Chapter 8
As the sun sets over the city, painting the hazy sky in muddied pinks and oranges, I practically crawl back up the front steps to the bordello, weighed down by all the gold, silver, and bronze I stole today.
I didn’t risk coming back for lunch or dinner.
The farther I stay away from him, the safer I’ll be until my real hair grows to a length I can play off as a simple haircut.
Unfortunately for me, I can’t avoid him completely.
I knock on his office door and wait for his response.
“What?” he barks through the wood.
I open the door and poke my head in. “Just bringing you today’s pickings, Master.” I internally grimace at calling him that, but I’m trying to butter him up. Make nice.
He waves his hand, beckoning me in. I approach him slowly while pulling the jingling metal from my pockets.
I drop it on the desk and fish for more, dropping it all heavily on the scarred wood, then reach to my feet, grab the sack I dropped, and tip out the contents.
Across his desk are coins, jewelry, purses, even a glass eye, anything he can use or sell.
The beauty of this borough is most people carry everything they own with them.
It’s far too risky to leave their things in their crumbling, overcrowded homes.
It’s just as risky to bring their possessions with them, but most people are careful and think no one would be able to steal from them without them noticing. Those people have never met me.
I truly hate myself for this. I hate stealing someone blind.
I hate myself for making people’s lives worse than they already are.
My stomach is sour most days, and fatigue always weighs my body down.
But I push myself on. While the discomfort is well deserved, I have only one other alternative for survival, and it’s either them or me. I choose me.
Otyx watches me with his hands steepled in front of his thin lips.
“This is quite the take, Red,” he says.
I nod once before turning on my heel to get away from him as quick as possible. I already can’t stand being in this office alone with him, let alone when I have a wig on my head that itches something terrible, that hides a stupid, impulsive decision.
“I didn’t dismiss you, did I Red?”
I turn back to face him, head down in submission, and shake my head.
“Close the door.”
Shit.
I do as I’m told.
“Sit down.”
Again, I do as I’m told, my heart beating painfully against my ribs, my hands trembling.
He stares at me across the treasure pile on his desk.
And stares.
And stares.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
A small smirk ghosts on his lips.
Finally, he stands. He rounds the desk and my chair, coming to a stop directly behind me. The seat back is short, only coming to about my mid-back. He doesn’t speak.
I don’t turn to look at him. I stare straight forward, at the leather chair he just vacated. Its stuffing is coming out of the multitude of tears and cracks covering it.
I try to keep my breath even and calm. In my head, I count the gashes in the leather over and over again to try and calm my heart rate and keep my breathing even.
Thirteen cracks.
Still, he says nothing. I can feel his eyes roaming over my shoulders and back like oil on my skin.
It takes everything in me not to squirm away from the sensation, from him.
Sweat starts coating my skin, making the wig even more itchy.
My fingers itch to grab my necklace or my dagger, but he can’t know I have them. So I wait.
And wait. Breathe in. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
And wait. Breathe out. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.
Without a word and without warning, he grips my wig at the crown of my skull and pulls, wrenching it from my head. With his other hand, he flips the chair on its side, spilling me onto the floor.
I crawl backward away from him. I can’t take another beating. My nose is still broken, my body still aches, and my face is still cut.
“Did you think I didn’t know?” he hollers. “Do you think I’m a fool?”
“I—I don’t—I just—” I stammer. The panic is flooding my system. I’ve never seen him this shade of red, almost purple. I’ve never seen him this enraged.
I’m going to die. This is it.
I try to calm myself, as Feron taught me, try to assess the situation, try to find a weakness, but my mind won’t focus through the fear. The rush of panic blurs my vision and makes me dizzy.
He prowls toward me slowly, like a predator appraising its prey.
He pulls a knife from his belt. I have my dagger strapped to my calf.
I could fight him. I could defend myself.
But at what cost? If he sees what I’m capable of, the consequences could be worse than death.
And in this borough, there are plenty of fates worse than death.
I don’t have time to weigh my options. The fog of panic in my mind prevents me from thinking quickly, acting quickly.
He grabs my dress at the collar and violently yanks me up so we’re nose to nose.
The cold blade of his knife presses under my jaw.
I can’t reach my blade now with him looming over me. It’s too late.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you now.” His rancid breath fills my nostrils.
I look around the room frantically, trying to come up with something, anything that might save my life. My only chance is to prove how useful, how indispensable I am. My eyes settle on the treasure on his desk.
“That,” I breathe. He turns his head slightly to glance over his shoulder. “I’m the best pickpocket you have.”
“Not anymore. You’re recognizable now. How many bald girls do you see walking the streets? None! You’re useless to me now. Can’t even use you as a whore.” His lip pulls back from his rotted teeth.
“I’m not. I have the wig. I can still steal. I did today.” I loathe how my voice shakes. I could kill him with the flick of my blade if only I could reach it. And yet, if what Isi said was true, I’d be dooming us all. The bad is always better than the worse.
He scoffs. “Please. I’ve been watching you. You scratched and shifted that fucking thing all day. You made yourself noticeable. Now you’ll either be the girl in the bad wig or the bald girl. Both are problematic.”
“Please,” I beg. “Please let me live. I’ll lower my price.
I’ll only take twenty percent from now on.
Please.” I despise him for making me beg.
I despise myself for it even more. But I’m not ready to die.
His eyes rake from the top of my bare head, down my body, snagging on my breasts—nearly exposed from the way he’s gripping my bodice—before continuing their roaming.
He lowers his knife and hauls me to my feet. The fabric on the collar of my dress burns the back of my neck. He grabs my arm in a painful grip and drags me from his office and down the hall. His grip is so tight, there’s no room to bend and grab the dagger at my calf.
Realization dawns on me. I know exactly where he’s taking me. Straight into the Abysm. “No. No, please. Not there. Please Otyx, I’m begging you.” Tears burn and fall.
He throws me a glare over his shoulder and drags my planted feet across the floor.
“Please!” Artifacts poke their heads out of the doors of various rooms. Some look at me with pity, some with indifference. All with silence.
He opens the door and throws me to the floor inside the closet beside the kitchen. I scramble to my feet, already sweating from the heat, the fear, and try to catch the door. Otyx slams it in my face, and the sound of it locking sends bile up my throat.
“Stoke the fire!” I hear him bark.
“Please! No!” I pound on the door. “Please, someone! Anyone! Please!”
I’ve seen artifacts get locked in here, and when the door finally opens, they’re nothing but a dried-out husk being dragged into the street like waste. I wrench my dagger out and stab at the lock, hoping to break it. I scream, I beg, I pound against that door, that lock, but nothing gives.
I slide to the floor, putting my face to the space under the door, trying to get air. I inhale deeply and exhale shakily. I repeat this over and over, trying to alleviate the panic clawing at my chest.
It fails. As I lay on the hot, stone floor with my face pressed against the door, the panic takes control. My breathing becomes more difficult, and tears pour over my lashes. I grab my necklace and hold it under my nose. Wave after wave of terror wracks my body, my mind.
I whisper pleas through the crack, hoping someone will hear me. Someone will do something. Of course, no one does. No one cares. And those that might are too terrified to be thrown in here with me.
I stay that way for a long time. My breathing becoming less labored, my heart rate slowing, my tears evaporating in the heat. I refuse to move from the door. The tiny patch underneath it is the only fresh air and light in this miserable space. I move only enough to return my dagger to its sheath.
Slowly, the light begins to fade, the footsteps become more staggering, more drunken.
Fake giggles and phony sounds of arousal echo down the hall.
It must be late at night, but the heat in here is choking, not allowing for sleep.
So, I lay there, wide awake, sweating through my dress, my necklace gripped tightly in my hand, and pray to the gods, to the goddesses, to Death himself. I pray so hard.
No one answers.
Eventually, the light returns, the footsteps become few and far between, the artifacts going to sleep for the day, and life goes on outside this room without me.
The soul-destroying heat is beginning to make me nauseous.
My mouth and eyes and very soul are dryer than coal.
The artifacts must have stoked the fire on the other side of the wall again for a meal, because it’s definitely getting hotter in here.
I sit up quickly, vomit in the corner, then return to my place at the door. I would kill for just a sip of water.
As the day wears on, I count feet as I watch them pass my door, just to try to think of anything besides my intense thirst and pounding head. I reach for them with my fingers until someone stomps on them.
Night falls again as I wait and watch and pray.
Still, no one answers. No one is going to answer. No one is there.
I’m startled by the sound of the key turning in the lock. At first, I’m sure I’ve imagined it, and then the door swings open. The cool air flooding my body carries a sound of disgust. I can barely lift my head but manage to look into the rotting face that belongs to Otyx.
He bends over, grips my arm, and drags me out of the closet.
The motion sends another wave of nausea rolling through me, but I have nothing left to vomit.
He drags me by the arm to the kitchen where a bucket of water waits.
He grips my head and shoves my face into the cold water.
The shock from the different extremes in temperature snaps me out of my daze, and while I can’t breathe, I open my mouth and drink the water as fast as I can, not stopping until Otyx wrenches my face out of the bucket.
I take a gasping breath and immediately dive back into the water, drinking so much so fast that the second my face leaves the bucket, I vomit the water onto the floor beside it. Still, I go back for more.
Otyx stops me by grabbing my shoulder and wrenching me away from the bliss I felt in that bucket. I want to fight him, to douse my burning face again, but he grips my wrists and hauls me away.
He drags me up the three flights of stairs, making exasperated sounds when I stumble, opens the door to my bedroom, and dumps me on the floor inside.
“You are no good to me until your hair grows back, so you will stay in here, without meals, until that happens.” His voice is lethally calm.
He shuts the door behind him, and I hear the lock slide home.
As what he said settles in, I realize he’s sentenced me to death either way.
I won’t survive without food long enough for my hair to grow back.
I’m going to die in this room. The coward couldn’t kill me himself, so he’s going to leave me in here to wither away slowly.
Much more slowly than if he’d left me in the Abysm.
This is his final act of torment and control.
If I had any liquid left in my body, I would cry. If I had any will left, I’d get up and pound on the door, possibly even throw myself at it hard enough to widen the crack, giving myself the chance to escape. If I had any life left at all, I would try.
I don’t.