Chapter 13 Phoenix
Phoenix
Afew miles down the road, sunlight dances across my dashboard as I steer toward the Abbey.
The engine’s gentle hum mingles with the soft rumble of the tires on asphalt.
Steam curls up from my takeaway cup, carrying the warm aroma of a fresh roast. I lift it to my lips, ready for the first, magical sip, and freeze.
Holy shit. Did she—no way.
I ease onto the gravel shoulder, dropping the SUV into park, and let the engine tick over. My heart pulses so hard I can taste it. I yank my phone from the cupholder, thumb hovering over the screen until I dare to type.
Phoenix: Hey, did you give me your number?
I hit send and press the phone to my chest. A minute feels like an eternity. Then the reply arrives, lighting up the display.
Roni: I don’t know. Did I? Who is this? You could be any random stranger asking me this question. Then again, maybe I’m scrawling my number on every coffee lid.
I chuckle, leaning back against the seat. Her words are threaded with charisma, a mischievous sparkle I know all too well. My fingers twitch as I craft my response.
Phoenix: Well, how would I know?
I start and stop. Lost for words because, holy shit, is this really happening?
Phoenix: You said you didn’t have a line of guys.
Phoenix: But you never said anything about girls or anyone else.
Phoenix: Maybe I’m special?
I send one after another and watch the little ellipsis bounce like a heartbeat. All around me, birds flit between branches, oblivious to the storm in my chest. My coffee sits forgotten, steam fading into the windshield.
Roni: You ARE special.
I almost laugh out loud, picturing her playful grin.
Phoenix: Cute.
I shoot back, then pause. Impatient. Out of practice at this flirting game. My palms itch for the keyboard. Words tumble out before I can stop them.
Phoenix: Since you gave me your number, I’m going to assume you wouldn’t mind going out with me.
I hit send and press on with more. A lot more.
Phoenix: And maybe I’m not completely out of line thinking there’s something between us.
Phoenix: Sure, I’m a giant idiot.
Phoenix: And probably far too old for you.
Phoenix: But maybe you don’t care about that either.
Phoenix: And maybe I’m not the only one who goes crazy every time I see you, mouthing words we never actually say.
Phoenix: How am I doing?
My thumb hovers, ready to keep churning, but then I see I’ve already sent a novel’s worth of separate texts.
Moments later her reply chimes and lights up my screen.
Roni: Jesus. How hard did the caffeine hit you?
Phoenix: Haha. I never even made it to my first sip.
Roni: Mercy had us both pegged weeks ago. I can’t stop thinking about you. She’s been begging me to give you my number since day one. And yeah, your age gave me a little pause at first. But it’s not enough to talk myself out of seeing where this goes.
My eyes widen, and I find myself frozen in the driver’s seat. My gaze locks on her piercing message, and I grin so broad I can nearly swallow my ears. I’m nervous too, I realize, and there’s something thrilling in the shared jittery energy.
Phoenix: Good to know. But why? I wonder.
Phoenix: Have you seen yourself?
Roni: Of course I have. That’s why.
Phoenix: Excuse me?
Phoenix: Veronica.
Phoenix: You’re breathtaking.
I smash ‘send’ before I can talk myself out of it, and instantly, I cringe.
My fingers hammer on the keys again, and with a sigh I fire off another message, stumbling over my words as I confess it’s not just her looks, though she’s undeniably stunning, but her voice, her laugh, the confident tilt of her shoulders.
Phoenix: Okay, I’m going to shut up now. I feel like an idiot. Feel free to block me forever.
I hit send one more time, toss my phone into the passenger seat, then shove the SUV into drive and peel away, heading for the Abbey.
My heart throbs. Part nerves. Part regret. How is this woman turning a grown man into a blushing teenager in his own car? My knuckles whiten on the wheel, but I can’t stop smiling.
The phone buzzes against the leather upholstery, and I nearly swerve into the opposite lane trying to glance at it.
Focus. Eyes on the road.
But my peripheral vision catches the glow, and I'm already pulling up the Abbey’s drive, engine still running as I snatch the device.
Roni: Block you? I'm not done with you yet.
My breath catches as I’m crawling up to the wrought-iron gate, while trying to engage in the best text exchange of my life.
Security inspects my ID and my phone buzzes again.
Roni: Guys never treat me the way you do. You’re kind. Attentive.
Roni: They never see me. But you’ve been nothing but a gentleman. You’ve rescued me from every red flag except my own cynicism.
Roni: Not to mention you’re stupid hot.
Then she apologizes for teasing me about my age and, God, does she really think I’m hot? And sweet? And generous?
I shake my head in disbelief. She couldn’t be more wrong.
I tap out one last line as I prepare to park and get on with my work.
Phoenix: Thanks, Little Temptress. This was wonderful. Can’t wait for more.
Enough of this pansy loverboy shit. “Gah.” I shake my shoulders to get the weakness out and tuck my phone away.
There’s no time for that, and the people here will smell it on my like rotten dairy.
I couldn’t fuck it out of my system the last time I was here—letting Red go.
But it doesn’t mean I give a shit about these girls.
I don’t. It’s not my fault the world is such a fucked up place.
The chilled air smacks me awake as I adjust to the dim lights of the Abbey’s lower level. It feels less like a cellar and more like a barn. Rough-hewn beams overhead. Walls of damp stone. The faint tang of hay and sweat. Rows of stalls line the corridor, their wooden bars worn smooth by… something.
I turn to step down the lit pathway, my head still racing from my exchange with Roni, and there, in the shadows, Mercy sits in a cage.
Wild fury burns in her eyes, but she doesn’t recognize me.
Not like this. Her hair is tangled, badly needing a brush and a trim, and she’s unusually quiet.
I see she hasn’t earned the privilege of clothes yet.
Still, even beaten down, she’s achingly beautiful.
I sigh, the weight of power and pity settling in my chest.
Oh well.
As I tread along the path flanked by the two rows of sinister stalls, I force myself to remain composed amidst the grotesque spectacles unraveling before me.
A young woman stands exposed. Her light brown skin stark against her short, silver-dyed hair.
Her arms are wrenched skyward, bound by coarse rope to a repurposed tow hitch.
Gravity mercilessly pulls her down, stretching her body to its limits, as she precariously balances on the tips of her big toes, the only part of her touching the ground.
Her skin is a grim tapestry of healing bruises and wounds, evidence of brutal lashes and vicious beatings.
It's impossible to tell if these marks are remnants of a previous auction's torment or the cruel punishment for defiance in anticipation of the next.
Unable to offer a stitch of help, I turn my attention to the unmistakable sounds of leather hitting flesh nearby, followed by distraught groans.
I step further down the walkway and find there’s another nude woman in the stall on the opposing side.
Her skin is pale, like fresh cream. At least the parts that aren’t bright red.
Her hips straddle a wooden beam, her hands cuffed tightly, to the point they’re raw and bleeding, behind her back.
Even more unsettling is her head, or where her head should be.
I can’t see it, nor a strand of the hair I assume she has.
Instead, there’s a wooden box atop her shoulders, with a metal ring and wire strung up to a meat hook overhead, keeping her upright and in total darkness.
Whack!
A dark strap slaps her harshly across her bare breasts, and her body jerks.
The sounds of her cries are muted by her head’s enclosure, but there’s no denying the pain she must feel.
Her tormentor, a lean man in a skull mask, notices me watching and nods in my direction, as though we're colleagues passing in an office hallway.
I force myself to return the gesture, as he strikes her again, and the wooden box lets out another muffled howl.
I move on quickly, counting stalls, trying to focus on the numbers rather than their contents.
Each holds its own nightmare. Women of all shapes and sizes, stripped of dignity, of identity, of hope.
Some new arrivals still fight. Still believe this is temporary.
The veterans know better. They've learned to retreat inside themselves.
Their eyes vacant even when their bodies respond to torment.
At the end of the corridor, I slip into the faintly lit corridor beyond the stalls, my footsteps echoing on the polished stone.
My next stop’s the Clark’s office upstairs, a room as notorious for its occupant’s ruthlessness as for the steel door which guards it.
He’s a serious man, thought his features are always hidden behind a mask the color of midnight.
There’s an unspoken rule in The Sect. Anyone working here, the moment they step inside, dons a mask.
Most often the staff opt for snug ski masks woven from fine wool or at the very least a stretch of black nylon with eyes crudely sheared out.
The disguises lend an air of conspiratorial hush to our movements.
The point is simple. Should law enforcement ever burst through these gates, no party can identify another.
I pause at the door, taking a breath, then knock twice before entering.
“You're late,” comes the gravelly voice from behind the mahogany desk. Clark doesn't look up from his screen, his fingers typing away at whatever task he’s moved onto in my tardiness. Even seated, his arrogance fills the room like smoke.
“Traffic,” I lie, settling into the chair across from him. The leather creaks under my weight. My phone feels heavy in my pocket, Roni's messages still burning in my memory.
“The new girl in stall seven, the ginger you delivered, needs breaking in.” He clicks his mouse before turning off his monitor and giving me his attention. “High-maintenance type. Screamed herself hoarse the first two days. I was sending today’s permissions to the crew to deal with it.”
I can only nod. Though I’m fine with getting my hands dirty to find and deliver bodies, I prefer to fuck them when they’re running away later. After they’ve been trained and made to believe this is the end.
“So, what’s up, Clark? You wanted to see me?” I ask, hoping to avoid talking any more about her.
“I want to tighten security around the property,” he says, easing back into his chair, folding his hands.
“After your assessment from the last hunt, the boss has been considering implants. Small neural devices. Like advanced shock collars. Push a button and send a jolt, stopping anyone cold. No lasting harm, aside from the surprise tumble. We already have the electrified perimeter fence well outside the property line. But we can program the implants. If the button slips our mind, they’ll hit the fence and be neutralized until we can recover them.
And he thinks it’ll be discreet enough.”
I’m pleased he has finally taken an idea I gave him seriously, but I cock my head at his last words. Discreet enough?
“We’ll sedate the merchandise and insert the implants under anesthesia. They’ll wake with no clue they’re carrying them, at least until we need to demonstrate their purpose.”
I offer a slow smile, and he chuckles beneath his mask, a dry, gruff sound.
“What can I do to help?” I ask, though I know what he’s going to say.
“The boss wants it to go live at the next auction. Will that be a problem?”
As if I have a say in the matter. When Clark asks, it’s really a demand from him.
“Of course not. I’ll make it happen,” I assure him. “And if I might, what’s the plan with Mer—the new redhead?”
“Let me know if you want the first crack. Otherwise, she’s going to the highest bidder in two weeks.”