Broken Hope

by Nicole Fox

  “Fuck their rules,” I say calmly.

  “I’m not talking about their rules,” she says. “Out in the world, fighting is surviving. But here? You have to lie low. You have to do what you are told not because they told you to, but because if you don’t, you’ll be worse off than you are now.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible,” I say.

  She steps closer to me, voice low, eyes nervous like she expects someone to be listening to us. I glance around the room as well, wondering if there are any cameras.

  “You can’t escape if you can’t walk,” she says, leveling her gaze at me. “And that is what will happen if you try to fight your way out of here. The inn is too heavily guarded for you to have any chance, especially with nothing more than a razor blade.”

  My face warms with embarrassment. It was a bad plan.

  She walks past me and picks up a red dress that is laid out on the bed. It is tight and ruched on the sides with a deep V that is guaranteed to show off most of my chest. Next to it on the threadbare comforter is a black pair of lace panties.

  I awkwardly get dressed, doing my best to keep the towel around me while I pull up the underwear. I’m not ashamed of my body, but I don’t like the fact that I have no choice about who sees it.

  I suspect that, soon enough, I will have to get over that feeling. I won’t have any choice about a lot of things.

  Once the underwear is on, the woman unzips the side of the dress and then holds it open like she wants me to step into it.

  “I can do it myself,” I say gently, taking the dress from her.

  She gives it to me and then moves against the wall.

  The dress is skintight, but it fits. It isn’t uncomfortable or too tight in any area. It feels eerily like it was tailored with me in mind.

  “How is this going to work?” I ask, pulling the zipper up my side.

  “What?”

  “The auction,” I say. “What is going to happen first?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not supposed to say. They will explain everything to you.”

  “I’d rather you explain it,” I say earnestly. “I don’t trust them.”

  She bites her lip and then tips her head to a pair of black stilettos on the floor. “Those are for you, too.”

  I put the stilettos on and then sit back on the edge of the bed. Like I guessed when I walked into the room, it is lumpy. Though, if my guess is correct, I won’t be spending much time in here, anyway.

  “Is there anything you can tell me?” I ask, fastening the buckle on my heel. “As much as possible, I want to know what to expect. I don’t want to be taken by surprise.”

  She blinks, her eyes wide and nervous, and rubs her fingers anxiously across the hem of her shirt. “The red dress means you are more expensive.”

  “More expensive than the other women?” I ask.

  She nods. “Red indicates that you come from better stock.”

  Better stock.

  The words make me feel sick to my stomach. Feeling like an animal is different than being described as one.

  For the first time, it really hits me how little anyone here cares about me. To them, I am nothing more than merchandise. I am only as good as the price I can fetch.

  Also for the first time, I’m terrified.

  “What a compliment,” I bite out sarcastically, pushing through the sudden thickness in my throat. I don’t want anyone to see me cry. Even this woman.

  I realize that I don’t even know her name.

  She steps forward and extends a hand to help me to my feet. I place my hand in hers, feeling her cold fingers on my skin, and stand on shaky legs. Getting accustomed to the heels will be a process, given what my body has been through in the last few days.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “Just a servant,” she says quickly. “Here to assist you.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I mean, what is your name?”

  Her eyes widen in surprise, and then the fear returns. “Names aren’t important here.”

  She spins away from me quickly and pulls open a drawer in the rickety dresser behind her. When she turns around, she has a shimmery red leather collar in her hand. It looks like a high-class dog collar. Dangling from it is a gold charm.

  “This is for you,” she says, unhooking the clasp and holding the collar out towards my neck.

  I jerk away from her so quickly I almost lose my balance. “What is that?”

  “It is how you will be recognized during the auction.” She tips the charm towards me so I can see the number ‘7’ engraved on the face of it. “You are Number Seven.”

  I shake my head. “No way. I’m not a fucking dog.”

  “It is easier to go along,” the woman reminds me in a trembling voice. “It is just one of their rules.”

  “My name is Eve.” I lay a hand over my heart, feeling the beating against my palm. It is a good reminder that despite the way I may feel in this situation, I am still a human being.

  “I know,” the woman says softly. Then, her eyes dart around the room again and she leans forward. “And my name is Kari.”

  “Kari,” I say, testing the name out.

  She shushes me quickly. “Don’t use it. And don’t use your own name unless specifically asked. It will be easier that way.”

  I want to fight, but I have no idea what is next for me, and I have a feeling I will need all of my energy. So, I concede this battle.

  Kari lifts the collar to my neck, and I lift the still-damp waves of my hair to let her fasten it.

  The material is smooth against my skin, but I can feel it tighten around me with each swallow. This thing could be made of pure gold and rubies. It doesn’t change the fact that it is a fucking collar.

  8

  Luka

  I search every nook and cranny in the room in hopes of finding something I can fashion into a weapon. But the room is clean.

  Even the glass from the picture frames has been removed in an abundance of caution. I tap on the mirror in the bathroom, but it is apparent that it is some kind of reflective plastic rather than actual glass. So, unless I want to braid the clothes in the closet together to use as a noose, I have no choice but to leave the room with nothing more than the clothes on my back and my mask.

  I half expect to find Edgar lurking outside my doorway when I open it, but the hallway is empty. As I walk back towards the lobby, though, I hear soft voices. I follow them.

  The armed guards who were standing by the door before are gone now, though I am certain there is still heavy security all around me. The whole building is tingling with pent-up aggression, like a vibration in the walls themselves.

  I walk through the entryway and through the door underneath the balcony into a sitting room. There are plush white couches and chairs around a central fireplace that stretches all the way up the wall and through the peak in the ceiling.

  Several masked men and women sit around on the furniture, clutching drinks in their hands.

  I spot a bar cart against the far wall and make my way over to it, pouring myself two fingers of bourbon.

  “Were you here last year?” a man with a white mask in the shape of a fox asks.

  The woman sitting next to him shifts in her seat. “I don’t think questions like those are common courtesy around here.”

  “Oh right, of course,” the man says. “I forget all the secrecy. I have never been too fond of it, so I wouldn’t mind ditching my mask now, though I know it would ruin the integrity of the evening.”

  I almost laugh at the idea that this event could ever have any integrity at all, but I don’t. I quietly take a seat in a chair far away from the rest of the guests and sip on my drink. Luckily, the masks cut off just above the lip, allowing for unencumbered eating and drinking. But I can’t imagine feeling something as trivial as hunger while I’m trying to track down my family.

  I want to observe everyone. I want to have a good idea of who the people around me are because I
have no way of knowing when that information could be useful. Foe or ally—it’s impossible to say. And people like these have a way of changing sides when you least expect it.

  For instance, I already know the man in the white mask is confident and thinks himself untouchable. One short conversation with him could probably provide me with his name and job title.

  The woman is more reserved. She is wearing a fitted black skirt and jacket with a white button- down underneath, the buttons done up to her neck. She is either here to purchase a labor slave or she runs some kind of upscale brothel and is looking for a high-class worker.

  Whatever the reason, she is here for business, not pleasure.

  As I’m watching the rest of the room, I notice more and more eyes glancing in my direction. I do my best to look unimposing, but the tension in the room continues to rise.

  I slouch my shoulders forward and lower my head, hoping to look smaller. It is difficult, though. I have been raised my entire life to be tall and proud and powerful. Even though I’m aware that everyone around me has tells that give away their station in life, I can’t seem to control my own. They are innate.

  “What about you?” Fox-Face asks, finally gathering his courage and throwing his voice over to me. “Were you here last year?”

  The woman next to him on the couch sighs and adjusts her position. It is clear she finds the man annoying.

  I take a slow sip from my glass and swirl it, while an awkward silence lingers in the air.

  “I’ll tell you if it ever becomes your business,” I say, my voice striking a delicate balance between a joke and a threat.

  The man gives a nervous chortle and then turns back towards the fireplace. If he didn’t have a mask on, I’m certain his face would be glowing red.

  A few more men wander into the room one at a time, taking stock of the other guests before taking a drink and claiming their own seat. When people aren’t looking around at one another, they are checking the clock mounted above the fireplace.

  The event should be starting soon.

  Nerves twist my stomach, though I don’t let it show. I do a head count and, in addition to a few people I saw earlier who are not in the room now, I guess there are ten bidders. To the right of the fireplace, there is a thin electric screen mounted to the wall, split into two columns. The first is a thin column numbered from one to fourteen and the other column is blank.

  It is an intimate affair, which only serves to raise the stakes.

  On one hand, it is good to know I’ll only have to compete with nine other people for Eve, but then again, there will be even more focus on us now. If I do find her, people will surely notice if we spend too much time together or if I show her special attention.

  They will either become suspicious or, due to the competitive nature of the week, more determined to make Eve theirs. People like this are here because they crave one thing above all else:

  Control.

  A rail-thin man in a dark suit and blood-red mask gets a drink behind me and then lingers near my chair. He doesn’t say anything, but it is clear he has strategically chosen his location near me, and I intend to use that to my advantage.

  “More people here than I thought there would be,” I say.

  The man turns to me, assessing my relaxed posture, and then lowers his own shoulders. “About the same as last year. Less than the year before that.”

  He must be a regular at this event.

  “I suppose I’ve revealed how infrequently I attend the auction,” I say.

  “I already knew,” the man says, glancing over at me. “The masks keep me from knowing exactly who you are, but I know who I’ve met in this room before. And I don’t recognize you.”

  “Seems like there is more security this year, too,” I say, moving on without responding to his previous statement. “Or maybe I was simply less observant back then.”

  The man takes a drink, his pointed chin dimpling as he thinks. “You may be right. Our hosts seem to want to show their muscle—indoors, at least. There are always armed guards around the perimeter of the property, of course, but they did try to keep the guns out of sight of the guests last year. One can only guess at their motivations. It tends to be a rather tight-lipped organization, no?”

  I lean back in my chair and look into the entryway. The guards who were there before still haven’t returned, but I see a shifting shadow standing on the other side of the fogged glass. They probably just moved outside to man the doors from the exterior.

  “I wonder what happened to inspire the change.”

  The man hums in mild interest. “One of the women for auction always makes an attempt to escape. It happens every year. Perhaps they want to be more prepared this time. Though, the biggest threat is from the outside, not inside.”

  “You mean the police?” I ask.

  The man nods. “And people interested in the event who don’t have the funds. There have been threats before. Other cartels who want to come in and take the merchandise for free.”

  The man takes a sip of his drink and wanders closer to the center of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts which are growing more and more frazzled with every second.

  If this was any other mission, I’d call it off.

  There are too many unknowns, too many different threats. I have to be on guard against the men inside, the guards outside, and the possibility of a third-party raid. Plus, I have no idea where Rian Morrison is or what the FBI has to do with any of this. The likelihood of success with the odds so stacked against me is slim.

  I should get out.

  But I can’t.

  Not when Eve and Milaya are on the line. If it meant keeping them safe, I’d strip my mask off in the middle of this room and allow the guards to gun me down.

  I’ll do anything to protect them.

  So, I finish off the last of my drink and take a deep breath. It is going to be a long five days.

  Edgar walks into the lounge a few minutes later, a pleasant smile on his face. He strolls to the front of the fireplace and opens his arms in welcome.

  “Welcome,” he says, nodding to every corner of the room. “I will keep my remarks brief. Now that everyone is here, I know you are all eager to begin, so let’s do just that.”

  He takes a few steps towards the screen on the wall and gestures to the screen. “The bidding board should look familiar to those of you who have been with us before. To those of you who haven’t, the board is where all official bids will be logged for each of the fourteen items on show this week. Feel free to bid whenever you would like, but bidding early does not guarantee anything. It is simply a way to express your interest. And in return for doing so, we will make sure you are rewarded each night.”

  The man in the fox mask laughs, causing the woman to his right to slide even further away from him on the couch.

  From a business perspective, I understand how this works. The Cartel wants people to put in early bids to help increase the overall price by the fifth day. And to encourage early bids, whoever has the highest bid on any woman by the end of the day gets to take her to their room.

  It’s a cruel and efficient way to extract wealth from the extraordinarily wealthy moguls in attendance.

  As a don, I am impressed.

  As a husband, I am enraged.

  I want to rip the bidding board from the wall and crack it over Edgar’s head. Then, I’ll use the broken shards to ram Fox-Face through the chest.

  Instead, I swallow back the bile that has risen in my throat and try not to crush the glass tumbler in my hand.

  “Bidding will end at 4:59 p.m. on Wednesday,” Edgar says. “But until then, enjoy your stay and enjoy the show.”

  Like a ringmaster opening a circus, Edgar waves an arm towards a door on his right and strides backwards to the far corner of the room.

  There is a beat of awkward silence when nothing happens and everyone is just waiting in breathless anticipation.

  Then, slowly, a woman appears in th
e doorway.

  She is wearing a purple dress that is tight, but still fails to hug her frail body. She looks like she hasn’t had a proper meal in months. Her cheeks are hollowed and dark circles that makeup could never hide hang heavily under her eyes.

  With slow, shaky steps, she walks through the door and across the fireplace to stand a few feet from Edgar. I can see her hands are trembling, and her eyes dart around the room like a nervous mouse.

  The room draws in a low hiss of distaste. The woman is not quite repulsive, but she’s far from the desirable jewel we’ve been primed to expect. Our eyes slide back to the door from which she entered, waiting for the next with bated breath.

  A moment later, another woman appears.

  This one is better. Healthier, fitter, though still not worth parting with any significant sums. She steps forward cautiously and takes her place next to the first.

  Following the first two, the rest of the women file through the door one by one. Each time a woman steps from the shadows into the lounge, my heart clenches.

  Is this one Eve?

  Is she even here?

  Have I wasted my time?

  As one turns to five and then ten, the women become more attractive. Starting with Number Eleven, the women are all dressed in red. Their hair is shiny and healthy, their skin is smooth and radiant. They look like models more than slaves. Terrified models, of course, but beautiful. It is clear the Cartel are saving the best for last.

  Number Thirteen walks out—a tall, strong woman with dark brown skin and curly black hair—and she isn’t as afraid as the other women. She smiles at the group of men and women waiting for her, even winking towards Fox-Face. I consider myself adept at reading people, but whether her act is a façade or not, I can’t tell.

  I look at the bidding board and realize there is only one woman left. One more chance for it to be Eve. For me to be in the right place.

  I bounce back and forth between wanting it to be her and hoping she is far away from this depravity.