That's soft and smells sweet. Blinking open my eyes, the world swam into focus. I was staring at my own reflection. My face, it seemed, had been transformed into an artist's canvas, bold colors accentuating the sharp contours of my cheeks, the arch of my brows, and the shape of my lips.
"Ah, you're awake."
I turned slightly, taking in the sight of the woman who had spoken. She was poised to the right of me, her hands momentarily stilling in their work.
Her presence carried a certain grace reminiscent of the supermodels I had glimpsed in glossy magazines back home. She stood tall and slender, her posture echoing a lineage perhaps accustomed to privilege and pedigree. Her hair, a cascade of curls pinned elegantly atop her head with a few tendrils softly framing her face, shimmered an improbable shade of red, too vibrant to be natural. Adorned in layers upon layers of clothing, each movement she made was punctuated by the delicate clinking of her jewelry. Garish as her ensemble might have been, it couldn't mask her striking appeal.
"Who are you?"
"I'm here to enhance your natural beauty."
I scowled. That didn't answer my question, but I didn't think she would answer even if I asked again.
"We need to accentuate your look even further. It will elevate your price," she said, attaching an ornate necklace around my bared neck. As she brushed a final stroke across my cheekbone, I took in the full effect of her handiwork.
As I caught my reflection, the makeup artist's skills were undeniable. My features, subtly enhanced, achieved that elusive 'natural' look that actually requires heaps of products and a deft hand. It was only then that the reality of my attire sunk in. I was draped in what could easily pass for a cheap Halloween costume. The top, cropped to expose my midriff, was adorned with gold and turquoise accents on what seemed like animal hide. My gaze drifted downwards to a long skirt cut from the same materials, its bold patterns interrupted by a daring slit up my left leg, climbing high to my upper thigh. My feet were bare, save for anklets linked to rings on my toes, adding a touch of wildness to the ensemble.
"This is offensive."
"No one cares if it is offensive. It only needs to be pretty and exotic, like a believable fantasy."
I surveyed the room's reflection behind her: other girls, each one a distorted echo of my situation, their faces painted with resignation and fear. Some sat listlessly, their spirits already broken by the heavy reality of our predicament. Others, like me, seemed to pulse with a silent defiance, their eyes searching the room for any sliver of hope.
She held up a pair of dangling earrings that glinted brilliantly under the harsh light. I jerked my hand to swat hers away, but it wouldn't move.
I was bound. But when I looked down, there were no ropes, no chains.
"Magic restraints," she explained, tapping my wrist with a lacquered nail, revealing a warm band on my wrist. "They won't mark your skin no matter how much you struggle."
Her gaze softened for a moment, the hardness in her eyes giving way to something that resembled pity. "It's easier if you don't fight," she murmured, delicately fastening the last pieces of jewelry to me. Just accept what's coming."
The heavy door creaked open, heralding the arrival of an elegantly dressed man whose presence seemed to suck the air from the room. His eyes swept across the lineup of girls with cool calculation.
"Your section will commence shortly," he announced, his voice laced with the kind of authority that expected no response.
I watched him approach each station, pausing only to deliver a terse critique or a nod of approval. When he finally reached my table, his gaze locked onto mine, and I could feel the predatory hunger in it.
It made my skin crawl.
"Stunning," he murmured at last, the word slithering out of his mouth with a malicious smile. "An actual Xoltecan... I've only heard tales and myths. Whoever lands the privilege of claiming you..." He paused, his grin widening grotesquely. "Shame we discontinued the old policy. Testing a product before it was auctioned off had its merits."
The makeup artist's hand twitched, and even she—accustomed to this charade—cringed. He caught her expression and swiftly shifted into flattery. "But of course, such exquisite work is expected from you," he cooed, though his words dripped with insincerity.
"Let's get them out on the stage."
Silence engulfed us as masked men entered, herding the other girls out with brusque efficiency.
But I remained seated, watching as the other were being led away.
"Why am I still here?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Because, dear," the makeup artist replied as she packed her kit, "you're the grand finale. They won't mix a treasure like you with the common lot."
"Why did you stay behind?"
She was all packed up now but made no move to leave even though the rest of the girls had gone.
"A safety precaution."
The memory of the auctioneer's lecherous gaze sent a shiver down my spine. I realized with a cold relief that her presence might be the only thing keeping me from a fate far worse than being displayed on a stage.
"Thank you," I murmur, though gratitude felt alien in this grotesque tableau.
She doesn't respond verbally; she just picks up a brush and starts running it through my hair with gentle, deliberate strokes. I watch her in the reflection, her features etched with something akin to sympathy.
"It really is a pity," she whispers, almost to herself.
For a heartbeat, I consider pleading with her, begging to help me escape.
The rhythmic strokes of the brush through my hair abruptly stopped as a sharp knock echoed against the heavy door. The woman's gaze snapped upward, and her posture straightened with a sudden infusion of authority. She was no longer the empathetic confidant reflected in the mirror.
"Come in."
The door creaked open, and a man stepped through, his hands clutching a thick ledger bound in dark leather. His eyes darted between me and the woman, apprehension lining his face as he approached her.
"Everything has been tallied, Madame," he said, offering the ledger to her like a sacred tome. Her fingers skimmed over the pages with calculated precision.
"Where should we start the bid on her?"
"Two hundred thousand," she replied without hesitation, "Count Houndly has been salivating over the prospect of owning a Xoltecan, but there will be others interested once they see her."
The man swallowed hard, nodding once before turning on his heel to carry out her bidding. The heavy door closed behind him with a thud, sealing me inside with this woman of dual natures.
As the woman's calculating gaze lingered on me, she set aside the ledger with a soft thud. Her posture relaxed, and the chilling mantle of authority she wore like a cloak seemed to slip momentarily, revealing a more pensive demeanor.
"If I had known how beautiful you were, I would have kept you for myself," she mused, her voice low and laced with an unsettling warmth. "You would have fit in with the rest of my collection."
A shiver crawled its way down my spine like a spider skittering across chilled skin.
"You're one of them?" My voice was steadier than I felt.
Her response was disarming.
Laughter erupted from her lips, maniacal and sharp.
"No, I am not with them. They are with me, darling."
She leaned back, a queen surveying her kingdom of sorrow. "I built this whole thing. I make sure I have exactly what my clients will want."
She sauntered closer, her movements predatory, circling me. "I don't usually handle the product on the night of the auction," she confessed, her voice a purr of self-satisfaction. "But I couldn't resist tonight... knowing you were amongst my wares."
There it was again, that possessive glint as she beheld me. "You, my dear, will become one of my highest bid items." Her lips twisted into a grotesque semblance of a smile. "That thought is so thrilling, isn't it?"
There was a coldness in her eyes, different from what I had seen in Mikhail or Silas. Her indifference chilled me to the bone—the absence of empathy, the void where a soul should have been. No flicker of guilt shadowed her visage; no hint of conscience marred her flawless facade.
She inspected her handiwork on me as if I were nothing more than a mannequin, an object to be adorned and sold. "Beautiful," she murmured, appraising me with a critical eye.
"How can you do something like this?"
"If I didn't," she began, her voice calm and detached as if discussing the weather, "someone else would. So why not let it be me."
The simple words hung between us, a chilling justification for the unfathomable. I felt the air grow colder, or perhaps it was the ice settling in my veins. Her gaze met mine in the mirror, unwavering, unapologetic.
The idea that this horror, this auctioning of lives, was just an inevitable fact—a role to be filled by any willing participant—was terrifying. It meant there were more like her.
"Don't look so upset, darling." She laughed, a sound devoid of humor. "It's simply the way of our world: supply and demand. You're valuable and therefore sought after. It's business."
"Business," I echoed, feeling the hollowness of the word.
"Exactly. Now, be a dear, and don't cause a scene as you are being wheeled out. It would be... unfortunate to mar your beauty before your grand debut."
Madame turned to me with a smirk and snapped her fingers. Despite my instinct to resist, I found myself standing, my movements awkward and unwilling as I fought the invisible bonds forcing me upright. My struggle seemed to amuse Madame deeply; she doubled over with laughter, clutching her stomach as tears streamed down her face. As her laughter subsided, she fixed me with a look of mixed amusement and admiration.
"You really are something, aren't you? Most just accept their fate, but a Xoltecan? You are just like stories say. Always fighting, always fiery," she said, her tone a mix of mockery and respect. "But you're just exhausting yourself for nothing, dear."
She gestured to two large men dressed entirely in black, their faces obscured by masks. "Take her, but be gentle. We wouldn't want her to injure herself struggling against the magic."
Before I could protest, they effortlessly lifted me, placed me on a platform, and wheeled me out of the room. As we moved, the muted whispers of onlookers brushed against my ears, too soft to discern until one voice, coarse and familiar, reached me.
"Now we unveil the final spectacle," the voice boomed, filled with a disgusting eagerness. "A rare beauty from distant shores, the kind of which you've only ever dreamed."
The blinding spotlight hit me the moment I stepped onto the stage, searing white light that swallowed every face in the sea of shadows before me. I squinted, struggling against the glare to discern any feature, any hint of familiarity among the obscured audience. My gaze darted frantically, seeking a glimpse of silver or red."Opening bid starts at two hundred thousand," the auctioneer's voice boomed, cutting through my frantic thoughts. A collective groan rippled through the room, followed by whispers laced with irritation. Someone, a low voice steeped in assurance, called out, "Two hundred!" and the numbers began their sinister climb. Another man barked, "Two fifty!" The bids rose like smoke, and then a woman's voice, sharp and confident, sliced through the tension with "Five hundred!"
A shockwave of murmurs erupted at the leap. I strained my ears, desperate to pick out Mikhail's tone amid the chaos. But my heartbeat thundered in my ears, a relentless drum that muddled every word into indistinct pitches, robbing me of any hope of clarity.
As the room buzzed with the frenzy of bidding, I felt a cold dread settle in my chest. Each call, each raise, knotted the fear tighter.
"Five hundred going once... going twice..." The auctioneer's greedy voice seemed to hang in the air like a thick fog, clouding my senses. My chest tightened, and each breath was more laborious than the last as I stood immobilized on the stage, wrapped in the glaring beam of the spotlight.
"Seven hundred and fifty thousand!" A new bid shattered the tension, the voice male and dripping with smug arrogance. It cut through the crowd like a sword, leaving whispers in its wake—a cascade of murmurs that rippled outwards, unsettling the gathered crowd.
"Seven hundred and fifty thousand! Going once... going twice..." The auctioneer's cadence quickened, the finality in his voice heralding the end. "Sold to Count Houndly!"His gavel struck down like the final nail in my coffin.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears, each thump a desperate hope that this was the moment Mikhail would emerge, authorities in tow, ready to expose the vile underbelly of this opulent den of deceit. I scanned the crowd, seeking a sign, any disturbance that might signal an imminent rescue,But there was nothing. No commotion. No grand entrance from my rescuers.
A hollow feeling began to carve itself into my stomach, growing with the creeping realization that perhaps I had been forsaken. Betrayal, cold and bitter, started to seep into my bones.
Where are you, Mikhail?