Chapter 2
Closter walked unimpeded through the rolling and groaning bodies that littered the floor.
I was the only one that had managed to keep my feet, barely. With one arm propped against the peeling paint and another on my knee, I noticed the pain was gone, but my body was still weakened by it.
Closter took his baton and slammed it against the metallic table at the front of the room. The sound echoed out like the crack of a gunshot. Bethany's exploded head flashed behind my eyelids again; I drew my shoulders back to give the guard my full attention.
“Last hurdle, inmates,” Closter warned. “I won’t have time to go over these basics once I push you through the gate, so listen good and listen hard.”
A surge of relief that we were nearing the final ring was quickly wiped away by whatever news that Closter was going to deliver as he took off his mirrored sunglasses and put them in his breast pocket. The guard made a point to meet all of our eyes as he rested his hip against the table.
“First things first,” He sighed. “You’re going to the meat market.”
Horrified silence solidified the air of the room until it was almost too thick to breathe.
“There are two types of Demon.” He continued. “D a emons. Corrupted humans. They were once like you or me. Don’t know how they changed. Chances were they made a deal with the Devil. Don’t know. Don’t care. They might have been like you or me once, they ain’t anymore. Do not count on their sympathy or kindness. A Daemon feeds on human emotions. Touch mainly. Stay too close, and you might find that you're walking a fine line between life and death.”
Rita, a small girl at the back with tufty blonde hair whimpered.
“Then you got your Purebloods.” Closter carried on, crossing his arms over his chest. “These are Demons direct from Hell. These can be anything from Imp to Drudes, aka Nightmare Demons. Kitsune. These don’t bother humans much. They feed on Sin, they pluck it right from the air.”
Closter took a deep breath. His eyes hardened. “You see a Pureblood, you run. Far and fast. The only time you would see one is if it wants something from you. Just because it’s doesn’t need to touch you to feed, doesn’t mean that it's not one of the most dangerous things to walk this godforsaken earth. We clear?”
Everyone stayed silent.
“We’re clear.” Closter nodded to himself before heaving his rotund body to standing. He turned to the door, before clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as if just remembering something. “Red eyes means they've killed an innocent. It means that at some point, they killed someone for the fun of it. Demons typically have their own moral code. Red eyes don’t. With a typical Demon, you smart back then you’re fair game. Red eyes mean that a Demon has hunted someone who's done nothing to them but exist.”
Una raised a shaking hand. “Why do their eyes turn red?” She whispered.
“Fuck if I know.” He grunted. “I just know that a Demon that kills for sport'll have red eyes.”
Willows raised his hand with a confident swagger despite the fact he had almost pissed himself not five minutes before. “What’s the meat market?”
Closter pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Meat market is where you're gonna go.”
“But what is it?” Willows repeated.
“Daemons are separated in Families. Each Family stems from the original Pureblood that created the Demons.” Closter shook his head. “Families are complicated as shit, but the gist of it is... Say, you have a Pureblood named Jeff. Jeff corrupts five humans. Those humans corrupt ten more. Every human that is connected to Jeff belongs to that family. You get me?”
We nodded. Willows raised his hand again. “There are Demons named Jeff?” He chuffed.
Closter had moved before anyone had a chance to react. His baton landed sideways into the center of Willows's gut. The inmate wheezed and hunched over. No longer laughing. Closter gripped his throat and raised Willow’s head until their eyes met.
“You’re a fool, Willows.” Closter snarled. “I hope to God some Leviathan bitch makes a pretty slave of you.”
He let the bulky young man without warning and Willows tripped over his feet. Closter dusted his hands and turned back to the line of prisoners.
“You’re going to get chosen for a Sector. Don’t know how the Families choose, but they've got a system.” Closter informed us. “Its called the meat market because it’s an auction. You might be bought to become a prostitute in the Pink Sector or a pit fighter in Black one. If you're lucky, you'll be passed over and chosen for grunt work.”
My knees buckled, but I remained standing. It felt like a hand had reached down my throat and twisted my stomach.
Before my body had communicated with my mind, my shaking hand rose.
“What is it, Doe?”
“You said that we would be free.” My tongue smacked against the roof of my mouth. My words croaked out as my throat was too dry to carry them.
Closter narrowed his eyes. “We said there would be no cages.” He turned to scrutinise the Hodgepodge of failed humanity that stood, awkwardly, in front of him. “You all signed a contract for time served. You belong to the Red City now.”
The water was cold as it thumped against my back like razor blades. It crossed over my filthy body in rivets, changing from clear to murky brown, before swirling down the drain. Behind the turquoise shower curtains, I could hear the other inmates enjoyed their showers simultaneously.
Naked, and without a towel, I kept my eyes straight ahead as we were herded through a glowing red tube, it was tall enough that I could walk through unimpeded. A wave of warmth dried the remained specks of water from my sun-deprived skin. I felt my now clean hair lose its weight as it dried, long and straight down my back.
Another set of cotton scrubs were shoved into my hands. Crimson this time. I clasped them to my stomach until the rest of the inmates filed through the dryer and they instructed us to dress.
The clothes were loose, and not made for someone of my pitifully short stature. I had to roll the waistband over a dozen times before the trousers were no longer a trip hazard.
There was a long dotted line that led around a dark corner. The corridor was narrow enough for one person to stand in, but the ceiling was high. An unknown guard waited at the mouth of the pathway.
Our group stood in the cement maze of paths hidden away in the final wall of the outer rings.
A hushed reverence had fallen over the rest of the prisoners as we had entered the final hurdle.
Whatever snark that had started to creep through from familiarity to Closter had bled away, leaving only fear of the unknown behind.
Closter had done his best to inform us of what was to happen. I suspected that he had done so to prevent another incident, like Bethany's.
Closter had bid us farewell when we had passed the final barrier into the Red City.
At the lip of the dark path, above the guards head, sat a traffic light with only two colors. Red and green. We all stood, faces lifted and bathed in the red light as we waited for the color to change. The minutes seemed to stretch and warp to hours. My hands twisted together, clammy with sweat.
Una stood in front of me. She gasped for breath and leant over with her arms wrapped around her stomach. “I don’t think I can do it.” She sounded broken. “I don’t want to be a whore. I just wanted to get out.”
I forced my eyes back to the glow of the light and tried to put her mutterings out of my head.
She heaved another gulp of air. “I’m going to be sick. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck .”
I reached forward and put my hand on her back. I did not let my eyes drop from the light above my head.
“Do not give them a reason to shoot you,” I whispered. “Stand up straight.”
I hated myself for uttering the words, but when the guard’s dispassionate eyes roamed over our crew, my fingers twitched; I knew I had done the right thing. Una trembled, but she pulled her shoulders back.
“Thank you,” She whispered but did not turn around.
I could not think of an adequate response.
The light turned green; the line began to trudge into the darkness, like cattle to the slaughter. The far-away roar of excited voices grew slowly, as the path twisted and turned. The guard at the front did not look back once, assured of our submission.
The low hum of the crowd had grown exponentially as the darkness abated. The chattering and laughing banter was an odd juxtaposition from the solemn faces of my fellow prisoners. Trading one Hell for another.
The promise of freedom. A life without bars had tempted each and every one of us, but none of us had known what that had meant.
Each of the inmates in my group was young. Early twenties at the oldest. Good looking. They each had that something about them that drew others in, even if they also carried an edge of danger. Before we had left the bus, I had feared the prisoners that walked by my side. Unsure of their crimes, but guaranteed they were terrible if their sentence was long enough to want to trade it for time served in the Red City.
The music stopped; a hush fell over the crowd, hidden behind the door at the end of the corridor.
The line drew to a halt; I tripped into Una's back before I could stop myself.
The guard turned, silent, appraising. He said nothing. I heard the booming enthusiastic voice of an announcer behind the door, amplified by a microphone.
As if propped into action by some unknown cue, the sour-faced guard opened the door and pushed us through. Straight onto a stage.
My vision turned white with the lights overhead, and I pressed my forearm over my eyes to cover them. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust.
We were stood behind a white silk partition. The crowd chittered behind the separating wall like baying hyenas. I could feel the crackle of magic on the air, raising the fine hairs on the back of my neck. I was confident that the monsters in the audience could see our shadows through the flimsy fabric. A fact that seemed to only excite them.
“Fresh meat!” The female announcer boomed into the microphone. The audience roared. Some stools hit the floor as I heard people jump to their feet and stomp as they echoed the words back to the stage. Fresh meat. Fresh meat.
“Our first item to the docket is Mr Henry Willows. Twenty-one years of age. Convicted of death by dangerous driving, Mr Henry Willows spent eighteen months in The Allhallows Prison before being released on parole.” The crowd was silent as they listened to the announcer as she spun her tale. “Mr Willows was released, and yet sentenced to life in prison only a year later for murder. Come out here, Henry!”
Willows looked back at us once, and for the first time since I had met him, he looked green with fear. The trembling man pulled back his shoulders and stepped around the partition as if he had the world at his feet. His pale face gone and arrogance locked into place.
I could not see the crowds reaction, but the whispering grew louder. More frenzied.
“Who did you kill, Henry?” The announcer sounded positively delighted.
“My girlfriend.” His answer was short. Clipped and no emotion.
“Why?”
The silence was long. I did not know if Henry didn’t want to talk about it, or if he was searching for words. Either way, I struggled to find sympathy with a murderer.
I clutched the fabric over his chest as I recalled his earlier threats. I hadn’t taken them seriously. I had thought Willows was bluster and testosterone. I sincerely hoped that his placement was far away from where I ended up.
“Stacey had cancer.” He croaked. “I didn’t want her to be in pain anymore.”
There was stunned silence from the crowd.
“The capacity to love someone enough to kill them, folks! A rare find! Who wants to find a home for Mr Willows?” The announcer started the bidding, but as I had no frame of reference for the credit system, I did not know if it was a small or large amount that afforded Henry Willows to his new demonic master.
A few more inmates took the stage; the announcer lamented their stories and encouraged the crowd. Arson. Robbery. Murder. Rape. The crimes were severe.
“A rare item!” The announcer preened. “Born male, but now living as a female. Una Imari.”
The redhead in front of me shook her hands as if that could stop them trembling. With a deep breath, she pushed forward and past the partition to face the crowd.
“Hello, Una!” Someone cheered from the back of the room, followed by a wolf whistle.
I found myself praying that Una wouldn't be bought by some pervert.
“Una Imari is twenty-five years old and is a skilled pianist. She studied at Cambridge University and has a bachelor’s degree in Mechanical Engineering. Una was arrested for first-degree murder. What happened, Miss Imari?”
Una cleared her throat. “My stepdad abused my sister and me.” She thundered; without hesitation.
“It says here that he was bludgeoned with a claw hammer.” The announcer replied, jovially. “A revenge story, my beautiful Hellions. What a treat!”
“What can I say?” Una's voice was dry. “I’m passionate.”
The crowd roared with laughter; the bidding started enthusiastically. I kept an ear out for who eventually won, remembering Closter’s words about prostitution in the Pink Sector. Una was ultimately won by the Purple Sector, which the announcer informed Una was pride.
Once Una's footsteps disappeared down the other end of the stage, it was my turn. Only a handful of other prisoners stood behind me. My shoulders hunched in a subconscious effort to appear smaller than my very petite five foot nothing. I knew that I could not wait any longer. The crowd hovered with bated breath for my arrival, stirred up by the frenzy of bidding.
My breathing faltered, and my feet dragged as I walked to the front of the silk wall and across the polished chestnut stage. The lights burned hotter than before without the partition’s protection; I bent my neck so that my hair acted as a curtain. My eyes faced down, so I could watch my careful footsteps. I did not look up, even when I reached the small masking tape dot that told me where to stand.
“Jane Doe.” The announcer humphed, I heard the paper crinkle as she turned it over. “There isn’t much information about Miss Doe. Only that she is a skilled painter with a penchant for disturbing imagery.”
The crowd whispered, disappointed.
“Miss Doe is serving a life sentence.”
“For what?” Someone called from the back of the room, and the audience laughed.
“It doesn’t say.” The announcer was confused. I blinked and raised my head, tilting my chin in the direction of the voice that had been entertaining the crowd.
The announcer was human. Long blonde hair and a body built for Sin. Breast implants, and a tiny waist.
I did not judge her for her part in the meat market, but I judged her for enjoying it.
“Miss Doe, why don’t you tell us about yourself?” The announcer smiled brightly and hooked one hand on her hip. The other she swept out theatrically towards the audience.
For the first time since I had taken the stage, I allowed myself to peek at the crowd of evil that had chosen to participate in a human auction.
Each table had a tarnished silver candelabra, the tapered candles were white, but their flames glowed different colors. One pink, green, yellow. So many colors cast a soft light; I could only guess that those tables were representatives for various Sectors.
Some of the tables were behind a railing, hidden in the autonomy of darkness.
I hated talking about myself with a passion, and with the pressure to sell myself to a room full of demons, the desire to flee was even more prominent.
“I don’t want to,” I said.
I raised my chin, ignoring the way that I felt it tremble. My ratty midnight hair parted in the center; the light hit my eyes, so I squinted. My stance was defiant despite every instinct inside my body screaming for it not to be.
All of the monsters in the room turned to each other and began to whisper amongst themselves. Beautiful daemons or twisted Purebloods—I couldn’t tell.
“One million credits!” A booming voice whipped out from the darkness of the VIP lounge. The words wrapped around my neck and jarred my spine straight. They echoed in my ears like a song I had always known but couldn’t remember the name of.
“We have a winner!” The announcer cried out, bouncing on her heels and clapping. “Sold! To the Wilde Family.”