by Sky Winters
She stood up and began pacing back and forth, her heels landing on the carpet with thin thuds. There was a mirror in the room, and she caught a glimpse of herself as she paced. The high-waisted black panties hugged her hipbones, accentuating her curves. The bra pushed her modest bosom up, but not in the in-your-face, look-at-me way that Nora was used to seeing among the middle-aged housewives who were the mothers of her students.
That Mrs. Serko seemed like a bit of a bitch, but she knew what she was doing. Nora looked over her shoulder and admired the fullness of her rear end in the mirror.
Then she froze, remembering that she was supposed to be pretending to be in some kind of zombified state and wondering if there were cameras watching her every move. With the same slow, deliberate steps that she had been taking throughout the evening, she walked back to the couch, sat down, and folded her hands across the rosy-white skin of her thighs.
The door flung open, and two of the suited men entered and looked Nora over. She kept her eyes forward, her head as still as a stone.
“This the one?” said one of the men, his voice crisp and professional.
“Yeah, Miss Three Hundred K,” said the other.
“What do you think; worth it?” asked the first man.
“When I’ve got that much money to spend on fresh meat, I’ll let you know.”
Fresh meat?
“Okay, let’s get her to the buyer.”
The first man kneeled in front of Nora, removed his sunglasses, and spoke in the low, suggestive tone that she had been hearing all night. “Stand, and come with us. Follow three steps behind us.”
She complied, and rose.
The men filed out of the room, and Nora followed. She wondered who this buyer was. Just who was this man who saw her on stage for, at most, five minutes, and decided to spend what Nora would be lucky to make in half a decade? Her heels clicked on the stone floor of the hallway, and the air was damp with a strange, musky smell, like a wine cellar, or a cave. The hallway seemed to go on forever, just a thin hall with doors evenly-spaced and across from each other; green rooms for all the girls as they awaited their buyers.
After a time, they reached the end of the hallway, which was capped with a door of the same exquisite, crafted quality that Nora had grown used to seeing in this strange place. She wondered where she was, if she was even still in New York. If so, she wondered who, exactly, was paying for this massive establishment. There were clearly deep pockets behind this enterprise.
One of the men opened the door, and, with a quick, stabbing gesture, indicated for Nora to pass through. Once she entered, the door was shut with a low, slow creak.
The room she entered was large, with walls of mirrors, and lined with flowers that sat in pots atop golden pedestals of varying height. The room smelled of a swirl of floral scents, and strange warmth seemed to emanate from a source that Nora couldn’t determine. Aside from the large door that she entered from, another door, this one simpler in design, was on the other side. Above her, an ornate chandelier of dangling crystals hung from the vaulted ceiling.
Nora could see herself from every angle in this mirrored room, and the lighting was warm, soft, and flattering. Everything about the room seemed to be designed to appeal to the senses. Nora stood still among the opulence, wondering how much longer she would have to maintain this charade of hypnosis.
Then, the door on the opposite side she entered from clicked and opened in a slow sweep, and a man stepped through.
He was so strikingly beautiful that Nora’s knees weakened. He was tall, nearly a head taller than Nora, and his face was white, even paler than Nora’s skin, the color of a fresh sheet of snow. His nose was slim but strong, his jaw was wide and angled, and his lips were red, as though filled full with rich, pulsing blood. His hair was long, resting on his shoulders with the weight of crushed velvet curtains and capped his head in a deep, chestnut brown. He was dressed in a suit tailored with immaculate craftsmanship; it emphasized every angle of his lean, but muscular, body.
He strode over to Nora with imperious steps, his polished black dress shoes clicking on the smooth stone floor. As he closed in on Nora, her eyes were drawn to his. They weren’t the hot gold color of the other men. This man’s eyes were a brilliant shimmering green, lush, like thick rainforest leaves glistening with a morning rain.
The man walked around her in a slow lazy circle, one hand in a pants pocket and the other clasped-shut in front of his mouth, the tips of his thumb and index finger against his pillowy lips. He looked with the inspection and scrutiny of an art collector confirming the quality of his latest acquisition. And through this all, Nora stood still, though she could feel the tight knot of anxiety in her stomach unwinding and dissipating in a warm pool of strange, tight heat that radiated lower in her body. Much lower.
As he walked around her, a strange scent trailed behind him, a smell that was heavy with musk, but clean, like raw cloves. Nora found the smell to be irresistible and had to fight the urge to bring in a deep inhalation through her nose. He stepped close only once, to take a look at Nora’s hearing aid, which he regarded with an indifferent “hmm.”
After a time, he came to a stop behind her. Nora could feel his presence, and a wave of pinpricks traveled down her neck and back.
“You may be free, now,” he said in a low, sonorous voice, as he withdrew a small, bronze key from his suit jacket pocket and undid her chains, which clanked onto the ground in an irregular pile.
Nora tensed, unsure how to imitate the hypnosis dropping her from its grip. She decided to loosen her body, like a puppet whose wires had been snipped. But she caught herself before the feint would’ve required her to drop her body onto the ground in a heap. She then stood up in her normal posture. Then she allowed her panic to flash across her face.
“Who are you? Where am I? What the fuck is going on?” she said, turning to the man and speaking in frantic, hurried tones.
He responded by holding up one hand, his palm toward her. “Calm down,” he said, annoyed by her sudden turn from docile statue to panicked woman. “You’re in Brooklyn.”
“That doesn’t do me much good,” said Nora, scanning the man with frightened eyes. Even in the midst of her fear, her immediate attraction to this man occupied a not-insignificant portion of her conscious thoughts.
“The exact address isn’t important; we’ll be leaving in a few minutes, and you’ll never see this place again.”
“But—”
He raised his hand again, and with the other, reached into his suit jacket interior pocket, withdrew his phone, and dialed in a number.
“I’m ready,” he said, before hanging up and replacing his phone.
He looked over Nora once more, a look on his face that she couldn’t quite understand. It was that same expression of professional assessment, but now laced with something else. She took advantage of her freedom to not have her eyes locked forward to search him with her gaze, hoping to find something out about this man who had purchased her, but to no avail. His face was inscrutable.
“Please,” she said, a whimper escaping her throat, “just tell me what’s going on.”
“What is your name?”
“Nora,” she answered reluctantly.
“This is the assessment room, Nora,” he said, turning toward the door that he’d entered from. “It’s bad form to converse with the merchandise here.”
“The ‘merchandise?’” she said, feeling weak in the knees.
Then, the door opened again, and Mrs. Serko stepped through, her long, heel-clad leg slicing in through the darkness. She approached Nora and the man, and joined him in looking over Nora.
“Everything you thought she’d would be, Mr. O’Brien?”
“Yes. I’m pleased with my purchase,” he said, before adding a terse, “so far.”
“Well, good. Highest price of evening, this one. I trust your payment for this little number will be prompt and in full?” she said, a trace of uncertainty hanging from her
words.
“Of course,” he said, not removing his eyes from Nora.
“Very good. I check the records and see that this girl your first purchase since, ah, joining our organization. So protocol is this: You have any problem, you let us know. But within twenty-four hours. After that, your problem.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, growing impatient with the formalities.
“Very well, then. The post-auction events are underway, if you’d like to partake.”
She then stepped around Nora, giving her a pleased once-over. “And do enjoy,” she added, before leaving through the door.
He said nothing to Nora, instead beckoning her to follow him with a flippant over-the-shoulder gesture that made her feel like a troublesome child. But, having no other options, she complied, following him into another long hallway, struggling to keep up with his long strides.
Chapter 7
After a time, they reached a set of massive, wood double doors with ornate gold handles and flanked by two of the men that, by now, Nora had grown accustomed to. A long tapestry of swirling red, black and gold patterns seemed to reach out to them before terminating at the door. The hallway was lit with hanging wall candles and lined with tall portraits of stern-faced patriarchs clad in clothing from various periods of history.
The men nodded to Mr. O’Brien as they approached, reached for the door handle on their respective sides, and pulled the doors open.
As they opened the doors, the hall that she recognized from the bidding was revealed to her. Though now, instead of being filled with tables of men in a strict arrangement, it was a scene of a lively cocktail party. As Nora and Mr. O’Brien entered, she looked up and around herself, feeling small and vulnerable amidst the vast expanse of the room.
Men clad in suits stood here and there in clusters beneath massive chandeliers, which hung from the seemingly endless height of the ceiling. The men were all engaged in conversation and taking sips from glasses that they all held. The mellow sounds of jazz flowed through the room and over the low din from a quartet of players on the same stage where Nora had recently stood. Waiters all in black darted here and there, removing empty glasses and placing fresh ones in the hands of the men, who didn’t deign to turn and acknowledge the help.
At the men’s sides, most of them, at least, were young women in various stages of undress, many of whom Nora recognized from the dressing room. Some of the girls looked wide-eyed and fearful, others remained statue-still and compliant, and others looked to be taking to their role of arm-décor for their purchasers. It seemed to Nora that it was the buyer’s choice whether to take the girls out of their hypnotized, entranced state. And something else struck Nora as well: The girls’ skin, in comparison to the men. The men, like Mr. O’Brien, were all of wan complexion, ranging from gray ash to ivory white. But the girls, like her, had radiant, healthy complexions. Normal, but a sharp contrast to the skin of these strange men.
Nora stayed close to Mr. O’Brien’s side. Though she barely knew him, it was still more familiarity than she had with any of these other men. As they moved into the room, a young-looking man in a crisp, dark suit hurried over to Mr. O’Brien, an eager, excited look on his face as he weaved through the crowd.
“Aye, this is her,” he said, his accent a lilting brogue that stood out to Nora immediately, “Mrs. Three-K, in the flesh.”
“This is her,” said Mr. O’Brien, the slightest hint of a smile drawing up one of the corners of his mouth. Though Nora was still desperate for any explanation of her current situation, she couldn’t help but feel herself drawn to this strange, handsome man. Sexual heat seemed to radiate from him like a roiling fire.
The other man looked her over. “Yeh, she’s a beauty; you don’t see many girls in this part of the world with this kinda look,” he said, extending his hand and taking one of the tight, coiled braids of Nora’s crimson-orange hair between his index and middle fingers.
Mr. O’Brien shot out his hand with what seemed to Nora to be inhuman speed, and took the other man’s hand away from her hair in a manner that was firm and insistent.
“Hands to yourself, Ian,” he said in a chiding tone.
“Aye, as ye like,” Ian said, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “By the by,” he said, leaning and speaking in hushed, conspiratorial tones, “did you, ah, can she hear us?”
“You could just ask me,” said Nora, growing irritated at being spoken around like she was a dog, or a child.
“That answer your question?” Mr. O’Brien looked away and held up three fingers to one of the serving staff, who nodded in acknowledgement.
“Aye, I supposed it does. To each his own,” Ian said, his eyes lingering on Nora’s curves in a manner that made her feel self-conscious, “though if I were paying what you did, I’d be sending her home with an armed guard.”
“I suppose I’m a little more trusting than most,” Mr. O’Brien said in a sardonic tone.
The waiter returned with three flutes of champagne, one of which Mr. O’Brien slipped into Nora’s hand without looking. Nora then watched something strange. From off the tray, Mr. O’Brien took two small capsules, both the same color of dark cherry red. With a pair of plops, he dropped one into his glass, then Ian’s. The capsules broke apart instantly upon touching the golden bubbly liquid, and spread into it, turning the color of their drinks from a sparkling, light yellow to a murky red.
“To new investments,” said Ian with a smirk as the two men touched their glasses. Nora wasn’t sure if she was invited to this toast, but Mr. O’Brien’s insistent, beckoning eyes let her know that she was.
The three clinked their glasses, though Nora did so with some apprehension.
“And not to mention Marcus scampering about here and there. You got him all cheesed off with that little out-bidding you did. You know how prideful the Booties can be.”
Mr. O’Brien responded with a small flick of his eyebrows as he took a small sip from his glass. Nora drank from her own, and the fresh sparkling wine flowed over her tongue, beginning with a subtle pear flavor and ending with the taste of rich baking apples and the lingering scent of summer grass. It was delicious.
But before the conversation could continue further, a trio of older, distinguished-looking men appeared from the nearby throng of party-goers, who parted like water around a stone as the men walked through.
The men looked strikingly different; one was tall, slim, with a pointed goat’s-beard, another was all brawny muscles under his suit, and the middle was trim, long-limbed and serious-eyed, but all had the same general aesthetic of class and sophistication amid their wrinkles and graying, balding hair. Like everyone else in the crowd, their skin was the same wan white color. They each held a small crystalline glass of the reddish liquid, and they looked over the three of them, paying special attention to Nora and Mr. O’Brien.
“Kieran O’Brien, is it?” asked the balding man in a light, melodic voice that flowed on an Irish accent.
Kieran! Finally, a first name.
“It is,” said Kieran. Nora noticed his body tense into a state that resembled readiness as the men spoke. Ian seemed to be shocked into silence.
“When we saw the events of the evening unfold, we made a little note amongst ourselves to stop by and speak to the man who could spend so very much money on one of the evening’s young ladies,” said the brawny man, looking over Nora as though she were a light snack.
“Manners, Simon,” said the middle man, his voice deeper but rich with those same dulcet, emerald tones. “Introductions first.”
A sly smile appeared on the red lips of the brawny man. “Of course,” he said.
“The tall gentleman is Mr. Murphy; the tough-looking fellow here is Mr. Kelly. And I’m Mr. Walsh,” he said, his hand moving in front of his chest in a swirling, formal gesture.
“Aye,” said Ian, his voice wavering with child-like excitement, “of course we know who yeh are.”
Kieran shot a quick, withering look t
o Ian, who noticed and responded with a look of embarrassment.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet the three of you,” said Kieran. No handshakes were exchanged among the men.
Nora wanted to speak, to blurt out the questions that were racing through her mind, but something about these three and their bearing, their formality, everything, instilled in her a sense of menace and dread.
A silence hung in the air as the three men looked at Kieran and Nora, sizing the two of them up.
“Well,” said Mr. Walsh, after tipping the last bit of his drink back, “I’ll let you three get back to it.”
The three turned to leave, but just before disappearing into the crowd of pale-skinned, suited men, Mr. Walsh turned back, his eyes closed and finger in the air, as though remembering something.
“One last thing, Mr. O’Brien,” he said, “do be wary about spending such, well, exorbitant amounts of money in such a pubic venue. You might attract the wrong kind of attention. Not to mention the fact that some of us are… sticklers, for proper protocol.”
And with that, they vanished into the crowd.
“Who were those three?” asked Nora, still afraid, and now keenly aware of how exposed she was.
“Very important people,” said Kieran, his voice dry and grim.
“Why, the three most important men in the Irish society!” said Ian, his voice charged with adrenaline. “They don’t talk to just anyone, especially newcomers like us!”
Kieran shot Ian another silencing gaze. Ian cut himself off, now aware of just how loose his tongue had become.
“I think I’m ready to leave,” said Kieran, finishing his drink.
“Aye,” said Ian, “I’m sure you’re ready to get home with that little number.”
“I’ll see you at the next gathering,” said Kieran.
With that, Ian raised his glass and nodded in farewell. Kieran then took Nora by the hand, turned, and began to lead her toward the door that they entered from.
Nora and Kieran weaved through the tight knots of the crowd, but when they reached the door, they encountered another group of men who stood before them, blocking their path.
