Bought By The Masters

by Daniella Wright

  And how had he not noticed it was missing, until today? The replica inside the cabinet was a poor imitation. It held none of the energy the skullplate possessed.

  Yet, he had walked past it several times in the last two weeks without any suspicion at all.

  “I…” Antonio swallows, like he has an apple stuck in his throat. “I just assumed it was a part of the selection, my lord…”

  Gentleman stares hard at the empty spot where the bone used to lie, proudly on display on the purple velvet cushion. He’d had plans for it. Perhaps he should have kept it more hidden, but his study was locked, and people knew better than to mess around with Gentleman’s belongings.

  They should have, anyway.

  “I think,” Gentleman says, after determining that Antonio really is as clueless as he looks, “that we have a traitor in our midst.”

  Cato

  Taking Roze out of the room is considered a risk on my part. I have to watch my father’s guards within the estate, and take her to my study, where I’ve set up a scrying glass, and a dinner table laden with a selection of delicacies, all in an attempt to make her life marginally better.

  Her eyes glow as she enters the room, following tightly behind me, sandwiched by Beron, who is my professional shadow – and I can’t help but think of the magic she has within her. Usually I can avoid thinking about it, but right now, I’m fully aware and cognizant that she has the bone of a long dead supernatural creature within.

  The way humans can gain magic is despicable. But any can gain it if they survive the operation. All for the simple price of desecrating the remains of those who were loved and passed away. There’s some tug and pull with the supernatural creatures who are livid that human museums display their dead or have sacred bone fragments for millions of tourists to gawk over in a given year. There’s fights to return these bones to their rightful places, but the humans love to hang onto their spoils, and seem to think finders keepers trumps origin.

  There are a few species out there that might disagree with that sentiment.

  Even though we give Roze permission and freedom to move, she still feels a little reluctant to go far. She claims that the bonds of their contract is chafing against her, making it hard for her to have the kind of freedom she desires, and again, I’m reminded that I need to do something about locating Gentleman.

  But how to do it in a way that doesn’t reveal that I’m actively hunting him down? He’ll have security, likely some form of magical protection that I can’t comprehend, and a self-destruct button on all four of us. I’d need to perhaps haul in a detective, hired by someone who has little to no association to me. Maybe I can drop an anonymous note at the precinct… but what if the information I’ve gleaned off him is only information I would know? So when the police turn up at an empty warehouse, it won’t exactly be hard for Gentleman to figure out I’d ratted on him. Cue some burning of the soul.

  Reporters are sniffing around us. They sense there’s a story in the heart of the estate, given that we’ve now restricted entry to it completely. Doubtless we must be hiding something. So speculation stories open up in our news.

  Meanwhile, although I may or may not be mistaken, there seems to be a certain heightened tension, whenever I interact with Roze.

  The kind of tension that develops from long stares, the awareness of physical presence, and the quickening of heartbeat, the rush of heat to cheeks. More than once, she has stammered to a complete stop in her sentences, as though lost in a thought. And sometimes she just has this look to her face that makes me think she’s still interested in the concept of us, after what feels like years ago since we sat in that bar, unaware of where the night’s events would lead us.

  Never to here.

  It never should have been here.

  Roze

  I sit there in the darkness, eyes attempting to adjust to the gloom, feeling the foreign, invasive energies inside me. I might have wanted powers, but not in this way. Not when it means the restriction of freedom, and to waste away in this grand but strangely empty estate, waiting for the bill to be passed or failed, waiting for them to figure out a way out of the demon contract.

  So far, Cato’s told me the only surefire way to escape the clauses of a demon contract, is when the contract needs to be renewed in five years time – a failsafe added so that someone doesn’t continue adhering to the terms when their master is long dead. I’d still need to be given orders, but anyone close to the master can substitute if they’re not around.

  Five years of my life gone means I’ll be thirty by the time it ends. Does that mean five years without contact with my family, as well? Five years without a job, without a regular connection with the human world, instead getting embroiled in petty politics is not really how I’d prefer to live. I feel like maybe they’re exaggerating the demon punishment. It’s not like if I step outside the city I’m going to be roped by a demon and dragged kicking and screaming to hell, is it?

  You’ll have more freedom, I promise, Cato had said. I wish there was an easier way to do all this. Because believe me, I’m one of the last people in this city who wants slaves.

  He claims he did what he had to do, and maybe on an intellectual level I understand, but it doesn’t exactly remove the shitty brooding that wedges itself in my brain. Or the resentment. Or the image of this cavernous suite like the jaws of a dragon, slowly closing shut over us. Doesn’t help that they also seemed terrified of the fact that someone called The Morrigan appeared to me, and I’m also frustrated at my lack of global knowledge. There’s just so much human history to memorize – now there’s magical history piled on top of it.

  Cato’s been looking more drained lately, and Beron, despite his reticence to talk, and his carefully professional expression, shows discomfit in his body posture. They’re trying hard to make us comfortable, but the cloak and dagger interactions, the fear of letting us be spotted by too many people is grating on what might otherwise be pleasant interactions. Alex, however, seems to be taking her imprisonment as opportunities to practice her newfound magic of singing, and she weaves arias as delicate as feathers. She doesn’t sing to popular tunes; she tries to make her own, usually hidden behind the bead curtain of her room, voice quiet, but we hear the melodies. We’ve asked her to put on a little performance for us to stave away the boredom, and she’s done a few, but she doesn’t like being on display.

  I don’t quite have the same entertainment factor, but I have examined my friends for any hidden medical conditions that most people wouldn’t consider picking up. Alex had a small, benign growth in her breast which I took away, and a mild allergy to nickel as well. Pretty healthy condition, otherwise. None of us have been outside as such, and we’re aware of the immense pressure that Cato and his father seem to be in their campaign. He’s also promised he’s looking into how to grab Gentleman, but as far as I’m aware, that’s a dead end so far.

  Tiffany, however, is worrying me. She hasn’t practiced anything at all. I know if I had greenfingers, I’d be eager to see just what I can grow, if I could turn an orange seed into a tree within moments, instead of years. It’s the kind of power that could make a lot of money if someone wanted to take up the option of being a farmer.

  I know, deep in my soul, something’s wrong with my friend. Usually, she’s cheerful, the life of the party, the kind of girl you want to invite to events to brighten things up. She might make bad judgment calls on occasion, but who doesn’t? Now, it’s as if all her former life has been sucked out of her. She still does Tiffany-esque things, but there’s something curiously absent in her interactions.

  It’s the side effect, I’d been informed. The Call of the Void. If an implant doesn’t fully integrate with its wearer, then the magic within it wants to escape. Leading to suicidal impulses that come from the bone.

  It’s been terrifying. We had one moment where we were cutting vegetables to make our own dinner – Beron and Cato allowed this as time wasting and a distraction for us – and she’
d just froze, staring at the little knife she was holding, before suddenly plunging it into her arm.

  I healed her, but we removed all the utensils afterwards, and just let the servants bring us food. I remember how Tiffany sobbed and wrung her hands, insisting, promising she didn’t want to die, that she didn’t know what was overtaking her.

  Alex and I keep a close watch on her anyway. For the past three nights, she’s been sleeping in Alex’s room, and the two of us feel like we’re playing a waiting game. None of the shifters knew how long the side effects lasted for, though I know they’re looking for an expert in necromancy (apparently not easy to find as no one wants to admit they can do necromancy). All that remains is that we will have our answers before Tiffany ends up… worse off. I’m terrified that the two of us will be off guard long enough for our friend to find another means of harming herself. Because sometimes, she even looks at perfectly ordinary household things as if they might be an effective way to dispatch her.

  What can you do for someone who is a danger to themselves, short of full restraints and a gag in their mouth to stop them biting her tongue? I’ve been careful not to mention that as an idea.

  I’m aware of the awfulness of the situation, staring into the gloom, and I have a horrible, sinking sensation in my gut. I don’t know what time it is, but I slide out of bed quietly, noiseless as I pad across the carpet, and gently push aside the beads to my room. My unease causes me to check through the curtains in Alex and Tiffany’s now shared room, the faint everburning candles lighting my way, casting so many dancing shadows that I keep startling, thinking I’m seeing something move on the peripherals of my vision. I keep wondering if I’m going to see The Morrigan appear like a ghost, haunting me from the inside out, but so far, since that weird-ass meeting in the mirror, she’s not turned up. Does make it a little trickier to stare at mirrors for too long, though, because I keep wondering if my features will morph into hers.

  The first thing I note is that there’s only one lump in the bed, and that lump has a puff of lion’s mane for hair.

  Tiffany? Where are you? I instantly panic, but then tell myself that just because she’s not in the bed, doesn’t mean something awful has happened. Nothing suspicious to worry about. Nothing to freak out about. It’ll all be fine.

  Except it’s not. We’re supposed to always be watching her.

  I check the room she’d previously slept in, and that’s empty, too. The last unoccupied bedroom has nothing but cobwebs and storage boxes, and the anxiety is digging deep, refusing to let go.

  “Tiffany?” I say, not bothering to be quiet. “Tiffany?” I stomp around the suite, check the dragon’s cave room, and my breaths are coming in short wheezes.

  Panic attack, I think clinically. Shortness of breaths causes dizziness, potentially suffocation or fainting. Calm yourself.

  “Roze? What’s going on?” The sleepy voice isn’t Tiffany’s, but Alex, now staggering past the beads with a clatter. “Where’s Tiffany?”

  The bathroom. Instantly, I think of how I stumbled upon her the last time. Naked and blue from drowning in the tub – and this bathroom has a lock. If she’s in there, if she’s locked it…

  Frantically I attempt the handle, and the door thankfully opens. Not locked – but inside the bathroom, contrasting with the yellow, white and green colorings, is a shocking splash of scarlet.

  Panic soars. “Tiffany!” I scream, rushing to her. She’s slumped under the sink, and her weapon of choice to hurt herself this time appears to be one of the double-bladed shavers we have tucked in the cupboard. One we failed to move. I feel sick, even imagining how she used it, to see the ruined flesh on her arms. How had she done this without a noise? I see a brief flicker of dark hair and green eyes in the mirror, but I have no time to focus on this – Tiffany needs healing.

  Alex barges in, no longer sleepy, her eyes horrified as she takes in the sight, and watches me attempt to funnel all my energy into our friend. “What the fuck did she do? Roze?”

  A horrible unease digs inside like a knife. She’s been undiscovered for too long. There’s barely any life in her and I’m trying not to sob hysterically, to let the icy mantle of calm cloak me instead.

  Please don’t die. Alex runs from the bathroom, intending to yell for help outside of the suite, and I feel my magic leaving Tiffany almost as fast as it enters.

  “Godammit, Tiffany, you idiot,” I say, wanting her to open her eyes and snap at me for using those words. Even if I save her this time, what’s going to stop something like this from happening again? This call of the void is doing a number on her sanity, her impulses. I can’t imagine being like her, where those strange, morbid impulses humans sometimes have ends up as a compulsion. Where you can’t even trust yourself to do something as simple as cutting vegetables without reacting to that inner voice.

  Why the fuck did we insist on having razors to shave the unwanted hairs on our bodies?

  “You can’t save her,” the low, rich voice of The Morrigan says. I can’t see her from my crouch on the floor, but I know she’s speaking from the mirror, probably straining to glimpse me. “The bones lent to her did not want to be used. And they have a way of making themselves heard. A way of crushing low human willpower.”

  “Fuck off,” I snap at The Morrigan, fruitlessly pouring my energy into Tiffany’s lifeless form, closing the wounds on her arms, but unable to kickstart her brain. Her precious, beautiful brain.

  A short pause from the mirror. I hear Alex yelling, and footsteps pounding. “There is opportunity here,” The Morrigan says, and her voice now sounds oddly distorted, as if underwater. “And I will take it.”

  Blotting out the woman’s voice as best as able, I pour everything I’ve got into Tiffany, feeling the magical energy empty out in her. A brief sense of elation hits when I realize that my magic is latching onto her body, revitalizing her cells, but it plummets when the reviving body doesn’t match the brain, which is dark and silent. It hits rock bottom when I see, from the inside of my friend, the connections, neurons within the brain rearranging, the pineal gland enlarging, changing themselves from the shape of my friend.

  I barely have time to squeak out a warning to the people who clatter into the bathroom next, as the magical exhaustion sinks too deep, dragging my consciousness with it.

  Chapter 7

  Cato

  My father holds out his arm, introducing the fae stood next to him. The fae has a deep, glum expression, as if he’s never smiled a day in his life, and long, pointed ears tufting out of twig-like hair. He’s here as part of the ongoing arrangement I’ve been negotiating with my father, trying to ease his fears of being outmaneuvered by the other district councilors, and of potentially having his name blackened so much that no one would ever take him at his word again.

  Since even if he’s innocent, and has the evidence to prove innocence, that wouldn’t matter in the month remaining before the bill gets voted on. The media has a way of spinning everything out of control. Best not to give it even the whiff of substance. I still remember my father fighting against a particular photograph taken of him when it looks like he’s holding up the middle finger to a visiting human senator.

  In actual fact, he’d been waving to that senator, but changing the perspective can condemn without context.

  “Octavian here will tattoo your humans,” father says, with a slight wrinkle to his features, “if you insist on being foolhardy and allowing them to roam free of the estate.”

  “I can’t keep them inside forever, father,” I say. “I would have let them go home the instant I could.”

  “If you weren’t stupid enough to sign a demonic contract,” father says with a sigh. Octavian stands as motionless as a statue, one hand resting protectively over the zip of his side case, which looks like the kind of thing designed to hold either a laptop, money, or a gun. “Octavian can place a tattoo seal to mask the magic in their bodies, so they at least appear human to anyone else. But we still have two more problems
to work on. They need to take a Vow, and they need to stay in the boundary of Halberg.”

  The other issue is if either of the three women get their hands on a phone or a connection. So many liabilities. Safer to keep them confined, but then all it takes is one investigator, and we have a problem on our hands.

  “Thanks, father,” I say, accepting at least his attempt to help. “I’ll sort out the Vow. Then we’ll see what we can do to help them.”

  He inclines his head. “I’d like to be able to pinpoint Gentleman myself,” he growls. “That’s the kind of despicable filth I want to stamp out. Our society’s rotten, son.” He lights a new cigarette with a puff of flame from his nostrils. “Next time the devil tries to make a deal with you, refuse it, won’t you? We don’t want to give them more ground to stand on.”

  “No,” I agree. “I’ll be sure not to make that mistake again.” Though if I could go back in time and change my decision, I’m not sure if I could. The result would still mean that Roze and her friends end up in a horrific situation. Worse than anything I can offer. They’d be sucked into the criminal underworld, used, abused, and never have any chance to return to their human lives in their human countries.

  I don’t see myself making a different choice, except in the scenario where I never met up with them at all, and know nothing of them. But that’s just spilling into impossible, hypothetical notions.

  Octavian follows me out of the study shortly after I’ve discussed more with my father, who is due to appear on a televised debate tonight, and Beron follows behind us, as ever my faithful shadow. Octavian will mark the women with his magic ink, and because people like Octavian are expensive, father’s anticipating potential investigations as to why the Dagens need a magic concealer. A couple of the servants glance at us as we travel down one staircase, and I can’t help but wonder just how much we can trust any of them. There’s been no leaks from the estate, but investigators love bribing.