Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
WENDY
T he blood has crusted on my nose by the time I wake. At least one of the men who kidnapped me finds this displeasing.
“Boris. I told you to get her cleaned up. The client will be here any minute now.”
“Pardon me, Master Zane. I thought you said the appointment was at midnight.”
“You know he’s always early.” Even in my daze, I detect a sneer in Zane’s voice. “But he always underpays. Male owns half the region, yet we’ll be lucky to have enough to keep our lamps fed…”
I flutter my eyes open, taking in my surroundings. I’m laid across a table, the chill of its surface seeping through my clothes and into my back. Muffled by the walls of the windowless room, the clacking of hooves against cobblestone and the bustle of footsteps hint at a city outside this room. When I try to move my fingers, they don’t respond. The rushweed must still be working its way through my system.
It doesn’t matter.
There’s not much fight in me anyway. I’d hardly been able to summon it against Teeth. I wonder what the captain did to him. Teeth never made it onto the boat, and I’m certain the captain witnessed him casting me overboard.
It doesn’t really matter what happened to the traitorous crewman. It doesn’t change my circumstances one bit.
The room itself is dimly lit. There are a few faerie lamps on the wall, but everything else is cast in shadows that stretch over velvet duvets and a cedar post bed. It’s the type of place where I imagine the lighting is supposed to serve a double purpose. Intensify the aura of seduction, the allure of the forbidden, while also distracting from a few key details: the leopard skin rug on the floor is fake, the gilding on the walls made of pyrite paint. If I had to bet, the table I’m laid across is finished with scagliola, made to imitate a block of marble.
Growing up with my mother’s tutelage, I could sense these things with my eyes closed. She thought it was a useful skill for getting a husband. As if the men of the aristocracy cared about these sorts of things.
The second man, Boris—the one who smiles as if he believes himself to be kind—offers me a pitying look and takes a cold rag to my face. I wince when he applies pressure to my nose, a spark of pain budding there. But I don’t cry out.
I’m well schooled in not crying out.
“Sorry about your nose,” Boris says. “Don’t think it’s broken, though.”
I don’t answer. I don’t even look at him. Just stare up at the ceiling above me, trying not to think about why he needs to clean me up before their prompt client arrives. As he wipes my face, tears well in my eyes. Partly from the stinging, partly because of what my future holds.
“Oh, don’t cry, missus. You’re going to the best of our clients. Say, you have the look of a lady. Am I right?” When I don’t answer, he continues, undeterred. “It won’t be all that different from being married off, I swear.”
When again I don’t acknowledge him, he sighs. As he brushes off the last of the blood from my nose, he says, “You’ll want this first one to like you. My master’s other clients aren’t so gentle with their women.”
One tear trickles down the side of my face before I blink the rest away. When I speak, my voice is cracked and dry. “Will he keep me like this? Unable to move?”
The man doesn’t meet my gaze. “No. But the others would.”
The man who intends to purchase me strides into the room what must be only a few minutes later, shedding his coat. He doesn’t have to utter a word for Boris to grab it from him and hang it on a nearby pyrite hat stand.
When the client looks at me, his eyes peel me apart. He’s the sort of handsome that’s off-putting. Symmetrical in a way that’s almost dizzying. Unnatural, though his ears are as rounded as mine. His ash-colored hair is perfectly combed out from a straight part down one side, the hair trimmed close to his head below the part. His jaw is firm, and altogether he has the look of someone who is used to getting what he wants.
Must be nice.
“It’s rather subtle, isn’t it?” the potential buyer says, tracing a cold, pointed fingernail down my mark.
“True, but with the proper attire, I’m sure it could be made to stand out, Master Vulcan,” says Zane, the man clearly in charge of this enterprise.
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” the buyer—Vulcan—says. “There’s a place for subtle beauty. With my collection being as extravagant as it is, there’s certainly a place for a piece that’s more…subdued.”
For some reason, I don’t get the impression that this man is an artist looking for inspiration.
Zane opens his mouth, but his client cuts him off. “Leave us. I wish to speak to the girl alone.”
Zane hurriedly scuttles out, leaving me alone in this man’s presence. Unprotected against his cool, assessing stare. I close my eyes, readying the little corner in the back of my mind, the place I’ll escape to so I don’t have to witness what this man does to me.
“There is no need for that yet, my dear,” says Vulcan. “I wouldn’t dare take you in a place like this. You are too precious to be treated like a common whore.”
“Just an uncommon whore then,” I say, surprising myself with my boldness. I’m past the point of feeling. Cold and numb, and unfiltered. “How delightful.”
I wait for Vulcan to slap me, but he doesn’t. “I understand your reticence. You’ll hate me for a time; they all do. But you’ll come around.”
“You sound so confident,” I say.
The man offers me a noxious smile. “I can only form my opinions based on the evidence provided. My muses are happy. They live a life of luxury they never would have dreamt of on the streets.”
“Those men didn’t get me from the streets,” I say.
He lets out a calculated laugh. “No. Just the belly of a pirate ship. I’m sure you were treated quite well there.”
My chest aches. Astor hadn’t touched me. Well, other than throwing me on the ground and yelling at me to get up.
“I will make life easy for you, you know,” Vulcan says. There’s something genuine about this man. Like he truly believes himself to be kind, generous. Benevolent. It’s unsettling—he’s convinced himself so entirely, it’s difficult not to believe him. “You say you didn’t come from the streets. You were an aristocrat then?”
“Once.”
“Tell me. What would your life have consisted of had you stayed?”
I frown, not liking where this path is heading.
“You would have been married, would you not?” he asks. “Probably to a man much older than yourself? One who would use you to produce an heir who would one day control you as much as his father did?”
My mind flashes back to Lord Credence snaking his hands down my backside at the masquerade.
“He may or may not have been kind,” Vulcan continues, “but likely not. Men of the aristocracy rarely are. I am offering you no less than what you would have received as the wife of a nobleman. You might lack the title, but you will have everything your heart desires. I will ensure it.”
“And I’ll be one of many in your collection?” I ask, unable to help how my voice wavers.
A sly smile curves his lips, revealing the perfect points of his canines. “They are all as close as sisters, I assure you. I imagine you’ve not had many of those.”
“You claim you offer me a desirable life, yet you would treat me as a pet.”
“Pets, my dear,” says Vulcan, stroking the ridge of my collarbone, “often have more desirable lives than wives, do they not?”
I find that words leave me, even as his assertions cut to my soul. It shouldn’t be tempting, that kind of life—and it isn’t. But it gnaws at me—the way there was a time in my life when his offer would have seemed attractive. When I was at my lowest, back when I would trade every last bit of myself just to find someone who would take me, who would rescue me from my Fate.
I think there was a time when the idea of only being subjected to one man’s whims and desires might have been appealing to me. Not having to worry about being shuffled from one pair of hands to the next. Assurance that his lust would be occupied elsewhere most of the time. That there were other women who would share the burden of pleasing him. Other women who understood.
But that was before Peter, before I found my Mate. Back when I’d lost hope of ever finding him. And though my hope has been rattled, though I know the chance of a future between Peter and me is slim, I can’t help but grasp for that sliver of light. The future where I find a way to break his curse. Where he and John and Michael and the Lost Boys can find happiness. Somewhere, somehow.
If Peter hadn’t come for me the night I plunged myself overboard, I might be tempted to go with this stranger willingly. Then again, if Peter hadn’t come for me, I’d be dead.
But Peter is out there. He’ll track down Astor’s ship, and when he discovers I’m missing, there will be a reckoning.
This stranger’s blood will mingle with shadows when Peter gets ahold of him. He might have permitted Astor to have me for a time, but I’d only felt betrayed because I’d forgotten that Peter knew Astor. The captain has done nothing to hurt me. Peter must have known that I’d be safe when he gave me up, though I hadn’t seen it at the time.
But this man.
This man, Peter doesn’t know.
I weigh my options. Boris warned me to be likable, desirable to this client. Said the others wouldn’t be so gentle with me. Is it better to feign compliance to this man, or disgust him and place my bets on the hope that Peter will find me before I’m sold off to someone else?
As if in answer, wraiths rise from underneath the sheets of the nearby bed, forming the figures of women sold like goods and the men who got their money’s worth out of them. The shadows whimper, but none of them scream. Their almost-silent cries fill my ears until I can hardly stand it.
Maybe it’s just my body’s panicked response, wishing to avoid the danger that’s more imminent, but a little voice whispers in my head. Be what he wants. At least he’ll take you out of this place. At least he’ll have to move you. Give you a chance to escape.
“You won’t hurt me, then?” I ask, allowing the trembling to suffuse my tone. It’s easy, when my limbs are rattling against the table, my body’s reaction to fear unaffected by the rushweed.
“Never,” says the man, cupping my cheek as if to show how gentle he is. “By this time next year, you’ll be glad for your decision. You’ll accompany me to events and operas and see the wives who hide their bruises underneath their cuffs and collars and paint. And you’ll be the one pitying them.”
I let out a regretful exhale, thankful at least not to be breathing in the heady perfume of the room for a moment. It’s making me dizzy.
Barely, just barely, my finger scrapes against the cold facade of the table. Of my own accord.
Hope buds between my ribs. It’s not much. The ability to wriggle my fingers won’t free me from Vulcan’s grasp. But it’s more than I had only seconds ago.
“Promise me you’ll be good?” he says, lifting my chin.
The words are too familiar. As if I’ve uttered them before. “I’ll be good.”
Vulcan leaves me with the servant Boris, insistent that he dress me more appropriately. Apparently he’s hosting an all-night revelry at his manor and I’m to be in attendance—to be presented, I imagine—and the journey is without an adequate place to stop and prepare me beforehand.
The result is that Boris and Zane have to pull a double shift just to fix me up. It’s a humiliating process. My sodden clothes are ripped from my body like they’re cobwebs from the doorway of a treasure trove. Though the only touching the two men do is to bathe me, there’s a vulnerability about it, being unable to move, that makes me want to scream. When they’re not looking, I test out different muscles, seeing which ones will move. So far, all my fingers are functional, and my left wrist, along with my ankles and toes. It’s not much to work with, but it’s better than nothing.
Once the two men have dressed me in a fine silk gown Vulcan brought in case their given attire didn’t suit—apparently it didn’t—I decide to take a gamble, figuring once they have me inside the man’s carriage, the chances of escape will be minimal.
“Please. Please don’t sell me to him,” I whisper. “Anyone else.”
I try to squeeze tears out of my eyes, but I’m either too numb or too buzzing with adrenaline to cry at the moment.
Zane scoffs, but Boris offers me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “It’ll be alright, missus. You’re one of the lucky ones. He won’t hurt you.”
I don’t bother explaining to him how his definition of hurt is rather narrow.
“Please. Please, I don’t want to go with him. The things he said he’d do to me. Just send me with someone else, please. Even if they hit me, I don’t mind. Don’t make me go with someone so vile, who’s going to make me…” I trail off at just the right time, then start wailing. “Please, I just wanted to be a wife.”
Boris’s eyes go wide, and he exchanges a look with Zane, who looks about ready to roll his eyes. “Na?ve aristocrat,” Zane mumbles under his breath, as if he thinks I can’t hear him.
“It’s not her fault her parents didn’t tell her how babies were made,” says Boris, but Zane appears unaffected.
“Please,” I cry again.
“Sorry, little lady,” says Boris. “I’m afraid payment has already been exchanged.”
I let my face fall, like I’ve been struck. “Can’t you just give it back? Surely there’s someone else who would pay you more.”
Zane snorts. “Your buyer’s the best-paying man in the kingdom.”
“I thought you said he underpays,” I say, sniffling. “I thought you said it wasn’t going to be enough to cover the lamps.”
Zane’s face goes hard. “Mind your own business, or you’ll get yourself into trouble where you’re going.”
A lump forms in my throat, so I let myself sob. This next part is going to be tricky. I need to be what Zane wants, while also getting him to believe that my plan was his idea all along.
“I’ll run away,” I threaten. “I’ll run away, and then he’ll blame you.”
Zane rolls his eyes. “That’s not how this works, child. Once money has changed hands and you’re in his possession, you’re his responsibility, not ours.”
Boris ruffles his brow. “It would only hurt you to run away, missus. I’m telling you, Vulcan’s the kindest master you’re going to get. In a city like this, you’ll just be plucked off the streets by someone less generous. Other places won’t give you to a good home, just chain you to the bed. Or sell you to a foreigner where you can’t be traced. You don’t want to be sold again.”
I let out a shuddering sigh, but allow myself one peek at Zane. Something has kindled in his expression, his interest clearly piqued by the servant’s last statement.
Sold again.
Excitement swells in my heart, making it hammer against my chest. It’s a long shot that the master will take my bait, even less chance that the plan will actually work. But men drowning in debt have a tendency to put on blinders and do anything they can to get out of it, so if I’m right…
When they finish dressing me, the master dismisses his servant from the room, his beady eyes still examining me, a scheme playing out in his head.
One that I put there.