Altered: A Beyond the Brothel Walls Novel

by Ryans, Rae Z.

  “No, you’re not.”

  The bowl dropped but didn’t clatter. Dorian seized it and laid it by the hearth. I grasped my head and shook it, gritting my teeth. The binds, the scars hidden by magic, if he saw, he would know the slices of my soul they had stolen away from an innocent man—No, an innocent boy.

  He shouted, “You’re lying. Look at me, Cain. Be here with me. In this moment.”

  But I was looking. I stared right at him before averting my gaze to the hearth.

  He tilted my chin, and my attention lifted from the burning embers. Dorian chewed on his bottom lip, and he followed the movement with his tongue. He cupped my face and smoothed his thumbs over my cheeks. When had any lover showed real attentive kindness? The softness of him I hadn’t expected, but so much remained that I didn’t understand about him. Gale force winds seemed to come and go as he teetered between hot and warm. If I held on tight enough maybe, I might survive for a while, but I knew better than to dream.

  He thought, “What happened to him? I’ve seen this before...Was he a slave?”

  “I should go.” The tone of my voice strained, and I gulped, searching for something to ground me. “I really have to work tomorrow.”

  Dorian’s brows creased, and he shook his head. Dark tendrils fell and framed his rough jaw. Truly, he was beautiful. “A little longer, babe. I have some more questions.”

  The thought of his questions caused my legs to shake, and I searched for an exit. Similar to Dorian’s war, my own began between what we could be together, to each other, and the truth of our secrets we clutched closer than the possibility of love. Yet I didn’t run as Hallowed’s words echoed in my mind. I simply nodded, seeing the light flicker in his eyes. If he wanted to try, why couldn’t I? Dorian couldn’t hurt me any further than Boric had done.

  He seized my hands in his, hefting me from the floor with carefree ease, and led me through the tight spiral staircase. The fleur-de-lis wallpaper reflected bronze tones under the soft lights. My palm ran over the textured surface, wondering if he chose the décor, or if it was leftover from the Victorian Era.

  We relocated downstairs into his office. I shivered noting the fire had died to a few sputtering embers, and I worked on building it to its former glory. Papers shuffled as Dorian flipped through documents, erasing and scratching, his brows furrowed together. A slight sheen coated his skin in the darkened corner. His massive desk framed the slightly larger than average man to perfection. I didn’t want to look away. But what was he? What type of demon needed no light other than a vampire?

  “How can you see over there?”

  “I can see without light,” he replied. “But I like the glow of the fire, thanks.”

  Dorian gnawed on the end of his pencil. I settled into a leather chair across from his desk. Watching him work calmed me, as if watching a storm. The low hiss of the fire filled the air as he scribbled here and there. Nothing about his desk screamed neat or tidy, and the rest of his home reflected that.

  “That can’t be right,” he muttered, and I followed his thoughts. More girls had disappeared in the past three years than Dorian realized. Over a hundred assumed stolen.

  I chewed my lip and prayed, hoping God heard my pleas again. This had to stop. No, a hundred and fifty if he counted the men. The numbers rose higher as he counted in the missing children. My stomach lurched, as his mind worked the figures, and I toppled over, holding myself.

  “Babe?” Dorian raised his eyebrow.

  I shook my head. “Bathroom?” Sweat beaded on my forehead, and dizziness swept over me.

  He pointed toward a small door by the staircase. Excusing myself, I scurried into the closet sized room. My head rested against the closed door, and I fought for breath.

  “How could you allow them to take away the children?” he thought, and our minds echoed one another. How could God have allowed them to take anyone?

  Bitterness scorched my throat. My feet stumbled toward the toilet, and I heaved into the porcelain throne. A knock rapped against the door. “In a minute,” I replied.

  Refusing me, the door opened, and his warm hands smoothed over my back. “Hey babe, you okay?” Soft, soothing words sprouted from his lips, reminiscent of sonnets. “It’s alright. Let it out.”

  His tone pacified my lurching. But my teeth chattered, yet not from the cold.

  Dorian wiped my forehead; his cool hand lingered. “No fever.”

  I tensed under his touch, his concern crinkled gaze skimming over me. “C’mon,” he said, turning the water on in the sink. “Rinse your mouth and clean your face.”

  Unable to speak, or rather untrusting of my tone and tremor, I nodded and allowed him to guide me toward the basin. Icy water tightened my skin, and I swished it in my dry, acidic mouth. Dorian appeared unfettered by my sudden sickness and more concerned over my well-being. The thought should have comforted me, but the simple notion raced my heart.

  He handed me a towel and shut off the water. Without asking, he lifted me from the ground and carried me from the bathroom. Salty aftershave tickled my nose and relaxed my senses as his scratchy neck brushed against my cheek.

  Dorian chuckled, carrying me upstairs, and laid me on the sofa. He draped the blanket, I had used earlier, over my body, but the warmth offered little comfort, and I shivered and convulsed.

  We were pretending—whatever we were—while children, men, and women disappeared. Stolen away from their loved ones and forced into slavery. Hard labor, whorehouses, and so much more would become their lives. Starvation, flea and lice ridden slums would become normal life. Rape too… there was no safety except in sleep, and even the nightmares attacked us there. The slaves would never be the same, like me. Pain doesn’t go away; it doesn’t lessen with my freedom either.

  A tear slid down my cheek, recalling the life I had escaped, the nightmares plaguing me after twelve years of freedom. No one deserved that life, least of all a child. For children, slavery was harsh, harder than it was for adults. That life wasn’t one I would have wished on my worst enemy. Lily understood; I understood. We had been children when our father sold us. Three hundred years later and freedom was mine, but not because of strength—physical or mental. Maybe God punished me, never truly freeing me from the memories, because I had been weak in those darkest hours—had fallen for the enemy.

  Dorian stooped to my side. His green eyes glowed brighter than the firelight. He brushed the tear away and brushed his fingers through my hair. I was lucky to escape, but until the last brothel burned, my tarnished soul would weep.

  Tingles erupted inside and out, and he stroked the ache and memories into the shadowy recesses of my mind.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and meant it. Maybe his ability to chase away the darkness was why I was falling for him. Though it didn’t matter, I had no plans to tell him the truth. Or why I cried. Dorian the hero wouldn’t understand the life of a slave.

  “Anytime, Cain. Rest.” He ran his thumb over my dry lips.

  Fiery wood filled my nostrils and saturated my pores. Energy pulsed and emotions threatened to unleash the power I had worked hard to contain; my relaxation weakened the spell holding my façade together. I drew the covers over my head.

  Sleep weighed in, as he touched me, and before it had stolen me away, I thought Dorian whispered, “No one will ever hurt you again

  Chapter

  Five

  Dorian

  Downstairs, a cigarette burned in my ashtray, and I waved the smoke from my eyes, squinting at the notes. Cain slumbered on my couch upstairs while I explored the information he’d offered on Lily, comparing it against similar cases in the vicinity that Belle had been working. The facts didn’t add up.

  A shriek rattled through the calm night, and I jolted from my chair. “Cain.” Rushing to the staircase, I tripped but caught myself from falling. As quickly as it began, the screaming halted. The softer noises he made, muttered, and words he sometimes shouted in his fitful sleep called to me. No, they sliced throu
gh my soul, reminding me I wasn’t alone. And blaring a reminder. What caused the thrashing or other peculiarities surrounding Cain Westcott?

  I paused for a moment—in case he called out again—before returning to my desk. But the house quieted; I resumed my work, sitting behind my desk and staring at names and missing person’s forms. My eyes closed, and I breathed deeply. Nothing about Cain—or Lily—made sense from his clean dress to his shrouded past. Tintypes were last in use hundreds of years ago, but hobbyists and specialists still used the technique up until the Sundering, which had occurred twelve, nearly thirteen, years prior.

  I stared at the image, waiting for a clue to jump out at me; instead, a smile tugged at my lips, my fingertip stroking the tintype. Cain’s genuine smile reflected on the scratched and faded metal. Deep dimples and light-filled eyes stared back at me.

  Corded muscles hid beneath white linen and a fancy paisley vest. Pressed slacks draped over his long but thicker legs. I blinked. The tin slipped from my fingers and clattered against my desk. What the bloody hell am I doing swooning over a photograph?

  Boards creaked as the house settled. Wind groaned outside in the blustery cover of night, but echoed in the silence of my downstairs office. The tintype, the photograph, was well over three hundred years old. Worn edges and subtle scratches lined the image.

  I had found his secret, or at least one of them. Where one hid, there lay more. Secrecy saturated him, as well as me; but I had my reasons, and my mystery had nothing to do with Cain specifically.

  Cain’s secret: long before the world sundered, around the time when the seven families warred in the southern regions, Lily had disappeared. A hunch really, one rustling in my gut, but nothing else made sense.

  Westcott… the name mulled around and digested… nothing sparked, yet I had heard the surname before. My hand rubbed over my tired eyes, blinking and focusing on the clock. Almost two o’clock there; the call to Anchorage would have to wait until late tomorrow morning, as they were four hours behind.

  I rose from my desk and stared outside the large window. A lazy grin deepened, reflecting from the glass, as the soft chuckle escaped through my lips. Belle would laugh at me, when she found Cain here tomorrow, and I would never live this down. I shook my head, running my fingers through my tresses. Smitten with a mysterious and broody warlock—according to my field reports he was also an Elioud—but I smiled at my innocent admittance. Belletrist had been after me for years to date or settle down, even though she was one of the few who knew my past… why I lived the way I did, hopping from one stud to the next.

  “Fuck it.” I grabbed the phone. My shaky hand dialed James, my liaison at the ABDA Communications Division. Vampires never slept, and I had no qualms about reporting in at the wee hours of the morning to him.

  On the fifth ring, James answered, “This had better be good.”

  “We have one hundred taken this month.” A hundred and one if we counted Lily. “That’s more than a simple extract. How should I proceed?”

  “Taken at once?” he asked, raising his voice over loud music. “That can’t—”

  “No, that’s the fucking total currently presumed or reported missing.” I squinted, watching the sprinkle of people spill onto my street from Halifax Station. The trains ran around the clock, burning trash for fuel.

  James replied, “Let me get back to you, boss. Something’s not right.”

  My eyes rolled at his boss comment; though, technically, I was every vampire’s boss. I glanced behind me and cupped my hand over the phone. “Wait up. Can you do a surname search?”

  “Of course,” James agreed, allowing his scoff to enter his tone.

  I whispered, “Westcott. Lilith or Cain.”

  “Repeat?”

  I rolled my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Surname is Whiskey, Echo, Sierra, Tango, Charlie, Oscar, Tango, Tango. First name Charlie, Alpha, India, November—”

  “Agent Fox, did you say Cain Westcott?”

  “Affirmative. Whatcha got on him?” Sputtering sounded over the receiver and the music cut out. “C’mon, James, don’t leave me hanging.”

  Typing sounded in the background. “Fuck, boss. The name’s flagged, and I don’t have the clearance.” He muttered to himself; more typing echoed into the phone. “Can’t be. This isn’t right. I have top clearance. Let me call you back.”

  I sighed, plopping into my chair. “Right.”

  James hung up the phone, and I did the same. My palm rested on my face, and my churning stomach ached. I retrieved the last three months’ reports from my desk’s filing drawer. Another two hundred had gone missing, not from Halifax, but the surrounding areas. I lit another cigarette. “Fuck me.”

  I didn’t want to see the countrywide reports, but I forced myself to calculate the numbers. From all of Arcadia, in the past two months, loved ones had reported close to five hundred people missing. While that didn’t mean Garland had stolen them, it did mean we were not in control. Father’s plan mandated that we—The Horsemen—maintain the power, and we’d failed. I had to call my family. The demons had taken over. We had to end us.

  Cigarette smoke burned my lungs as I deeply inhaled the nicotine. I dialed another number, but the phone rang repeatedly with no answer. My fingers pressed the buttons again. With any hope, I was wrong.

  “Bonsoir, Sang et Pain, comment puis-je vous être utile?” Good evening, Blood and Bread, how may I be of service?

  “Puis-je parler avec, Duc Tomas? May I speak with, Duc Tomas?

  The man replied, “Le duc est sorti. Puis-je prendre un message? The Duc is out. May I take a message?

  “Appel, Dorian Fox.” I hung up.

  Tomas Artois and Petre von Baron proved indisposed. Neither worked for the ABDA directly, but both had connections since they were on the Arcadian council—liaisons representing the power company and transportation. Both were vampires, which made them mine to command. The hierarchy was more for show and order.

  A yawn escaped my mouth. Even Death needed beauty sleep, but the thought of losing a second on his case troubled me more than dark circles underneath my eyes. The south had infiltrated Arcadia once again and alarming numbers had vanished.

  Prostitution had amplified on my own streets too. No one wanted the southern ways to bleed into Arcadia, and we had lost our grasp faster than I had realized. To top it off, a sexy Elioud-warlock slept upstairs, and his file required a higher than level seven clearance? Bollocks. Level eight didn’t exist. I reached for my phone again and dialed Belle. “Why didn’t you tell me so many were missing?”

  “No, I’m not busy, and hello to you too, boss.” Sleep tainted her tone.

  “Belles, I’m serious. For every one we save, twenty are never found.”

  She yawned. “Can we talk about this in the morning?” Without waiting for a reply, the phone clicked.

  I stared at my receiver before pressing redial.

  “Dorian, seriously, shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

  “They’re all witches and warlocks, Belle. What does he want with them?” The one connection the victims shared. Boric never kidnapped actual demons, angels, or Archangels for that matter. Vampires seemed off limits to him too. I could only assume the reason—those three were physically fast and untainted by humanity, except for vampires. “I’m surprised he hasn’t taken the lower choirs of angels, but I have none of them reported missing.”

  “How the fuck do I know? Just because I lived with them doesn’t make me an expert. Now goodnight.”

  I dropped the phone on my desk and shook my head. It rang, and I snatched it up again.

  “Dorian. The network finally reported in over repeated similar sightings and incidences.” Banging leaked through the speaker.

  “James, what do you have for me?” My forehead ached, and I had no idea what he was talking about. “What are you hitting?”

  “The computer,” he said, as if it was an idiotic question. “So, get this, boss. Missing witches and warlocks, right?
A bunch of them are stowed away in safe houses set up by the ABDA for refugees. Those refugees originated in the southern Garland brothels and slave encampments in Delphia.” James laughed. “Someone brought them up into Arcadia by train like a week ago.”

  “Who?” He had my attention. What moron would dream of such a raid and have the cods to pull it off? And why would they move them to Sanctuary?

  “The details are sketchy but something about three men and a woman taking it upon themselves to take down brothels. They’re mainly kids, boss. You know, the vics. Anyway, some explosion happened, and there were more, but they too disappeared. No one’s told me if that’s why the numbers are higher. I mean, boss, if one of the houses filed a report, you’d see it because it’s your territory north east of the city.”

  He was scrambling. Why did people think they could lie over the phone? I’d go over his head if need be. “Do you have names?” I twisted and reached across my desk for my pencil, ready to write.

  “Not yet, but they’re supposed to send me over a list in a day or two. I’ll shoot it over as soon as I have it.” He paused for moment. “They’re keeping the details quiet.”

  No shit, Sherlock. “How’d you find out about it, then?” A breath hissed through my teeth. My gut told me the names wouldn’t match. Whatever happened, had happened within the current week, but my list spanned months unless the ABDA was cooking the numbers to hide them. It wasn’t unusual, and it usually meant the Council of Seven didn’t trust someone within the ABDA.

  “My donor’s on the rescue team,” James said. “Even if they’re not yours, Dorian, they’re safe.”

  “Thanks. Let me know as soon as you do. Good work, James.”

  For the people living in the safe houses the news was excellent. The doctors would evaluate them before the government trained them for new jobs, but the process lasted months if not years. Rescue missions were the main source of Arcadia’s new refugees, but a few had escaped their owners and traveled the vast distance over the broken continents on their own. It resembled a modern day Underground Railroad, but I wished the Horsemen could do more, save more. Death wasn’t powerful enough to bring the south to its knees, and neither were War, Pestilence, nor Virtue. Even combined, we were nothing in the face of Boric and the Arch demons.