The force of his kick flips me onto my back and I turn my head sharply to the side, hiding my face behind the sable fall of my hair. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of seeing the tears that squeeze from the corners of my eyes.
“I said get up, slag. Are you deaf as well as stupid?”
I choke on my response, producing only a few inarticulate coughs instead of an answer. I do manage to prop myself up on one elbow, peeking up from beneath a fringe of hair to ascertain just how pissed he is. He wakes me like this most mornings, and I have to say, I prefer it to the mornings when he tries a gentler approach. Namely, when he prods me awake with his cock and demands I satisfy him. Somehow, the beatings seem a little more dignified.
“Maybe, if you hadn’t kept me up all night,” I grumble under my breath, crawling onto all fours. I keep my voice low, though. I’m sore enough as it is. Besides, push Darius too hard and he’ll decide to teach me a lesson. One I don’t want to learn.
“What was that, slag?” he demands.
Yes. Definitely pissed. I’m not sure what I’ve done to earn his ire this early in the morning, but it doesn’t bode well for the rest of the day.
I manage to get my shaking legs beneath me and climb to my feet, leaning against the opposite wall for balance. I hug the wall, feeling like the most wretched creature in the entire city of Ascor. I doubt there’s a soul between here and the Forest of No Return that feels as shitty as I do at the moment.
When I manage to stop shaking, I turn in a slow half-circle to face the man who’s both my tormentor and my savior. Darius leans against the vanity, careful not to disrupt the glass bottles and creams on its surface.
He watches me struggle, a cruel glint of amusement in his dark eyes. I wish he didn’t look so much like his father. It makes it harder for me to hate him as much as I should.
Gregory was the only man who ever showed me an ounce of kindness, and it chafes me that this little bastard wears Gregory’s face. It’s not an especially handsome countenance: too boxy to be traditionally handsome, the eyes too deep-set and far apart, nose too large and teeth not large enough. But where Gregory’s eyes were kind, Darius’ always have the mean, rangy look of a feral cat. And he has the temper to match. He’s also shorter and thinner than his father ever was.
“You’re dancing in the back room tonight,” Darius informs me, flicking the closet door open to reveal the small selection of gowns he’s procured for my act.
All are made of silky or sheer fabrics and would easily cost a year of my wages. They’ve more than paid for Darius’ tavern in the last few years. More accurately, I have more than paid for this tavern. After all, it’s my body men are flocking to see.
“Please.” The ragged entreaty is all I can force from my shaking lips.
He knows what I’m asking for.
Darius has kept it from me for three days. He can’t honestly expect me to dance while my stomach tosses like a ship at sea. I need a bump if I’m going to be able to make it on stage sometime tonight.
I can read the answer on his face before he ever opens his mouth. That hateful smirk tics up a few degrees; he’s clearly enjoying my distress. It’s a rare treat for him to hear me beg like this. The last time he got the satisfaction, I literally came crawling back on hands and knees, begging for another dose.
Hopefully I won’t have to do that again this morning.
He toys with the small, leather pouch at his waist, jiggling it in my direction as a taunt before flipping the material of his coat over his front to hide it from view.
“You’ll get it when you’ve earned it, slag.” Then he chuckles as he sneers down at me. “A group of merchants are selling their wares along Gendar Street for the next fortnight before moving north. At least half of ‘em will be downstairs tonight. You please them and then I’ll give you that bump you’re so desperate for.” His lips curl into a viper’s grin, dripping insincerity like cloying venom. “And if you please me tonight, I’ll give you another.”
With his toe, he nudges a bowl across the floor, and a portion of my daily slop oozes over one corner and onto the hardwood. For just an instant, I imagine scooping the bowl off the floor and grinding his nose into the congealed mass of tasteless slop. Let him feel the indignity of being fed and put through his paces like a fucking show pony.
But my fingers only perform an ineffectual flex at my side, instead of the suicidally stupid action I’ve just contemplated. This place isn’t palatial, my role is demeaning, my jailer is an arrogant prick, but I’m under no illusions. I’m better off here than I would be on the streets. That’s the only reason I’ve stayed as long as I have. Because, as shitty as this life is, it’s still better than being homeless in Ascor. I’ll put up with Darius until I can squirrel away enough gold pieces to buy myself a way out of Ascor and a way in to some other city. Any other city, where my face isn’t instantly recognizable as the salacious Snow White.
Darius selects a gauzy, multi-hued dress and tosses it lightly on the bed we share. I stare at it, mouth popping open in indignant surprise. I’ve worn this dress only once before, performing for Prince Achmed, who hailed from a place far, far away. A place called Agrabah in the Anoka Desert. The prince painted a hazy picture of Agrabah while I danced for him that night, dropping each layer of my gauzy drapings, one by one, until I lay mostly bare before him on stage. On the rare occasions I’ve dreamed of escaping, I’ve thought about traveling to Agrabah to find the prince again.
“The Dance of the Seven Veils?” I breathe, too tired to summon true outrage. “You can’t be serious.”
Damn Darius to the blackest regions of the nether realm! I’ve only done this dance once in front of an audience and that was a long time ago. Now he expects me to do it again without any practice, with barely a cup full of oats in my stomach and the fatigue of withdrawal threatening to drag me sideways to the floor? I’ll make a fool of myself and then Darius will punish me for it later.
Darius worms a hand into his coat and dips one finger lightly into the pouch at his belt. It comes away dusted in white, like a baker’s confection. He steps closer to me, offering the digit. I don’t normally like to take it this way, but he’s not leaving me much choice. This is all I’m going to get.
So I take his finger, guide it reverently to my mouth, and slide my tongue along every contour, trying to catch every speck of the priceless powder I can find. The process is over quickly, and my mouth tingles pleasantly as relief swells through me.
“Perform well, and you’ll get more,” Darius promises. “But, if you don’t...”
He lets the statement hang, a sword over my head, waiting to drop. The meaning is very clear.
Failure isn’t an option.
* * *
I tangle my fingers in the velvet folds of the navy-blue curtain and drag it back a few inches to peer out at the crowd beyond. Male voices overlap, sounding like a rumble of distant thunder. The room is hazy with pipe smoke, the heavy fog of it pressing into my lungs and further tightening my chest.
The number of men who occupy the chairs that ring the small stage staggers me, and I can tell there are still more I can’t make out clearly, arranged at the small tables or standing at the back. How many men are packed into this back room? Fifty? One hundred? I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many men crowded into the Wicked Lyre at one time, even around the annual festival, when spirits run high and men pay their last coin to see the creamy flesh of a nubile, young thing.
Every man in the room is wealthy. If their clothing isn’t a giveaway, their voices would be. Cultured speech, with accents that range from the clipped tones of Grimm, the airy sing-song of a Wonderland noble, or the lilting honeyed tones of a cove-dwelling merchant from the Sea of Delorood.
I let the velvet slide between my fingers, dread settling in the pit of my stomach like a heavy millstone. How the bloody hell am I supposed to pull this off? I’m dizzy already. I’m going to go out there, slide one veil off, and then trip and fall on my face.
And that will be the end of poor Neva Valkoinen, the end of Snow White. They’ll find my body in an alleyway, a patchwork of blooming blue and purple bruises, swarmed by the city’s vermin.
Darius’ voice issues from the other side of the curtain, an ugly common accent among the sea of more pleasant voices. The room goes silent when he begins to speak, introducing me to the crowd as he has for years now. Is it four? I think it must be. Gregory died when Darius and I were seventeen. I’m twenty-one now.
And I don’t know what to make of those years. They’re gone and I have nothing to show for them. But nevermind. Thinking about the past only depresses me and my life is depressing enough as it is.
“And now, the main event! The greatest beauty you’ll find in Ascor. Perhaps in all of Fantasia! I give to you, the lovely Snow White!”
The curtains are drawn aside to the sounds of thunderous applause, revealing me in all my dubious glory. I’m bathed in the glow of a thousand twinkling faerie lights that illuminate the stage. The lights are another item that sets the Wicked Lyre apart from other taverns, besides the star attraction. Darius is the only man within the city able to afford to light the place with fae-spelled orbs, day or night.
The weight of a hundred gazes falls on me seconds later, tracing what little they can see of my silhouette through the veils. The one dangled above my head is taupe, and the colors grow increasingly bolder the closer they get to the center of my body. Light glints off every jewel and bangle adorning me. And there are many. They chime as my body moves to the beat of the sultry music.
It’s too bright. My head spins and I choke on bile. I feel as if I’m going to faint dead away. My eyes sweep the crowd, searching for something. Rescue? Pity? Perhaps a man who can look at me and see a sick girl being paraded on stage, instead of an object of lust to be used and discarded?
Every face I meet is eager, drinking me in like I’m a draft of Sweetland Port. There’s no one here who gives a damn about me, no one who…
My gaze settles on a man perched on a stool near the back. He was easy to miss at first, because he’s not nearly as rotund as most the men I see. Many men in Ascor wear the evidence of their wealth around their belt buckles, where girth stretches the seams of their fine clothing. But this man is different.
He’s as tall and lean as any farm hand, with a slightly golden cast to his skin that suggests he spends a great deal of time outdoors. His clothing is less elaborate than the rest of the men in the room—he wears a simple scarlet tunic draped over buckskin trousers. Only the gold buttons that stud both give away the fact that he didn’t just stroll into the Wicked Lyre by accident.
The understated wardrobe makes the artistry of his face seem even more absurd in contrast. His jaw is slanted at an angle that appears sharp enough to cut glass. A layer of golden stubble ripples across that strong line, drawing my eye to a perfect bow-lipped mouth. His hair has been swept to the nape of his neck, the flyaway golden strands gathered together by a leather thong. But it’s his eyes that strike me most. I expect them to be blue, like those of one of the savage Northmen. But they’re not.
They’re a perfect tawny color, like the piercing eyes of a hawk. He cocks his head in an almost bird-like motion, considering me with detached interest. There’s no ardent desire in this man’s gaze. He doesn’t even appear mildly aroused by my dance or by me. I can’t puzzle out what he’s doing here. Why come to this show, if he isn’t here to get a thrill by peeking at Snow White’s tits and ass?
I don’t know how long I stare at him, but the moment I realize I’m still swaying to the melancholic beat of the music, I snap back into myself. My body begins moving without conscious thought, like a snake before its charmer. I close my eyes, trying to block out the appreciative murmurs that run through the room as I sway this way and that, releasing my veils to the ground one at a time. Amethyst, sapphire, ruby, and topaz drop from my body, curling like colorful smoke before they fall to the floor.
I pretend I’m alone. Alone but for the curious stranger, with his odd eyes and his benign interest. I pretend I won’t be what these men, with their avaricious appetites, will be envisioning when they tug their cocks tonight. In my mind, the curious stranger and I are alone and this is art, not a tawdry peep show.
And then… it’s over. I find myself on the ground, bosom heaving, in the final pose of the dance, with my head bowed. I’m wearing only the shimmering and slightly diaphanous white material that makes up the undergarments Darius provides me.
I’m exhausted and I feel sick to my stomach. My ears ring and tears are already wetting my eyes. I can only hope I don’t heave up the contents of my stomach right here. But, then I remember there isn’t much in my stomach to heave up.
The applause is a dull roar in my ears. I climb unsteadily to my feet, gathering the veils I’ve abandoned as the stage is showered with coins. I take two of them—only two because they’re all I can hide in my tight brazier. Any more and I risk Darius’ wrath.
I spy him in the back, leaning against the bar, talking to the mysterious stranger in the buckskin trousers. I allow myself a curious flick down to the stranger’s groin and I’m offended when it appears I’ve had little effect on him.
Darius and the stranger are in deep conversation, to the point that I wonder if they’re arguing. About what, I don’t know, but I imagine the subject must be money. At the moment, though, I don’t really care. There’s only one reward I want for this night’s work, and it better damn well be waiting for me when I get backstage.
TWO
Neva
A dizzy sense of euphoria settles over me on the shaky inhale. My nose goes immediately numb on contact with the powdery white stuff, but it’s worth the momentary discomfort for the blessed peace I find afterward.
I eye the baggie Darius has given me, and my hands tremble with the effort of not sniffing the lot of it. Do that and I’ll just end up bloodying my nose and pissing off Darius. Better to tuck the baggie away and save it for another day. My employer’s moods are mercurial at the best of times, so I don’t want to chance being stuck without the cocaine when another bout of Darius’ temper strikes.
I examine my face in the small vanity mirror. Darius likes to buy mirrors and place them in every room of the tavern, so I can’t, for one second, forget the reason I’d been cast out of my parents’ home. Most women would spit on me for saying the beauty of my face is a curse; but then, most women don’t ever lay eyes on me. The Wicked Lyre tavern isn’t a place that boasts patrons of the female persuasion.
I run my fingers lightly over one cheek. It takes me being run damn-near ragged to put any flush of color into my ivory skin. My skin might have been fetching, if I’d been born with cornflower blue eyes and blonde hair. But the braided coil that gathers at my neck is a black so deep, it shines blue in sunlight. My eyes are large and luminous amber brown, like light shone through a glass of thick liqueur. They shine from a face that’s almost eerily symmetrical, like the crafted features of a porcelain doll, and I appear almost as lifeless.
My face has been described as off-putting almost as often as it’s considered desirable. If my heart didn’t thunder in my chest, most would have thought me a misbegotten beast from further north, one of the blood drinkers cursed for their part in what had been done to poor Princess Briar Rose.
The desire to shatter the glass of the mirror is potent, but I stay my hand. I’ve had enough bad luck to last me a lifetime. I don’t need to add still more to the already badly weighted cosmic scales.
Yet, I hate my reflection, all the same.
A knock on the door drags my gaze away from the vanity and the spoils of my performance. I’ve pulled on one of Darius’ heavy woolen coats to ward off the chill. The only remaining veil I wear is thin and offers little in the way of modesty or heat. I stuff the baggie away for safekeeping as two men enter.
Darius walks into the room first, just as agitated as I’d seen him last, running thick fingers through his dark hair. He flicks hi
s angry gaze back to the doorway and then at me, completing that loop a few times before he heaves a sigh.
“Well, don’t loiter there,” he says to the man who stands behind him. “Come in, then.”
A second man appears in the doorway, and I recognize him instantly. He’s the man from before, the only one in the crowd who didn’t appear to be slavering over me. My breath catches in my throat now that I’m able to get a glimpse of what he truly looks like. From a stance, he appeared quite handsome. Now that he’s nearer, it’s all I can do to keep myself from running a hand along his lightly tanned skin to see if it feels as warm as it looks.
The man is truly stunning. The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
His scarlet tunic bunches around a belt at his waist and gives me a hint of just how muscled he must be beneath. A strange stirring begins between my legs, warmth pooling in my belly and every muscle within my body clenches tight. I’m actually shocked at myself.
Is this… Desire?
It must be! It feels exactly the way men have described the feelings I create in them. It’s also the first time I’ve felt this way in the presence of a man. Usually I try to imagine I’m anywhere other than this rotten tavern. I try to busy my mind as ugly and lecherous men stare at me and attempt to touch me.
And though I’ve known the feel of a man inside me—I’ve only ever known Darius. Yes, he’s been offered incredible amounts of coin by numerous men in return for my body but Darius always denies those requests. Why? Because he’s selfish and he’s greedy and he’s never wanted another man to know me as intimately as he does.
Not that I’ve minded—all the men who have asked to pay for my privileges have been ugly, usually as ugly as Darius, himself.
Regardless, Darius, as my only lover, has never been able to bring me to that final, shuddering point where women supposedly find their pleasure.
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