Twenty-One

by D. Victoria BonAnno

  “So, what brings the FBI to my doorstep after three years of nothing?” she said, her smile doing little to mask the bite in her words. “I assume you’re not just here to open old wounds?”

  Unfortunately, Billman beat Gatz to the punch for a reply.

  “Ms. Ramirez, we’re sorry for your loss, but we-“

  “Sorry for my loss?” Ms. Ramirez snapped, her lips growing thinner before Gatz’s eyes. “As if my children died in some sudden accident? No, Detective Whomever, they disappeared one after the other, and all I got from the police was a shrug and the same hold music ringing in my ears every time I called them.”

  Billman opened his mouth again, but Gatz clamped a hand on his shoulder to silence him.

  “Ms. Ramirez, I’ll get right to the point. We have reason to believe that your son disappeared searching for your daughter, and that their disappearances are tied to a case we’re currently trying to solve.”

  Ms. Ramirez looked away and studied the stitching in her sleek leather armchair. She was a thin woman, fine-boned, but her moment of fierceness had shown a strong personality within her meticulously slender frame. Her green pantsuit held a designer label, but it hadn’t been ironed. A large crease broke the line of her waist, as if Ms. Ramirez spent much of her time doubled over. Gatz pictured the woman with her knees on her elbows, her face buried in her hands, sobbing tearlessly, her eyes dry from years of crying.

  “I see,” Ms. Ramirez muttered.

  The three slipped into an uncomfortable silence. Gatz could feel her partner’s restlessness, coiled to spring, but he’d learned that Gatz’s sensitivity was more appropriate for the situation than his blunt manner.

  “Anthony always went out to find Amanda,” Ms. Ramirez said finally. “She was our little…problem child.” She rolled her eyes at the detectives. “Drugs, boys, theft, what have you.”

  Billman shifted beside Gatz, antsy. Gatz tried with all her might to will him to remain silent.

  “We hadn’t heard from Amanda in months, but that was hardly unusual,” Ms. Ramirez continued. “Honestly, I was happy to wash my hands of her. But Anthony always went out and brought her back.”

  Gatz fought to find the right words to say. “He’s a good son.”

  Ms. Ramirez shook her head, tears staining her red-rimmed eyes. She wiped at them before they had even spilled, as if the act of crying had become little more than an annoyance.

  “Was a good son, detective. Was,” she said with a sigh. “A mother knows when her child is dead.” She stood up, wobbling for just a moment before regaining her stiff poise. “I’m assuming you’re here about that Demetrius Heart person.”

  Gatz couldn’t mask her surprise. “How-”

  “How do you know that name?” Billman’s self-restraint had reached its end. “Was your daughter affiliated with him?”

  Gatz tensed at her partner’s tone. This was not an interrogation. But Ms. Ramirez just waved her hand dismissively and gestured for them to follow her into the adjoining dining room. She strolled over to a lavish glass bar with rows of high end liquor and poured herself a glass from an open bottle of high-end gin.

  “That’s the man Anthony went to find,” she said. “Demetrius Heart. Amanda had been living in Detroit, apparently, and her friends told Anthony that she’d left a bar with him one night and never came back.” She sipped the gin like ice water. “She was always good at finding men to shack up with.”

  “Is that what Anthony said she was doing?” Gatz asked carefully. “Shacking up with Mr. Heart?”

  Ms. Ramirez rolled her eyes. “No. He said Demetrius Heart took her, that he had to go and save her. He did like playing the hero, I guess. Saving his innocent baby sister.” She spat the words into her glass. Her hand was shaking as she set it on the table and turned to the detectives. “I’ll give you his laptop, if you want. He bought his bus ticket from there and found whatever he knew about Demetrius Heart on it, might have saved it. The police didn’t bother to take anything when he first went missing.” She folded her arms. “I’ll give you whatever you want, but I don’t want to hear from Amanda if you find her. She’s no longer a part of this family.”

  Gatz and Billman exchanged a glance, but said nothing. Ms. Ramirez directed them to Anthony’s bedroom and the detectives gathered their evidence and left silently as the woman sat in her living room, sipping gin and staring out the window with a hollow gaze.

  Chapter 30

  November 29, 2011

  “Don’t fidget now. You’ve been doing so well.”

  “Sorry, Sir,” Twenty-One whispered. She flexed her feet and her fists to keep her circulation going. She had been standing in the slave quarters for the past twenty minutes while Gabe dabbed her with a sponge coated in thick gold paint that itched and cracked with the slightest movement. The basement was far more frantic than it had been when Twenty-One had been brought down for Konri’s inspection. Attendants ran to and from their posts, painting and bejeweling their slaves in a fervor. The slaves were still and obedient as always, but they were stunning caked in gold paint, their hair threaded with ribbon like Greek statues. Some of them had little gems on their foreheads, and Twenty-One noticed those with piercings had had them replaced with jewelry brighter and more garish than before. Seventeen sat on the bed while Gabe worked on Twenty-One, exquisite in gold, with snake-shaped bangles on her upper arms and red gems trailing down her midline. Gabe wore dress slacks and an undershirt. His white button-down, tie, and suit jacket hanging on the edge of the bed, safe from the paint. Twenty-One noticed a bulge in his pocket that wasn’t normally there. The unmistakable curve of a gun handle poked out from his waistband and made Twenty-One’s stomach lurch. The attendants had never worn firearms before. She wanted to ask Gabe about it, but she was certain he would not explain it to her.

  The dinner party would start in less than an hour. Twenty-One had tried to keep calm when Gabe had woken her for preparation, but he had sensed her nervousness right away. He reassured her while he painted, giving her the rundown of the night in between swearing at the “cheap ass shit” he had to work with.

  “The dinner party kicks off the best part of the season,” he’d explained. “Abigail comes down with her ten slaves, we all dress you up to some theme she’s picked out, and we all eat and play games while the buyers get their first look at you and make requests and things like that. The slaves always like it because you guys get some real food if you’re good. Last year, it was really classy, all black and white with the slaves dressed like ponies. You know, leather harnesses and tails and that shit. This year it’s Ancient Greece. Food’s going to be great, like an ancient feast.”

  Twenty-One’s mind raced. Food? Games? More slaves? It all sounded so elaborate. The word buyers made her heart skip, but she knew that her Master wouldn’t sell her for another year. She was safe for now. She wondered who Abigail was, and why she needed to bring more slaves. The slave quarters seemed ready to burst as it was with Twenty-One of them down there. The beds were far too small to share.

  The idea of food, real food, also set her imagination drifting. She had had nothing but vegetable soup and fruit for so long, she could hardly picture anything more complex. Gabe had used the word feast. What did a slave eat at a feast?

  The intercom system beeped, startling Twenty-One from her thoughts.

  “Attendants, please line up your slaves in the training area,” came the voice of Faith or Charity.

  Gabe patted Twenty-One’s head, careful not to muss her moussed hair. “We’ve got to get going, ladies.”

  Twenty-One filed into line as she did every morning. She tried to quiet her mind, as always, with her mantra. I am Twenty-One. I am a slave. I will obey. I will be used. But her mental chant gave way to her nervousness as Gabe and the attendants led them to stand beside one another in the training are of the basement.

  “Kneel!” one attendant called.

  Twenty-One knelt, surrounded by beautiful gilded women, their attendants i
n suits behind them. She heard the sound of the statue door opening and the prickling anxiety began anew. She took a deep breath. Her questions and curiosities about the dinner party did not matter. She would eat if her Master wanted her to. She would play whatever games they had constructed if he ordered it. Her mind drifted back to her game with the twins. She dreaded the thought of performing such humiliating acts in front of so many. If it pleased Demetrius, she would endure it.

  She heard the breathy laughter of the twins, a sound that now tightened things low in her body. The heavier footfalls of her Master’s boots, too, reached her ears, hitching her breath in her chest.

  “Slaves,” Demetrius ordered. “Look at me.”

  The slaves obeyed, lifting their heads.

  The floor wobbled beneath Twenty-One’s bare feet. Demetrius stood before his slaves in a sleek black suit, immaculately tailored to his lean, muscled frame. She had never seen him in anything but his eerie Oryx-style clothing, and seeing him in less exotic attire made him seem all the more otherworldly. He wore a skinny tie the deep yellow of goldenrod flowers. Twenty-One would never have guessed he would be interested in that shade that shone so brightly in the blackness. Likewise, his skin seemed paler against the suit, his hair blending into the jacket so perfectly that it seemed to disappear past his shoulders when he stood still. His mask looked to be made of the same material as his suit, with the same subtle gleam. The slave was so struck by her Master’s appearance that she did not realize he had been speaking while she’d been staring.

  “…here in twenty minutes,” he continued. “And the buyers will be logging on at 9. The buyers are your future Masters, and you will serve them as you serve me and your Mistresses.”

  He slid his arms around Faith and Charity’s tiny waists. They, too, were dressed up, wearing surprisingly conservative column gowns, their short hair decorated with small white flowers. Twenty-One studied them, but she could not linger long from the man who stood between them.

  “Slaves,” he said again. “What are you?”

  The slaves spoke in unison. The mantra rose in a choir of soft murmurs.

  “I am a slave. I will obey. I will be used. I will not question. I will please my Master.”

  Demetrius nodded, satisfied. “Good. Attendants, Faith and Charity will look over your charge’s costume, and then you can take them upstairs and get them in position.” He looked over Twenty-One’s head. “Bring me the Model Slave.”

  Twenty-One had begun to rise before Gabe commanded her to. An error, she knew, but Gabe just smiled and shook his head as he led her to her Master. Her legs were weak as she walked and they nearly became useless the moment he hooked a finger into the D-ring of her bejeweled collar. He fished a slender golden chain from his pocket and fastened it to the D-ring. His face was placid as he looked over her body, studying the paint. But when his eyes met Twenty-One’s, she felt the air around him charge in that indescribable way, his manner changing completely without his face even moving. He moved closer to her, tilting her chin up. She was close enough to kiss his mask. He gently turned her head from side to side, studying her face.

  “Mon Dieu,” he whispered so faintly that Twenty-One herself could scarcely hear it.

  Twenty-One’s heart nearly burst. He kept her gaze, drinking her in, and she did not bother hiding behind a blank face. She let him see all the need he had awakened in her, and with a subtle flex of his fingers, she knew that had they been in a different situation, up in the suite, she would be pinned between the wall and his hard body at this moment.

  “Gabe,” he said finally.

  “Yes?”

  Twenty-One had forgotten her attendant, standing so closely nearby.

  “Nice job with the eyeliner.”

  With that, Demetrius broke away, turned his back to Twenty-One, and jerked the golden chain to jolt her into motion behind him.

  Twenty-One expected everyone to head for the statue door, but the attendants led their charges in another direction, toward a hall with a row of heavy, intimidating doors. Twenty-One had never been down this hallway. For a moment, she had the urge to flee back to the slave quarters and somehow strap herself into her bed, where she felt safe. She wasn’t ready for the dinner party, for a new experience. She longed for her daily routine.

  Demetrius led her up the stairs and through the study without a word. Twenty-One, daring to look up with her Master’s back turned, snatched glimpses of some of the books on the disorganized shelves. Some were in English, but she caught a few titles that were in French—Paradis Perdu, Ou Le Prométhée Moderne. Many of them were classic literature. She also saw books of history, psychology, classical music. The titles she passed made the slave realize just how little she knew about the man who had become her world. Perhaps, in the upcoming year as she served him before the new slaves arrived, she would discover more, but she doubted it. She was a possession with a specific purpose in his life, like the books in his study. She would never know the whole man.

  She and her Master entered the pillared room with the table where the Attendants had their meals. The first thing she noticed were cameras, countless cameras on tripods, mounted to the massive marble pillars, pointing at the large oak table. The table was set with china and crystal on a long gold table runner. Sprinkles of loose crystals lay scattered between the plates and mounted cameras, glittering like glass. Low-hanging chandeliers strung all the way from the high ceiling. The marble pillars were laced with gold ribbon, framing the platform that she only now understood the purpose for. Someone had set two Saint Andrew’s crosses no it, like the one she had seen Seventeen tied to, and a training table from downstairs, it shackles dangling from the edges. Her mouth went dry at the sight of a tall rack displaying an array of whips, crops, and other tools that made her shiver. Behind the platform, gold curtains shielded the bay windows, creating a barrier to the outside world.

  Demetrius was still, studying the décor, perhaps. Twenty-One only just noticed the silence. Where had everyone else gone? She hadn’t expected to be alone with her Master on this night. He tugged her leash and she scrambled to follow him to the head of the table, where a cushioned stool waited for her beside a single high-backed chair.

  “Sit,” said Demetrius.

  Twenty-One obeyed.

  “Sit straighter,” he instructed. “Legs apart. Hands in your lap. Lift your chest. Good. Hold your chin high.” Demetrius took her chin and lifted it where he wanted it to be. “Look at me. You will stay in this pose until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?”

  Twenty-One flexed her throat to get more comfortable. “Yes, Master.”

  His eyes looked so light against the black of his suit. He released her chin and ran a knuckle down her arm, testing the paint. He cupped her left breast and she couldn’t suppress a soft sigh.

  “Exquisite,” Demetrius murmured. “Body paint suits you, ma chère.”

  He lingered, rolling her nipple in slow, teasing circles. Twenty-One felt her sex awaken immediately. But his hand was gone as suddenly as it had come. He set the leash in her lap and turned his back to her.

  Konri had appeared in the dining room without Twenty-One noticing, wearing a crisp black suit with a white shirt and a goldenrod tie to match Demetrius’.

  “Is Abigail here?” Demetrius asked him.

  Konri nodded, adjusting his shirt cuff. Twenty-One felt his dun-coloured eyes on her, and once more she felt the foreign urge to cover herself, to close her legs and cross her arms over her breasts. She stayed in her position, her back straight, her chin high. She would not disobey Demetrius because the doctor made her uncomfortable.

  The twins came from the far corridor, hand in hand.

  “Everything’s ready to go,” said Charity, pulling out a chair near the head of the table for her sister. Konri joined them. The three looked to Demetrius.

  “All right.” Her Master pulled a small remote from his suit jacket and pointed it at the air. “Logging in.”

  Music seeped i
nto the room, a slow tempo kept by low strings. Twenty-One recognized it as Beethoven, but couldn’t place its title.

  “Can everyone hear me?” asked Demetrius. He brought his hand to his right ear beneath his hair, an unconscious gesture. Twenty-One guessed he wore some sort of ear piece, because he said, “Excellent,” though no one in the room had replied. She glanced at Konri and the twins and noticed small white pieces in their ears.

  Demetrius looked at the cameras. “Welcome to the dinner party for the 2011 slave season. For those of you who are new buyers, I am Demetrius Heart. We have a wonderful stock this year, quite a variety of glass and leather. We also have a few steel slaves for those of you who prefer a challenge or extreme punishment. With me as always are my assistants, Faith and Charity, and our house physician, Dr. Konri Boukman. My other partner, Abigail Marinette, will be joining us with her slaves as well.”

  Twenty-One sat with her hands in her lap, trying not to fidget.

  “We are also introducing a new category this year.” He gestured to Twenty-One without looking at her. “Some of you have already noticed the slave next to my chair. She is Twenty-One, our new Model Slave. A Model Slave is designed to speed up the breaking process of slaves of the new season, serving as a model for ideal protocol and obedience. Unfortunately, she is not available for purchase this season. She will be sold with next year’s stock. The price for a Model Slave will be significantly higher, as she will have spent a year in my care.”

  Twenty-One didn’t know where to look, whether or not she should look at the cameras or treat them as Masters, like Demetrius had instructed. It was disconcerting to see no faces, hear no voices. Yet she felt the cameras on her like blinking red eyes. She kept her chin high, her eyes down, and tried not to think of the gooseflesh prickling beneath her body paint, of her nipples growing hard.