Bought By The Masters

by Daniella Wright

  The price boggles my mind. One million as a starting bid for me. It makes sense, on a logical level. Hospital bills can soar to ridiculous prices, and I’d be a surefire way to cut through all of that. The tension in the room is palpable. I feel like I’m being stripped away, to skin, to bone, under the heavy atmosphere, of all those masks turned in my direction. The demon with glittering red eyes prances, reveling in his domain, in a place where only the wicked thrive.

  People shrug their shoulders, lift boards, and cough, and my price climbs upwards. I want to do something stupid, like scream and launch myself at the demon, bite his ear off – anything other than stand here like some scared little girl, waiting for judgment to fall. But it’s been made abundantly clear that doing so would end my life. And I’m too much of a coward, or perhaps smart enough to not want to throw away my life for one flash of defiance. Depends which way you regard bravery, I suppose.

  One person seems to be particularly insistent on buying me. He’s wearing a navy blue mask that covers his face like a helmet, and keeps outbidding other competitors in leaps of a hundred thousand. Heart hammering fast, still dealing with that sick, caustic sensation in my stomach, I stare at the navy blue mask, and wonder what sort of beast lurks under that helmet. Although I understand the novelty behind a personal doctor, I think only twisted souls would enslave another person this way. To treat them as some thing to order around and punish as they see fit, to abuse without repercussions until their slaves become shadows of their former selves.

  I’d be a slave of magic. My worth plummets if the implant within me is taken out, and I have half a mind to do this.

  Not that the implant should be removed. I know that when one’s placed inside, the body starts to breathe in magic like a powerful drug, and stripping that connection away overwhelms it.

  Removing an implant generally tends to kill the person who has it. It’s often cited as one of the main risks of the magic, should you have an allergic reaction to the implant, or decide you don’t want it anymore. The procedure is meant to be permanent.

  “We’re on three million. Any other offers? None? Going once; Going twice...”

  “Four million.”

  Gasps rip out of the audience, and the newcomer, lifting up a paddle, wears a golden mask. My eyes travel to him instead. The newcomer stares back. I can see his lips and chin under his mask, and he’s smiling.

  Smiling. Hatred burns through, leaving a fiery trail along my veins. It’s so complete, so encompassing, that it robs the breath from my lungs.

  “Four million, one hundred thousand? Yes, there it is.”

  “Five million,” comes the immediate answer. Completely outstripping the previous bid again.

  No one even attempts to outbid him this time. It’s a stupid move, I suspect, dramatically increasing the price, when maybe people wouldn’t have paid that much more for me. The demon counts down, and in a smack of a hammer, I’m sold. Just like that.

  The loser, when I glance at him, has his jaw set as if taut with anger. His hands are fists, and somehow, even with the mask obscuring his eyes, I sense that he’s glaring daggers at the golden masked man who bought me. The golden masked man has thwarted him of his grand prize, but I hate them both the same.

  Cato

  Gentleman watches as I sign the contract. There’s a drop of blood on it from Roze, and the blood glows a muted pink color. The embossed writing seems to shift on the page, declaring its conditions. Roze will not be able to leave Halberg without her soul burning. If she defies my orders, she will burn. If I attempt to free her, I will burn. If she does not receive any orders within a week, she will burn, along with me. I feel sick to my stomach, but I can’t see a way out of this. Extra terms and conditions ensure I can’t risk Gentleman’s business or lead the police to him. When I finish my signature, it shimmers an eerie red, and he nods in satisfaction. “Excellent. And remember: should you lead anyone to our operations, you’ll find yourself sorely regretting it. In every possible way.”

  “Just let us go already,” I grunt, and Beron steps behind the woman. Roze.

  I need to wait longer, though. I still have her two friends to buy, but I haven’t seen them in the hours I’ve been sitting here, enduring the auction, trying to ignore the crawling, sick feeling in my stomach. They were selling Roze as a healer.

  Meaning they’ve implanted her with tech that will get her killed in some districts, scowled upon in others. So many people don’t think humans should have access to fae magic, and even less are prepared to sacrifice their own magic to give a human some. Magical donors tend to happen when said magical creature is dead, and many creatures, especially the fae, hate anything happening to their people’s bones.

  It’s a form of necromancy, and that’s the most taboo magic we have in our world. Giving the dead life, but not a true life. A twisted, misshapen mockery of life.

  Her friends might be dead. I have to consider the fact I might have to break this news. And even if they did survive and I bought them, I’m not sure I can just let them go free. Not just yet.

  Beron gently guides her to the hovercar parked outside. He’ll take her straight to the family home and lock her up, as it’s unsafe to keep her waiting around. I, in the meanwhile, have to finalize yet another contract with Gentleman, signing away my money, and ensuring her status as a slave, when it’s the last thing I want for her.

  The person I outbid to buy Roze is glancing my way, though he obviously can’t recognize me. I suspect, however, that he’s pissed off. I went over his bid by a ridiculous amount, when he’d clearly had his heart set on taking her. Just not for that much. I’ll have to watch my back around him.

  Just when I’m seriously starting to worry that Roze’s friends might have slipped into the void, and I’d have to explain to her later than none of them made it, and endure her wrath, one of them is brought to the platform. It’s the dark skinned one, Alex, and the implant they’ve given her enhances her musical ability, so she’d have perfect pitch and adapt instinctively to musical instruments. Also comes with a touch of synaesthesia. It’s a boring implant, and no one seems to find much energy to pay much more than a pittance for her. So she’s an easy buy for me. I try not to think about her wretched, hollow expression, the hint of pure loathing in her eyes, and tell myself that I’m soon reuniting her with her friends. She only costs me five hundred thousand, and in a way, I think it’s sad she’s been undervalued so much.

  I don’t know what reasoning they put into selecting the implants that go into the humans. Maybe it’s like blood types – matching the right parts together to ensure less chance of the body rejecting the foreign substance. Beron, back from securing Roze, also escorts Alex out, and no one pays them much attention.

  I find it a little odd that Roze, who likely will be the most expensive buy of the auction, is not last.

  The last friend, Tiffany, stumbles when she walks onto the stage, and Gentleman gives her a sly kick in punishment, evoking a few titters and smiles of malice. I’ve ignored so many wretched people, but I tell myself that one day, I’ll abolish this whole system, so that others won’t have to suffer in the future. I breathe a small sigh of relief that all three women survived.

  Tiffany’s presented as having greenfingers, which sounds like her powers have been stripped straight off the back of a garden fairy, which notoriously cause plants to bloom more beautifully, produce bountiful crops and slavishly dedicate themselves to showing off the aesthetic of plants. Her price goes higher than the musician implant, but I still scoop her up for nine hundred thousand.

  Worse comes to worst, she can tend to our gardens, and Alex can serenade the court by stringing a harp and letting her voice seep out with its perfect pitch. Roze, the most valuable power, I’d have to keep hidden until my father succeeds in passing through the bill to criminalize slavery in our district, and begin freeing the humans by the hundreds. If I could tear up the contracts, I would, but it then condemns us to eternal torment.

>   Satisfied I have all three friends, I continue to watch for any other members of the bar.

  But none appear. The auction wraps up with the final sale of the night, and I’ve finalized three new contracts. I follow Beron outside. I make a quick note of the man I took Roze from. He may or may not cause me trouble later, but there’s no discerning features I can make out, aside from jet-black hair and a trimmed beard. Not exactly a unique look.

  I suspect I’ll have trouble with him later, when he hires private investigators to discern my identity and get Roze for himself. I’d expect nothing less.

  Inside our car, I keep expecting an attack to take place, since I’m sure the person I outbid Roze on is less than pleased that his healer was taken from him. I anticipate werewolves to slam into the sides, or fae to curse me with a localized storm. Nothing of the sort happens, and Tiffany rides in a frightened silence in the back of the car, her fingers threaded together, trembling as she’s only wearing a threadbare gown. She’s recognized Beron, and by extension, me, but seems to be at a loss to speak. I don’t feel like speaking to her, either. I’m exhausted and just want to make it back home, and I have to figure out how to stop the press from invading the estate and using me as proof of hypocrisy against my father. There’s a number of ways the meeting with my father will go, but I don’t have the energy to picture them all.

  I don’t take off my mask until we’re three blocks away from the family home. Tiffany’s blank stare, meeting my eyes in the mirror, show me a puffy face made ugly from crying, and scraggly blonde hair lacking the luster of before. Her face melts into surprise when Beron noses our vehicle through black, railing gates, rumbling into an enormous estate with several acres of garden and walkways, tall hedges sheltering the area from nearby structures, and the shimmering blue light of the domed ceiling far above reflecting upon some of the stained glass of the main house, fat and rectangular, the kind of place that might have succeeded as a seven star hotel in the human world.

  Dragons perched on the flat roof, especially designed for our kind to sleep comfortably under the stars, and other roosts were burrowed in some of the taller trees gracing the gardens.

  “Not a bad place to live, huh?” Beron says, grinning at Tiffany, but rather than cheer her up, it causes her expression to sour again. While he leads her to her friends, where doubtless they’ll be ecstatic to see each other again, I have to follow one of the butlers to meet my father. And explain to him just why I was at an illegal auction, buying slaves, and potentially jeopardizing his entire campaign.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, boy?” father says, the instant I step into his study. I loved this place as a child, and still love it now, though I’m not allowed to explore it as often as I used to. The piles of documents, the books haphazardly strewn all over the place, all reminds me of happier times. And the dusting train set I once played with, no longer running around the track that traveled over all the high shelves and bookcases.

  “I was accidentally kidnapped,” I say to Qyvin, and his eyes nearly pop out of his head. His are a darker silver than mine, and although he’s only seventy – young by draconic standards – he’s already showing the wear and tear in his human form far beyond his years.

  I explain the rest of the tale to father, since Beron had failed to provide much in the way of details to him, and by the time I finish, father’s on his second glass of whiskey, stroking his handlebar mustache with a pensive air. Even at home, without anyone to attend to, or important figures to meet, my father dresses impeccably in his gray three piece suit, neat silver bow-tie, and buffed to perfection long shoes that I can see my face in.

  “You did a good thing, son,” father eventually says, though the words are dragged out of him kicking and screaming. “Though I do wish you’d not touched the auction at all. No matter your good intentions, you know exactly how our opponents will construe it. And you signed the contracts. No one will see that as a sign of good will.”

  “We could attempt the truth as damage control,” I say, heart sinking. “I was captured, they didn’t want to cause drama, and I bought those three women because I had taken a liking to them, and didn’t want to see them fall prey to the system.”

  “But this ‘Gentleman’,” father says with a bitter jerk of his lips, “does not want any word getting out about his operations. Even if you don’t mention his name, people can put two and two together and realize what happened. And you know exactly what my father says about crossing a demon.”

  “Don’t do it,” I intone in a bored voice. “And even better, just don’t deal with one at all.”

  Yet people do. Humans are especially prey for the demon deals.

  “Yet you dealt with one.” Father scowls at me. “You signed a contract for each woman. Maybe it wasn’t your soul you gave up in exchange, but you’ve as good as ruined the backbone of the campaign.” Father now starts pacing around his study, until he can’t take the stress anymore, and bites into one of his fat, Ecuadoran cigars, pulling it out of a gleaming bronze box and lighting it with a snort of fire from his nostrils. We can’t produce much fire in our human forms, but there’s enough to light basic kindling. And cigars, of course.

  “I couldn’t leave them behind. I had a responsibility to them, father.”

  “I understand that, son, but we can’t let them go free to talk, never mind the conditions of the contract,” father says. “Not without getting them to take a Vow of Silence to stop them speaking against us, and even then, people will soon discover their implants. We can’t remove the implants, either, because it’ll probably kill them. We can’t go public because of the contract you signed, and if we don’t go public, all it takes is one spy, stating we’re keeping three women against their wills in this place, and all our effort will be for nothing.”

  An uneasy, dry scratching tickles my throat, and I clasp my hands nervously behind my back, attempting to root my confidence in my posture, if not my thoughts.

  “We just need to keep them here until it’s over. Or…” I swallow in distaste at the thought that comes up, “we give them to my grandfather – your father. Since he’s known for keeping slaves and advocating it. Although he doesn’t use demons to do so.”

  “That’s not the dumbest idea you’ve had, boy,” father says, but he’s shaking his head like it is, and again, the residual child in me flinches, and I hate myself a little more. I should be long past attempting to seek my father’s approval in everything.

  Long past it all.

  “But?” I say, knowing that it’s coming.

  “But,” father says, with a sarcastic smile, “my dear father will feed the idea of gifted slaves to the enemy campaign. He can’t be allowed to know this, either. This is your problem. Do what you must, but don’t let them out just yet. We can’t afford to lose this. They won’t allow us to pass the bill again for at least four years.” He sighs. “It’d been less complicated if they didn’t have implants.”

  I can’t help but feel slight disappointment in my father’s response. Of course my father would be more focused on the campaign and winning the case, and concerned that my act of goodwill might scupper the whole thing. But I do wish there was more encouragement. Confirmation I did the right, moral thing, even if it might have added some extra complications. “One of them’s a healer,” I say then. “Surely we could benefit from that?”

  “Are you planning to open a damn hospital?” Father waves his hand dismissively at me. “Or turn the estate into one? I don’t think so.”

  Irritation surges. “I can’t just leave them to rot in the estate until the bill’s had a vote. That’s months from now.”

  “Figure it out, then. But we can make accommodation comfortable for them, at least. We can claim they are not slaves if anyone does end up getting too close to the matter.”

  “They will feel like slaves,” I say. “And I signed a contract that denotes them as such. If I don’t give them any orders, it harms them.”

  “Yo
ur attitude will be the deciding factor in that,” he replies.

  I can’t help now but feel guilty that I’ve made everything a little more problematic.

  I only thought I was doing what was right. I never asked to be taken in the first place. Neither did they. To paint them as contaminated because they were forced into such a situation… but perhaps I should have put our campaign first, as it benefits more humans in the long run, than the few I did help.

  There were also plenty more I didn’t help.

  I give my father a stiff nod, tell him I’ll do something with the women, and prowl out of the study, shoes sinking into rich red carpet, draconic ancestors glaring at me from portraits upon the walls, wondering what in the frozen city I’m going to do. There doesn’t seem to be any easy way forward.

  Chapter 4

  Roze

  The mansion might be straight out of a medieval fairytale, but all I can do is stare at the wall of my new, shinier prison, with blue and red flowered wallpaper, rosy orange lights, and a huge, ornate door leading to the outside corridor that remains locked.

  Sure, it might be a suite. Fancier than anything I’ve lived in. The gold inlay of the door frame is probably worth more than all my organs grouped together, but all I can think about is the betrayal.

  I thought Cato was a good man. Captured, like we were. But instead, he was in the audience. Buying me like I was little else but cattle. The thing I haven’t figured out yet is why he bought my friends as well. I guess maybe he took a liking to all of us and decided we were must-haves, but it seems deliberate that we’re not separated, entertaining rich despots in their stately homes. There’s something I’m missing about the whole thing, and I hate having the feeling of an unanswered question.

  All we had time for were hugs and cries of happiness that we were at least together, before getting locked up in our suites. I assume they were locked up in a similar set of rooms to me, because the thought of Alex and Tiffany languishing in tiny barred cells, with shifters leering over them roots a seed of rage in my stomach. The magic in my body heats with the emotion, singing to be used, but there’s nothing to heal.