by Mara Black
The driver gave a single, quick nod. He pulled a bulky phone out of his pocket and tapped a few buttons. I stared at it curiously, realizing I hadn't seen such a device in years. Not since all the services went dead and they quickly became useless toys, especially when electricity was so hard to come by. But the one Joshua carried was different, with a long antenna and a massive battery pack. It must have been running on a satellite network. I'd heard rumors that a few powerful men still controlled those few that remained; apparently, it was true.
"Come," he said, a moment later, rising to his feet. He crooked his finger at me, as if there could be any doubt who he was talking to.
I followed him down more interminable hallways, through unmarked double doors, to a huge tiled room that was mostly empty except for the small exam area in the center.
There were all kinds of equipment hanging on the walls, and tucked away in the drawers, no doubt. I spent a moment gawking at all the modern medical conveniences that I hadn't seen since I was a kid. Was this how the other half lived?
The only thing that seemed incongruous was a huge fireplace on one end of the room, with an array of pokers next to it. One of them was sitting in the fire, handle resting on the bricks. But when the door swung open, my attention was quickly turned away.
"Oh, hello," said the doctor, when he walked in. He was a smiling old man with tufts of hair in his ears. I swore he'd done some of my checkups when I was a little girl. A different time, a different life. There was absolutely nothing sinister about him. And that made it so much worse.
While he took my blood pressure and palpated either side of my throat, Joshua took a brief phone call in the corner. I focused on his face while the cold speculum slipped inside me, trying to think about anything except what was actually happening to me.
"Good news," the doctor said, pulling his gloves off with a snap. "You're healthy as a horse, young lady."
I smiled, wanly.
Suddenly, Joshua's hands closed around my shoulders. He was lifting me up to my feet, holding my arms behind my back, steering me forward. My body froze, but he kept just propelling, and I had no choice but to shuffle my feet along with him.
He was leading me to the fireplace.
"This will hurt," he murmured in my ear, as we got close. He almost sounded regretful. I wanted to scream, to pull away from his grip and run, but I couldn't. I knew I couldn't. I knew it would only make things worse.
The doctor was coming towards us, patting the pockets of his white coat absentmindedly.
"Sorry about this, dear," he said. "But it's very important that we don't lose you, now we have you."
His smile chilled me. I stared at the flames, licking up the poker whose purpose I now understood. My heart was pounding so hard I thought for sure it would give out - prayed that it would, before they had a chance to strip the last of my dignity. My humanity.
The doctor picked up the poker, and I didn't recognize the feral howling echoing through the room, but I knew it had to be me. I closed my eyes the moment before the brand hit my skin, before the pain seared through my awareness, sharp and bright and all-consuming. I screamed and screamed until my throat was raw, until blackness licked at the edges of my vision, and only then did I realize that my eyes were open again - but I couldn't process anything I was seeing.
I was dimly aware that I was being dragged, and I had to blink tears out of my eyes to see what was hanging over me. A glistening shower head. The stream of cool water brought some tiny measure of relief on my burn, my brand, but it was also soaking through my dress. Such as it was. At the moment, I couldn't bring myself to care.
I was shivering when they pulled me away. From shock, from the water, or from some combination of both, I couldn't tell. The burn immediately started to throb again, lighting up pain signals across my whole chest, feeling like so much more than just a skin wound.
They sat me down on the edge of the exam table again, seemingly waiting for me to recover. Even though every inch of my body hurt, I still felt numb.
All my worst fears about Stoker were true. They weren't even trying to hide it anymore. I was their property, to abuse and barter and sell as they pleased. All I could hope for was that my eventual owner would be merciful. But what were the odds of that?
What kind of man would buy a woman?
Joshua and the doctor were talking quietly amongst themselves. Joshua kept reaching into his pocket and checking his phone. I was desperately curious, and desperately afraid, watching a nightmare unfold with disturbing clarity.
"Come on." Joshua snapped his fingers. "It's time for your close-up."
CHAPTER TWO
Picture Day
Feeling like livestock already, for so many reasons, I followed him out into the hall. I tried to remember where we were going, how many turns, how many doors, in case the information ever came in handy. But my mental map was getting scrambled. This place was like a maze, and the throbbing of my burn kept tugging my attention away.
He led me into another elevator, even faster than the first, bringing on another wave of nausea that almost competed with the pain. When he led me out, I was struck by how different this floor looked. We'd gone down, down, so far down that we might be underground. It wouldn't have surprised me. Although every surface was still clean and gleaming white, the lights glowing soft, it felt more like a hospital or an institution than a fancy hotel.
I didn't know what to expect when we rounded the corner, but it certainly wasn't this.
There were about twenty girls lined up, against the wall, subdued and silent. Their eyes darted in my direction, then back to the floor. Joshua indicated I should stand behind the last of them, joining the wait.
Apparently, we were all headed towards a folding chair in the middle of the room. Behind it, there was a large off-white backdrop emblazoned with the Stoker sigil. As if my brand wasn't enough. Each girl sat, straight-backed and unsmiling, and the man behind the camera would tut softly and fiddle with her hair for a moment before retreating behind the lens. He didn't seem particularly happy with the outcome, but there was a larger, sterner man behind him, ordering the girls to move on.
I'd imagined I would be dressed in something alluring, posed on a fancy piece of furniture, or something like that. But apparently, Stoker's catalog was more pragmatic than that. It didn't even seem like a full-body shot. I supposed that was what the measurements were for.
The whole thing was like some kind of demented school picture day, and I felt a hysterical laugh threatening at the base of my throat. But I didn't dare. The room was too silent and forbidding, just the soft sound of shutter clicks and the shuffling footsteps of all the other desperate women.
I wanted to talk to the one in front of me, just to try and make a connection with another human being. But I had a feeling there was a reason for the silence. If I tried to open my mouth, the stern guard behind the photographer would probably have a thing or two to say to me.
Before I knew it, my turn was almost up. The girl in front of me was quivering as she stepped forward.
"Next," the guard barked, a few moments later. I swallowed hard, and began to walk.
The chair was even more uncomfortable than it looked, digging into my ass and forcing me into unnaturally perfect posture. I didn't have time to decide what expression I'd wear, before the camera went off and the guard was waving me on.
I must have looked like hell. These men like their women downtrodden, is that it?
So many girls. My head was swimming. These days, there were only a few currencies that still mattered - food, medicine, and drugs. And there weren't many people who had enough of those things to trade. How did Stoker stay in business? How many girls could one powerful man buy?
As many as he wants.
Were there men out there keeping harems? Or worse...using and disposing us, in unmarked graves?
Joshua was leading me down another endless hallway. I felt numb, placing one foot in front of the other with Her
culean effort. I just wanted to give up. Slump over on the floor and refuse to move, let them do whatever they wanted to. I'd go catatonic, and I wouldn't feel anything anymore.
No.
Something inside me was snarling.
Don't you dare. This isn't over. Not after everything you've lived through.
Awareness throbbed to life in my chest, along with the pain of my brand. Tears stung in my eyes. I didn't want to wake up and face it all. My own foolishness, my fatal mistake.
We were back in an elevator now, going down many more floors. This time I was sure we must be far below ground level, somewhere under the streets and the sewers. Joshua led me down a hallway lined with numbered doors, so long I could hardly see the end of it. He finally stopped at one of the doors and pressed his thumb on a little black box next to it, until a tiny light flashed green, and the door clicked open.
"You'll be staying here for a little while," he said, guiding me inside. It was a room the size of a closet, clean, windowless, with a small cot, a sink, and a gleaming chrome toilet in the corner.
A prison cell.
I turned to ask him how long, not that I expected an answer, but just to hear the sound of my own voice. To remind myself I was still alive. But the door was already closed.
I was left alone, in silence, with nothing but my thoughts.
"You belong to me now."
I tossed and turned, twisted, tried to escape. But something was holding me down. I was frozen, immobile, unable to scream no matter how hard I tried. And even if I could, who would hear me?
Who would care?
I couldn't see his face. I could never see his face. Even as he came close to me, closer than he ever had before, touching me, his fingers closing around my wrist, his features were still obscured in shadow.
Fighting, thrashing, I tried to ignore the tingling feeling that crept up my arm, at his touch. The electricity. I was covered in goosebumps, and all he was doing was holding my arm.
He did own me.
I might not accept it, but my body's reaction proved that he controlled me in a way I didn't understand.
"No," I whispered, in vain.
"No, what?" he whispered back. His grip tightened.
"I don't want this. Please." Hot tears leaked from my eyes.
"Oh?"
His thumb stroked the sensitive underside of my wrist, and I shuddered.
Even though I couldn't see his face, I knew that he was smiling.
Joshua came for me early the next morning. I had woken up from my nightmare soaked in sweat, and sat there awake for the rest of the night, my knees hugged in tightly to my chest.
"I need a shower," I said to him, as soon as he unlocked the door.
"You'll get one soon enough." His expression was irritated, preoccupied. "Come. Mr. Charles wants you to entertain a guest today."
From the way he said it, I guessed he didn't agree with the plan. It was the first time I'd seen him display real emotion, and I hoped it would make him a little talkative.
"What kind of guest?" I asked him.
"The only kind we have." He was walking briskly, and I had to make an effort to keep up. "That's what they call potential customers."
They. Interesting word choice.
Wait. Customers?
"Already?" My heart skipped a few beats. "But I just...I just got here."
"You won't leave right away," he said. "The guest knows that. But he saw you in the catalog, and he wanted to meet you during his appointment."
"Oh." That wasn't particularly comforting.
Why the hell did I do this?
Because it seemed like a better option than selling yourself on the streets until Birdy caught up to you.
"This guest is very particular," Joshua went on. "So you'll need to be on your best behavior. If he likes you, we'll put you through the expedited training program."
"Training for what?" I regretted asking the question, as soon as it came out of my mouth.
He glanced at me briefly, with an expression I couldn't quite read. "All sorts of things. Etiquette. Dancing. Cooking and serving food. Submission in all things, including the bedroom."
I sucked in a breath through my teeth, unable to stop myself.
"It's not so bad," he said, flatly. "You get used to it."
Two weeks? Expedited program? Submission?
They really were going to turn me into a slave. At least, they were going to try.
"That's a lot to learn in two weeks," I said.
He glanced at me again, like he wanted to say something, but couldn't.
After a long elevator ride, I realized he was taking me back to the boardroom. Even behind the closed doors, loud voices were escaping into the hallway. I couldn't distinguish any words. Just anger and frustration.
As the doors swung open, the conversation abruptly stopped. All the men at the table looked up, eyes on me.
I clenched my jaw, staring back. Daring them to believe I was less than human.
"Gentlemen, we'll continue this discussion later," said Mr. Charles.
"We can continue it now," a younger man protested. He kept glancing at me, his eyes devouring my body in a way that made me feel sick. "This is absurd. Are we really going to pander to an old man's ghost? Look at her. She'll fetch a good price."
"There is no discussion," said Mr. Charles. "She never should have ended up in the catalog. I wasn't consulted. We'll let Mr. Farber meet her, but he's not going to like her any better than the others. Especially when he hears she's untrained."
The younger man let out a disgusted sigh. "I just want my objection on record. You really think the old man would still want this, knowing what we know? You want to keep trying to appease that cold-blooded killer he loved so much?"
Mr. Charles was glaring. "Lambert," he hissed, momentarily turning vicious. My blood ran cold. "That's enough."
Lambert raised an eyebrow in my direction, and I shivered. "I just think she deserves to know who she's destined for."
What the hell is he talking about?
"Well, if Mr. Farber likes her, this whole discussion will be moot," said Mr Charles, mildly. "You may get your way after all."
"You know he won't," said Lambert, sourly. "He's never liked any of them. I think he only comes here for the free drinks, and the power trip." He sneered. "After he turns up his nose, like he always does, you're really planning on shipping this poor thing off to..."
He drifted off, seeing Mr. Charles' face.
"Well," said the older man, shaking off his look of murderous rage and glancing in our direction. He addressed Joshua first. "Did you let her know about our guest?"
"I don't think she's ready," Joshua replied. "We can't expect her to put on the full show. He knows that, doesn't he?"
Mr. Charles just shrugged. "He's meeting five girls, I doubt he's going to focus too much on one particular flaw. If he likes her, he likes her."
Joshua looked troubled, and I couldn't quite understand why. Of course, I didn't understand most of what was happening here. It was all some strange, parallel universe, where it was normal to talk about selling off human beings.
To murderers, apparently.
I wasn't sure if I should be praying that Mr. Farber would turn his nose up at me, or inexplicably take a liking to me and save me from whatever fate awaited me otherwise. Cold-blooded killer didn't sound too good...but then again, anyone who was plotting the deaths of these men couldn't be too bad himself.
Could he?
Or he could be worse.
"It's not up for discussion, I'm afraid," said Mr. Charles, with a frozen smile. "Mr. Lambert sees who Mr. Lambert wants to see. You know that. Get her ready. He'll be here at three o'clock, and I want her looking flawless."
Joshua took me to another one of the suite-like rooms I'd seen when I first came here, and once again waited while I showered. This time, he had a slinky red dress for me to change into. It clung to me heavily, cut in a low V on my chest so that the top of m
y stomach was displayed. A few inches lower, the fabric was gathered to draw attention to the center of my pelvis.
I'd been instructed to apply the makeup waiting for me on the counter. The bright red lipstick and deep smoky eye shadow completed the look. I was like a horrible parody of beautiful elegance.
A pair of matching stiletto heels was waiting for me by the door. I slipped them on, praying I wouldn't have to walk far in them. I might not be able to, not without twisting my ankle, anyway. It occurred to me that they weren't meant for walking.
I shivered.
"Where are we going?" I asked Joshua.
"Nowhere," he said. "Mr. Farber will come here." He reached into his pocket and produced a pair of garish gold earrings, and a similarly ridiculous necklace. "Put these on."
Just as I fiddled with the clasp, there was a knock at the door. Joshua hurried to answer it.
I held my breath as Mr. Farber walked in.
He went straight for me, his face angry and unsmiling. I forced myself not to react, even as he stopped just a few inches from me.
In another life he might've been handsome, but there was a stink of bitterness and desperation about him. It made me recoil, but I forced it down, reminding myself that this was better than the alternative. I smiled sweetly and drew my head up, not flinching when he grabbed my chin and forced it higher.
He sneered.
"Really? This is the best you've got?"
"She's brand new," Joshua said. "Is there something wrong?"
"Doesn't look like in the picture." He was looking at me, but at the same time, he really wasn't. His eyes examined me like an object in a store. "You people have to stop with your deceptive business practices."
There was a sense of relief - he doesn't want me. But there was anger, too, at the way he looked at me, touched me, like I was a piece of garbage. Was this really going to be my life?
What if no one wanted me?
What would Stoker do then?
