The Clinic was tucked away, alright. I had a hell of a time finding it. When I walked in, the receptionist checked my fingerprints against the ones I’d sent and looked deeply into my eyes. Then she nodded and gave me a heavy menu covered in embossed leather, the treatments and prices written in an ornate Gothic font. Another woman waited on a plush ottoman, reclining amid its thick woven cushions, half asleep. “I’m here for a booster,” she sighed. Then the “doctor” entered through a beaded curtain. Her name—Ima Goulay—was embroidered in gold on her long, white lab coat. “Our goal is to take you out of your species,” Dr. Goulay said. “It’s a terrible species. Right?” I nodded.
Ima Goulay looked all of fifty, though it turned out she was one hundred and fifty, and old school. She’d been friends with The Count. “He stops by from time to time,” she said.