Transcending Darkness

by Airicka Phoenix

  “Haven’t figured it out yet?”

  Juliette shuffled back and settled herself in the corner where the bars met the wall. “I’ve guessed you’re some kind of collector.”

  The laughter was more pronounced when Maraveet spoke. “A collector. I like that. I suppose it’s close enough.” She exhaled. “I’m an obtainer. I obtain things for people who can afford my services.”

  “You’re a smuggler.”

  She made an almost purring sound. “No, I merely retrieve the item. The smuggling gets handled by someone else.”

  Juliette thought about that a moment. “How did you get into something like that?”

  “Family business,” Maraveet said without pause. “My parents were obtainers. Well, my father was. My mother was the one who did the smuggling. It was how they met.”

  Juliette raised an eyebrow. “How romantic.”

  “He loved her though,” Maraveet went on, quieter now. “Said it never made sense how someone so small could be so dangerous. I was seven when they died. The last thing they ever said to me was, Be a good girl for your aunt and uncle, Mara. Mommy and Daddy will be home before you know it. Never saw them again. But I had Killian’s parents and I loved them just as much so it wasn’t too bad. Callum ran my father’s company until the day I was old enough to take over.”

  “How did your parents know each other?” she asked.

  Maraveet grunted as she tried to shift into a more comfortable position. “Callum’s family has always been in the import-export business. They own several large ports over land, sea, and air. My mother used to use him to move things. Somehow, she met Saoirse McClary and the two became best friends.”

  Juliette peered down at her knees. She drew them up and wound her arms around them.

  “What’s your sister like?” Maraveet asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Juliette said softly. “I spent the better part of sixteen years wishing she didn’t exist.”

  “Why?”

  Juliette picked at the fur around the tops of her boots. “Because I was an awful person before my mom died. Actually, I was an awful person even after she died, but before that, it was all about me. For seven years, I was the center of my parent’s world and I loved it. When Vi was born, I hated her for taking the spotlight away. I was terrible to her. Never gave her the time of day. When Mom got sick, I couldn’t deal with it. I couldn’t be anywhere near her while she deteriorated and faded away. I started to spend all my time with my friends and my boyfriend. I stayed away from home as much as possible, never realizing that Dad was doing the same, leaving Vi alone to take care of Mom during some of the worst of it. By the time I realized we were losing Dad too, Mom was in the hospital. I left school, got a job, and continued to stay as far away from Vi and Dad and home as possible.”

  “Why?” The question was asked so low, Juliette almost didn’t hear it.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I guess a part of me hated her for not having to deal with any of the stuff I did. She was just some kid. She didn’t understand. But I was now responsible for her so I did what I thought she needed, a home, food, clothes … school. I worked and tried to keep us surviving day by day. Then Dad was killed and Arlo showed up on our front porch, so I did what I thought was right and protected her from it. When she started acting out, I thought she was just being a spoiled little bitch, ungrateful and just…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “It never dawned on me that maybe she was just lonely and acting out was the only way she could get my attention.” She paused to give a quiet chuckle. “I don’t even know what kind of person that makes me.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Maraveet murmured quietly. “It’s what you do after this that makes the difference.”

  Juliette snorted to distract herself from the lump in her throat. “You mean if we ever get out of here?”

  “We will,” Maraveet said with that same unwavering confidence. “I know my brother and I know he won’t ever stop looking for you.”

  Juliette shook her head. “I don’t know. He made it very clear that I wasn’t anything more than a passing amusement.”

  “He gave you his mother’s pendent,” Maraveet cut in. “Do you think he gives that kind of stuff away to just anyone?”

  Instinctively, her hand went to the bare skin at her throat and her throat muscles tightened even further.

  “He said such terrible things,” she whispered.

  Maraveet sighed. “Probably to keep you from falling into this sort of situation,” she mumbled. “He knew you wouldn’t leave otherwise.”

  He would have been right, Juliette thought miserably. She would have stayed with him forever if he’d asked her to.

  Juliette opened her mouth to tell the other woman as much when the door opened with a distinct pop of air pressure being released. The sound never failed to close abusive hands around her throat. Her spine prickled with awareness and she edged even closer to the wall.

  In the cage over, Maraveet never moved. She didn’t speak either. Juliette wondered if her eyes were open, but couldn’t bring herself to care as scuffed boots began their descent. Jean clad legs appeared, then the wiry build of the man who brought them food. There was no tray in his grasp, which usually meant he’d been sent to retrieve one of them. Juliette prayed it wouldn’t be Maraveet. They’d only just brought her back.

  The man was younger than the others. Clean cut and dressed in jeans and a black sweater, he could have passed for handsome or mildly attractive in that unmemorable sort of way. He wasn’t someone she would offer a second glance, but compared to the other three men, he was practically a model with his shortly cropped cap of sandy brown hair and matching eyes. At his hip, the keyring jingled with every cruel stride forward.

  “Boss wants to see you,” he said, stopping at Juliette’s door and idly flipping through the ring. He found the key he was looking for and jammed it into the lock. “Got big plans.”

  The bar door swung open and he stepped aside in clear indication. Juliette shuffled to her feet. She cast a nervous glance towards Maraveet, who hadn’t moved a muscle before edging her way towards the man waiting. He said nothing, but he grabbed her arm once she was close enough, even though she wasn’t struggling. Juliette practically had to run to keep up.

  The change never failed to disorientate her. It was an entirely different world from the one she’d been held captive in. Topside, everything was bright and beautiful. The colors were vibrant, the textures intense and captivating, a huge difference from the dull steel she was quickly becoming accustomed to. But it was the smell that made Juliette want to cry. It was the crisp scent of winter, the decadent aroma of warm, melted butter and fried meat lathered in spices and clean. God, it smelled so clean. Yet despite all that, she would rather be in the cage with Maraveet—or home—than be upstairs with men who eyed her as though she were a prized cattle for the slaughter. Their attention crawled along her grimy skin, making her want to dive back downstairs and lock herself in. Her captor’s grip on her elbow tightened. Maybe he sensed her desires.

  She was propelled across the plush carpet to the sitting area made up just beneath the spiraling stairs. The two sofas and two arm chairs cluttered the space, but no one seemed to mind. Four figures were already there, waiting for her. Juliette had eyes for only one.

  “Hello Juliette.”

  The voice was as soft and beautiful as its owner. Juliette didn’t recognize him. He barely looked out of his early twenties with skin so white, he could almost be translucent and hair the downy white-gold of corn silk. It framed an elven face with a tapered chin and high cheekbones and lidded eyes the crystal blue of a clear, summer sky. He reminded her of an animation, too perfect to be real, too clean. Way too clean to be sitting surrounded by men who looked like they couldn’t tell a bar of soap from a brick. Every line was flawlessly proportioned. He had the slender build of a pubescent child draped in an expensive suit the exact metallic gray as the sheets bolted around her cage. There
was a baby pink dress shirt beneath the blazer and white loafers on his feet. She could just make out a hint of skin between the hem and the expensive bit of leather to notice he wasn’t wearing socks. He sat regally with long legs crossed beneath a gold halo of the light spilling from above. In the surrounding darkness, he could have passed for an angel.

  Eyes hooded lazily from a face lax with comfort lifted and fixed on her with that same arrogant, amused glint he’d given her the first time.

  “How are you?”

  People like him and Arlo liked asking that question when they knew perfectly well that they were the ones inflicting the pain and hearing it made them feel powerful and in control. She also knew that he didn’t really care one way or another how she really was. She opted to say nothing at all.

  True to her assumption, he carried on without a response from her.

  “I truly feel terrible for putting you through all this. It wasn’t like you asked for it.” His head bent ever so slightly to the side, knocking a wisp of baby-fine hair across his brow. “Or perhaps you did in a roundabout way. How does that saying go? You’re judged by your bedmates?” He waved a pale, dainty hand. Light caught the clear coating on his neatly manicured nails and glinted. “Something like that.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Juliette blurted, unable to hold her tongue any longer. “I would tell you if I did.”

  He smiled beautifully, all pearly white teeth and a tiny dimple against his left cheek. “I know you would,” he soothed the way one would pacify a small child. “I know you would tell me whatever I wanted to know, because, unlike your friend, you’re not strong, are you, Juliette? You’re not a fighter.”

  While perfectly true, Juliette inwardly winced at the verbal slap. The fact that he knew that about her from the single conversation they’d had made her feel beaten and ashamed.

  Juliette had always tried to be brave. She had fought to keep Arlo away from Vi, she had struggled to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. She had done so unwaveringly for seven years. Before that, she’d had an entire high school to deal with, which most days felt like the greatest challenge of her life. Yet none of that had prepared her for being kidnapped by human traffickers. There was a unique sort of fear that came with being at the absolute mercy of someone without a conscious.

  “Is that why you’re hurting her?” she forced herself to ask. “So she doesn’t fight?”

  “More so she doesn’t cause any problems,” he corrected. “Just a little sedation technique. But that isn’t why I asked you here. I need you to make me another video.”

  Automatically, Juliette’s gaze jumped to the corner of the ship, the cramped square of space housing a clunky camera on a tripod. It faced a fabric curtain depicting a concrete wall and a metal chair. Behind the camera was a set of construction floodlights and a table harboring a laptop. Her skin prickled just from the mere memory of having their beams burning into her.

  “Who are you sending the videos to?” she asked, hoping to prolong having to sit in that chair. “Is it to Killian?”

  “Not any of your concern, is it? Just be a good girl and make my video. When you’re finished, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  Whatever it was, she didn’t want it. She started to tell him as much when her elbow was captured in a bruising vice and she was forcibly twisted around. Her struggles proved futile when she was shoved into the seat with enough push to send the legs teetering backwards. Juliette flailed as she struggled not to get thrown. The floodlights were snapped on. The bulbs behind the glass hummed as the wires blazed to life. The burn scorched into her skin. She could feel her pupils shrinking to pinpricks. She winced, but could do nothing more than sit there as her guard prepared.

  Like the last time, two of the men started the show. One clicked on the laptop while the other maneuvered the camera. He was also the one in charge of the cue cards.

  “Just like last time,” he told her as he stepped over the tripod legs and ducked behind the camera. “Read the cards.”

  Someone else must have written them, she realized with some relief. The old set had barely been legible. The words had been sloppy, misspelled, and some of the letters had been backwards. It was the workings of a six year old.

  The little red light just beneath the fat lens blinked on. Her guard adjusted the lever, getting the camera angle just right before poking his head around and giving her the nod.

  “Go!”

  Juliette took a deep breath and started. “My name is Juliette Romero and I have not been injured. Not yet. But my time is running out. If you ever wish to see me alive again, I will be waiting for you under the golden arches.”

  The guard hit the switch and the red light flicked off. The flood lights were shut off next, leaving little bulbs popping across Juliette’s vision. She stumbled as she got awkwardly to her feet. The cords and wires bunched around her feet caught her ankle and her guard caught her before she could take the camera down. She was returned before the assembly. The computer guy remained behind to put her video together and ready to send.

  “Beautifully done,” Man-Child praised. “You’re a natural.” His subtle mockery toyed at the corners of his thin mouth. “I think you’ve earned your treat.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Juliette demanded. “Who are you?”

  “I am Cyril Konstantinov,” he replied without a second of hesitation. “But we will save the reason you are here for another day.”

  With a curt bob of his head, he motioned to the man on Juliette’s left. The man rose and ambled to the compartment door without a word. Juliette watched with growing panic as he flicked the switch cleverly disguised as a strip of paneling and disappeared down the stairs. Concern for Maraveet had Juliette starting after him. She got two steps only to have her arm grabbed by her guard. He smirked, clearly amused by her unease. His dark eyes burned into hers with the same sick pleasure as the others.

  She pulled away. He let her.

  “What is he doing?” Juliette turned to Cyril.

  He didn’t need to answer. The man returned with a semi-conscious Maraveet being dragged along at his side. Juliette rushed forward and the other woman was unceremoniously tossed into her arms. The weight nearly took them both down had Juliette not braced her feet. Maraveet cried out on impact. Her entire body seized with the pain and Juliette had to tighten her grip. She shifted Maraveet higher and elicited another groan.

  “Can’t a girl sleep in peace?” Maraveet rasped, lifting her head enough to glower at Cyril.

  He seemed unperturbed by her lip. Maybe he was used to it. Juliette had no idea what the two talked about when Cyril brought Maraveet up.

  “Alcorn and Calhoun will take you up for a shower,” Cyril said, ignoring Maraveet’s comment entirely. “Your smell is beginning to put me off my supper.”

  Alcorn was their guard. Calhoun was the beefy man who had brought Maraveet upstairs. He reminded Juliette of a young Santa Claus with too much gut straining the front of his knitted sweater and a permanent flush to his round cheeks. His brown hair was matted to his scalp and there was just a hint of an unfinished mustache along his upper lip that she could never seem to take seriously. The straggly patches were missing in places and thick in others. Not a shaving job gone wrong, but more like he was still waiting for the rest to grow in.

  He moved forward. Alcorn flagged their other side and the two herded Juliette and Maraveet up the winding stairs. It was a long process when Juliette had to practically carry the other woman. They were both sweaty and breathless by the time they reached the top. Juliette adjusted her grip under Maraveet’s arm and guided her the rest of the way to a small, three piece washroom.

  It was clear immediately that this was something they did often. The white room was sparse. Just a sink, a toilet, and a bathtub. There wasn’t even a mirror. The only color came from the pile of fabric dumped inside the porcelain bowl. The forest green outfits were clearly meant for them to wear, but there were no towels, s
he noted.

  “You got ten minutes,” Calhoun told them.

  “Ten minutes?” Juliette panted. “That’s barely enough—”

  “Nine,” he prompted.

  Juliette didn’t speak again. She took Maraveet to the toilet and gingerly set her down. Behind her, Calhoun snickered and shut the door.

  At least they’re giving us privacy, Juliette thought bitterly.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she turned to Maraveet. “You go first,” she said, already reaching for the woman’s coat. “You’ve been here the longest.”

  Maraveet arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying I smell worse than you?”

  Juliette started. “What? No, I was just—”

  “Because you don’t smell like a basket of roses yourself,” the woman finished.

  It took Juliette a second to realize she was being teased. She rolled her eyes with a grin and hoisted the woman up. Maraveet gripped the lip of the sink as Juliette quickly stripped her. The ruined clothes were tossed into the corner in a dirty, smelly pile and forgotten.

  “Ready?”

  Not waiting, she got Maraveet into the tub, helped her kneel and started the water. There wasn’t any shampoo or razors, but there was a bar of soap and Juliette used it liberally.

  The jets hit the array of colored skin and rained down into the bottom of the tub in a dark gray smear. The majority of her injuries were collected like badges across her torso. Sharp blossoms of blue, black, red, purple, yellow and green sprung up beneath the pale surface of her skin, a beautiful spray of flowers in the winter. The colors ran along the curve of her waist and splotched along her thighs, back and arms. But none of that was anything compared to the scars. Those ran in deep rivulets across her entire body. Whole areas rose in thick, crude ropes. Others were shallow nicks and faint, shiny slits. Then there were the burn marks, old, but unmistakable. It all jumbled together in a mess of ruined flesh. The sight was horrific. Seeing them made Juliette wonder if maybe Cyril had been right. Maybe Maraveet was stronger than Juliette. She knew for a fact that she would not be nearly as put together had it been her on the receiving end of all that.