It was cold in France that night. He had brought a dark red cloak in hope that the weather wouldn't slow him down during his journey, but it was colder than the last time he had gone here, only about three months ago. Chills ran up and down his arms, leaving small prickles. As he saw the destination grow closer, he wrapped the cloak around him tighter, pulling up the hood before anybody on the street could see his face. There was a time when his identity wouldn't have meant anything, just a questionable name with a forgettable face, but it was too risky at this point. Even in France, his name was known.
"If you don't have a ticket, than don't bother," A loud voice bustled in the ally, clearly American. A crowd of people, all in suits with hats that tipped over their faces, stiffened as the speaker continued to scold the crowd. "Get in line! One person at a time!"
"Excusez moi," The hooded figure hissed coolly as he pushed through the crowd roughly Throughout the huffs and yells as he pushed by, people of many nationalities protested in different tongues, probably not a single one was actually French. How not suspicious at all, he sneered in his head. "Excuse me. Excuse me." Finally, he met the voice of the bouncer. He was large, probably a foot taller than anybody in the crowd, with a dark leather jacket and gloves that hid his beefy hands. To most people he probably looked intimidating, but the cloaked figure didn't hesitate. The bouncer's eyes, beady and jittery, glanced down at him with disdain.
"There is a line," The bouncer reiterated. "Get in-" But then the hooded figure whipped out the ticket in his pocket.
"Great, you have a ticket," The bouncer said, rolling his eyes. "There's still a line-" But then the bouncer glanced down at the ticket, reading the name slowly. He gaped.
"Oh, oh Raziel-I didn't, I didn't know. I'm so sorry," He said, nearly begging. "Please, forgive me, er-" His lips tightened.
"May I have my ticket?" The other replied. Without a beat, the bouncer handed back the punched ticket, his fingers shaking. Slowly, and with delicate steps, the hooded figure went towards the door.
"Er, are you sure?" The bouncer called after him, hesitation in his voice. The hooded figure stopped suddenly and turned around towards the bouncer again.
"Sure of what?" He asked back, a little surprised at himself for actually turning around.
"Well, you do know that this…it's mundanes for sell, Sir. Not downworlders," The bouncer clarified in a hushed tone.
"I know," the hooded figure said, pain deep in his voice.
The last time he could breathe was years ago. Somehow, through the horror stories, he felt less like living and more like drowning. He forgot what it felt like to inhale oxygen in your lungs so deeply that the relief filled his body, or how after kissing somebody your breath lets out. And though things have gotten better, and beauty seemed to be more real, he still couldn't breathe. For a while he thought that maybe something was missing – a person he was yet to have or a milestone he was soon to reach – but the truth was brutal; he was simply broken.
So, as he stepped through the threshold and into the building, he didn't feel intimidated. There was no breath that let out of him as his eyes scanned around, digesting the scene, letting himself fear fear. It was less like a room and more like a miniature stadium – overly bright lights beamed onto the stage, blinding anyone that were on it, reflecting them off so that they couldn't see the audience. People, buyers, were finding their booths fast, as if they were afraid that the show would begin before they could reach them.
"Hey, get out of the entrance!" A man shouted, knocking the figure's shoulder. The figure whipped around, taking off his hood and revealing his identity for the first time. The man, who was in an Armani suit and carrying a cigar, froze.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't-" But instead of finishing his sentence, the man jumped around him and darted off to his seat. The figure sighed. He finally took a minute to look at his ticket. Booth 24.
He went around the audience members silently, most of whom were older men in their late fifties and early sixties, flaunting themselves in designer suits and overly-priced jewelry. No doubt that he was surrounded by corrupted millionaires, mobsters, and quite a few wanted drug lords. But there were a few more important creatures that he spotted – downworlders, Nephilim members, even some demons. He had no fear letting his hood down now though, because who would possibly make a scene when they would have to then explain how they even saw him? It was better for everybody to go unnoticed, turn their heads and pretend they don't see anything.
When he found his seat, there was already a woman at his booth waiting for his ticket to be checked once again. She was far from unnoticeable – wearing wine-red lingerie that barely covered anything, with four inch heels and blonde ringlets spilling over her shoulders. She winked at him, biting her lip in a seductive manner. She was an escort none-the-less, making her other services available once the charade was over. Every both had a woman, and many of them would be taken home if they were lucky.
"I see you've asked for booth twenty-four once again. It's a pleasure, Mr. Blackthorn," She said sweetly, touching his hand as she took his ticket. "Haven't found the perfect item yet?" He shook his head with a genuine smile.
"Unfortunately not, Adelise," He replied, sliding into his booth. Her face lightened up.
"Well, if you don't tonight, I'm always happy to go home with you," she teased. His smile dropped instantly, his heart sinking. She was one of the few people he had grown to like rather than despise around here, in a way almost able to call her a friend. He didn't like being reminded that she, just like the other items, was on sale too.
"I see you much higher than that," He said respectively. Her flashy smile faltered at his words, surprise etching her face for just a moment. She opened her mouth but before she could respond, the light around the booths dimmed dramatically and the speaker finally walked onto the stage. Behind him, he heard Adelise disappear and close the curtain door shut.
"Welcome bachelors!" The host said, a French accent ringing in his voice. "I am grateful for your participation tonight! Many of you have come from all around the world to see what I can offer, and I must say we have quite the selection tonight for all tastes." There was a light cheer among the different booths, but most were waiting hungrily.
"And now, we shall begin!" The host shouted. "Our first item – eighteen year old female, Syrian, and a nice fit for any man hungry for some youth." With a yelp, a young girl, probably only fourteen, was casted onto the stage. Her arms were crossed across her chest, hiding the sky blue lingerie bra and stumbling on her high heels. Her eyes squinted at the bright lights, making her enable to see her surroundings. His fingers clenched the booth tightly as he witnessed her body shake uncontrollably. The host grabbed her, pushing down her arms jerkily and she choked on a sob.
"Please," He heard her beg, "Please, don't-" An invisible force punched him in the stomach as he tried to ignore her pleads for help.
"Booth 40: A hundred thousand!" An automotive voice sounded from a booth under him, following a buzzing sound. It has begun.
Buzz. "Booth 28: One-fifty thousand!"
Buzz. "Booth 67: Three hundred thousand!"
Buzz. "Booth 5: Three fifty thousand!" Then there was an uneasy silence. The host's eyes darted back and forth.
"Three fifty thousand, calling once!" And then there was that moment when he always prayed. That possibly someone would rush down to the stage and save her, whisking the girl away to the horrible fate ahead of her. It made him question on whether or not it made him just as bad as the rest, watching as these young girls and boys were sent out to a fate worse than death.
"Calling twice!" He closed his eyes, feeling the pain boil in his stomach, taking away one more part of his soul.
"Calling three times! Sold to booth five! Congratulations!" A song began to play. Someone whisked onto the stage, grabbing the girl harshly as she screamed for help, but the song was louder than her screams. No one would help her. It was too late.
"Item number two, come onto the stage!" The host said excitedly, as if the selling of a terrified, underage girl made his day. This time though, the victim came out more willingly. He was much older, probably twenty three or twenty two. Men over the age of eighteen weren't common. "The infamous drug lord. He's one of a kind! I'm sure you've seen him on CNN in the last few days for being bad." The host chuckled darkly. "He-" Before the host could continue, buzzes rang.
Buzz. "Booth 43: Eight hundred thousand!"
Buzz. "Booth 4: One point five million!" Excitement was ringing in the air.
Buzz. "Booth 98: Three million!"
Buzz. "Booth 33: Three and a half million!" And then there was silence.
"Three and a half million calling once," The host shouted. "Three and a half million calling twice!"
"Sold! To booth thirty-three! Congratulations!" Someone ripped the man from the stage. He was saying something to the bouncer, probably promising money, but his words meant nothing.
"And now, the one you've been waiting for!" The figure rolled his eyes. Now the more well-known, wanted people were going up. He knew at that point his trip wasn't going to be successful. He began to stand up, grabbing the curtain to take hold of it, but then he heard the voice.
"Please! You have the wrong person! I don't know-" The figure swerved around, the victim's voice ringing in his ears. He couldn't stand still - spinning around the seat and clinging onto the balcony of his booth. The voice was coming from beyond the curtain on the stage, but then the victim was thrown out.
He was young. Probably sixteen. He looked probably as mundane a mundane can get. He had messy black hair, a slight sharpness in his face, with dark brown eyes. He was scrawny. No doubt forgettable if he was seen in a crowd, but not without being attractive for such a young boy. The figure understood now why the young boy was a wanted item – he looked young, resembling the youth that so many rapists desired in young boys. He looked more like someone who could feed to someone's fetish more than anything.
He saw that the host was speaking but it wasn't until he heard the buzzing sound did he stop looking at the young boy.
Buzz. "Booth 54: One point five million." It took him almost everything to not push his buzzer.
Buzz. "Booth 72: Four million." Nobody seemed surprised. There was no hesitation for the next buzzing sound.
Buzz. "Booth 44: Five million."
Buzz. "Booth 89: Ten million." The figure swallowed, feeling his palms sweat.
Buzz. "Booth 23: Fifteen million." There was a silence.
"Calling once." Silence.
"Calling twice." Silence.
"Calling three times!" The host shouted. "Congratulations, booth-" But then the figure swung out of his booth, jumping off one of the lights and bouncing straight onto the stage. The host stepped back in surprise, and within five seconds multiple bouncers around him. Around the audience, he heard people scurry out hurriedly, afraid that he was FBI. Before anybody could grow closer though, he grabbed hold of the young boy.
"Isn't it a great time to be alive," The figure said, feeling a rush in his veins. His smile spread across his face, feeling the victory. This is the item, Adelise, he wanted to shout, this is the item I was waiting for. But he didn't. Instead, he untied his cloak, revealing the vest that was strapped onto him before the bouncers could get any closer. The figure smiled joyfully, beaming.
"My name is Mark Blackthorn, friends. And I promise you, one more step towards me and I will bomb this entire place before you can blink an eye." He began hearing yells past the audience, screaming that the doors were locked, they were trapped.
And then, for the first time, he could breathe.
It's a tad rough but I wanted to get this out soon. I really feed off reviews, so the more reviews better. I'll make it so that you won't have to read Lady Midnight to understand the story, don't worry.