Blackwood

by Celia Aaron

  One whisked towards us, his tray laden with champagne.

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  Vinemont grabbed two glasses and handed me one. “Drink. It’ll help.”

  I took a sip and then another. We walked further inside. Everything was gilded, golden, and sparkling. Dozens of chandeliers lined the high ceilings, and the walls were covered with intricate murals of romanticized scenes from the old South. It reflected a whitewashed history, the lighter paint hiding a bloody and violent past.

  I waved my glass at the images of cotton fields and smiling slaves. “This is disgusting.”

  “Thank you for your fascinating art critique. Now, drink,” Vinemont urged.

  I swallowed another mouthful of the champagne, my stomach warming. And then the delicious liquid was gone. Vinemont handed the second glass to me.

  “Finish it.”

  I did as he instructed, suddenly thirsty and starving. My lunch at Renee’s hands seemed to have happened days ago.

  “Good.” He passed the empty glasses to a particularly horrific server dressed in complete maudlin. His mask was skeletal even as the bells jingled merrily along his crown.

  What sounded like a full orchestra began playing somewhere deeper in the house. Vinemont and I fell into the stream of masked strangers, some of them in gorgeous gowns that seemed to have come right off a runway. The men were all in staid black tie, the only things marking them as different were the varied masks that hid their faces. Some were pure peacocks, others in simple black. All seemed eager, almost excited. A buzz was in the crowd, elation at what came next, whatever that might be, creating an expectant energy.

  A man plucked the edge of my cape and stared down at me.

  I cringed back into Vinemont.

  The stranger didn’t seem to notice, or care. “A Vinemont, I take it?”

  The hum of the music grew, the whine of violins echoing down the wide marble hallway before the sound coalesced into beauty along with the other instruments.

  “Yes.” Vinemont pulled me into his side, forcing the stranger to release my cloak.

  The stranger smiled, his eyes lighting behind his midnight blue mask. “There are no female Vinemont heirs. So you must be an Acquisition.”

  “I’m just—”

  “She’s mine. Back the fuck off, Charles.” Vinemont tightened his grip at my waist, pressing the already tight dress into me even more.

  The stranger laughed. “Nice to see you, too, Sinclair.” He stared down into my eyes again. “And I’m very much looking forward to seeing you, all of you, very shortly.”

  The floor lurched beneath my feet. The only thing that kept me upright was Vinemont’s arm around my waist. He was a prison made of flesh and blood. My very own cage.

  The stranger, Charles, stepped away and whispered something to the woman at his side. She frowned at me, giving me an up and down sweep with a critical gaze, her crimson mask turning her into a particularly vicious foe.

  The orchestra was playing some elegant tune, one made for the opera or a symphony, not for this. It was so out of place that I wanted to laugh. I stifled my giggle as I glanced away from the crimson bitch.

  I ignored the priceless canvases that graced the walls, and the ornate doors and moldings. Instead of letting the beauty of the house lull me, I stared into the masked faces, many of them now staring back at me as word spread that I was an Acquisition, whatever that really meant. Was I so rare? How many Acquisitions were there?

  Though light glanced from every surface and sprang from the bright walls and polished floor, I was in a nightmare. The home was only gilded, gold covering the rotten core. I was surrounded by ghouls, all of them hungering for a piece of my flesh. The glitz and glamour did nothing to hide their true natures. No mask ever could.

  The quick beat of my heart resounded in my ears, deafening even the smooth sound of the instruments. Vinemont didn’t stop, didn’t say a word, just kept moving forward. Toward what, I didn’t know. We passed through a wide set of high doors and into a ballroom. The floor was a light oak and shone like everything else in the vile mansion.

  In the center was a high platform that towered over the ballgoers. It was circular and done in brilliant gold. A fabricated oak tree shot up through the middle, the leaves sprouting artificially green and full almost up to the ceiling, which must have been forty feet overhead, if not more.

  Vinemont swept me through the crowd, moving closer to the tree. I wanted to dig in my heels, to stop his resolute forward momentum. It was no use. The nearer we drew to the platform, the louder my instinct screamed for me to run. Something metallic along the trunk caught my eye and my knees almost gave way. Three sets of silver shackles hung from the tree, each attached to chains that ascended into the branches above.

  “No.” I pushed back against Vinemont.

  “Calm down.” He changed course and led me around the tree and further toward the orchestra.

  Another platform was set up toward the back of the room near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Three men sat atop it, each with a table in front of them at knee level. Each was shirtless. Every bare piece of their muscular skin was covered in ink—naked women, skulls, tribal, even flowers. One in a goblin mask seemed to pick Vinemont and me from the crowd.

  “He’s staring at us,” I said. “The goblin, up there.”

  “Everyone’s staring at us.”

  Vinemont led me toward the goblin. I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t want to retreat and get any closer to the tree, either. We stopped midway between the two, far too close to the tree for my liking.

  The orchestra suddenly quieted and then the hall fell utterly silent. All masks turned toward the platform where a man stood, his arms outstretched, a microphone in one hand. Someone worked up in the rafters of the hall, training a spotlight down on the apparent star of the show. His mask seemed to be an array of oak leaves, the same that decorated the tree behind him.

  “Welcome to the twenty-fifth Acquisition Ball!” he shouted into his microphone.

  A cheer went up from the crowd and then they all clapped as if they were at the opening of the Kentucky Derby.

  After a ridiculous span of applause, the man held his hands out to quiet crowd.

  “This year, we have an amazing slate of competitors.” He gazed around at the people beneath him, clearly a showman. “Though, of course, not as amazing as my Acquisition year. Cal Oakman for the win!”

  Laughter sounded through the cavernous hall. Vinemont neither clapped nor laughed, just stood with me at his side. Tension was etched in his bearing just as fear must have been etched into mine.

  “It has been an honor to be your Sovereign for the past decade, and I am pleased to say that any of the three firstborns chosen for this year’s Acquisition will make an excellent addition to the Sovereign legacy I leave behind. And now, without further ado, let’s introduce the Acquiring families!”

  Another roar from the crowd.

  The Acquiring firstborns were chosen? Vinemont hadn’t volunteered to ruin me, humiliate me? Of course he had. He was a cruel man who enjoyed hurting me. Wasn’t he? I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. And why were there three? I glanced around. Out of all these masked faces, only two could be my allies.

  “First up. Robert Eagleton. Come on up, Bob, and show us what you brought with you!”

  Someone moved through the crowd to our right. A middle-aged balding man in an eagle mask led a much larger man wearing a nearly identical mask. They took the stairs to the top of the platform and shared the spotlight with Oakman. The balding man puffed a bit, but the taller, younger man just stood and surveyed the crowd below.

  “All right Bob, tell us who we have here.” Oakman should have hosted a game show. He held the microphone out for Bob.

  “This is, well, this is Gavin. He’s my, um, Acquisition. And we will win this year.” Bob let out a sigh of relief, as if he’d gotten past the hardest part.

  “Ready for the first reveal, everyone?”


  Another bloodthirsty cheer. Or maybe the champagne bubbles playing in my mind just thought it was bloodthirsty.

  Oakman removed the man’s mask. He looked to be in his early twenties, dark eyes, pale skin, short brown hair, handsome even from this distance. The crowd twittered and some wolf whistles rang out.

  “Looks like we have a competition.” Oakman clapped Bob and Gavin off the stage along with the crowd.

  “Up next, the Witheringtons. Red, you out there?”

  More cheers.

  Another man weaved through the crowd on the opposite side of the platform. He pulled a woman in a feather mask behind him, practically dragging her to the top of the platform.

  The man, Red, took the microphone from Oakman. “This is Brianne, this year’s winning Acquisition.”

  Red stripped her mask away, revealing a small, scared blonde. Her eyes were huge, and she visibly quaked under the spotlight.

  “Oh, my,” Oakman stepped back and gave an over-the-top up and down look. “We’ve got some stiff competition, if you folks know what I mean!”

  Hoots and whistles, mixed with laughter, echoed around the hall.

  “We’re next.” Vinemont’s voice was in my ear, each syllable laced with rigid determination. Any hint of the heat he’d shown me outside was gone. He released my waist and took my hand. His palms were damp, the only indication that he was at all nervous.

  Brianne and Red retreated from the platform.

  “Now, last but never least, the Vinemonts. Counsellor Sinclair, show us your wares!”

  He strode forward, confidence in every movement, and pulled me behind him. The tree loomed ahead, the shackles glinting in the spotlight. Foreboding rose inside me and blotted out my voice, my heart, and my soul. I followed. There was nowhere else to go.

  We took the stairs one at a time, each step adding a weight to my shoulders, a rock to my stomach. Finally, we stood next to Oakman. Everything beyond the glittering stage was a dark blur. The spotlight was a blinding sun, focused on me as if by a cruel child with a magnifying glass.

  “Her name is Stella, not that it matters.” Vinemont was cold, his words like frost in my mind.

  He untied my mask and yanked it from my face. Then he ripped the cloak from me, my skin tingling from the sudden onslaught of open air. A collective gasp rose up from the crowd, followed by thunderous applause.

  “Oh my, my. Now, Sinclair, you know I’ve always had a thing for redheads. And this is one is too choice to pass up.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Cal, when I’m Sovereign, I’ll send you a new redhead each week,” Vinemont said to raucous laughter from the crowd below.

  “I like the confidence. I’ve got my eye on this one, ladies and gents. Now, let’s get this party started right. Branding time!”

  The orchestra started back up and Vinemont pulled me down from the platform. No longer hidden by the ornate mask or my cloak, I felt naked. The ghouls stared and leered as I walked past, Vinemont dragging me along through the pressing bodies.

  Wait, branding time?

  He was leading me toward the tattooed goblin again. The male Acquisition, Gavin, was already shirtless and lying on his stomach, one of the other artists inking him in front of the masked onlookers.

  “Bigger,” Bob directed.

  The artist nodded and continued free-handing the outline of an eagle on Gavin’s shoulder blade.

  The orchestra changed to a waltz, and many ballgoers paired off to dance, skirts swirling, their laughter melding with the music.

  Red led his Acquisition, Brianne, over to one of the tables and shoved her down onto her back. He pulled the strap of her dark purple dress down so her left breast was exposed. “Over her heart. My name.”

  Her eyes were squeezed shut, tension written along her vibrating body. I took an unsteady step toward Red, prepared to do my best to knee him in the balls. Before I got the chance, Vinemont’s iron grip encircled my upper arm and pushed me up onto the platform in the same rough fashion. He dropped me onto the table in front of the goblin and pushed me down until I lay prone.

  The buzzing noise of the two other tattoo guns, mixed with poor Brianne’s whimpers, reached my ears over the waves of music.

  “What’s it gonna be, Sin?”

  The goblin knew Vinemont?

  “The traditional V,” Vinemont replied.

  “Where?”

  “Here.” Vinemont’s hand swiped the hair off my nape and let it hang down beside me in a curling cascade. He moved the emerald necklace up and out of the way. Then his cold finger traced a V on the back of my neck.

  “Can do.”

  I had never gotten a tattoo. I’d thought about it plenty of times, but never had the conviction to get anything in particular. I used my body to make art. I didn’t intend to be the art. And now, I was getting a tattoo forced on me. Nothing was my choice anymore. I’d signed it away.

  For the millionth time since this ordeal started, I pictured my father. He was sitting by the fire in his favorite chair—safe, warm, no doubt sad, but alive. I would do what I had to do. I would cover my entire body in ink if it would save him.

  Despite knowing this sacrifice was worth it, I wanted to go numb, to stop experiencing the horror of what was happening. I couldn’t. I felt the cold table beneath me, felt the eyes of the masked people watching me as I was “branded,” and I felt Vinemont standing next to me, no doubt enjoying my degradation moment by moment.

  The goblin leaned down and whispered in my ear. “It’s going to hurt, but I’ll be as nice as I can.”

  “Thanks.” Did I just thank my torturer?

  The buzzing started close to my ear. I fisted my hands as the first stinging pain erupted at the back of my neck.

  “Good girl,” the goblin said. “Just relax. I’m quick.” Some more buzzing pain followed, punctuated by Red telling Brianne to shut her fucking mouth. “Well, at least all the girls say I’m quick.”

  Cruelty interspersed with sex jokes. This is what my life had become. I closed my eyes and let my arms fall, my knuckles brushing the floor as more pain ricocheted down my spine. I was an Acquisition, a possession to Vinemont. Nothing more. He would let the goblin mark my skin. He didn’t care. He was still the cold spider I’d known him to be since the first time I saw him. I was in his web now, caught and dangling as he fed off me slowly. How would he win this competition? What would victory entail? My death?

  I let the pain flow into me, trapping it inside a box in my heart. I’d store it up, feed it, make it grow stronger until it turned into rage. Then I would let it out and bring Vinemont and the rest of these accursed people to their knees.

  Sinclair

  She’d gone limp. Given up. Tony continued his work, making a better V than even the one gracing my chest. He was my personal tattoo artist. His shop in Mobile was the toast of the South. People came from all over the country, all over the world, just to bear his ink.

  He finished up the last of the thorns, done in the same deep green as mine, when I leaned down and added a little something extra.

  “I want a small spider.” I pointed to one of the inner curves of vines. “Here.”

  I whispered it low enough that Stella wouldn’t hear it over the music and the buzzing. She always referred to me as a spider. Now, I would be on her body permanently.

  “I like it, man.” Tony switched to a deep crimson ink and drew in the small accent. “Nice.”

  One of the buzzing sounds stopped. Red’s Acquisition sat up and yanked her dress back in place over her bare breast. I almost pitied her. That little show of skin was nothing compared to what came next.

  I pitied her more for the garish tattoo Red had forced on her—his name in bright red ink with blue flames licking the letters. What a fucking prick to ruin a beautiful woman that way.

  I shook my head. No, Red has his head in the game. Ruination was the goal. I was over here dicking around and ensuring Stella’s brand was art, not something to mar her perfect skin.
I’d told myself too many times to stop thinking of her as a person. But here I was, doing it again and letting my dick lead me around.

  I’d already given in to her, promised her a reward for making it through this night. It was foolish. Still, if it worked even a little to keep her in line, it was worth it. This was spectacle, all of it. I needed the families, and especially Cal, to come away from this seeing me as the frontrunner for Sovereign.

  Bob’s Acquisition didn’t fare much better than Red’s. At least the eagle on his man’s back had some artistry in it. It was nothing compared to Tony’s work, but it turned out far better than the travesty on Brianne’s chest.

  “All right. She’s all done.” Tony sat back and admired his handiwork before rubbing some salve along Stella’s skin.

  It was a wasted effort. Her tattoo was the least of her worries.

  Stella sat up and gave me the most vicious glare I’d ever seen on her face. Not even after the day in the yard had she flashed at me with such hate.

  “Here, angel, check it in the mirror. It’s not so bad.”

  Tony handed Stella a mirror and held one up behind her so she could see the design. Her crimson lips fell open. “That goddamn V? And what’s the red thing. It looks like…” Her gaze shot up to my eyes. “A spider.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Tony took her mirror and began packing up his tattoo gear.

  “Head on out, Tony,” I said. “Money’s already in your account.”

  Tony popped his head up and surveyed the room. “Sure I can’t stay and see if I can convince one of these masked freaky chicks to go home with me?”

  Tony had no idea what was going on. I’d told him this was a fancy party with paid staff and entertainment, Stella and the other Acquisitions being the entertainment. He thought all this was voluntary and just a night of fun. If he stayed any longer, he would know just how non-consensual the whole thing was. I didn’t want to alienate one of the true friends I actually had, and nothing alienates like slavery and whippings.

  “No, man. No offense, but you don’t have a chance with these women. Well, unless your bank account is bigger than I think.”