I'm sincerely sorry how long it has taken me to update. As you will know if your are reading my other story, Fearless, I'm having some personal problems at the moment. I believe I've gotten everything sorted out though. I should be able to update every Monday and/or Tuesday, and at least once if not twice on weekends. Don't expect updates on Wednesdays or Thursdays because I'm on my school's volleyball team and those are the days we have matches. I will do my best to update as much as possible. Thank you for your patience.
And as always, thank you to my wonderful beta, lizbre.
I've made this chapter extra-long, to make up for my long silence. Enjoy!
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Bella's POV:
Opaque, omnipresent clouds had slowly encroached upon the sky in the time I had been in the building. The heavens rolled with ominous peals of thunder which echoed through narrow alleyways and back through the streets.
The cracks in the wood were slim, allowing my just enough to see glimpse outside. The solid wooden holding cell's back faced the street's main square. A platform stood of to the side, flanked by the wooden compound. Garishly colorful pendants and banners hung from the stilted arched around the raised platform, waving down on the rows of neat stone benches gaily.
A sour taste came into my mouth as the first people entered the square, settling into the benches with clothes that breathed wealth and expressions that clearly held smug superiority. The quiet clamor of voices steadily increased as more people arrived, waving carelessly at the fellow noble-class and flanked by uniformed slaves.
Shifting my position slightly, I tried to breathe in fresh air that came from the square. The drone of voices was slightly drowned out by the splashing of a magnificent fountain, depicting a swan in flight. Rivulets of water fell smoothly down the graceful neck and wings of the cold marble, trickling back into the crystal pool at the statue's base. I suppressed the yearning I felt for the water, wanting nothing more than to be able to run through the fountain.
Opulently clad people milled about, carelessly unaware that they were being observed by one of the things they came here to see. Their voices vaguely floated back to me, indistinct murmurs and laughs.
I sighed, closing my eyes and resting my cheek against the rough wood. The course of my life would be changed within an hour. Perhaps the question of how long I would survive would be answered as well. Sweat gathered in my palms as I nervously contemplated my future. So uncertain. Like a leaf, so fragile, being tossed about carelessly in strong gusts of wind.
I licked my cracked lips, aching for the relief of moisture. Even with my sudden chilling bath a few hours ago, my body still seemed completely drained of liquid, like an old rag hung out in the blazing sun to dry.
"Attention! Attention ladies and gentlemen!" The auctioneer's voice rang out from the podium, echoing across the crowd. The voices dwindled down to a hush, faint rustlings coming from the crowd as they settled into their seats.
"Today we have the finest specimens for sale, at the lowest starting prices. You've come to the right place to get what you are looking for. Whatever you are looking for…." Feeling faintly nauseous, I let the rotund man's voice be blocked from my senses, trying to ignore the blatant fact that in less than a few hours, I might end up more miserable than I was now.
Breathing deeply, I tried not to flinch when the first of the handlers appeared in the holding cells, dragging out the person being called. I resisted the urge to hold my hands to my ears, trying to block out the clamor of voices as they bid.
They're buying a person. A living, breathing, feeling person who isn't so different than themselves. How can they stand to know what they are doing? Do they never pause to look at their actions?
"Sold!" The auctioneer roared, slamming a mallet against the carved podium, smiling greedily.
Apparently not.
I tried to regulate my breathing, tried to remain calm. I had promised myself I would. What a foolish oath to make. But then, everything is always clearer after it occurs. It so much easier to know better after the fact.
The numbers that stood between me and the auctioneer's block dwindled at an alarmingly rapid rate. My breathing slowly hitched towards hyperventilation as the girl my age was dragged onto the barely visible block, standing there, terrified.
I felt tears sting my eyes as the crowd roared, gleefully unaware of the fact that they happened to be purchasing a fellow human being with thought s and feeling just like theirs.
Is it that they truly don't think that way? Or is it that they choose not to see?
"Sold! To the honorable Dre Cullen for thirty crescents."
A low, sympathetic chuckled averted my sharp focus from the slit in the wall. I turned to see an elderly woman, her graying hair hanging lankly down her shoulders, grinning a toothless, mirthless grin.
"Poor, girl. Better off dead, that one. Course, that might be remedied soon enough." Her voice was rough from ill-use, a barely audible whisper.
"What do you mean?" My tone was sharp with alarm.
The hag chuckled again, flashing another horrible smile. "You aint ever hear of Dre Cullen and his family, dear?"
"No," my answer was blunt.
"Well, I'd assume even you'd know what a Dre is. A powerful nobleman. But this Dre…"
Impatient, I cast an anxious glance outside. Thunder cracked ominously, the sky seemed on the very brink of pouring out its icy contents. "This Dre is known to be one of the most cruel, cold hearted bastards ever to set foot on this here forsaken earth. The mortality rate for 'is slaves after three months is something like ninety percent." The woman shook her head pityingly. "That there girl's as good as dead already."
"They kill their slaves?" I asked, alarmed.
"Who knows? They moved to the city recently, used to live somewhere up in Armardh. Got a reputation there. No one knows what happens to those slaves." She paused, shifting the ragged shawl around her drooping shoulders. "Well, everyone knows what happens to them. But not how. No one knows what them Cullen's get up to. But the slave traders love 'em. Made a fortune off 'em in the past few years." She continued, her voice slowly taking on a bitter edge. "But their just slaves right? No one really cares what happens. No one questions a Dre…"
I felt my blood chill in my veins at the thought of a family, cold bloodedly killing hundreds of people. Frantically glancing out the slit, I tried to catch site of the infamous Dre. But the girl whose name I never even learned had already been dragged off the platform, lost in the crowd of swirling bodies.
Cold sweat broke out across my forehead as I imagined my own fate. I had promised myself I would not fall and refuse to pick myself up again. But what if my fall was a bit more permanent than I had anticipated?
My eyes flickered over the crowd, and then back into the cells. The gloom inside made it difficult to see clearly, the crush of bodies giving off an odor of old sweat. But I couldn't care less about what my surroundings were at the moment.
"Number 13," The foreman's voice came from the doorway, the clinking of metal following the announcement. I froze, ice pouring through my brain and clouding my vision. "Number 13!" The voice called again, this time impatient.
"Go on hon," the lady drawled, giving me a weak push. "And good luck. You'll need it…"
I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat, making my way past the huddled bodies to the door, the woman's warning echoing in my ears.
No one questions a Dre
Poor, girl. Better off dead, that one
Good luck. You'll need it…
The foreman seized my arms, binding them tightly behind my back. I paid no attention to his rough handling, his hot hands brutally tugging my own.
"Go on… Get up..." He muttered harshly after a few seconds, pushing me roughly onto the stage. I swallowed convulsively, the sudden light of even the dark day blinding me momentarily after my stay in the gloom. I closed my eyes tightly for as moment, disoriented with exhaustion, pain, and fear.
Slowly, I opened my eyes. The crowd was before me. But all I could see was the bright colors of their expensive clothes. The flash of the precious jewels they so thoughtlessly wore. They had no faces. No distinct personalities of their own. They viewed us as less than human. When perhaps it was them that met that criteria.
They were my future. And perhaps, they were my doom.
"Female, young. In good health. Bidding begins at twenty crescents." I gritted my teeth as the dispassionate voice of the auctioneer rang out, staring intensely at the crowd without truly seeing them.
"Do I hear twenty crescents?" A pause. The world seemed slightly muted. Their voices reached me as if from a great distance. "Ah, twenty crescents from the honorable Dre Marsch. Do I hear twenty-five?"
They weren't people.
But they had the power of life and death over me.
More control over my life than I will ever have.
Absolute power.
Unconditional.
It seemed as if I had mentally taken a step to the side. As if I was numbly witnessing this grueling scene with the cold dispassion of someone who wasn't involved. Their voices, their clothing, even the smell of the expensive perfumes that reached my nose was subdued. My breath was calm, even. As if I was about to go to sleep, instead of about to have a sentence passed.
"Twenty-five to the honorable Dre Cullen."
My breath caught in my throat as I struggled through the numb daze that was separating me from the world of reality. I scanned the crowd, frantically looking for who I had already learned to think of as the murderer.
He was handsome. Oh yes, very handsome. But his pale skin, golden hair, perfectly proportioned features were a frozen mask. His face held no hint of emotion, no flicker of passion. It was just… dead. Like that you would see on corpses. Beautiful, but distant.
No compassion. No mirth. Nothing at all.
His eyes were the most captivating gold. Deep, sparkling with a feral intensity. More beautiful than the most prized gemstone any of the affluent crowd could own, yet more cold, more detached than the cruelest uncaring foreman.
A terrible beauty.
That is the face of the man that has killed hundreds. That is the face of the person who could be your killer.
My breath hitched towards hyperventilation as the auctioneer droned on in the distance. "Do I hear thirty? Thirty crescents?"
Silence.
"Twenty-five going once."
Shifting. Murmurings.
"Twenty-five going twice."
It seemed the only sound was the frantic pounding of my heart.
"Thirty crescents." I almost sagged in relief as another voice rang out rough the crowd that seemed to have pressed forward.
"Thirty crescents to Dre Marsch! Do I hear thirty-five?"
"Thirty-five." His voice was smooth, cultured. But just as devoid of compassion as his beautifully carved face.
"Thirty-five crescents! Do I hear forty?" The auctioneer's voice was excited; I could see the glint of avarice in his beady eyes.
"Forty! Forty to Dre Marsch!" He roared, his gavel poised above the stand, bouncing excitedly. "Do I hear forty-five?"
"Forty-five going once."
Please, please. If there is such thing as a God, please. Please.
Thoughts and pleadings raced through my head as I stared at Dre Cullen, looking for any signs he would bid again.
"Forty-five going twice."
Please. Please, god, please.
I thought I saw Dre Cullen's perfect lips open to utter a simple phrase that would once again throw my life into jeopardy.
"Forty-five going three times…"
No, please. Don't say anything. Don't. Please God….
"Sold! For forty-five crescents to the honorable Dre Marsch!"
My breath escaped my cracked lips in an audible whoosh. I hadn't even realized I was holding it. I felt light headed, dizzy. Thunder rolled overhead, and I felt the first drops of moisture falling on my skin.
Chilling. Icy. Beautiful.
Hands dragged me off the podium; I didn't even try to see whose. Faces passed me in a blur as I was pulled roughly along.
Rain. Beautiful rain.
It was starting to come down harder now. People muttered disgruntled and women shrieked. The pounding of feet against cobblestones reached me ears as I was dragged along though the crowd.
I felt myself pushed roughly into a closed cart. Two or three huddled figures hunched in the corners, making no sound. The heavy wooden door slammed behind me with a loud crash, effectively boxing me in.
I rushed back towards the door, peering though the barred window. Rain was coming down in chilling curtains, wealthy citizens ran haphazardly through the downpour to the warm comfort of their expensive carriages.
But I could see his eyes. He stood there, slowly turning towards his entourage.
I met his eyes for e brief instant. His golden hair was plastered against his forehead, dripping through his expensive finery. Deep topaz. Chilling. Cold and implacable as the uncaring rain that poured from the weeping heavens.
Thunder pealed.
The carriage shuddered into movement, faint clopping of horse's hooves reaching me.
His eyes. Such an extraordinary, warm color. Yet so terribly cold.
And then, there seemed to be the first flicker of human emotion. I couldn't place it. Something, some subtle element in his unfeeling gaze altered slightly as he gazed at me.
What emotion, was it?
Was it something like compassion? Curiosity? Or was it something more terrible than before?
I sank to my knees as we turned a corner, feeling the damp wood beneath my legs. Curling into a ball, I rested my head against the shuddering sides of the carriage.
I had been spared.
Or had I?
I remembered the expression on that girl's face. Then I remembered the little boy. His terribly deep blue eyes. Where had he ended up?
Closing my eyes, I pressed my closed fists against my eyelids.
Where had any of them ended up? Would that girl be dead within the month as the old lady had claimed?
And what did I care? I had been fortunate, so far. I hadn't heard any frightened murmurings about Dre Marsch. I might have a future ahead of me.
But her. That girl whose name I didn't know. I probably never would.
I cared. I was a slave, a possession. I couldn't afford to me kind, to love. I couldn't afford to care. But I probably always would.
In one month, I will mourn.
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As always, what did you think? I'll start getting into the major action next chapter. Call these first four a prelude. Or a taste test.
As always,
Lon-Dubh