to me, and I guess Sammy must have felt the same way, given that it had been at least seven or eight years since I’d even heard from him.
Not that it mattered now.
Our marriage had been dissolved, as if it never happened.
“I’ll think about it,” I promised Roya.
“That’s all we ask.”
The halfway house was nicer than I had anticipated. All my imaginings had been informed by vid-dramas where aging hitmen slept in rat-and-roach-infested bedrooms with single beds and cracked paint on the walls.
This halfway house looked like all the other multi-storied Victorian Revival houses on the street—newer, sturdier construction in an old-fashioned style. It even had a wraparound porch and curlicue gingerbread molding on the house.
“Cute,” I said as I got out of the car and hefted my duffel bag over my shoulder.
“The neighbors were not thrilled to have us move in, but they’ve come around, for the most part,” Roya told me. “Come in and I’ll show you to your room.”
As I followed her through the door, we were greeted by three perfectly normal-looking women seated in a living room area. “Everyone, this is Deandra Casto. Dee, this is Jacinda, Frannie, and Mandy.” I nodded at each of the women, trying to figure out how to remember their names.
“The kitchen is through there,” Roya pointed, “and your bedroom is on the second floor.”
Upstairs, she opened the door into a neat, if somewhat barren, space containing a single bed—at least I’d been right about that part—a small bedside table, and a dresser. “Feel free to decorate any way you like. We just ask that you don’t put any holes in the wall or burn the place down.”
I snorted in quiet laughter.
“You’d be surprised.” Roya’s tone turned dry. “There’s a reason we banned candles.”
I nodded my understanding, and she turned to leave. “We usually eat dinner together around six, if you want to come down. There are also a couple of places within walking distance—some fast-food joints and a pretty good taco stand, when it’s open. Manuel keeps his own hours, so you never really know. Just remember, curfew’s at eight.”
“Thanks,” I said faintly.
“Oh, and if you’re going to be here for Christmas dinner, let me know by tomorrow morning so I can add you to the list.”
“Um. I’ll be here. I really don’t have anywhere else to go this year.” My father hadn’t contacted me even once while I was in prison. I didn’t know if he knew I was out yet. It would be better to stay here for the holidays.
“Okay. I’ll see you later.” Roya paused in the middle of shutting the door to lean back into my room. “Be thinking about what we talked about in the car, will you?”
I nodded, and she waved again, pulling the door shut behind her.
Little did she know, I was likely to think of almost nothing else.
The next several days were surprisingly peaceful.
Nobody bothered me again about joining their resistance group. Everyone who participated in meals cleaned up after themselves, but it was now my job to go through the house once a day and clean the common areas.
Once a week, I would clean the bedrooms. I decided to split that job up over several days rather than trying to do them all at once.
I liked the work. It kept me busy, stopped me from thinking too much—especially once Mandy gave me an old headset and music player. I could tune out the world as I swept, mopped, vacuumed, and scrubbed.
Nights were the hardest. More than once, I walked into the living room, what Roya called the “common area,” hoping to watch a mindless vid-drama, only to find my housemates in a heated discussion about ways to take down the Bride Lottery.
When that happened, I turned around and walked out.
What they didn’t know, though, was that I often stopped in the hallway, leaning against the wall just out of sight and listening to their plans.
None of their ideas were terribly practical. Most of them involved somehow taking out Station 21. But that wouldn’t work, I was certain. The Khanavai would simply rebuild—as they had proven after the Alveron Horde attack during the last set of Bride Games.
So in the end, I mostly kept to myself.
Christmas morning, I came down to the smell of pies cooking. I found the scent inexplicably cheering. And by the time I made it into the common area, I was in an unaccustomed good mood.
“Dee, come join us,” Roya called out from her seat in the corner of
