No weapons, but that was okay. She’d learned a long time ago that just about anything could become a weapon in the right hands, and even she would admit that her hands were pretty damn capable. So were her feet, and her knees and her elbows…
She sprayed her hair and checked her watch. Registration for the retreat opened in ten minutes, and it would take her fifteen to get there, so she had to get going if she wanted to look enthusiastic, but not too much so.
Killian threw her phone, lip gloss, a pen, a nail file, and some gum into a small cross-body bag and slung it over her head. Then she made her way to the lobby and out into the sunshine. She hoped they had air-conditioning.
The Incarnyx public headquarters was located in a semi-industrial area between Bedford Hills and Mount Kisco. The building was red brick with white trim—nothing too fancy, but not shabby, either. It shared space with a weight-loss company, a walk-in clinic, and a fitness center for women.
There was a small coffee shop just around the corner. Killian got some much-needed caffeine and then joined a couple entering the Incarnyx building. They smiled at her. She forced herself to smile back. She probably looked like a psycho. She felt like one—and the mascara on her left eye was making it itch. She had to force herself not to rub it and smear makeup all over her face.
Inside, the building looked almost like a spa. The walls were painted in a soft cream, filled with serene paintings and inspirational quotes about finding your power and being your most “authentic” self. The carpet was a dark sage, and all the furnishings were a warm-honey shade of wood. There were two selections of water—cucumber and lemon—along with an organic herbal tea.
The place gave her the creeps. Like, any minute some guys in lab coats would come grab her and drag her out back, where they’d scoop out part of her brain and send her off to cult land. Or maybe they’d reprogram her into becoming some sort of perfect woman.
No, the brain scooping was more likely to work.
Killian naturally fell into place in line in front of the reception desk. The woman sitting there was young—probably in her midtwenties—with long, straight blond hair and bright green eyes. She was ballerina thin, her breastbone delicately visible beneath her pale skin. She’d shatter with one punch. So far, so good. If everyone in the joint was built like her, there wouldn’t be anything to worry about.
“Hi there!” she chirped when Killian stepped in front of the counter. “Welcome to Incarnyx. Our goal is to help you become the person you were meant to be.”
Killian tried not to grimace. “Fabulous.” She gave her name and the girl checked her in via computer. Then she gave her forms to fill out on a clipboard, and a tote bag full of everything she would need for the weekend. It was a nice bag, she’d give them that.
The forms were all about what she hoped to gain from the retreat, what she thought her problem areas were, and what she needed to work on. There was also a section for strengths and things she liked about herself.
Was the fact that she knew how to kill someone with a chopstick a strength? Probably not one she ought to share in this venue. She scratched in “loyalty” instead.
Jesus, this was tedious, trying to dissect herself for their exploitation. How did she make herself sound like she could be easily manipulated without making herself seem weak? Fuck it, she’d just be fairly honest and let the cards fall where they would. Ilyana Woodward could buy her daughters’ freedom. Why hadn’t she suggested that to Raven? These people would probably hand both girls over for enough coin.
She filled out the forms as quickly as possible, with answers that were close enough to the truth that she’d remember them. Once that was done, she and others who were finished were grouped together and escorted into another room by a redhead who was as waifish as the blonde.
“My name is Heather, and I want you to think of me as your concierge,” she said. “Anything you need, I’ll take care of for you. These lockers are where you will store your coats and personal belongings, including cell phones. All you have to do is enter a four-digit PIN when prompted and the door will open or lock immediately.”
“We can’t have our phones?” a young woman asked, an expression of panic on her face.
Heather smiled gently. “We don’t want you to be distracted during the seminars, but don’t worry. There are scheduled breaks throughout the day, so you’ll be able to check your messages in case of an emergency.”
The woman didn’t look comforted. Killian mentally shook her head. Maybe she didn’t share the phone addiction because she hadn’t yet figured out how to seriously maim a person with one.
“Bring your tote bag with you,” Heather continued. “It has your retreat binder in it. In the binder you’ll find paper to take notes, as well as all the important handouts and information you’ll need for each pod of this weekend’s retreat. There’s also a couple of pens, a highlighter, information about Incarnyx, a calendar of all our scheduled events, and a white bracelet that we ask you to wear for the entirety of the retreat. Think of it as a symbol of the beginning of your journey to becoming your best self.”
A bracelet? Killian found it near the bottom of the tote. It was just one of those white rubber things that a lot of charities used for fundraising. Given the price of their programs, she thought they could do better. Then again, at least it wasn’t a sash or a pin—or worse, a hat.
After they put their things in the lockers, they were escorted into another room where they were given name tags and left to mingle while the remaining participants checked in.
Name tag pinned in place, Killian headed straight for the food table. There wasn’t any alcohol, so she couldn’t make herself numb. Instead, she piled a plate with cheese and vegetables and stuffed her face in a corner, hoping no one would try talking to her.
She got her wish.
Half an hour later, the place was packed. Another young woman—this one a brunette—came into the room with a microphone.
“Welcome to Incarnyx!” she greeted them, her voice bouncing off the walls. Enthusiastic applause followed. Killian didn’t clap.
“My name is Darcy, and in a few minutes I’m going to take you all into the seminar room so we can get started. If you need to go to the restroom or get a drink, please do it now.”
Christ, yes, she needed a drink. Killian sighed.
The seminar room was like a small auditorium—like a college lecture hall, she supposed, not that she’d ever been in one. She wanted to take a seat in the back, as far away as she could get, but that wasn’t part of her “cover,” so she made herself sit a few rows from the front instead. Sitting like that, with her back exposed to the rest of the hall… it made her twitch.
Once everyone was seated, the lights brightened a little over the podium in front. Two women walked out onto the raised dais. One was an Asian woman with shoulder-length black hair, wearing a red blouse and a black skirt. The other was a young woman with fine blond hair wearing a peach-colored dress.
It was Lyria Woodward. Killian’s gaze narrowed. The girl was almost painfully thin—her cheeks were hollow and the cords of her neck stood out under her skin. She looked like a paper doll that would tear if you handled her the wrong way.
Raven had said that the younger sister wasn’t as into Incarnyx as Dylan was, and that the organization had resorted to blackmail to keep her in line. Were they starving her as well, as some kind of punishment or control?