Twenty-One

by D. Victoria BonAnno

  “I want her to run in the Hunt,” he said.

  Chloe frowned at the floor. The Hunt? Run? She remembered the games she had played with the twins and the contest with Hemlock. With her ribs, games like those would be agony.

  “Are you serious?” Abigail laughed. “She stole my phone, and now you want to turn her loose in the woods?”

  “Look at me,” Demetrius murmured. Chloe complied. He held her gaze, searching, studying. Chloe opened herself to him as easily as she had before the ill-fated dinner party. Giving herself to him, obeying him, had become as involuntary as breath.

  God, this is wrong. This is so wrong.

  “This slave is broken,” said Demetrius, still staring into her. “Oh, yes, she’s been broken for quite some time now. What happened at the dinner party was the rebellion of your slave, Abigail, and that has been dealt with. Twenty-One will be in the Hunt to regain buyer confidence in our product.”

  Konri’s face was stoic behind Demetrius.

  “Her ribs are bruised. Running would be very painful. Being caught would be as well.”

  Chloe tried not to piece together a picture of whatever he was saying. Demetrius took a step back from her.

  “Then that will be her punishment.”

  Abigail started to speak but something stopped her. Chloe didn’t look up to find out what.

  “Let’s go,” said Demetrius.

  Chloe rose and struggled to stand on her own, her legs still weak. She followed Demetrius out of the room as best she could without aid. Konri and Abigail remained where they were, even when she stumbled.

  “She looks like she’s in great shape, D,” Abigail called behind them. “Hopefully she won’t break to pieces when she’s caught.”

  Chloe tried not to let fear take over her. She didn’t need much of an imagination to guess what the Hunt was; some sick catching game. She could barely shuffle along the hallway right now, let alone run or hide. Every breath hurt. She imagined someone catching her, wrapping their arms around her, lifting her. She couldn’t imagine bearing the pain.

  She was so lost in her thoughts that she nearly bumped into Demetrius. He had stopped and turned around without her noticing. She took a few frantic steps back too quickly. The room wobbled.

  Without a word, Demetrius scooped her off her feet. The feeling of his arms around her brought her back to the suite, bound and beaten. She shrieked, struggling in his arms.

  “Sh, sh, sh,” he shushed again. “Je sais. Je sais. You’re all right.”

  Chloe’s panic faded into despair. She cried, not bothering to hide her tears, and buried her face in his black undershirt. French, why did he speak French? Of all the languages in the world, why did the man who stole her life speak the language she grew up hearing? His words from that first terrible night came to her. You were meant for me. Her tears became broken sobs.

  Demetrius allowed her to cry uninhibited all the way back to the suite, and into the bathroom. The bathtub was full and foaming, the room thick with the scent of lilacs. Demetrius dipped her into the hot water and settled along the edge of the tub, wringing a sponge in his hands.

  “No…” she found herself sobbing. “No more, no more…”

  No more kindness from her abductor. No more tenderness from the man who had beaten her and locked her in a cage. She couldn’t take it anymore. She would go mad.

  Demetrius lifted her chin with his fingertips and squeezed the sponge over her head, showering her with warm water and lilac soap. She felt the water seep through her hair, run along her scalp and down her back. Her sore limbs responded, relaxing. Demetrius took her arms one at a time, running the sponge along her skin in slow, deliberate circles. Chloe leaned into the touch, defeated. Demetrius’ kindness and cruelty were enough to break her, but she craved his fleeting tenderness more than she could resist it.

  “How are your ribs?” Demetrius’ voice was soft but authoritative as it had been the night he had branded her. Chloe took a deep breath. Her ribs still hurt, but the pain abated in the bath.

  “Better,” she whispered. “…Master.”

  The word sounded unnatural on her tongue now, almost comical. She tensed. He had to have sensed the insecurity in her voice. Demetrius sighed. He dipped the sponge in the water and dragged it along her clavicle just under her collar.

  “You’ve suffered a setback, ma chère,” he said, sponging water over her breasts. “And you’ve disappointed me.”

  The words stung like a fresh wound and she didn’t want them to. She didn’t want her heart to ache. She looked at the man she once called Master, at the finely sculpted face beneath the leather mask, at the scars on his arms and peeking around the edges of his undershirt. Would he still have this power over her if he weren’t so otherworldly? She thought back, far back, to the night she had first seen him. She had been surrounded by equally exotic sights at the Oryx, but even that night he had mesmerized her, called to something inside of her that she didn’t know or understand. Something inside of her had screamed yes when he held her against the bleeding wall, which she echoed out loud at his request.

  “Say yes.”

  She fought not to physically shake the thought from her head. No. She didn’t ask for this. Had she only known what the masked stranger at the Oryx had had in store for her, had she only known that night…strange attraction or no, she would have fled and never looked back.

  “You’ll come back, Twenty-One,” said Demetrius. He dropped the sponge and cupped her face in his hands, smoothing back her wet hair. “Many slaves have a backslide. Some never come back and have to be disposed of, but you’ll come back.” His hands slipped over her breasts, waking her nipples with a single stroke of his finger. “Oh, yes. You’ve been mine since the beginning.”

  Chloe closed her eyes. The feeling of his hands on her breasts, of his words thundering in her ears, was too much to bear.

  “Yes, Master,” she murmured. Images of Jason and her father and lilac bushes lingered even as she whispered, “I’m yours.”

  Chapter 36

  August 28, 2005

  Dia Belaire lay in her bed, snuggled against Demetrius, her tears finally dry. He sat resting against the headboard, exhaustion threatening to overtake him. They had been in the Belaire family’s gigantic plantation-style home in the Garden District for three days mourning Mama Dede in Dia’s room. Demetrius had gone out to the kitchen to get them meals, but Dia had not left the bedroom since he had carried her home from the hospital. She stayed in the bed most of the time, crying until her eyes were so red that Demetrius had to wet a cloth with cool water from her bathroom to soothe the irritation. They held each other day and night, sleeping only a few hours at a time before their sorrow dragged them back to consciousness. Dia occasionally watched television, but every program was eventually interrupted by news bulletins about Hurricane Katrina’s approach. Eventually she gave up and switched off the television, curling into Demetrius for a nap.

  Now, however, their sparse sleeping pattern had caught up with Demetrius. He was exhausted, from sorrow, from tears, from the end of his world. Dede’s face burned in his brain, ever present, haunting him. He clung to Dia like a life raft and held her as fiercely as she held him. The wind picked up outside, an ominous howl. He wondered if the storm would be as bad as the news had predicted. Most media tended to exaggerate the severity of natural disasters. He wanted to get up and pull the shades to get a look at the sky, but Dia had settled into the crook of his arm, and he wouldn’t move her for the world.

  A knock on the door startled them both. Demetrius coiled his arm around Dia. Her biological mother who came into the room, uninvited. Nancy Belaire was thin and frail, with too much plastic surgery for a woman in her thirties. She looked at Dia and Demetrius lying in bed with the same apathy he had seen when he had carried Dia into the house. Nancy hadn’t even asked his name, or why her daughter was crying. She had simply let a masked man in black carry Dia up to her bedroom and left them alone for days. She rarel
y moved from the living room, Demetrius noticed from his trips to the kitchen. She lounged in front of the television with a small bottle of pills in front of her, staring at the screen with glassy eyes that looked so much like her daughter’s.

  “They’re evacuating the city,” she said to Dia as if Demetrius weren’t there. “I’m leaving now. The driver should be here in a few minutes.”

  Demetrius frowned. Evacuating the city was a drastic step. He looked at the girl in his arms. Dia’s normally sweet face contorted with a darkness Demetrius had never seen in her.

  “I’m staying.” she declared. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you.” She wrapped her arms around Demetrius’ neck, stopping his heart. “I’m staying in my home with the only family I have left.”

  Demetrius felt his eyes fill with tears he thought had long dried. In that moment, he felt the strange sense of peace that had overtaken him the first time he had met Dia, years ago in Mama’s parlour. All that he had suppressed to protect her came flooding into his veins like a drug.

  If Dia’s words had stung her, Nancy Belaire gave no indication. She blinked slowly, looked away from her only child, and headed for the door.

  “Stay away from the windows,” she said before the door closed behind her.

  Dia looked up at Demetrius and his heart felt as though it would burst. Mon Dieu. There was nothing to hold his feelings back anymore. Every defense had been washed away by three days of tears. Oh, he loved her, loved her as he had the moment he had first seen her. Was it possible to love a person so much? The feeling was so strong that it hurt, like thorns sprouting inside of his chest. He swallowed and struggled to find his voice. He tried to think logically through the haze of her large liquid eyes.

  “We should go,” he could only muster a whisper.

  Dia shook her head so hard her waves tossed around her.

  “I won’t go,” she said with the stubbornness of an only child. “If we can’t get back here for Mama’s funeral…” her fragile voice broke. “The house has storm windows. We’re safe here.” She snuggled into Demetrius’ chest, clutching his shirt as if letting go would destroy her. “I won’t let her go into the ground alone.”

  Demetrius kissed the top of her head through his light muslin mask. “Allez, allez. Tout ira bien,” he whispered. “Everything will be all right.”

  Demetrius fought exhaustion as Dia’s breath slowed to a sleeper’s pace, but soon he began to drift. He knew it was unwise to stay in a city being evacuated, but Dia’s home was secure compared to other areas of the city. The storm windows would keep them safe from the wind, and even if a little flooding did occur, it would never reach the Garden District. He could fight no longer, and he drifted into a doze, his arms around his sweet girl.

  xxi

  It was dusk but Demetrius could hardly see. A silver basin rested on a track of two intersecting railroads just in front of him, and he tread lightly to approach it, dodging stray nails and splintered wood from the aging tracks. Fire bloomed in the basin, though he could see nothing within it to ignite, a cool orange flame that pooled like water. Demetrius studied the basin, crouching down, afraid to touch it. The pale flames flickered in an unfelt wind. A strange sound caught his ear, a low, guttural hiss among the soft roar of the flame. He leaned in closer. Yes, there was a soft, slithering whisper coming from the flames themselves. He would be able to decipher its message if he could hear it better. He leaned in closer.

  Tendrils of fire lashed out and coiled into a great white snake before Demetrius could spring back. The serpent struck, wrapping its powerful body around him and stealing the breath from his body. His ribs crushed against his spine. He struggled, opening his mouth, but no air came to his aid. He screamed silently as the white snake crushed his bones.

  Demetrius woke to the sound of old wood straining against wind. The storm wailed outside, bulleting rain against the windows like the strike of a thousand snare drums. HIs clothes were soaked in sweat, his mask slipped down around his neck. He sucked in a breath of air. His ribs ached as if the serpent had followed him from his nightmare to crush him in reality.

  He looked around and remembered that he was Dia’s bedroom. She lay undisturbed, curled against his chest. She moaned softly, as if experiencing a nightmare of her own. Outside, the storm battled the city, battered the Belaire house. Demetrius shifted as gently as he could, trying to slide out from underneath Dia without waking her. He had to assess the severity of the storm. If it was as dangerous as it sounded, they had to go into the basement.

  As Demetrius gently lifted Dia, she stirred in her sleep, whispered his name, and pressed her lips to his.

  The storm ceased to be. Demetrius ceased to be. There was only Dia, Dia and the smell of jasmine and her succulent mouth against his. She was food and drink and air, and if her kiss ended, he would die.

  But it did end. Dia was asleep. She slumped, her head fell back onto Demetrius’ arm, her eyelids flickering, in the midst of a dream from which she hadn’t woken.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  Demetrius lay with his heart crumbling inside of him. He knew those words were meant for him. She loved him, as he loved her. Dia and Dede’s Vodou conversations flooded back to him, Dia’s dreams of sleeping curled in the coils of a great white serpent, the loa Damballah.

  “You’re loved by Damballah, girl.”

  It was ridiculous. He knew that. Dede and Dia’s countless conversations about the girl’s Damballah dreams had simply crept into his own dreams. There was no ancient spirit protecting Dia. But Demetrius looked at the sweet girl asleep beside him and instead of love, the sickening flame of his “demons” came, awakened from their temporary dormancy after Mama’s death. His head flooded with terrible images; Dia in tears, naked beneath him and screaming, pleading for mercy, bleeding and pale with terror. He cried out, tried to fight his mind, tried to fight his own arousal. It was disgusting. Not her. No. Not her.

  “You’ll destroy that poor child.”

  Demetrius sobbed like a child, his cries swallowed by Hurricane Katrina. Whether the dream was prophetic or superstitious, its meaning was clear. It was over. Dia was not safe.

  He had to leave.

  Chapter 37

  December 9, 2011

  Demetrius was far too weary for this part of the season. He had tried to calm his fraying nerves by mixing music, something he didn’t really have to do this time of year. November and December were the slowest months for the Oryx, affectionately known as the Post-Halloween Recession among regulars. His DJ duties were on autopilot until mid-January. But mixing soothed him, so he spent the last hour before the Hunt doing it. Now, though, it was time. He slipped on a long leather coat trimmed in black fur, an old gift from a buyer years ago. He wore gloves also, though he suspected he wouldn’t need them. Today was surprisingly warm for December in Ohio, which was lucky for the slaves, who would be running around the forest half nude. Demetrius checked the bud in his ear. It was online.

  Everyone was already in the backyard when he pushed open the French doors and stepped outside. They applauded as he headed toward the lawn chairs where Abigail, Konri, and the twins stood waiting for him. Abigail always pushed him to make a grand entrance, like she did at the dinner party, and he always refused. Abigail never understood that his subtlety was a perfect foil to her drama. Too many theatrics and the buyers would wonder why they needed all of the smoke and mirrors and begin to distrust the product.

  Abigail kissed his covered cheeks. She shivered despite the cream fur coat wrapped around her voluptuous frame. In cold weather, he was almost grateful for the mask. He took his seat and his party followed. Ten slaves sat on their knees a few hundred feet in front of him and Abigail. They wore white fur boleros and matching fur boots that crawled up to their thighs, secured by leather straps. The rest of their bodies were nude, shivering in the thin layer of wet snow under their knees. Their attendants stood beside them, holding them secure on long leather leashes. Nine of the
ten had been selected by the buyers for the Hunt, and they were the cream of his crop. One was there, of course, and Seventeen, though Gabe held two leashes as Twenty-One’s unofficial attendant. Demetrius allowed himself a brief moment to drink Twenty-One in. She was breathtaking as she knelt in the snow, framed by white fur, her pink nipples diamond hard. He ignored the slow burn rising in him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Demetrius addressed the cameras he knew were in his eyeline. Many were scattered in the woods so the buyers would be able to view some of the takedowns. “Welcome to the Winter Hunt. You have selected ten slaves to be let loose on the property and hunted down by Abigail’s stock.”

  “Is that girl on the end the Model Slave?” came a voice from his ear piece. American, a new buyer whose voice he did not yet recognize. He felt Abigail’s eyes on him.

  “Yes, Twenty-One is running in the Hunt this season,” said Demetrius.

  “Mr. Heart,” a soft Irish brogue that could only belong to Dr. Cillian Lane, his client for three years. “Do you think it wise to let loose the girl who caused such trouble at the dinner party?”

  Demetrius clenched his jaw behind his mask. “The slave who rebelled was dealt with, as you all witnessed. As I said in my statement, I have evaluated Twenty-One and deemed her a perfectly broken slave. Ash stole Abigail’s phone and put it in Twenty-One’s hands, but she did nothing with it.”

  He felt Abigail’s gaze burning a hole in his cheek. He had not been there to see Ash’s transgression, but he knew his slave. She would never have gone for the phone on her own. She was just as awestruck with Abigail as she was with the twins, and with him. He had seen her slide beneath the table and he had gotten there before any call could possibly have been made. Of that, he was certain.

  “Twenty-One is a Model Slave,” he said slowly, deliberately. “She is obedient, well-mannered, and desperate to please. You will witness it today.”