I climbed out of bed, leaving Trixie lying on her stomach. I watched as she reached for me, mumbled something in her sleep and turned away from me. She wasn’t surprised, even in slumber, that I wasn’t there. Sighing, I decided not to focus on it. She was my wife, she’d sworn to stand by my side; she would still be here when I returned with answers and a solution to the catastrophe I could feel creeping up on us. I grabbed my clothes and headed out of the room to take a shower and get ready for a new day. My mind was off; my routine had fallen apart and I didn’t deal well without it.
“Lola?” I called when I stepped out of one of the other rooms and searched for my maid.
Why hadn’t I employed a man? Someone who knew exactly what I’d be talking about if I asked him to summon a harlot, or arrange an evening in the parlour? Women were submissive. Whether they liked it or not, they enjoyed bowing to a man. They liked to push and pull, to serve and obey…Lola was no different, and I’d hand-picked her not long after she’d graduated school and begun working in the kitchens.
She was waiting for me. She rounded the corner where she’d been waiting at a safe distance, and stopped a few feet from me with her hands behind her back. This—this was routine. This was what I couldn’t get from Trixie; someone who met me with an empty need for acceptance in her eyes; someone who wanted to please me no matter the cost; someone who would take my money, use my body if I gave her permission, and have no interest in what lay beneath. This…it was what I needed right now.
“I want breakfast on the table in four minutes. I want my shoes polished and waiting for me when I’ve finished. I want the Business Times on the table and I want a cup of coffee, just how I like it. No sweetener, no half and half…just coffee. Black coffee. And I want silence. And darkness. Pull the curtains and keep the sun out.”
“Yes, sir.”
My body stirred and I chewed my bottom lip, glancing away from her. I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t become another ancestor…another ghost who had found his way into the Kingdom and been exiled for the crimes he’d committed against the King.
“I want the room empty. You’ve put too much perfume on today and you stink. So you can complete your tasks and get out.”
She swallowed hard; I heard her tongue moisten her lips before her gullet worked, and a sharp breath followed. I took a deep breath, trying not to inhale the scent that was far too enticing. I looked at the door to the room opposite. My wife—my disobedient, intuitive, powerful wife—was sleeping in our marital bed and for the first time since I’d employed her and forced her to sign her life over to GRIT, I wanted to fuck the maid. I wanted to make her bleed while I fucked her. I wanted to make sure she’d keep our secret the only way I’d been able to ensure…with permanent silence.
“You can go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lola curtseyed and backed away before turning on her heel and crossing the hallway. I watched her. I felt like a rotten cad for watching the way her hips swayed as she walked, the way her hands brushed her thighs, and the way the shiny ball of hair on the top of her head elongated her neck and called for me to bite it. Jugular. I could fuck her and pierce her jugular.
Thoughts of Trixie’s parents’ demise slammed into me and stole my breath. I crashed back against the wall, raised my face to the ceiling and begged the ghosts to give me a break. I begged them to at least help me stay faithful. I’d promised I wouldn’t take a mistress and by God, I wouldn’t take a mistress. Lola had to go. Women had to go. I needed all temptation removed from the estate. Pushing off the wall, I called Trace as I descended the stairs, to check in and rein myself in. He was my grounding force, someone who knew exactly what I was going through and why life had become so difficult to live when it was all I’d ever known.
She was stunning. Her mother had been, too. Trixie Blackwood looked so much like the woman who had given birth to her. They shared the same raven-black hair that fell to their waists in dark waves like the ocean at night. The locks shone brightly, each strand catching every hue on the spectrum to shroud the world in colour when they were near. They had the same eyes…once blue like the frost of winter, with the warmth of a tropical sea; they’d evolved slowly over generations, a little bit of darkness seeping in to turn the blue to violet. Both women had eyes that mesmerise and stun. The same blush lips, full at the bottom with a perfect cupid’s bow. It was no wonder he hadn’t been able to resist her; I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—blame him for what had happened. She was to blame. She deserved to pay. She had earned her punishment…
“Lola?” I called from the breakfast hall.
She had served me porridge and berries for breakfast, and left out the Business Times with a black coffee. I had no interest in business and I refused to drink coffee with no sugar or cream.
“Yes, ma’am?” she said, walking into the room, her delicate shoes tapping on the polished floor. “How can I help?”
“Why is the room so dark?” I asked, nodding towards the closed curtains. “Why do I have this newspaper and why do I have black coffee?”
“Mr Blackwood asked that the room be kept dark. I assumed, since Mr Blackwood is your husband, that you’d like the same newspaper and take your coffee the same way he does.”
“Well, I don’t,” I snapped, feeling a sense of cold resentment in her voice. What had happened to the woman who had brought me tea in the bath? Surely she wasn’t possessed by ghosts, too? “I’d like my coffee with cream and sweetener, and I’d like to read something about art.”
“Art?”
“Yes.” I sat up straight, channelling the authority I was supposed to claim here. “Art. Don’t question me. You can open those curtains, too. I’d like to see the sun while I still can.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lola scurried to the floor to ceiling windows and one by one she tugged on the heavy golden ropes to open the curtains and let the sun burst in through the glass. I shielded my face from the glare, but refused to ask her to draw them again. I’d stay in Elias’ place at the table, take my remade coffee, read my magazine, and enjoy the stamp of superiority I’d just smacked on her.
“Now, I’d like you to arrange some new clothes, please.”
“Of course, ma’am. It would be an honour.” She stopped next to me again and got to her knees beside me. “If I may…?”
She was asking for permission to talk. Now that was something I wasn’t used to seeing.
“Go on,” I said with a nod.
“I apologise for speaking out of place.” I narrowed my eyes at her, dropping my spoon into the bowl. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Is it because you work for them?”
I didn’t need to specify who they were. I could be grateful for that, at least. If Elias and whoever else lived in this house could hide their secrets, why couldn’t I find a way in and do the same?
Lola nodded. “Not for Master Blackwood, but for Lord Blackwood-”
“Who’s who?”
“Your husband is Master Blackwood.”
I nodded. “Okay, so what about Ambrose?”
“He’s a little more…difficult to work for. I shouldn’t allow it to affect my work for you, ma’am. Please, accept my apology, and know it won't happen again.”
“I accept, of course. Lola, does Ambrose abuse his position?”
She got to her feet and locked her hands behind her. Her back became rigid, her eyes fixed ahead.
“I work for the house, ma’am,” she said. “It’s my place to apologise when I cross the line, and accept the punishment I must endure. If you have accepted my apology, I must thank you for that.” She looked down at me and a smile ghosted over her lips. It was genuine. So, if I understood this correctly, not only were Elias and Ambrose two entirely different men, but they demanded Lola be more than just one woman. “You wanted to order some new clothes? I can go into town this afternoon and collect them for you.”
“No, I want you to send someone else. I was actually hoping you’d help me with
some artwork this afternoon.” She nodded, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of doing something different. Was I applying more pressure on her? I tried to believe I was giving her a break from performing. “I’d like some light brown trousers, cotton or linen, and a few white cotton blouses. Please make sure they’re of suitable length and not short. Two pairs of white plimsolls, please.” I thought for a second, needing to cover my order with less alarming items. “I’m also in need of some new underwear, a nightgown now it’s beginning to get cold at night, and a new pair of jeans…and I’d like something to lounge in in the evening, please. Something warm but comfortable.”
Lola nodded eagerly, blinking rapidly as she committed it to memory. “Of course, ma’am. Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
Lola thanked me for placing an order, which I found odd, and then disappeared before I could say another word.
She left me to my breakfast, and my thoughts.
There was more to Ambrose than what I knew. What else was Elias keeping from me? What other secrets would I have to battle to uncover? I sighed and summoned a member of staff standing at the edge of the room, by the door to the kitchen. I ordered a paracetamol and pushed my bowl away, my porridge unfinished.
“Ambrose!”
I called to my father-in-law…uncle…God, that was weird, when he passed the bottom of the stairs as I ran down them. He paused, halting on the spot, but he didn’t look at me. Why had I called him? Perhaps because it was the first person I’d seen on the estate in weeks, who wasn’t staff. I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to be near him, especially when we were alone and I had no idea where Elias was. I hadn’t seen him all day.
“It’s Lord Blackwood to you, harlot.”
Wow. That shouldn’t have stung as much as it did. Why did he think I was a harlot? Because of William? I hadn’t seen William since the night in the street when Elias had had our car attacked. People kept on disappearing…
“Speak up, Ashford. What do you want?”
“I…uh…”
“Perhaps you should fill your mouth with something, stop your stuttering. I don’t have time for you.”
He still hadn’t looked at me. He despised me for reasons unknown. I’d seen him with Mae—he spoke with her and didn’t refuse to look at her. He obviously spoke to Lola but she seemed to have a strange loyalty to him and I couldn’t figure out why. He wanted me to fill my mouth with…
“Where’s Elias?”
“GRIT business.”
“It’s my business, too.”
He laughed, throwing his head back so his white hair brushed the collar of his black shirt. When he pivoted on the spot and his icy eyes met mine, I took a step back.
“Don’t you think there’s a reason he’s dealing with the world and you’re here, walking the halls with no purpose? You have no place here. My son may bury himself in you every night, but that’s it. That’s as close to GRIT as you’re going to get.”
The whites of his eyes turned red, his nostrils flared and he stared at me like I belonged back in a cell in the Sector. I took another step back.
“Your mouth—your stupid questions and false sense of authority—will get you in serious trouble one day, Trixiebelle.”
“That’s not my name.”
“Is it not?” A wicked smirk moved in as he stared at me and I began to cower. “So stupid. You know nothing and yet you believe you know everything. How can you think you’ll ever be a match for my son? A man who knows of centuries of secrets, while you don’t even know your own name?”
“I…”
“See, stupid.” He took a step closer, placing his hands either side of my head, pinning me to the wall. “You have no idea when to shut up, do you?”
I shook my head. My heart raced and my throat dried as he leaned closer.
“Now, was there a purpose to you calling out my name, or did you just want to know how it might sound when you scream it out loud?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I just…”
He smacked my cheek, moving his other hand away quick enough to allow me to topple sideways to the floor.
“No, I know exactly what your goal was. Accomplished, Ashford.” He grabbed my hand, yanked me to my feet to slam me back to the wall. Then he pulled me forward so my palm collided with the hot, hard mass in his trousers. I tried to pull away, but he was too strong. “See, you’re a fucking harlot. A dirty, worthless whore and undeserving of my son’s affections.”
“No…”
“Sir.”
A tall, burly man dressed entirely in black towered over us. He was taller than Ambrose, who was taller than Elias, who had almost a foot on me. So, I was entirely at risk and vulnerable. The man, who I’d seen around a few times and assumed he was my handler, placed his hand on Ambrose’s shoulder as if to encourage him to step away. I couldn’t breathe, as my heart lodged itself somewhere in my throat and made me choke on oxygen. My heart tried to break through my chest, my head was near exploding, and fear crippled me until my hands were sweating and my knees were quivering with the urge to buckle.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step away.”
“Excuse me?”
Ambrose dropped my hand and turned to my handler, Christen I think. He looked shocked, his eyes ready to burst into supernovas of rage. Ambrose had no power here; he had surrendered it to Elias before I’d even entered the story, but he wasn’t fully prepared to forgo the consequences that came with handing an empire over to another.
“Trace.”
I shook my cousin’s hand when I arrived on the scene to see him looking pale and nervous. He’d filled me in on the operation when I called him this morning, and I’d decided to get my hands dirty. It was the only way I could distract myself from thoughts of what had happened yesterday.
“How many are we looking at?” I asked, standing behind him while he took control of the situation.
“Infrared detected nine.” He nodded to his assistant who stepped forward and grabbed the lock. Another man stepped forward with bolt cutters and snapped the padlock open. “We had ten to begin with.”
“But…?”
Trace nodded again, signalling that I’d get the answer to my question soon enough. Metal whooshed along runners and the rattling of the shutters echoed around the car park.
“Fuck.”
Ten women. Nine of them alive. All of them blonde-haired and blue-eyed. All of them dressed in worn rags that had belonged to women before them. All of them shook with fear and stared at us wide-eyed, wondering if we were the men who would seal their fate and sign their death warrants.
“We suspected she was dying when we were following them. Unfortunately, by the time a window of opportunity opened, it was too late.”
“You didn’t kill her, Trace.”
“I didn’t protect her.” Stepping forward, Trace gripped the back of the lorry and crouched down to eye-level with the women inside. “Can you understand me?”
Two things went down with human trafficking in the city. Either girls were stolen from inside the walls and imported out. They’d lived in the brutal conditions of London—they would survive whatever their buyers had planned for them. Women of the city—the ones who survived—were unlike any other women in the world. They were tough, they were not strangers to death and real, bone-chilling danger, and they had a thick skin almost as impenetrable as the walls that held them captive. It was something to be sought after in the outside world. Men out there no longer wanted women who would cry in the corner and beg to go home when they were refused their first day of food. Men wanted to break the unbreakable. They wanted to obtain the unobtainable. They wanted to ruin the invincible.
Or women were smuggled into the city, taught to serve their owners as was custom in twenty-first century London. They were ordered to spec, chosen from catalogues of potential women who had no idea evil was stalking them. I suspected these women, with their uniform appearances and sense
of bewilderment that was almost arousing inside the barricades, were not natives. They were not English.
One of the women braved standing on two shaky, weak legs, her body displaying the effects of malnourishment. She was gaunt, her eyes were sunken and her skin was grey, thin against electric blue veins and milky bone.
“I understand,” she said with a thick accent.
“You’re safe now,” Trace replied, taking a step back to show her he meant no harm.
It was Trace’s specialty, making people feel safe when they were anything but. Ashford’s had been granted the empathic gene; the one that gave them sympathy, softness and a comforting nature that was never more necessary than it was here. “They can't hurt you.”
The woman nodded and turned to the other women to say something in their native language. Danish, maybe? I listened carefully as Trace turned his head to detect the language. Perching on the floor of the lorry, he turned to them and gestured behind him. One of his assistants ran in with a pack of water, frantically pulling bottles from the plastic and handing them to Trace as he distributed them to the girls.
Some of them held onto the remains of the life they’d lived before they were taken. They hadn’t been runaways. They hadn’t been call girls or drug addicts…they’d been children, daughters, women who had lived a life that had allowed them to have manicures, hair treatments, braces and artificial tans. The risk of taking these women had been great and it hadn’t paid off. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something else going on here.
Trace was talking with the women, asking them questions to find out where they’d been taken from, how long they’d been kept, and if they could remember anything about the journey. Sure, our concern was the girls’ safety, but also the safety of others outside the walls. Women from Romania were regular; women from Russia were often happy to come inside the walls and experience the harsh life we lived here. Women from Denmark? They were not the usual type of merchandise ordered in here.
The Uprising (GRIT Sector 1 Book 2) Page 12
