by T. L. Martin
My pulse thrums wildly.
Hugo doesn’t stop, his voice grating on my ears until they’re raw. “You know it, I know it. If she didn’t get to them, they would have gone off to become criminals, thieves, even killers.” His lips twist, and he eyes me up and down. “So really, we were doing society a favor. I was just smart enough to earn a little—”
The knife, still pressed against the tip of his nose, slides through his skin like butter, only jerking at the cartilage. His piercing scream is delightful, even through the bloody cloth I shove in his mouth as Griff holds his hands down.
“A little early,” Griff mutters, giving me a sideways look.
I shrug. So I could stand to work on my restraint.
The fresh flow of blood streams down Hugo’s lips, his chin, and my thumping pulse relaxes. When his head lolls forward, I frown. Usually takes more than this before they faint. He was right about one thing—you really can’t tell how small someone’s balls are beneath their suit.
Raking my eyes along his face, I contemplate exactly what I want to do next with Hugo Perez. Which body part I want to move on to.
The man has always been a coward. Even my teenage self could see that. Those first few times that he had no choice but to enter Katerina’s domain, each visit ended the same way—with his head between his legs and puke covering his clothes.
Just like me, one day became two, two became three. Days became weeks. Weeks became years. And just like me, he eventually grew used to it.
The blood. The cries. The screams.
But visiting isn’t the same as living it. Coming and going as you please is different than waking up to it, closing your eyes to it, inhaling it, exhaling it, and soon enough, becoming it.
I don’t realize I’m squeezing Hugo’s hand until I hear a snap.
Fuck. I sit back in my seat and close my eyes, feeling the warm thrum of energy vibrate inside me. No, when I work on Hugo’s fingers, he will be wide awake.
I press a button on the center console for the intercom. “Aubrey. Tell Stella to have a bottle of whiskey waiting when we arrive.” A satisfied sigh leaves my lips as I sit back, stretch out my legs. “It’s going to be a long fucking day.”
“There are maps through your bones and skin,
to the way you’ve felt and the way you’ve been.”
—Christopher Poindexter
“I pity you like I pity the Devil.”
My bones quiver, and the shackles slip against my sweaty wrists. It’s not enough to drown out Mama’s distant, throaty voice.
“You’ll suffer for conjuring his demons, little girl.”
I close my eyes, squeeze them hard, and shake my head. Get out, Mama. You don’t belong here.
“I’ll make it end. But only once your soul has been cleansed.”
Two hours. The grandfather clock across the room tells me I have been hanging from these chains for two long hours.
“You behave like an animal, and you’ll be treated like one.”
My knees knock together, a tremble running through them. I’m lightheaded and drenched in sweat, and I haven’t seen or heard a thing since Raife’s suit-clad back as he walked away. Not until that memory, now twelve years old, found its way back to me. Still echoing in my ears, it won’t leave me alone.
“But Mama, I—”
“Don’t you dare call me that.”
Teeth chattering against the harsh wind, I tried again. “I’m s-sorry, Agnes. I just—”
“Look at it.” Mama only ever spoke in whispers and snarls, yet her hushed commands struck me with more intensity than if she had raised her voice.
I shifted my feet, feeling my toes sink deeper into the fresh mud. Then I lowered my gaze to the painting that sat on the ground between us. Streaked with runny lines of red and black, paint blended together as the rain splattered my sketchpad.
“Face your twisted demons like you force me to,” she ordered, “because this will be the last time you ever summon them in this house.”
“But I’m telling you, Ma—Agnes. I didn’t summon any—”
Mama’s hand rose so quickly I flinched. She froze mid-air, fingers inches from my cheek, seeming to remember at the same time I did that she never hit me. She never touched me at all. I once overheard her tell Frankie to keep her distance because I could be contagious.
After a tense moment of silence blending with rain patter, Mama lowered her hand to her side. I knew better than to talk back. I did. But this was the most she had spoken to me in seven months, and my heart had filled itself with a silly fluttering sensation that felt a lot like hope.
Hope that maybe she’d listen.
Maybe she’d try to understand that the dark images muddled my brain until it hurt, until I had no choice but to let them out.
That maybe one day she’d look at me like she did Frankie. Not like she loved her—I didn’t know if Mama was capable of such an emotion—but even when she was disappointed in my big sister, even when she punished us, Mama looked at her with a spark I couldn’t place. A spark that I reminded myself would never flicker for me.
I admit, I didn’t make it easy for her. Frankie has always looked just like her, with their blond hair and brown eyes. And from the broken and confusing way my brain works, I was beginning to wonder if Daddy passed down much more than just his looks to me.
“Are you an animal, Emmy May?”
I sniffed and shook my head. “No, Agnes.”
“Are you rabid? Are you a stray? Have you not been cared for like a proper child under a roof protected by the Lord?”
“No, Agnes. I’ve been cared for well.”
“Then take a good, hard look at yourself and ask what kind of person would think up such horrors?”
I dropped my head, feeling a sob working its way up my throat. “I don’t know, Mama. A bad person?”
She took a step forward and walked around me to the abandoned doghouse. “I’ll tell you who,” she said calmly. “A child of the devil. A tainted beast. And as such”—I gasped when something cold and hard tightened around my neck—“you will be punished.”
Reaching up with shaky fingers, I touched the rusty collar now locked around my throat, then my gaze followed the thick metal to the doghouse where it was secured through a hole in the roof. I felt every drop of blood drain from my face.
“Let us see if your art”—she spat the word—“can save you now.”
At the time, those were the most words she’d spoken to me in seven months. After that night, they became the most she’d said since. I suppose it was easier to pretend I didn’t exist than it was to exorcise my demons.
Now, as the unfamiliar chains cut into my wrists and the balls of my feet tingle with soreness, I recall that being neglected is a hell of a lot easier on me, too.
A brisk click of heels snaps my head toward the open doorway. A blond secretary blurs past as she proceeds down the hall. “Wait!” My voice is hoarse as it cracks the walls of my dry throat. “P-please. Come back.”
The clicks pause, then resume, coming closer this time. The secretary that appears in the doorway is familiar. I squint and realize she’d been setting roses on one of the tables yesterday.
I glance down at her dark red scarf. The color is identical to the handkerchief Griff keeps in his front pocket.
Just perfect.
“Did you call for me?” She tilts her head and furrows her brows, but otherwise shows no reaction at the sight of me chained naked to the chandelier, fire still flickering at my feet. Just another day at the Matthews residence.
I tug at the chains and wince when they rub against the raw skin. “Can you get me down from here?”
Her eyes drop to my gold scarf, then flick back up to my face. She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Only your master can make that decision.” After a pause, she asks, “Would you like a glass of water?”
I bite back a growl. Every inch of my body throbs, whimpering with exhaustion. My head drops to my chest. The thic
k pressure in my throat screams for me to take her up on her offer, but I won’t. I’m helpless enough as it is without someone having to spoon-feed me.
A second passes, then her footsteps fade toward the exit. My gaze slides down, down, to the orange flames that dance with a vibrancy I envy. Melted wax drizzles down the sides of the candles like teardrops.
I lose track of the seconds, minutes, hours. Stop fighting the soreness crippling my muscles, the numbness overtaking my fingers.
The longer I stare into the hypnotizing candlelight, the heavier my eyelids get. My wrists go slack against the handcuffs, my knees buckle, and I think I hear the padded thump of a candle falling against the tablecloth, inhale the bitter scent of something burning. But the sea of black curling around my mind is so soothing, I can’t bring myself to care.
Voices—hushed and feminine—travel to my eardrums. Something soft brushes my ankle. I stir, shift in place, and a searing pain pierces my wrists. Beyond my wrists, to the tips of my fingers, I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. The faint sound of metal clinking reminds me I’m chained. A moan seeps past my closed lips.
My eyelashes flutter open, and the dining room blurs into focus.
Aubrey’s hair tickles my bare foot, and I cringe at the sting that shoots to my toes. Her grip stiffens around my ankle, keeping it still. She glances up at me and presses a finger to her lips, then resumes wrapping a gauze bandage around my foot. My brows pull together, a sting still throbbing beneath my skin.
The blond secretary from earlier comes into view as she rounds the table. She carefully gathers what’s left of the tablecloth and dumps it into a trash bag. No candles are in sight, but a faint singed scent wafts through the air.
Raife sits in the far-right corner of the room, a cell phone pressed to his ear. His lips move as he speaks too low for me to hear, but his eyes linger on the white bandage at my feet. Eventually, he sees me looking at him.
He smiles.
My stomach rolls.
He adjusts his phone, then looks away as he continues speaking. I’m still watching him. My new ‘master.’ When I boarded the plane to New York, I was certain my employers-to-be wanted sex, and they wanted it on their terms, behind closed doors.
Dress me up, give me a to-do list and roses to set on your tables—it’s still sex. Not an easy task, but a simple one.
So why does it feel like they want something else entirely from me?
“We stopped looking for monsters under our bed
when we realized that they were inside us.”
—Charles Darwin
A string quartet. Two violins, two cellos. A smooth and constant build up before they’re competing for the climax.
No, no, that’s not right.
A solo. A single cello, slow and haunting. A lazy, rhythmic tap against a drum echoing in the far-off distance.
Yes, that’s it.
My solo.
Sometimes it feels like painting. Other times it’s poetry. And then there are days like today—it’s music, old world and mystic. I have no preference, really. Art is art.
Isn’t that right, Katerina?
“How many?” I ask, inhaling his screams and pocketing them in my lungs as I dig the knife a little deeper against his cheekbone then slide it downward. “I’m aware of how many died and had their parts sold. What I want you to tell me”—the slab of skin falls to the ground, my fingers almost as red as his neck. His eyes roll back—“is how many you, personally, sold. How many transactions did you see through?”
I take a step back, angling my head and honing my gaze on his unmarred cheek. It’s harder than it looks, making both sides of the face match evenly. But I like to take my time and get it just right.
Katerina took her work seriously in the studio. Fortunately for the victims, she had already killed them by the time she started removing the flesh from their bones. Unfortunately for Hugo, Katerina isn’t the only one who can take their work seriously.
Call me a perfectionist.
At least I learned something.
I grip Hugo’s neck and squeeze until his eyes roll forward to meet mine. His skin is ghastly from the blood he’s already lost, but he likely won’t need another adrenaline injection until the next two or three removals.
“I asked you a question,” I say calmly. I have to close my eyes to refrain from making the next cut too soon. “How many of their bones did you personally sell for Katerina? Whether it was a hand, forearm, hip, or skull, whether originating from the same body or different ones—what’s the total number?”
A wheeze escapes the man in front of me before he manages a faint, “F-fuck you.”
My eyes snap open, lips twitch. “Someone is about to be fucked. And it isn’t me.” I flick my gaze to an electric drill on the stool beside him, and his own gaze follows. It takes him a second to make the connection, but once he does, his mouth falls open and puke hits my shoes.
Really, Hugo?
I set down my knife, opting for the drill. Rotating it slowly in my hand, I inspect it with appreciation. It’s not every day I pull this out, but Hugo Perez is one-third of Katerina’s infamous underground pseudonym, Misha. Only the best for Katerina’s business partners.
My index finger presses the trigger. A low rizzz, rizzz fills my ears, and it’s in perfect harmony with the violin and cello masterpiece suddenly playing so beautifully in my mind.
Huh.
Maybe today is a string quartet kinda day after all.
“Hundreds! Fuck. Fuck,” Hugo spits out, his chest heaving. “I lost count. I must have run hundreds of transactions for her.”
I half-nod, my fingers tempted to wave left and right as I silently direct my own personal orchestra. The rizzz continues, and I saunter beside him, pull on the blood-soaked waistband of his pants. I’ll have to unchain him for this next part.
“W-wait. Wait! Where’s your leniency? Where’s my chance? I answered your fucking question, goddammit!”
My movements still. The music halts, and silence rings in my ears. A muscle in my jaw ticks, but of course my voice remains controlled. I taught myself the value of control years ago—it was either that or lose myself completely to the chaos of my mind.
“Were you lenient, Hugo, when you listened to Katerina’s victims cry in their crates? Or when you knew they were seconds away from death but did nothing?” I tilt my head, rub the bottom of my chin with the drill’s handle. “When I was locked up in the studio, listening to them scream, beg to be spared . . . did you give them a chance?”
Every muscle in my body tenses. I’m well aware I’ve lost the emotional capacity I once had. But I remember. I remember exactly what it was like to sit beside them, all of them, as tears streamed down their cheeks and they begged for their lives.
Their reactions only spurred Katerina on. Tears, sweat, choked sobs. To her, that was the only way to create ‘true art.’
I don’t know if Hugo responds. I don’t care, either.
The rizzz, rizzz picks up, the smooth, low vibration of a cello resumes, and I finish my fucking solo.
Adjusting the cufflinks on my crisp black shirt, I stroll down the hall toward Felix’s office. He called me over half an hour ago, but I decided to reward my hard work with an extra-long shower. With my hair still damp and the fresh scent of aftershave lingering on my skin, I’m feeling particularly fucking good right about now.
My phone buzzes, and I shake my head at Felix’s impatience before withdrawing it from my pocket. My steps slow. I narrow my eyes at the screen. What the hell is this? I zoom in on the picture.
Emmy Highland stands on the dining room table. Naked and chained to the chandelier. Her eyes are wide as she stares into the camera, her fingers curled into her palms. With a swallow, I force myself to ignore the bare curves of her body and drop my gaze instead to the candles lit around her feet.
My nostrils flare, my pulse accelerating. After a second, I delete the image, clear the screen, and resume walking. The reaction is i
llogical anyway. The girl is nothing to me. She signed up for this shit. She can get herself out of it if she can’t take it.
Not a minute later, a text comes through.
Raife: Hope your day has been as eventful as mine. She looks so beautiful when she’s afraid, doesn’t she? She tasted just as good, too.
A growl catches in my throat before I pound on Felix’s office door. It swings open, and I barge inside, almost knocking him down. I was having a great goddamn day.
“Fuck. What’s up with you?” Felix closes the door behind me and walks back to his desk.
He slips into his leather chair and waits as I pace to the window, grimacing at the rays of light pouring onto the marble floor. I pull the blackout curtains over the glass until the room goes dark.
Better. My muscles loosen with the inky surroundings.
I’m not the only one with an aversion to bright lights, but I spent more time in Katerina’s studio than my brothers. I won’t pretend to tolerate it for their sake, and they don’t expect me to.
I’m about to speak when another text lights up my phone.
Raife: Then again, that was hours ago. You should see what she looks like now.
My grip tightens around the phone. Tossing it on the desk, I watch it slide to the opposite end, near Felix; far enough not to tempt me to respond. I lean forward and rest my palms on the desktop, irritation coiling in my shoulders.
When my phone buzzes again, I don’t bother looking. Felix glances toward it, his gaze flicking across the screen, then he groans and rubs his eyes. “You could have Stella send her back, you know. Cut the girl’s contract now, before things escalate.”
I pull in a long breath, then look up and level my gaze on his. “Since when have I been interested in discussing our hires? Let Raife and Stella deal with them, the way they always do.” I pause to work my jaw. “Did you call me in here to talk bullshit or to go over our next play? I want Murphy.”