Bought By The Masters

Daniella Wright

Contents

1. Roze

2. Roze

3. Roze

4. Roze

5. Cato

6. Gentleman

7. Cato

8. Roze

9. Cato

10. Roze

11. Cato

Chapter 1

Roze

Snow fogs over the bar windows. I witness the streets speckling over with fresh layers upon solid frost as well, and the hard-worked residents already clearing their driveways and salting the roads. It snows a lot in this city, which is impressive, given the fact that it’s in the north-western part of Arizona. Or maybe it’s less impressive, considering the entire city is influenced by magic. Magic has a way of disregarding reasonable weather patterns, as it does for the laws of physics. Also applies to the creatures that envelop themselves in it.

I sip at my virgin mojito, which is a vivid, toxic green color, with a little umbrella and a lime edging the glass for no other reason than decoration, and I crunch through the sugar sprinkled on top as I drink. The bar isn’t so busy, but it is early afternoon, so people will be at their day jobs. May as well give it some time. Tiffany, meanwhile, comes back to the table with a dark beer. Tapping my nails on the glass of my mojito, I glare at Tiffany. She’s not pacing herself, and I’m obligated to at least point this out “You know, you should really stay off the alcohol until evening. Otherwise you’ll be blackout drunk by the time you get your pick.”

“It’s just one,” Tiffany says in dismissal, not particularly impressed by my argument. “Not everyone who drinks alcohol is an idiot and irresponsible.”

“Really,” I retort, thinking of at least five different incidents where Tiffany, all blonde hair and manic horniness, ripped into the college guys, or had to be dragged back to safety by whoever was at hand. She’d be an angel to the lecturers, but showed a completely different side to her friends.

“I’ve changed since then,” she replies airily, knowing exactly what I’m thinking about. She doesn’t feel shame about her drinking – she thinks it provides great conversation material. “Everyone lets loose a little in college. Free from parents, flying out the nest – it’s normal. Like you didn’t do the same.”

Seems like years ago since I graduated. Years more since I dropped out of residency, though in reality, it’s been three weeks since I gave up on my aims of being a surgeon. I’m trying my best not to think about it too deeply, and to swallow up the disappointment and shame that insists on poking holes in my mental defenses.

When one door closes, another one opens, I tell myself. My grandmother used to say this to my mother when she lost a job, or if she wanted to quit painting, or writing, or whatever new idea she’d wanted at the time. Grandfather was more of a keep calm and carry on type. Both their mantras seem useful to me at the moment. I might feel like shit, but I guess I can pretend to myself that everything’s okay.

Finally, Alex joins the table as well, and she’s gone for the coffee. She glances around nervously. She’s always been less comfortable about visiting magical cities than visiting obscure human cities in equally obscure countries, because she doesn’t like the lack of control magic presents. Magic belongs to the witches, the warlocks, the animal shifters, and the fae. Creatures who used to be nothing but human mythology for years, until a century ago, when they decided to establish their own cities, rather than hide in human ones.

Guess a world war really put things into perspective for them. Now while the rest of Arizona is so hot that people can’t even walk in normal shoes without the soles melting, there’s this little Arizonian city of eternal winter. A place I’ve always wanted to go, but never found the time to during my medical courses, and hundreds of thousands of tax dollars poured into my education.

Just to quit.

“You look like shit,” Alex says helpfully. Where Tiffany is blonde, and tall like some ancient Norse Valkyrie (though those might actually exist too, I’m not sure), Alex is stocky, with a slight hue of blue to her dark, fuzzy-wire hair. I’m the dark hair, dark eyed one, with a native American grandmother somewhere, which can be seen in wider cheekbones, and a strong jawline. My mother used to joke that the women of the family could cut steel with our jaws, but strongly encouraged me not to do so.

“I feel like shit,” I agree, raising my cocktail in salute. “It’s hard not to feel like a complete failure. And let’s ignore the fact I had student debts higher than a mountain.”

“I’m worried about you,” Tiffany says then, slurping at her drink in a way that makes both Alex and me glare. “You were doing so well. You had all the training, and you started your residency. And then we hear nothing from you for weeks. You were refusing all attempts to meet up. So what happened?”

“I’d rather not talk about that,” I croak. Everything inside feels spiky. There’s a taste upon my tongue like copper, a tightness in my throat. I keep a chant up in my head. Keep calm and carry on; one door closes, another one opens. Keep calm... “I just want to forget.”

Neither of them push further, but I see it in their eyes that they want to know. And really, I owe it to them. So I condense it. Keep it brief so that it doesn’t have time to sting. “Too much pressure. Bullying. And mobbing.”

“Mobbing?”

I lick my lips, already adopting the persona. “Group think. You know, like when one person alone is nice enough, but a group of people can end up doing stupid or cruel things?” I smile grimly. “Applies even to people in the medical field as well.”

“Oh, I’ve heard about that,” Tiffany says, picking at her cuticles. “Something to do with the way people follow the crowd, right? Mob mentality.”

“Mm,” I say, not quite willing to keep talking, hoping my reticence will stave off the really awkward questions.

“Yeah, I watched a crime documentary where these people kicked to death someone because...” Alex trailed off. “Not appropriate, I guess?”

“Not really,” I agree, but I’m smiling. “But we love you anyway.”

I’m glad my friends do steer off the subject. I don’t know when I will be ready to talk about it, but right now… I absently tug at my long black sleeves, until the tips cover my palms. Right now – it’s still too soon. Too raw and my insides are tender, not quite stitched up.

“I was promoted to manager recently,” Tiffany says, flicking her hair for dramatic effect, and to prompt smirks from us. “And they said I couldn’t do it. Too feminine, so no one would take me seriously. Take that. Just because I’m pretty, doesn’t mean I’m incapable of being smart.”

“Hear, hear,” Alex said with a vigorous nod. “They’re not mutually exclusive.” She ran a hand through her thick, short hair. It did absolutely nothing, as the hair sprung back into position like a rocking doll. “Wish I could say the same about my job, though. I don’t think I’ll be seeing a promotion there for years. The manager prefers giving his friends promotions even though they’ve been working in the job only for a few months. Seen it happen a few times now.”

“Shit,” I say sympathetically, giving her a pat on the shoulder for good measure.

“So, Roze,” Tiffany says, after the patting’s gone on for about five seconds, “what’s your plan with Halberg city? Aside from getting rat-ass drunk, bar crawling and making snow angels, I guess.”

“Whatever catches my eye,” I say, as I examine the other patrons in the establishment, noting the genuine ice hockey table, the blue-white frozen liquid gleaming on the table’s surface, and two teenagers – one who looks like some kind of demon, with a red tail and horns on her head, playing against someone made out of twigs and leaves. My friends notice the direction of my stare as well, and Alex gives a visible shudder upon seeing the twig guy.

“That’s so fucked up. Do you think he snaps like a twig?” she says, staring at him as if she expected him to fall apart at any moment.

“I don’t know, he’s kind of attractive,” Tiffany says, now showing decidedly more interest than either of us in him. “You think he’s as hard as wood?”

“Ugh, gross, man. Do you have to think about that right now? I’m gonna spit up my coffee,” Alex says, while I consider the possibility as well, examining the bark-like arms in cursory interest. I didn’t specialize in supernatural medical studies, so I don’t have a great understanding of their complete anatomy, but there are enough similarities. Maybe I should have taken the exchange program, and supernatural medical studies instead. Magical cities are notoriously more open and diverse. But it cost four times more the tuition of my regular course, and they didn’t accept scholarships. And I think I’d rather fix up humans than magical creatures, but hey.

We all watch the twig guy smile at the demon girl, and she laughs and says something that has them both in stitches a moment later.

“You think they’re dating? How does that work?” Tiffany’s just as curious, and I have to admit, I’m not entirely sure, either. Presumably both people are…. anatomically similar enough to do the things my friends are clearly wondering. But it is an odd sight as a human to behold. Alex, meanwhile, is now studiously looking away. She doesn’t get the fascination with shifters.

I have a fascination with them. I know there are many that present as perfect humans, but have a beast lurking under their skins. There’s something thrilling about that concept. Maybe it speaks to a primal part in my brain, to associate with someone who fights a battle between their human and animal selves.

Not someone I’d want to settle down with, but certainly someone I’d want a fling with, however brief.

“Much like how we date anyone else, I suppose,” I reply. “But in cosplay.”

Alex snorts at this, and Tiffany gulps more of her beer, before announcing: “I wanna try the table, that looks fun. And is that a magical puck?”

It was indeed a magical, glowing and pink puck. We crowded the table after the young couple or friends had finished, and played among ourselves for a good hour, and also spend some time failing at the slot machines. With the early darkness starting to encroach from outside, we started seeing more patrons trickle the bar. Including one that caught my eye from the moment he entered – and everyone else’s eyes, as well. I mean, it was hard not to notice him. Ruffled tufts of dark hair poking out of a blue beanie, eyes obscured by huge aviator glasses, and the fact that he slunk over to the furthest, darkest corner like some dodgy drug dealer probably had something to do with it. His companion, a robust, mountain of man who I suspect might be a bear shifter ends up being the one to buy the drinks and carry them over to his heavily obscured friend.

“He’s someone famous,” Alex decides, sitting with me while Tiffany heads for a bathroom break. Alex likes to assume things, and make up stories about said things. When she met me, she thought I must have been a Victoria’s Secret model, she was ‘99 percent sure’ she’d seen my poster somewhere. Joke’s on her: I barely had enough time to sleep back then, let alone model underwear and straddle a chair suggestively. “All the famous people act like that. And this is a pretty beat up bar. I mean, there’s a table there for board games, and chess sets and books tucked up in the shelf over there, and some slot machines. This is probably that kind of indie bar for those who don’t want noise.”

I stare at this half-obscured stranger, eyes running over a distinct, angled jawline, with a hint of stubble upon that face, and the long, slender fingers that unravel from an otherwise ordinary and ugly Christmas sweater with a picture of a reindeer on it, complete with a fluffy red and prominent nose. The sweater is ugly and contrasts absurdly from what I can see of his handsome face. I want to just throw caution to the winds and go over there to talk to him, and just ask why the hell he’s wearing that stupid thing. He has to be supernatural in this place, with a companion like that, though he’s going out of his way to look awkward and out of place. Maybe the burly man with the coarse beard is his bodyguard. Alex nudges me, and I blink out of my staring, slightly embarrassed with myself.

“I said he’s someone famous,” she repeats, and I grunt a reply. Yeah, probably.

“Who’s famous, now?” Tiffany flops back at our table, rather dramatically tossing her hair, her Pandora bracelet jangling. I glance at the little emerald-eyed owl attached to it. Her birthday present from me two months ago, ordered online. Pretty much all presents from me were bought online out of necessity and limited time allowance.

“Dude with the glasses,” Alex says, doing her look-in-this-direction-but-not-really skill, perfected over the years of school we suffered together. Tiffany, never exactly subtle, stares blatantly at the guy like I did. “God, you two are useless. You’re far too obvious.”

“Those glasses are opaque. You think he even sees through those window shutters?” Tiffany squints, and I guess she’s probably weighing up the famous theory in her head.

“And, any moment...” I say, my right fingers drumming the dark brown table. As predicted, the man finally clocks the attention he’s getting, and lifts his head to face our direction.

Tiffany doesn’t flinch away, but Alex suddenly looks like she has better things to think about. I manage a guilty glance in the man’s direction, before stating to my friends, “The other possibility we didn’t entertain is that maybe he’s some serial killer, and we’re going to see him in a few month’s time in one of Alex’s killer documentaries she’s always watching.”

Alex snorts, and Tiffany scoffs. “A guy that hot? Come on, he can’t be a killer.”

“Are you serious right now?” Alex’s voice is dripping in a condescending way, and thumps the table, snatching Tiffany’s attention.

“What? He can’t be. He’s too confident and whatever.”

“You literally just argued before that being pretty doesn’t mean you’re stupid. And now you’re saying being hot means you’re automatically not a serial killer? The fuck, Tiffany? You know Ted Bundy was handsome, right? Didn’t stop him killing all those women, did it?”

Their voices are loud, and heated, and I’m about a hundred and ten percent sure all fourteen other people in the bar can hear them. They’re having too much fun so I don’t interrupt, but a part of me wants to die when the man raises up from his seat, and heads straight to our table, followed by his hulking companion.

“Ladies,” the shaded man says, immediately causing a wave of silence. “I hope you don’t mind me stepping in like this.”

“I’m hoping you didn’t hear what was being said,” I reply, since Tiffany looks like she wants to die of embarrassment, and Alex is smirking in a very punchable way.

“No, but you were glancing my way an awful lot,” he says, in a low, growly voice. “So I got curious.” He tilts his glasses slightly, and I catch a silvery flash in his eyes.

A shifter. But that might be slightly obvious, given the fact we are in a shifter city. Though there’s a surprising amount of human tourists and residents from the districts we’ve seen so far. I have this handy little app on my phone that gives recommended districts, and ones to avoid. It seems like Halberg itself has something like four spoken languages used by its shifters, and even two kings, though their titles are mostly just symbolic nowadays.

Not that I should be thinking about my app at this point, because the shifter gives a wide, dazzling smile, and my doctor’s brain instantly goes oh hey, nice set of dentures you’ve got there. Very straight, so probably used bracers, definitely bleached. His skin is a healthy hue as well, though there’s shadows the faint color of plums under his eyes when he takes the glasses off.

“You’re famous, right?” Alex says, eagerly scanning his face, and I suspect she’s planning to get an autograph and then maybe see if she can sell it.

“Moderately,” the shifter confirms. “Though I’m not as well known in this district. I’m Cato Dagen, of the Dagen clan.”

“That sounds like a really drunk way of saying ‘dragon’,” Alex notes, and I snort into my drink.

Cato grins. “You’re right about that. This is Beron,” he then says, indicating the mass of muscle next to him. Well, he’s not all muscle, but I’m finding the size of him very distracting. As for that beard: it’s about as magnificent as they come. “Can you guess what shifter he is?”

“A bear?” Tiffany ventures.

Of course, I think. Why wouldn’t he be named that. “That’s a little strange. Do all shifters walk around with a variation of ‘bear, ‘wolf’, and ‘dragon’ in their names?” I say then, and Cato’s eyes lock onto mine. I’ve never seen a color like that before in my life.

In pictures, sure, but there, only a few feet away, they’re like pools reflecting a full moon.

“Not all of them, no. But some of the older families have it incorporated into their surnames. Beron’s full name is Titus Grenaven Beron, but he dislikes the first two names, and prefers to be called by his surname only.”

Titus Grenaven Beron glares at Cato. “Did you have to trot my name out like some prize pony?”

Cato claps his arm over Beron’s shoulder. “I think it breaks the ice better.”

“You’re the one who has a name that your sister calls you ‘Catie’ with. If anyone has a girly name, it’s you.”

“Not true. My name means ‘shrewd and intelligent.”

“Two things you’re not.”

I can see this is familiar banter. Cato wears a polite smile, the kind that suggests he expects to be photographed at any moment, whereas Beron doesn’t bother with mouth smiles. There’s something in his eyes that makes me think he has other ways of smiling instead.

My friends don’t know who Cato Dagen is, and I certainly don’t, but he seems happy to explain. More than happy, by the way he postures himself, like he expects us to be impressed. “I’m in another district to keep it quiet, but my father’s a representative of the Cyan District. Pretty influential figure. I’ve been helping him gain support for a bill to be passed through.” Now he hesitates, and there’s a flash of apology in his eyes. “Probably not the best subject to talk about with humans, though.”

“Why not?”

Beron steps in. “Slaves,” he says. “He and his father have been working on a bill to make slavery an act of criminal offense.”

Oh. Right. “Slaves,” I repeat, while Alex looks thoroughly alarmed, and Tiffany leans forward, interested. Although slavery is all but abolished in most human countries, I’ve read that it remains popular in shifter ones. “What’s the deal about that, anyway? I heard that some places were safer than others. We selected this district because it was supposed to be people friendly.”

“It is,” Cato confirms, and he slides his glasses back on, because some people are glancing our way in a curious manner. Though he’s revealed his identity to us, it’s clear he doesn’t want everyone in the vicinity to recognize him.

Though I think he’s doing a terrible job of making himself look inconspicuous, because he’s gone the opposite way with his clothes, focusing instead on ludicrous attire, and has a bodyguard trailing after him, suggesting he’s someone of importance.

Son of a policy changer. Similar to a senator, I’m guessing. Halberg’s an immense city, larger than some countries, though the population is something like twenty-three million, spread out between dozens of districts. None of which have the exact same policies in them.

Beron walks off, bringing a jug of some specialty beer back a moment later, placing it on the center of the table. “What brings you ladies here, anyway?” Beron asks, as he separates drinks for us in plastic cups. I’m not sure if I want to drink any more alcohol, but I taste it for his benefit anyway. I note how by now, all the people who had preternatural appearances have more or less left the bar, and human ones are replacing them.

“Um…” Alex says, raising one eyebrow at me. She’s not sure if I want to tell complete strangers, but this is a day for new things, and possibly new friends.

“I’m the reason. Tiffany wanted to cheer me up, and she managed to snag some cheap flights and a hotel in Halberg. Figured we’d visit the frozen city and have a brief taste of magic for ourselves. We’ve not seen too much yet, though. Only arrived here yesterday evening.”

“Why did Tiffany want to cheer you up?” Cato places a hand under his chin, and I’m a little baffled by the attention. Not opposed to it either, but it’s been a while since I’ve been in a situation to gain attention. You don’t have many flirting opportunities as a workaholic, when time out is just an opportunity to catch up on sleep to prepare for the next shift.

“Long story short: I was training to be a surgeon. I poured years of my life into it, but the hospital I intended to resident in had an oppressive culture.” I thread my fingers together nervously, trying not to think about the backstabbing, the gossiping, the constant belittling of my character, expertise, and brain. It adds up over time.

Character building.

“You were bullied?”

“I was. I mean, it sounds bad when I say it out loud here, but when you’re in that kind of environment, with so much pressure, so many hours of your life given to it, where one fuck up can mean the difference between a person living or dying – the last thing you want is people ganging up on you like a pack of wolves. It was relentless to the point where I did fuck up.” I stare at the table, and a frayed coaster beneath my plastic cup. “No one died, because the main surgeon at hand fixed my mistake, but there was talk of getting me barred from hospitals completely.”

It didn’t matter that the reason I fucked up was because someone jostled me at the wrong moment. Then they swore blind, along with “witnesses” that they did nothing. I stood there, drenched in thick red arterial blood, my usually steady hands trembling as if I’d overdosed on caffeine. I’d frozen like a deer in headlights. The patient almost died because of my hesitation, my shock.

“Could you intern at another hospital?” Cato says, briefly giving me a pat on the shoulder, though the gesture’s a little awkward. I appreciate it nonetheless. “Are you planning that, since you’ve had the training?”

“I don’t know. I just want a vacation from it all.” I smile at him, hoping it masks my emotions. I’m nervous of returning to a hospital, if I get accepted again. Because I’m scared that another breakdown will finish me off, if the people there turn out to be just as relentless as the last. “I just want to unwind, experience the city, the sights, the people.”

The last words come out huskier than intended from my mouth, and I flush, thinking I’m being too daring. To my relief (and slight thrill as well), Cato lets a slow, knowing smile spread over his face.

“Oh, I’m sure there’d be some wonderful people for you to meet here,” he assures me, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Just need to know where to look.”

“I think I’m looking in the right direction,” I say, pointedly staring at him. Tiffany is now grinning maniacally, and Alex has gone even more studiously blank than before.

“Tell me… are you into thrills?” Cato rolls the last word. “I know some great locations to give you just that.”

My body shivers in anticipation, and I squeeze my legs together to combat the growing discomfit between them. The more I examine Cato, the more I find my mind drifting, exploring possibilities. My eyes go to the soft flesh of his neck, and the pulse ticking there. I follow the perfect curve of his ears, the faint dark stubble on his cheeks, noting how his bottom lip is thicker than mine, and looks almost edible. When my eyes saunter over to Beron as well, I see there’s more there to delight me. Cato’s groomed. Beron’s more untamed, wild, not the kind of person you want to cross.

“I’m not sure which of you two is more handsome,” I say truthfully, which prompts the bodyguard to list a bushy eyebrow, and grin in a roguish way. Both men have completely different styles. Both which appeal to me in different ways.

“Me, of course,” Beron grunts, and I see him deliberately flex his arms, in the guise of clasping his hands together. “I look like a real man, compared to this nancy.”

“You look like you’re carved out of a block of wood,” Cato retorts. “Or an extra from some bad historical show.”

Beron strokes his dark brown beard, thrusting his chin out for good measure. I’m mesmerized by the movement, and pretend to be examining the table when he glances at me. “At least I don’t look like the kind of character who’ll die in a horror movie. You’d never even make it to the safe house.”

Before they can continue their back and forth again, Alex cuts in with, “Actually, if this was a horror movie, Cato would be the plot twist serial killer, and Beron would be the red herring, and everyone would expect it to be him.”

Cato and Beron consider this. “Okay,” Beron says. “But then, out of you three girls, who would survive from the serial killer?”

“Not me,” Alex says bluntly. “I’m the token black woman, I’d die because the writers don’t know what to do with me after they cast me in the script. Tiffany would probably do something stupid like wander off alone into a room after hearing weird noises coming from it. Roze would spend the whole movie telling people not to do stupid things and then watch them die.”

“You must watch a lot of terrible movies,” Cato observes, which prompts a grin from me, Alex and Tiffany. The sexual tension is broken for the moment, and I’m happy to keep it at bay. I don’t want to make my friends feel awkward, though my eyes keep straying to their forms. Wondering what it’d be like with either of them, if the opportunity ever arose. Would Cato or Beron be the rough one? Would they like the standard bedroom affair, or would they be into something a little more sinful?

They’re not bound by the constraints of religion, or have gone through the same kind of sexual oppression most of our societies have gone through. It’s supposed to be wild, with them. Unrestrained...

“We’re not sure what kind of places we should go to,” Tiffany says to them, slightly interrupting my daydreaming. “We have some standard tourist spots marked out, but we’ll miss all the things the locals know and love. And that’s the best part of a trip. Got any suggestions for us?”

“Oh! There’s so many wonderful places to visit,” Cato says, beaming and rubbing his hands. “Maybe if you have some time, I can always show you around to some of my favorite locations. I mean, if you don’t mind a tour guide.”

“I’d like that,” I answer, smiling at the enthusiasm behind his words. He’s confident and sure of himself, and to be honest, it might be nice to be shown by a local. We hadn’t planned on it, but it’d certainly feel less like us three bumbling around in a lost, confused manner as we constantly check our Google Maps to make sure we’ve arrived in the right location.

Two men make their way into the establishment then, and I check them out of perfunctory curiosity. Two more supernatural beings to combat the flood of humans in the bar. They both seem to take their time checking over the bar, standing by the entrance, and I figure they probably want to find an empty table to themselves. There isn’t an empty table, though. Eventually, they leave the bar.

No one else seems to think anything weird of it. The small talk continues between us as we try to explore each other’s personalities, but it does feel like Beron and Cato are slightly guarded. They’re interested in us (me more, I think, though I don’t want to announce this out loud, because it sounds presumptuous), but they don’t want to put all their cards on the table yet. I can understand that.

More people come into the establishment. The same two men I spotted earlier, followed by two more. They split into pairs, and lean against the walls. Two more pairs trickle in, and do the same thing. Slight concern needles in my gut when yet another two pairs copy the others. Twelve people, spread out around the walls.

Like predators circling prey.

“Hey,” I hiss, as two more pairs come in, “Should we leave? There’s people coming in.” I point them out to Cato and Beron. Cato doesn’t seem bothered, but Beron’s face freezes. Maybe his instincts kicking in.

“Yeah,” he says. “There’s a lot of humans here.”

“And? It’s a safe zone,” Cato says, but he’s catching onto Beron’s troubled mood.

“Obscure neighborhood, not that much security,” Beron growls. “And it is a little near the border of a district that still endorses slavery. Okay ladies, let’s get out –” his voice trails off when two more people come in, and block the exit.

Now Alex and Tiffany have caught on, and we all realize, along with some of the other patrons in the bar, that we’re boxed in. When the guns start coming out, screams of terror rip from people’s throats, and a gasp escapes mine.

Pandemonium ensues. Some people try to get up, others hurl abuse. But the gun-wielding supernaturals don’t listen, don’t care. There’s not much anyone can do when nearly twenty guns bristle their way.

One by one, the humans are jerked to a supernatural with spines upon his head. He appears to prick each human with one of his loosened spines, and they fall unconscious like a light going out.

“Do you know who I am?” Cato bellows, when two of them grab him, and prick him the same as everyone else.

“Don’t care,” came the reply, and his fallen body got a kick in the gut for good measure. Beron attempted to put up a resistance, but was cowed by the guns.

There was no way to fight this. I had to wait, like the rest, for the spine to pierce me, and to feel the painful, rushing tides of blackness yank my brain out of consciousness.

Chapter 2

Roze

Opening my eyes causes intense pain. Everything’s white and a sharp contrast to the blackness of my eyelids. It takes a few moments for me to open my eyes fully, and register the ceiling, where circular bulbs beam down on me like spotlights. I’m in a bed – sanitary clean, with a thin sheet covering my body, and further inspection reveals I’m hooked up to an IV, and my heartbeat is registering on an EKG machine. As soon as I notice that, the beeps quicken, and my anxiety compounds.

Where am I?

The last thing I remember is the ambush. An entire bar taken over, intruders slipping in with guns, lining the walls, collectively making the humans mice in mousetraps. I recall how there was nothing we could do. No heroic movie fight, somehow batting away the guns and forcing our way out of there.

We had to wait for that sleeping poison to spread in our veins. Worse than useless.

Shifting the sheets a little, I inspect the crude hospital gown I’m wearing, concerned because there’s a dull throbbing on my left side. With thick, clumsy hands, I undo the buttons of my stark white gown, deep enough to see stitches tracking next to my sternum, as if I’d been vivisected.

Shit, I think, heartbeat almost doubling in that instant. I try to force the calm, doctor’s mask over my thoughts, but it doesn’t work. Have they been probing inside me? I don’t know what else to think, but I let my brain churn, thinking of all the possible reasons I might be here.

Something tickles at the back of my head. Something new. It feels like an energy source, separate from my body, yet a part of it at the same time.

With a cold shiver, I remember something I read, back in the days when I wanted to know if humans could obtain magical powers.

They could: but by a means highly frowned upon in shifter society, and banned in many places. The method requires the bones of a dead magical creature, which have residual magic. Then a necromancer adds some kind of enchant to it, right before it’s placed into a human.

Necromancy, the one magic universally spat upon, whether you look at it from the human side or the supernatural side.

I have magic.

That’s what this energy is. That’s why I’m stitched up like Frankenstein’s monster. They’ve only gone and implanted some dead creature’s bone inside me. My rising panic and beep levels draw attention from elsewhere; a door creaks open, and two people stroll in, wearing surgical masks, gloves and scrubs.

“Oh, you’re not supposed to be awake yet!” one of them coos in a low, feminine voice, reaching into their pocket to draw out a syringe. A new surge of dread invades my stomach, my soul. “There, there. It’ll be okay.”

“What the –” I manage to splutter, before I’m grabbed, and the needle’s sinking into the IV drip. Whatever’s in it slips into my bloodstream. Screaming, I flail at them, adrenaline surging, IV stand clattering to the floor. My reactions were already groggy from the start – there’s nothing else to do other than sink again into dreamless darkness.

* * *

Cato

Three men confer in hasty, worried whispers. I glare at them from my vantage point – a leather chair in a spacious and immaculate office, full of filing cabinets, and the general soulless interior of a cheap medical ward. I tap my foot on the threadbare green carpet, and heft at my chains, again contemplating if I can snap out of them or not.

“Are any of you going to talk to me or not?” I say, making the leather crackle underneath me. I’m irritated, moody, and hoping one of them will make the mistake of getting too close at the wrong angle. Not that it’ll help. I’m still stuck in the chains, and there’s about four security guys inside and outside this room alone, choking out all opportunities of escape. I’m still inflated with rage at how that lackey from the bar treated me, as if I was slime on the edge of his shoe. I can’t wait to find him and show him just what a mistake he made.

“Silence, prisoner,” one of the men spits, and I smile fiercely at him. Still dreaming of revenge. I wish I could have transformed. Turned into my dragon and battered the whole lot of them aside with a swipe of my tail. Except there were innocents in that place. And I doubt that action would bode well for the far more vulnerable targets.

I had to freeze, like everyone else, but it doesn’t stop me from imagining better, happier scenarios.

I glare at the guard who snapped at me. “For your own good, I wouldn’t recommend making me a prisoner.” They more or less ignore me, but I can pick up on what’s being said.

“ – didn’t realize ... a fucking Dagen in that place … fuck he’s doing there – not even his district –”

“ – can’t let him loose ... lead ‘em us –”

A fierce debate raged on, alternating between killing me to keep my mouth shut and, ransoming me to my family. To think I was captured by these imbeciles.

“You might have more success ransoming me,” I agree blithely, and the three gormless idiots stop their bickering to glare at me instead. “But most likely you’ll all end up mysteriously dead over the next few months, because my father really hates kidnappers.”

“Shut up. Don’t say a word or I’ll knock all your teeth out.” The asshole growling this flexes his muscles. Bear shifter, I think, noting a clan tattoo on his hand, two wavy lines. That might be useful for later. Bears hate hiding their tattoos. It’s one of their more stupid traits.

I’m trying to get a read on the kind of kidnappers they are. Medical ward atmosphere suggests an illegal research laboratory. Perhaps forced magic auctions, and magical implants. Highly illegal stuff. Given that about 40% of test subjects tend to fail when they have a magic proxy implanted in them, it does tend to carry with it a significant body count.

They clearly weren’t expecting me to be in that little bar. We were in a tourist district, with a heavy mix of magical and human visitors. If you want to grab humans but don’t want to leave the diplomatic safety of a magical city, then your best bet’s the quirky tourist spots in areas people don’t expect danger from. Just my luck, really. The one time I try to duck out of the limelight, experience life at a more basic level, including talking with interested human tourists – and I’m sucked into the criminal underground, chained up to drown my shifting abilities, while people debate on whether or not to kill me.

Fucking fantastic, really. If this is what happens when I take a sabbatical, I probably should avoid them altogether. I was supposed to be in a human safe-zone as well. But I suppose human safe-zones also tend to attract the most humans, so can be a tempting buffet to those who deal in human slavery for a living.

If I hadn’t chosen such an obscure area to try and experience normal life with, maybe I wouldn’t be in this situation now.

“What did you do with my bodyguard?” I ask, resisting the urge to strain against my bonds. “Decent bodyguards are very expensive to replace.” Beron’s a good man, and a good friend. But I can’t let them know he might mean something to me, because I’d rather not have additional leverage used against me.

My question gains no answer. I didn’t expect one, anyway, but it confirms my suspicions that Beron may not be on the side of the living. Father won’t be pleased with that. I won’t be pleased with that. I’d have to tell his parents, his siblings, his cousins, let alone tell myself.

“Let’s just kill him,” one of the idiots blurts, and I barely retain my eye roll.

“How about another solution?” I say, smiling thinly at them. “Are you auctioning or selling organs?”

More collective hissing and arguing. I add, after licking my dry, uncomfortable lips, “If it’s an auction, can I just buy back my bodyguard? Be a guest there instead, and we can overlook all this inconvenient kidnapping business?”

“You dare –” the bear shifter splutters, but before he finishes his speech, the door behind swings open, and I crane my neck to see an older, slender man walk in, resplendent in a black and grey three piece, clutching a mahogany cane in a spindly hand. He has an air of sophistication about him, and a heavy aura that’s reminiscent of powerful magic.

Also, he couldn’t look more evil if he tried.

“I’ll take over from here,” the man says.

His words are simple, but they clear out the room in seconds. Nobody here seems to want to talk back at him. The man watches them go with gimlet red eyes, and I smell the faint essence of brimstone upon his skin – a demon.

God, I hate demons. Always wanting to make deals with people, all in exchange for a simple little soul. There’s far too many ways those little deals can go wrong.

“Cato Dagen,” the man says, inclining his head in a respectful gesture. “I’m afraid you are quite the mistaken guest in our company here. We had no intentions of placing you in such an undesirable situation.”

“Really,” I say, lips curling in distaste, anger stirring in my veins. He speaks in a smooth, suave manner, as if he thinks himself my friend. A demon is nobody’s friend. “Because it seems I’m here regardless. And I just had to listen to those witless morons argue about whether or not I should be killed.”

“I apologize for that,” the man says, sighing as he taps towards me, and I wonder if he’s actually planning to free me. That might be a surprise. I don’t think he’ll kill me, anyway. It wouldn’t be a particularly smart move for someone trying to stay discreet, though then again, having me captured in the first place wasn’t exactly a smart move, either.

“I’ll accept it if you stand down with this whole business angle you’re working,” I respond, aware I might be aggravating the only reasonable sounding person here, but also not caring. I have an immense dislike for the criminals that operate in our city, hiding out of the law’s eyes, marring what could otherwise be a beautiful city. But there’s a dark heart in almost anywhere where people live.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he replies, almost sounding remorseful, and unease tickles my stomach. “I have a lot of people who would be unhappy, should I cut my business. And many more people willing to take over. Positions like mine don’t stay unoccupied for long.”

True. Worth a try, though.

“What would you like to do with me then? Whoever you are.”

“You can call me the Gentleman,” he says, and I bite back a laugh. He’s got the persona going on, but I can’t think of anyone less like a gentleman than someone who deals with the black market. A gentleman demon, hankering after souls, probably enticing them with a silver tongue out of the unfortunate and unwise. “It’s what everyone else refers to me as. Now, the situation is quite simple, Mr. Dagen. It would be inconvenient to ransom you, nor do I intend to kill you. But if you prove to be too much of a liability, then I will have no choice.”

I watch him linger almost within grabbing distance. “I imagine you’ve had to finish off quite a few people over the years.”

“Quite,” he says. “Now, I understand we have your bodyguard. We will return him. All in good faith. We will drop you off somewhere, without a word, and leave you in peace. But if you come sniffing around… if we catch even a hint that you’re attempting to hunt us down, it will not end well for you and your family.” Although his tone is just as amiable as before, there’s a cold steel in his expression that makes me think, yes, this guy could probably hire assassins by the dozen to slip past my family’s guards. I’d like to think that we could handle him, but it’s best not to make too many enemies. All it takes is one poisoned meal to finish off even a dragon.

Halberg’s a hotbed of political intrigue and journalistic investigations on a normal day. People arguing to let in human immigrants, to block them. Give humans magic, or never let them have the chance. Stop the slave trade, or don’t fuck up traditions and our sky given rights.

“What about the others in the bar?” I ask, eyes narrowed. “What happens to them?”

“None of your concern. Unless, of course, you wish to buy one of them,” Gentleman says with a kindly smile.

I sweat at the notion. The whole point of what I’m doing with my father is to stop slavery.

In normal circumstances, I could agree, buy them, instantly free them. But this isn’t normal. Gentleman’s a demon. And slaves enter special demonic contracts that can’t be broken without extreme pain on the cards, and most likely death. It’s how the system gets perpetrated so easily. Once the contract is signed, the soul’s bound to the contract. If the demon can’t get the soul physically, they can still ensnare it through paper. “You could just release them?”

“That’s not how this works, and you know it.” Gentleman shakes his head, wearing an almost sympathetic smile. “I’ve a business to run. But if you wish to purchase any of our new wares, then perhaps we can extend you an invitation. Masked, of course. No identities divulged. We don’t want the law sniffing around. And of course, you’d have to sign the contracts. Just to make sure you don’t try anything funny.”

This sly huckster. I’d have to let a worm like him continue thriving in the underground, but I’m not much use dead to anyone.

But those women I met in the bar, before everything went wrong – they don’t deserve this. Three friends, there just because one of them got kicked out of medical school, and didn’t know what they wanted to do with their lives. If their first experience of a shifter city was getting kidnapped and sold at a flesh auction… that’d be a very poor experience indeed. People on the fringes of society, without fingerprints and identification vanish all the time. But not people like them. People with hopes, jobs, families, insurances and an active presence in the world. They don’t take drugs, they’re not at the bottom of the rung. But to someone like Gentleman, they’re just meat. Their souls are for the grinder.

As is mine.

It’s odd. Now I realize I have knowledge I can help them, and the power to do so, I feel responsible for it. Like I’m the last line of defense before a life of misery awaits.

I can’t just leave them behind, to be sold god knows where. And I still have to keep that promise I made to Roze – that I’d show her around the city, introduce her to all the beauty it has to offer. Father’s always thinking about making our city more popular to the humans. Stamping out the corruption, letting them breathe in the magical air that shapes us. Creating safe zones where they can’t be taken. We have multiple municipalities in Halberg, so each district has its own flavor and set of rules. Humans see us as one big city, but truthfully, we’re many different areas stitched together in a patchwork metropolitan blanket.

“I do have some interest in your wares,” I say, knowing that my father would call me a fool. Although he wanted to promote the positive image of this place to humans, that didn’t mean he would appreciate me forking out a few hundred thousand to save some, and then bind them to contract, so even if I did want to free them, I couldn’t.

The sheer audacity of it, though, with these people accidentally capturing me, then telling me that if I want to see the others free, then I’d have to pay for them.

I know that slaves aren’t illegal in all the districts, but it is becoming more of an issue to keep them. It’s the ugliest part of our society, and I’m working hard to stop it. It’s more or less banished from the upper levels now, and we are in the process of attempting to push through a bill to make it illegal in our district, but even if it was, this wouldn’t be all of Halberg, or other shifter cities. There’d still be networks to stamp out, and press gangs roaming human and shifter territories, trying to seize more into service, or to fuel the entirely too bustling organ trade.

If I fudge my signature as well, he’ll know. Because the contract won’t take hold, and demons are very particular about their contracts.

I also know because my grandfather keeps slaves, and is against my father’s viewpoint. I know way too much about all of it.

“Now we’ve come to an agreement, we’ll look into releasing you, and then you coming into our masquerade auction to gain whatever it is you wish.”

“Fantastic,” I say, attempting my toothiest smile yet. “Now why don’t you get me out of these chains?”

I hope that somehow, I might be able to find a way to wriggle out of the contract. If I can free the women without resorting to damning their immortal souls to searing agony the moment they attempt freedom.

Maybe then we can catch up on the conversation that was started. Since before we were so rudely interrupted, I think Roze was showing great interest in me.

But possibly not as much interest as I was showing her. Of course, if I can’t afford to buy her, then she’ll likely be sold off to some cruel or dispassionate master. And if I do, I’ll have a hell of a time trying to explain that I didn’t intentionally sign her up for that contract, but it happened anyway.

She’d still be in invisible chains, but those chains are attached instead to her soul.

Chapter 3

Roze

I’m in line behind three men, and my friends are nowhere to be seen. I think maybe they’ve been sold already, or something else has happened. I can’t know for sure, and I don’t want to think about them being… sold to someone.

But that’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m in handcuffs, with a big-ass stitch down my front like I was some kind of freak science experiment. And that’s why they sat me next to someone earlier while categorizing me, to see what “power” I now had.

The magic energy thrums in my veins in a way that’s hard to ignore. It’s like white noise in the back of my head, fizzling there and whispering for me to seize it, to use it, when it’s never been there before.

I’ve heard about the high death rate. A victim or volunteer has about a sixty percent chance of survival. It’s more than half, but it’s still a risky procedure, and I wouldn’t trust the people responsible for placing the bone within someone.

Along with the men and women keeping me prisoner, a strange, fairy-like woman had leaned over me, sniffing at my skin, before informing the others that I had the healing touch. It caused a stir of excitement, and questions about how I had the touch.

“One of the bones resonated with her. Looked to be part of the cranium. I’d never seen such a strong connection. All it took was a small push of my magic, and the bond between them was complete,” said a stubby man with huge dark eyes. They reminded me of how bush babies looked, caught in the glare of a flashlight when an explorer shone it upon them.

“Cranium?” the fairy had replied. “I thought we didn’t have any bones like that. It’s all ribs, legs and arms, isn’t it?”

“Came with the delivery man. New guy, come to think of it. Never seen him before. Plopped a pile of bones down, including that cranium.”

They had debated it a fierce while, leading me to the impression that this cranium they talked about was one of a kind in the pile they had to work with. I shudder to think about the notion of a great heap of bones, all plucked from the dead, assembled for the sole purpose of infecting humans with magic via the hated art of necromancy. Shortly afterwards, a man with a walking cane had entered the room to examine me. His eyes were a burning red, and he watched me with such hunger that my skin crawled all over. The first thing he did when he discovered that I had a cranium bone implanted in me was to leave the room for a moment. When he came back, he said something about it being fine, his prize was still in its rightful place.

She will be our flagship sell tonight, he’d said. People will pay through the roof to have her kind of power. Though I am going to find out who was responsible for delivering that implant, because healing bones are expensive.

He had seemed puzzled for a moment, before leaving, and all the other attendees had fussed around me afterwards like I was a particularly attractive piece of stuffed pig.

I’m monumentally pissed off that I’ve had my freedom stripped from me. I’m livid that they performed an unauthorized vivisection on me to give me an implant, happily risking my death. I’m scared, nervous, and more than petrified for the fate of my friends. What if they went through the same process I did? What if they’re now hurt?

Despite all of this, there’s a part of me delighted to have magic. Even with the way I’ve gained it, and the way I’m treated, like some market commodity, rather than an actual human being.

I have magic. Actual, stinkin’ magic.

It pulses from the implant, mingling with the mental white noise. Spreading through my veins and leaving through my fingertips. It sends a kind of perverse thrill, almost arousal through me, to stumble upon that power: a magic that draws me to touch someone, to knit their flesh together, to repair them. To fix anyone. Like myself? I turn this suggestive power upon the stitches, letting it flow out, funneling into the delicate flesh. It’s a peculiar feeling, to say the least, when each stitch pops itself out of me one by one. Glad I don’t look like some messed up experiment anymore.

Well, at least I know now they’re going to market and sell me as a healer, though I could have aided others before all this. I know how to treat injuries, to do a kidney transplant, and to identify most common symptoms a human body endures. There’s immense pressure on those training to be surgeons, like I was. One fatal mistake, and it makes you liable for your patient’s family to press charges. No hospital wants that stain upon their reputation. My throat is dry, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to block everything out.

It’s not enough we work sixteen hour shifts and deal with death, trauma, and patients. We have to make it that much harder on ourselves by being cruel as well, because other people were cruel before them.

The line shifts. I’m one behind being sold, and watch the next victim be taken through a door, lost from sight forever. Anxiety pounds under my ribcage, next to the strange lump, that foreign invader inside me fueling my newfound magic. My thoughts drift from my predicament to my friends.

They just wanted to cheer me up. We thought – surely no one would be so foolish to take us. We were traveling together. We were never alone. Only isolated, vulnerable people get picked off. Not an entire establishment. The fuck is up with that? We should have been safe.

We should have been safe.

God, mother must be going crazy, not hearing a word from me. Or maybe she thinks I’m just on one of my party weekends, not paying attention to my phone and focusing instead on the pleasures of Halberg city, with its wintry climate and picturesque scenery. Not stuck in a dingy little room with other prisoners, waiting for someone to scoop us up, perhaps praying silently for an eleventh hour rescue.

No rescue comes. I’m standing next to a demonic guard, who says, in a rather bored voice, “When you go on stage, you will be quiet, meek, and obey any instructions given. Should you disobey any of them, or cause a spectacle, it will result in you being terminated.”

He’s said this to every slave that’s stood next to him, and this is the first time I’ve heard the whole thing. I’m eventually shuffled on stage, still dancing through emotions, a sick churning in my stomach when I see potentially hundreds of masked figures scanning me, devouring me, wondering what potential I have to offer to them. All of them here clearly support the slave trade, and I’ll just vanish into one of their houses, imprisoned, and any attempt to escape will burn my soul.

Yes – I know about the slave contracts. Why it’s so difficult to unmake a slave in a magical city once they’re bound to one. It places a gilded cage around the soul, and it’s there for as long as a contract abides.

Seeing all of these people in front of me locks up my limbs. All of them are wearing masks, and all of them are here to buy someone. I wonder how many will be interested in me.

I wonder how they can all sit there, so calmly, treating someone else’s life like a commodity.

A demon paces the stage, announcing that I’m a crowning glory of this particular night. The magical implant inside me has delivered the gift of healing, to mend injury and disease with a touch, and it could be yours, all for the special starting price of one million.

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.”

“Your 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.

If only I could rip this infernal thing out. It’s mocking me: tying me to the industry I left behind. From all those whispered conversations behind my back, the sneering disdain of my colleagues, the laughter and raucous cheers when I messed up, tripped over a word in my sentence, or stated an incorrect fact during my long, endless shifts, snatching sleep where I could, until I became a fragment of a person with a fragment of life outside it all.

Character building, they said. Toughening you up, they said.

The fact I’m out of there means I washed out, that I’m pathetic, weak, a snowflake who didn’t have the mettle to endure.

A failure. The words beat a rhythm into my skull, drowning out any positive reinforcement in it. Then I think of my friend.

You weren’t failing, Alex had tried to assure me. No one should have to put up with something like that. It’s the industry and the people there who’re all wrong, not you.

Sure, Alex. Sure.

I continue to glare at the wall. It probably wouldn’t be wise to fall apart at the seams here. I’m already in a vulnerable position as it is. I’d just make it easier for them to push me over. I know this, but that doesn’t stop me from sinking into that swamp, of feeling all willpower and energy sap out of my skin, along with that vague sense of panic that if I don’t do something soon, stage some kind of escape attempt, I might lose all desire to do so in the near future.

The panic rises, and I start walking from room to room, scouring every nook and cranny, hoping to find some structural weakness or secret passageway behind a bookcase – anything to get me out.

But how far can I get in Halberg, frozen metropolis of northern Arizona, if I’m branded like this? I doubt they’d want a magical human escaping. Especially one who has healing powers, though I’m yet to know just how strong the powers will be.

In a sudden burst of anger, I lash out at the small table by my bed, cringing from the pain radiating through my bone. The pain at least gives me distraction, so I let that conquer me for a moment.

There has to be opportunities. I’m panicking too much, wallowing too much to see them, but they must exist. I rub at my ankle, grimacing when I consider that all of my friends have been implanted. All of them had someone dig into them, and place that magical artifact to pump secondary magic through their veins. What I don’t understand is why I’m a healer, and they have lesser abilities. Things that can already be achieved by a skillful human who practices in those professions for decades. Who have a natural talent for such thing. Or does the magic simply enhance what is already there?

Alex did play the piano. Not well, but she loved it. Always trying to research music from games and shows she watched to play. She sang along to music and karaoke, but I wouldn’t have said she had a talent for music. It was just something she liked to do. There were plenty of other things she liked to do as well, but they didn’t give her the implant for them.

As for Tiffany: she’d worked in a flower arrangement shop for a summer, and loved plucking daffodils from the fields come spring, and said cherry blossoms were her favorite type of blooming flower, but that again didn’t translate to her suddenly gaining green fingers. If anything, if she did have a power, it should have been more related to her swimming. Since she’d once trained hard to try and qualify for the Olympics, but it didn’t work out that way.

My musings cut off as the door to my suite opens. I tense up instantly, reacting to the threat: Cato walking through the entrance, followed by his hulking shadow, Beron. The door closes behind them, and the two regard me for a moment, their faces blank, betraying nothing of their thoughts. I wonder if mine are all over my face. The need to escape. The hatred wafting their way. The awareness that if I openly defy them, it will not end well for me. Beron tried to explain the terms of the contract in the car, but I wasn’t really listening.

“I’m sorry about this,” is Cato’s first words to me. “And I owe you an explanation.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re explaining,” I bite, outraged at the audacity of his statement. Because I don’t see how being sold into slavery can be justified. This is the dark underworld my family warned me against, and the skeptics yelled about in sensationalist headlines. This is the face of modern slavery in a world that still regards humans as second class citizens, or worse. And it came to me with a charming smile, a kindness in silvery eyes, hiding a monster beneath.

Cato winced, exchanging a wary look with his bodyguard. Beron, with his brown eyes and soft tousled dark hair, gave a shrug in return.

“I was captured that night, along with you and your friends,” Cato began, and although a part of me is determined to blot out his words, the other part’s interested enough to hear what he has to say, before a judgment call is made. Those two sides constantly war with each other, along with the throb in my ankle bone. Along with that strange, twisted desire that blooms when it should be dormant. This isn’t the time or place to feel such a thing. It’s almost as if there’s a foreign entity triggering those emotions.“The thieves wanted to target obscure places like that bar, bag as many as they could – but they didn’t expect to see me there.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, his eyes wide and earnest, as if desperately imploring me to believe him.

“And?” He’s waiting for me to say something, and I oblige him for the moment, still disconcerted that my body’s reacting, contrary to my thoughts. At least no one can visibly see anything.

“I’m the son of someone very powerful in the area,” Cato says. “And the leader of that little operation didn’t want any of the trouble that came with capturing such a high profile figure. So he let me free, with some conditions. And he wasn’t the kind of person I wanted to refuse, given that I had very little bargaining room. I wasn’t allowed to get you girls out – unless I bought you from the auction. And I signed a contract: a demonic contract for my freedom, and another for your services.”

Demonic contract. Oh fuck. I’ve heard about that. We’ve had plenty of musicians, lawyers, and some suspicious celebrities who have made bargains with demons, and some types of fae that also love deals, but usually come with a horrible side effect.

I’m still not sure about Cato, but some of my previous hostility is dissipating. And now I have to ask. “What were the terms of the contract?”

“That I don’t tell the public about the location of the demon’s operations. That I won’t attempt to get any of them arrested. Or...” his voice trails off, before he says, “that I allow you three to be free with your magic, and to tell the world what happened to you. Any of these terms get broken, we’re all in trouble.”

I glare at him for a moment, all too aware of these conditions. “You should have found another way.” The statement sounds bratty when said out loud, but right now, I’m acting too stubborn for anything else.

“There’s more,” he says in a rather miserable tone. “My father’s not happy about this.”

Feeling rather faint, I sit down on the bed, elbows on my knees, cradling my head. “You don’t say?”

“Like I told you: he’s currently trying to push through legislation to make slavery illegal in this district. If it’s found out there’s three contracted human slaves with unethical implants in them in his own household, it might fuck up his entire campaign. And he’d rather avoid the public risk by keeping you three out of sight.”

The headache worsens as I listen, and a sick churning fills up my stomach until it’s difficult to breathe. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you might be kept here a while. And unless I find a way to change the terms of the contract,” he says, looking extremely doubtful in his own words, “then this might be a permanent fixture for you and your friends.”

“No,” I gasp. “You can’t do this. This can’t be forever.”

“I can,” he says, his mouth now a thin line. “And this situation is my fault. I believed that I should save you three. I made that judgment call. And I’m sorry that it couldn’t have been better for you.”

Without another word, he gets up and leaves with his bodyguard, and I’m left screaming murder and thumping my fists against the door, tears spluttering down my cheeks like salty drops, until all the vented emotion leaves me exhausted, and I fall into bed numbly. Thoughts and emotions swirl in me as a chaotic wind. Sleep claims me soon after.

* * *

They bring me food, and attempt to exchange pleasantries each time, but I’m not in the mood for any. I want to see my friends, if nothing else, and although I’m also tempted not to eat the food, it’s ultimately a fruitless means of defiance.

I know I should be grateful on a level that Cato did save my friends and keep us together, but the method in which he achieves this “saving” results in the same thing as being bought by someone else entails: I’m a prisoner, not allowed contact with my own family, and hidden out of sight while he figures out what to do with me. The magic continues to lick inside me, always whispering for release, and it’s frustrating I can’t use it. It’s as if I’m constantly horny, but I’m not allowed to do anything about it. Not the end of the world, but not exactly pleasant, either.

Every time I see Cato come into the suite, he always carefully avoids eye contact, as if he’s aware this shouldn’t be happening, but doesn’t quite know how to address it. He tells me that he’s working with his father, and he doesn’t want us together just for now in case it causes more harm than good.

Naturally, I disagree with him on that fact. Beron’s more prone to keep eye contact with me, and he even attempts smiles on occasion. Beron has the kind of face that needs to be seen in motion to appear handsome. When still, it’s rather plain, and likely bad for the photographers trying to capture a perfect shot, but when it’s animated, he has an almost graceful charm. I observe this objectively, because at this point I’m sat here in my luxurious prison twiddling my thumbs and biting my nails to the quick, haunted by thoughts of my friends, family, future and past.

When I see my friends, it’s only for brief periods of time, in a room at the end of the long hallway outside. With people watching us, it means our conversation is cautious, and we’re not saying what we really want to say to one another. I’m not sure what they’re watching us for. Cato said that he helped me, but this is all very cloak and dagger, when surely it’d make more sense just for me to be with my friends.

As for the men... to think I’d been attracted to the both of them. That thoughts about their bodies, their mannerisms, and curiosity just as to how they might be sexually were happily floating through my mind. That when I forget to be angry and resentful, sometimes I drift straight back into that internal process, until I snap out of it and remind myself that it’s stupid. That clearly, all the pent up frustrations of the past few months are driving me to a sort of temporary insanity on top of everything else.

Since it seems, no matter the situation, I can’t always control initial impulses. Visceral responses. It’d be cool if I didn’t have them, thanks.

Oh, and also, my first attempt at disobeying an order didn’t end well.

When Cato gave me a command, to stand up from the chair I was sitting in, I stubbornly refused. My instant defiance came with a heavy, painful cost. Within seconds, a creeping pain wrought through me, until it felt like every inch of me was on fire, as if I was experiencing every slice of pain possible that the world had to offer, before I stood up, and it vanished, leaving my body tingling from the memory of that agony.

“I’m sorry,” Cato was saying after that. “I’m so sorry. But you had to understand what defiance costs. What this contract means.”

He left me then to dwell on the awful situation, and the twisting knots in my heart as I realized that my free will was taken from me. Even if Cato tried to avoid giving me orders, he was contractually bound to make at least one a week. And if he slips and ends up pushing me around further, there’s nothing I can do to stop it. My freedom is a joke, and I am at the mercy of someone else.

Tiffany and Alex must be steaming. I wish I could see them. But Cato has to “sort things out” for our security, apparently, and make sure we have little to no risk of being discovered by prying eyes.

Cato and Beron drop in on me, offering small conversation. The more they drop in, the more I sense that they truly are remorseful, that this situation is not what they wanted, or intended, but the spiteful part within me wants to deny all their apologies anyway. Since, remorse or not, I’m still in this situation, with a bone stuck within me, with magic itching to be used, and no one to use it upon. It also seems that lack of magic builds upon sexual arousal, too, and I hate it. I hate that I feel aroused at all, since sometimes it bleeds into my thoughts, leading to wildly inappropriate notions about Cato and Beron.

It’d be nice if I could control my own reactions. If I could reach into myself and yank out this implant, but I know that if I do so, I will surely die.

The days trickle into one another. I might have been here one week, or two. All without seeing my friends, without budging from this room which is more my prison. Cato says something about “arranging” things with his father, to enable me more freedom to do what I want to do, once his father is certain we’re not going to storm out of the place and bleat that we were enslaved.

Which is tempting, to say the least. I’d probably want to do that.

It’s not until the day after Cato explained about his father, which probably is nearing the end of the second week, that Beron bursts into my room without anyone else to watch, startling me out of a doze. “Roze!” he shouts, his voice ringing in my ears like a klaxon wail. “You need to come with me! Your friend is hurt!”

Hurt? What did they do to her? I’ve no time to ponder if this is some elaborate deception or not. If Alex or Tiffany are hurt, I have to help them. I fall into step behind Beron, rubbing my eyes furiously against the lethargy in my bones, and the grit crusting my eyelids together. Dizzy with worry, imagination going through all sorts of awful scenarios, I have to hiss at myself to pay attention to the surroundings. There’s several doors on each side, with a wide, colorful carpet stretched out like a python under our feet. When he walks into the fourth door to the left, I hurry into the newly revealed suite room, so similar to the one I’m trapped in, and into the tiled bathroom.

It takes a moment to register the sight. A full bathtub. Water and liquid splashed everywhere. Tiffany, draped in full clothes upon the floor, sodden wet, blue in the lips, while Cato performs CPR on her, but he’s not putting the correct pressure upon her sternum.

“Out of the way!” I screech, barging past Beron, a nervous looking butler, and causing Cato, dripping and wretched looking to stop his activity. My automatic impulse is to take over the CPR, letting my medical training kick into action, but my magical impulse locks my palm upon her cheek, like a seed rooting into soil, and the magic funnels out of me, emptying itself into Tiffany’s frail (lifeless) body.

I swallow all my emotions, everything that might make me freeze, to delay giving Tiffany the care she needs in time. I bat away the stray thoughts, ignore the sick churning in my guts as best as able, and feed her my magic, which spreads through her body like a spidery web.

I can see the path of my magic, map out her veins, her muscles, as if in my mind’s eye, I’m staring at a picture of the inside of a human, looking out. The water in her lungs is forced out with my magic, dribbling from the corners of her mouth like some grotesque human fountain, fixing the rupture in her lungs, the damaged blood vessels and connections, oxygenating her brain, and also in the process, plucking at a strange mass which in my limited knowledge of medicine, will eventually trigger some sort of aneurysm at an indeterminable point in the future.

I’m chasing every little flaw I can feel from inside her, lost in the complex infrastructure of her internal body, feeling everything that makes up her: all 206 – no – 208 of her bones, with the little sesamoids no one includes in the final bone count.

Just as I’m probing at the potential onset of type 1 diabetes in her in a few years, my magic runs out.

And I snap away from her, hitting the floor hard, no strength left in my body. Pain radiates in my chin from where I hit the hard floor with it, and I’m pretty sure I chipped a part of my back molar. “Shit,” I say, and it’s all I can muster, as Tiffany coughs, eyes opening, and stares around in that dizzy, disoriented haze.

My sluggish thoughts group together as Beron takes me in his huge arms, far gentler than his bulk has a right to be, and Cato helps prop Tiffany into a sitting position. All my thoughts reach one conclusion.

My friend just tried to kill herself.

Why?

Chapter 5

Cato

For better convenience, and because frankly, I can’t see a good enough reason to keep the women away from each other, no matter what my father says about making sure they don’t “plot things together”, I’ve placed all three in my own suite in the subterranean levels. Reserved for dragons who especially like the dark, and the more traditional cavern features our ancestors appreciated. Four bedrooms, far too much space that I never use anyway, along with gothic styled chandeliers, everburning candles gifted from the Irish fae that live in Halberg, and a slumber chamber if I want to rest in dragon form. Which I rarely do, because dragon sleep tends to last longer than human sleep. Humans only need about eight hours of recovery, a dragon needs double that amount, and has bursts of energy for only six hours or so at a time.

If the friends want to talk escape with one another, to seek comfort in one another, I won’t deny them this right any longer.

“I’m not suicidal,” Tiffany says, sank into the big leather sofa (dragon wing leather – we don’t like our dead to go to waste), hemmed in by Alex and Roze. She still wears the same dazed expression of shock from a few hours before, horrified at the concept she’d just tried to drown herself in the bath. “I swear to god, that’s not me at all.” She seems puzzled, detached. The words come after a lot of fussing, hugging, and Roze staring at me as if she wishes I’m in the fires of hell, burning in agony. Her face is sinister in the flickering shadows of the candlelights that surround the sofa.

I saved you, I want to tell her. I don’t want that disdain beaming my way. There was nothing else I could have done in that scenario. But the end result is still the same. She’s a prisoner in my family home, and I’m the captor. Is there such a thing as an unwilling captor? Or am I kidding myself on that part?

“We know you’re not,” Alex soothes, now running slender fingers through the blond waves of Tiffany’s head.

“They weren’t abusing you?” Roze asks, and I have to wince at that question, because it’s clear she’s expecting the worse. Even although Beron and I are doing everything in our power to make the three women comfortable – we can’t let them roam around just yet.

Tiffany shakes her head mutely, but the dull expression on her face suggests the worse.

Eventually, I have no choice but to pull Roze aside, and her friend Alex, and inform them both, quietly, that Tiffany is experiencing what I believe is a reaction to the implant.

“Reaction?” Roze folds her arms. A primal part of my brain regards her posture, her expression, and wants nothing more than to dominate her in some way. I usually let those urges rise and fall. I can’t control that part of my brain, but I can control my actions regarding it. Mostly. It’s not always worked out great in the past. I have gone to places on occasion, solely to give into those urges, to eat, sleep, fuck and dominate. Sometimes I’ve dragged Beron with me as well, to make sure he has something to do, but he’s always so stoic. He refuses to “have fun” like the other men I know, and stubbornly sticks to making sure I’m under protection at all times. He’s my live-in guard, and seems to run on less sleep than I do. I’ve seen him take two hour power naps and bounce up from those completely fine.

I wonder if he stores it all up, and then one day in the future, he just collapses into a year long hibernation or something. Bear shifter physiology’s still a relative unknown for me.

“Yes,” I confirm, hoping that she will understand. Knowing that the news I give her is unpleasant, since most reactions regarding implants tend to result in a fatality sooner or later. But I don’t tell her that.

Just in case there is hope, and the reaction doesn’t end up adopting its worse possible form.

* * *

Roze

It’s taking a while to knot itself through my brain, but I think I can understand to a degree that Cato’s not my enemy. He’s in an impossible situation, and attempting to make the most of it. Unfortunately, in the result of him attempting to protect his self-interests, and the aims of his father, it means the three of us have to suffer.

I don’t fully trust his intentions, and he sure as hell can’t trust ours. Because we do want to escape. And now we’re all together in this cave, it gives us time to discuss our future, what we might be able to do – and if we’re in danger from the demon contract if we breach its conditions independently of Cato’s wishes.

“I don’t even get this whole demon contract thing,” Tiffany says, distracting herself by boiling the coffee strainer. She’s been trying out all the different coffees the cupboard has on offer. Cato’s rooms have the feel of belonging to something not fully human. Part of it is accommodated for a bear or a dragon, given the cold stone, the cavernous areas and mossy ground for resting on. The other part I guess is for his human form, but I don’t get why he has so many bedrooms. Dragon orgies? For the multiple bodyguards that might follow him around?

“Never do a deal with a demon,” Alex says, bouncing up and down on her queen size bed. Each bedroom is separated by a wall and a beaded curtain, but otherwise doesn’t offer that much in the way of privacy. The beads make an annoying clatter when walked through. The bedroom I’m currently choosing to sleep in is definitely Cato’s one, because there’s a cupboard with men’s clothes in it (and now some women’s clothes), a male perfume bottle that smells faintly of strong mint and a hint of some spice, and a grooming kit for face hair.

“Plenty of people have done deals with demons,” I say, privately thinking that my previous boss might have. For someone who had worked his way to a full residency, my former boss never actually seemed to have any surgery action, and from what people have said about him – his success rate was low. Something about money or maybe a bribe had been whispered – but only whispered.

I think if someone had shown me to a demon at the very start of my residency, I might have considered a deal. All for the measly price of a human soul. Which I don’t like the implication of, because it suggests there is a heaven and hell, and I’ve been raised up as a humanist for the most part. All about the value of human agency in things.

“Yes, but they’re damning themselves,” Alex says. “And the deals have some kind of expiration date, don’t they? It doesn’t seem to be worth it.”

“A little bit of power and fame is better than none at all,” Tiffany says. “I think it’s worth it.”

“He says if we break the contract, it’ll curse us,” I say, scowling from Alex’s side, watching her bounce up and down, finding it distracting, so that I can barely think. “That breaking a demon’s curse is an extremely bad idea. No shifter, monster or fae would dare.”

So much I don’t know about this world. And I’d just walked into it like a silly tourist, thinking I knew a lot from my internet researches, but in reality pulling up short of the information I needed.

“Obviously we don’t want to spend the rest of our lives stuck here.” I pout my lips, one finger tapping against the knuckle of my other hand. Since that would make things awkward. But without opportunity to call or use the internet, without any news being shipped in, and with the fact that we don’t have aggressive magical powers, and everyone outside these walls has something dangerous with their powers.

To be honest, it looks rather shit.

“I was right about Cato being famous though,” Alex says, and I let out a soft snort. Yay for consolation prizes, I guess. I leave my friends talking to one another, attempting to plot all the things I’ve plotted already, and walk into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I’m thinking of taking a shower because my body’s cold all over, but when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, although it’s pointless, I flatten and neaten my greasy hair, because it’s hanging from my head like limp rope.

There’s a small, injured spider in the sink, feebly scrabbling to get out of the copper sink, and I feel an itch to heal it. By injured, I see that it has two legs missing altogether, and now I’m suddenly curious to discover if my powers can translate to saving creatures with a completely different physiology. Mammals have things we can target and repair – so can anything with a vertebrae – but this little thing here has no bone structure at all.

Just as well. It’s why we’ll never get spiders as big as buses. They wouldn’t be able to support their own weight.

Magic thrums out of me, weaving through the spider. Looking from the inside of the spider is an interesting experience, to say the least, but growing the two missing limbs takes almost no effort at all. It’s a house spider, usually cheerfully hanging in the corners of people’s houses in webs that are nowhere near as intricate as some of those we see in the gardens, and it crawls up my hand, slowly, calmly. Even when I move and place it near the tiny window that provides ventilation after a hot, steamy shower or bath… it just lazily scuttles out.

Maybe I can become a Disney princess if I find other creatures to heal. Back to the mirror at hand, I check out to see if I’ve developed any offending pimples, and pull a few stupid expressions.

The image of myself in the mirror blurs as I lean closer, and the brown eyes transform into green. Startled, I freeze, trying to register what the hell just happened, and who the woman in the mirror is, because she’s not me.

Green eyed. Long, dark, flowing hair, like waves cascading over her shoulders, and with skin so pale white that I’m not sure if that skin’s seen a drop of sunlight. She wears clothes from another era, furs and stitched together clothing that looks more suited to surviving a hard winter.

The face is beautiful, but cruel, with the sharpness of an eagle. When the eyes blink, and seem to take me in, I clap a hand to my mouth. This must be some fae or mythological creature, but appearing in the bathroom window?

Tapping the mirror from her side, the woman has her brow furrowed in concentration, until, with a distinctly clear and imperious voice, she says, “Who are you?”

Oh boy. “Who are you?” I reply, because my brain’s shut down and I think the limits of what I can tolerate with this magical bullshit are being reached.

The woman puckers her lips, which are red, like they’ve been painted with blood. “Unless you want you and your descendants to be cursed for a thousand years, I suggest you refrain from backtalk.”

Oh. Okay, then. She does look like the sort of person who could conceivably curse descendants for a thousand years. Or the kind of person someone might have attempted to burn at the stake if we travel back in time a few centuries or so. “I’m Roze Chaplan,” I say, nervous, wondering if people appearing in mirrors is a common thing in Halberg, because I sure as hell never saw something like this in the brochures. Maybe this is how they speak to each other? Screw the phone, just buzz the mirror and wait for someone on the other side?

“A human,” the woman says, with a faint air of disdain. Her eyes are hooded, adding to the permanent scowl of arrogance she wears upon her ethereal face. “You stink of it. A human that desecrates the grave.”

I’m not sure I like the way this conversation is going. “I’m sorry: what?”

“You pilfer magic. You wear the bones of one of the sacred dead in you. Of a person killed before their time, ripped apart like a deer between wolves.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say truthfully, though some of her words stir dim suspicion in me. Pilfering magic… she must be talking about my implant. There’s also a more archaic feel to her word selection. “Who are you? Why are you appearing in this mirror? How are you appearing in this mirror?”

The woman regards me for a moment, as if she can’t believe I’m really this stupid, and it grates on my nerves a little. She says something that sounds like “Mor-e-gan.” She pauses, waiting for me to comprehend it, but that’s not happening.

“How do you spell it?”

Her eyebrows knit in irritation, but she does spell it out. “The Morrigan,” she says. “Surely you’ve heard of me?”

I don’t think I’ve heard of anyone who put “The” as an actual part of their name. I guess she thinks she’s special or something. “Still not ringing a bell.”

A small huff of irritation leaves her lips. “And you have no idea what you contain in your body?”

“Uh… I know I have an implant,” I say, not sure if I should be talking to this scary apparition in the mirror, whose eyes glitter like glossy, black beetle shells. “It was forced in me. I was… taken. Kidnapped, and they put the implant in me and sold me with its magic.”

The Morrigan squints those eyes, nostrils flaring as if she’s trying to smell the lie in my words. Evidently, she decides I’m as dumb as I look, for she says, “Unfortunate for you. The seed of corruption runs deep. There will be blood spilled. But perhaps it will not be yours.”

And she vanishes. Just like that. I’m left staring dumbly at the mirror, partially shocked, and partially annoyed that she just disappeared without an explanation. At all. Like, who the fuckity fuck is she? Why did she appear in the mirror? Why speak to me and then just abandon the conversation like I’m one of the worse first dates ever?

There’s knocking outside, a fist rapping on the bathroom door.

“Roze. Roze!” It’s Cato’s voice, and I startle out of my confusion, enough to yell at him that I’m coming out in a moment. When I do, his silver eyes lock with mine, and he looks harassed, frightened, even. “Are you okay? The magical sensors in my suite triggered. Someone used magic – powerful magic. Are you okay? Did anything happen?”

At first, I’m tempted to tell him that nothing happened. To keep this… Morrigan or whatever a secret. Why does he deserve to know? But I also see Alex and Tiffany hovering anxiously in the background, and Beron sniffing around the suite, like he expects to find the culprit who used unwarranted magic.

“I… had a visit,” I say, and Cato’s thin eyebrows arch upward.

“By what? Who?”

“She called herself The Morrigan or something,” I say. I state it casually, but the moment the name slips out of my mouth, the color in Cato’s face drains, and he looks like a pale ghost of the Cato a moment before.

“Are… are you sure you heard that name?” he says carefully.

“Yes. I asked her to spell it out.” By his expression, I’m guessing people don’t ask Morrigans to spell their names out. “She did seem a little offended I didn’t know about her.”

“Why did she appear to you?” Cato says, and his worry is so evident, that for a moment I forget that I’m supposed to be hating him. I’m guessing it’s slightly concerning when random magical people appear in the mirror. I tell him as best as able what she said, though I’m sure I butcher the word she used; Cato and Beron look even more concerned when I’ve finished.

“So what’s a Morrigan?” I ask.

“The Morrigan,” Beron says, his low, grumbling voice filling the awkward silence that followed my statement, “Is an ancient Irish supernatural creature. She’s known as the Phantom Queen, and used to be the ruler of the Celtic Alliance in Ireland. At least, until she disappeared about fifty years ago. No one’s heard of her since. Until she appeared in the bathroom mirror, apparently.”

“She’s a ruler? A queen?” I gape, fascinated by the implication, and Cato nods.

“There was an incident. Celtic supernatural creatures have some of the most potent magic in their bodies, and they were being hunted. Holy resting places being disturbed so they could dig up the bodies and take the bones. Word was that they killed The Morrigan and harvested her bones to form implants for the illegal magic trade. Pretty nasty business. Huge succession problem in the Alliance. Took them about ten years of civil warfare before the Dagda took over.”

Again, these names mean nothing to me. I’ve only researched a little about the Northern American magical creatures – I have no idea about the ones in Europe or the East. “Okay, so that’s interesting and all. But that still doesn’t explain why she appeared to me.”

“Gentleman,” Cato says under his breath. “He’s dealing in Irish bones. So not only is he an immoral demon selling magically enhanced humans on the black market, but he’s probably raided a recent burial site and picked up some bones from there. And not just any bones, but bones The Morrigan appears to. So you might have a piece of one of The Morrigan’s children inside you, Or The Morrigan herself,” Cato says, and I go cold at the implication.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. The Morrigan is dead,” Cato says. “But if she’s reacting to the magic being used… perhaps her power runs far beyond death – or maybe she never was killed at all. She was considered one of the most powerful beings of the ancient world.” He pauses. “She didn’t curse you, did she?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Good. The Morrigan was particularly famous for her curses. Don’t want to get on the bad side of that one.”

I don’t want to get on the bad side of anything. Again, I’m struck by a powerful urge that I should have never entered this place: this icy cold city full to the brim with magical secrets, villains in the cracks, a bustling black market trade in humans, organs and magic, and what sounds like exploitation of preternatural creatures as well.

The person implanted inside me, whoever they were – it didn’t occur to me that they might have been a victim as well. I assume they were robbed, taken from those already gone.

Not taken from someone after murdering them.

Chapter 6

Gentleman

Hatred ripples through Gentleman’s soul. He quivers in fury, staring at the precious spot where The Morrigan’s skull-plate once stood on proud display. He’d paid an obscene amount for that bone. Anything belonging to The Morrigan didn’t come cheap. The magic in such bones was so potent, so exceptional, that the bone needed to be sealed in anti-magic lining, lest it influence the place it rested in with negative energy.

And now the bone was gone.

“Are you sure,” Gentleman says, with an icy bite in his tone as he turns to his transplant surgeon, Antonio, “that you never touched the bone?”

“I’m sure,” Antonio says, cringing before Gentleman, who finds such subservience disgusting. If it wasn’t for Antonio’s prestigious skills and high success rate in placing the implants in the humans, he would have been killed long ago.

“And it never occurred to you, in administering the implants, that it was odd that one of the ones you selected from was a skullplate? It never occurred to you, when you told me that we had a healer, that you suspected the bone you used for that human happened to contain more potent magic than the others?”

“It reacted perfectly,” Antonio whispers. “When I tested it with that human’s blood, it was a match. No complications with the surgery at all. Never had a procedure so clean.”

“But how did it get there?” Gentleman roars, slamming his hand against the reinforced glass cabinet. “How did it end up in your pile of ghoul-bones, engraved and implant ready, instead of being on display here?”

And how had he not noticed it was missing, until today? The replica inside the cabinet was a poor imitation. It held none of the energy the skullplate possessed.

Yet, he had walked past it several times in the last two weeks without any suspicion at all.

“I…” Antonio swallows, like he has an apple stuck in his throat. “I just assumed it was a part of the selection, my lord…”

Gentleman stares hard at the empty spot where the bone used to lie, proudly on display on the purple velvet cushion. He’d had plans for it. Perhaps he should have kept it more hidden, but his study was locked, and people knew better than to mess around with Gentleman’s belongings.

They should have, anyway.

“I think,” Gentleman says, after determining that Antonio really is as clueless as he looks, “that we have a traitor in our midst.”

* * *

Cato

Taking Roze out of the room is considered a risk on my part. I have to watch my father’s guards within the estate, and take her to my study, where I’ve set up a scrying glass, and a dinner table laden with a selection of delicacies, all in an attempt to make her life marginally better.

Her eyes glow as she enters the room, following tightly behind me, sandwiched by Beron, who is my professional shadow – and I can’t help but think of the magic she has within her. Usually I can avoid thinking about it, but right now, I’m fully aware and cognizant that she has the bone of a long dead supernatural creature within.

The way humans can gain magic is despicable. But any can gain it if they survive the operation. All for the simple price of desecrating the remains of those who were loved and passed away. There’s some tug and pull with the supernatural creatures who are livid that human museums display their dead or have sacred bone fragments for millions of tourists to gawk over in a given year. There’s fights to return these bones to their rightful places, but the humans love to hang onto their spoils, and seem to think finders keepers trumps origin.

There are a few species out there that might disagree with that sentiment.

Even though we give Roze permission and freedom to move, she still feels a little reluctant to go far. She claims that the bonds of their contract is chafing against her, making it hard for her to have the kind of freedom she desires, and again, I’m reminded that I need to do something about locating Gentleman.

But how to do it in a way that doesn’t reveal that I’m actively hunting him down? He’ll have security, likely some form of magical protection that I can’t comprehend, and a self-destruct button on all four of us. I’d need to perhaps haul in a detective, hired by someone who has little to no association to me. Maybe I can drop an anonymous note at the precinct… but what if the information I’ve gleaned off him is only information I would know? So when the police turn up at an empty warehouse, it won’t exactly be hard for Gentleman to figure out I’d ratted on him. Cue some burning of the soul.

Reporters are sniffing around us. They sense there’s a story in the heart of the estate, given that we’ve now restricted entry to it completely. Doubtless we must be hiding something. So speculation stories open up in our news.

Meanwhile, although I may or may not be mistaken, there seems to be a certain heightened tension, whenever I interact with Roze.

The kind of tension that develops from long stares, the awareness of physical presence, and the quickening of heartbeat, the rush of heat to cheeks. More than once, she has stammered to a complete stop in her sentences, as though lost in a thought. And sometimes she just has this look to her face that makes me think she’s still interested in the concept of us, after what feels like years ago since we sat in that bar, unaware of where the night’s events would lead us.

Never to here.

It never should have been here.

* * *

Roze

I sit there in the darkness, eyes attempting to adjust to the gloom, feeling the foreign, invasive energies inside me. I might have wanted powers, but not in this way. Not when it means the restriction of freedom, and to waste away in this grand but strangely empty estate, waiting for the bill to be passed or failed, waiting for them to figure out a way out of the demon contract.

So far, Cato’s told me the only surefire way to escape the clauses of a demon contract, is when the contract needs to be renewed in five years time – a failsafe added so that someone doesn’t continue adhering to the terms when their master is long dead. I’d still need to be given orders, but anyone close to the master can substitute if they’re not around.

Five years of my life gone means I’ll be thirty by the time it ends. Does that mean five years without contact with my family, as well? Five years without a job, without a regular connection with the human world, instead getting embroiled in petty politics is not really how I’d prefer to live. I feel like maybe they’re exaggerating the demon punishment. It’s not like if I step outside the city I’m going to be roped by a demon and dragged kicking and screaming to hell, is it?

You’ll have more freedom, I promise, Cato had said. I wish there was an easier way to do all this. Because believe me, I’m one of the last people in this city who wants slaves.

He claims he did what he had to do, and maybe on an intellectual level I understand, but it doesn’t exactly remove the shitty brooding that wedges itself in my brain. Or the resentment. Or the image of this cavernous suite like the jaws of a dragon, slowly closing shut over us. Doesn’t help that they also seemed terrified of the fact that someone called The Morrigan appeared to me, and I’m also frustrated at my lack of global knowledge. There’s just so much human history to memorize – now there’s magical history piled on top of it.

Cato’s been looking more drained lately, and Beron, despite his reticence to talk, and his carefully professional expression, shows discomfit in his body posture. They’re trying hard to make us comfortable, but the cloak and dagger interactions, the fear of letting us be spotted by too many people is grating on what might otherwise be pleasant interactions. Alex, however, seems to be taking her imprisonment as opportunities to practice her newfound magic of singing, and she weaves arias as delicate as feathers. She doesn’t sing to popular tunes; she tries to make her own, usually hidden behind the bead curtain of her room, voice quiet, but we hear the melodies. We’ve asked her to put on a little performance for us to stave away the boredom, and she’s done a few, but she doesn’t like being on display.

I don’t quite have the same entertainment factor, but I have examined my friends for any hidden medical conditions that most people wouldn’t consider picking up. Alex had a small, benign growth in her breast which I took away, and a mild allergy to nickel as well. Pretty healthy condition, otherwise. None of us have been outside as such, and we’re aware of the immense pressure that Cato and his father seem to be in their campaign. He’s also promised he’s looking into how to grab Gentleman, but as far as I’m aware, that’s a dead end so far.

Tiffany, however, is worrying me. She hasn’t practiced anything at all. I know if I had greenfingers, I’d be eager to see just what I can grow, if I could turn an orange seed into a tree within moments, instead of years. It’s the kind of power that could make a lot of money if someone wanted to take up the option of being a farmer.

I know, deep in my soul, something’s wrong with my friend. Usually, she’s cheerful, the life of the party, the kind of girl you want to invite to events to brighten things up. She might make bad judgment calls on occasion, but who doesn’t? Now, it’s as if all her former life has been sucked out of her. She still does Tiffany-esque things, but there’s something curiously absent in her interactions.

It’s the side effect, I’d been informed. The Call of the Void. If an implant doesn’t fully integrate with its wearer, then the magic within it wants to escape. Leading to suicidal impulses that come from the bone.

It’s been terrifying. We had one moment where we were cutting vegetables to make our own dinner – Beron and Cato allowed this as time wasting and a distraction for us – and she’d just froze, staring at the little knife she was holding, before suddenly plunging it into her arm.

I healed her, but we removed all the utensils afterwards, and just let the servants bring us food. I remember how Tiffany sobbed and wrung her hands, insisting, promising she didn’t want to die, that she didn’t know what was overtaking her.

Alex and I keep a close watch on her anyway. For the past three nights, she’s been sleeping in Alex’s room, and the two of us feel like we’re playing a waiting game. None of the shifters knew how long the side effects lasted for, though I know they’re looking for an expert in necromancy (apparently not easy to find as no one wants to admit they can do necromancy). All that remains is that we will have our answers before Tiffany ends up… worse off. I’m terrified that the two of us will be off guard long enough for our friend to find another means of harming herself. Because sometimes, she even looks at perfectly ordinary household things as if they might be an effective way to dispatch her.

What can you do for someone who is a danger to themselves, short of full restraints and a gag in their mouth to stop them biting her tongue? I’ve been careful not to mention that as an idea.

I’m aware of the awfulness of the situation, staring into the gloom, and I have a horrible, sinking sensation in my gut. I don’t know what time it is, but I slide out of bed quietly, noiseless as I pad across the carpet, and gently push aside the beads to my room. My unease causes me to check through the curtains in Alex and Tiffany’s now shared room, the faint everburning candles lighting my way, casting so many dancing shadows that I keep startling, thinking I’m seeing something move on the peripherals of my vision. I keep wondering if I’m going to see The Morrigan appear like a ghost, haunting me from the inside out, but so far, since that weird-ass meeting in the mirror, she’s not turned up. Does make it a little trickier to stare at mirrors for too long, though, because I keep wondering if my features will morph into hers.

The first thing I note is that there’s only one lump in the bed, and that lump has a puff of lion’s mane for hair.

Tiffany? Where are you? I instantly panic, but then tell myself that just because she’s not in the bed, doesn’t mean something awful has happened. Nothing suspicious to worry about. Nothing to freak out about. It’ll all be fine.

Except it’s not. We’re supposed to always be watching her.

I check the room she’d previously slept in, and that’s empty, too. The last unoccupied bedroom has nothing but cobwebs and storage boxes, and the anxiety is digging deep, refusing to let go.

“Tiffany?” I say, not bothering to be quiet. “Tiffany?” I stomp around the suite, check the dragon’s cave room, and my breaths are coming in short wheezes.

Panic attack, I think clinically. Shortness of breaths causes dizziness, potentially suffocation or fainting. Calm yourself.

“Roze? What’s going on?” The sleepy voice isn’t Tiffany’s, but Alex, now staggering past the beads with a clatter. “Where’s Tiffany?”

The bathroom. Instantly, I think of how I stumbled upon her the last time. Naked and blue from drowning in the tub – and this bathroom has a lock. If she’s in there, if she’s locked it…

Frantically I attempt the handle, and the door thankfully opens. Not locked – but inside the bathroom, contrasting with the yellow, white and green colorings, is a shocking splash of scarlet.

Panic soars. “Tiffany!” I scream, rushing to her. She’s slumped under the sink, and her weapon of choice to hurt herself this time appears to be one of the double-bladed shavers we have tucked in the cupboard. One we failed to move. I feel sick, even imagining how she used it, to see the ruined flesh on her arms. How had she done this without a noise? I see a brief flicker of dark hair and green eyes in the mirror, but I have no time to focus on this – Tiffany needs healing.

Alex barges in, no longer sleepy, her eyes horrified as she takes in the sight, and watches me attempt to funnel all my energy into our friend. “What the fuck did she do? Roze?”

A horrible unease digs inside like a knife. She’s been undiscovered for too long. There’s barely any life in her and I’m trying not to sob hysterically, to let the icy mantle of calm cloak me instead.

Please don’t die. Alex runs from the bathroom, intending to yell for help outside of the suite, and I feel my magic leaving Tiffany almost as fast as it enters.

“Godammit, Tiffany, you idiot,” I say, wanting her to open her eyes and snap at me for using those words. Even if I save her this time, what’s going to stop something like this from happening again? This call of the void is doing a number on her sanity, her impulses. I can’t imagine being like her, where those strange, morbid impulses humans sometimes have ends up as a compulsion. Where you can’t even trust yourself to do something as simple as cutting vegetables without reacting to that inner voice.

Why the fuck did we insist on having razors to shave the unwanted hairs on our bodies?

“You can’t save her,” the low, rich voice of The Morrigan says. I can’t see her from my crouch on the floor, but I know she’s speaking from the mirror, probably straining to glimpse me. “The bones lent to her did not want to be used. And they have a way of making themselves heard. A way of crushing low human willpower.”

“Fuck off,” I snap at The Morrigan, fruitlessly pouring my energy into Tiffany’s lifeless form, closing the wounds on her arms, but unable to kickstart her brain. Her precious, beautiful brain.

A short pause from the mirror. I hear Alex yelling, and footsteps pounding. “There is opportunity here,” The Morrigan says, and her voice now sounds oddly distorted, as if underwater. “And I will take it.”

Blotting out the woman’s voice as best as able, I pour everything I’ve got into Tiffany, feeling the magical energy empty out in her. A brief sense of elation hits when I realize that my magic is latching onto her body, revitalizing her cells, but it plummets when the reviving body doesn’t match the brain, which is dark and silent. It hits rock bottom when I see, from the inside of my friend, the connections, neurons within the brain rearranging, the pineal gland enlarging, changing themselves from the shape of my friend.

I barely have time to squeak out a warning to the people who clatter into the bathroom next, as the magical exhaustion sinks too deep, dragging my consciousness with it.

Chapter 7

Cato

My father holds out his arm, introducing the fae stood next to him. The fae has a deep, glum expression, as if he’s never smiled a day in his life, and long, pointed ears tufting out of twig-like hair. He’s here as part of the ongoing arrangement I’ve been negotiating with my father, trying to ease his fears of being outmaneuvered by the other district councilors, and of potentially having his name blackened so much that no one would ever take him at his word again.

Since even if he’s innocent, and has the evidence to prove innocence, that wouldn’t matter in the month remaining before the bill gets voted on. The media has a way of spinning everything out of control. Best not to give it even the whiff of substance. I still remember my father fighting against a particular photograph taken of him when it looks like he’s holding up the middle finger to a visiting human senator.

In actual fact, he’d been waving to that senator, but changing the perspective can condemn without context.

“Octavian here will tattoo your humans,” father says, with a slight wrinkle to his features, “if you insist on being foolhardy and allowing them to roam free of the estate.”

“I can’t keep them inside forever, father,” I say. “I would have let them go home the instant I could.”

“If you weren’t stupid enough to sign a demonic contract,” father says with a sigh. Octavian stands as motionless as a statue, one hand resting protectively over the zip of his side case, which looks like the kind of thing designed to hold either a laptop, money, or a gun. “Octavian can place a tattoo seal to mask the magic in their bodies, so they at least appear human to anyone else. But we still have two more problems to work on. They need to take a Vow, and they need to stay in the boundary of Halberg.”

The other issue is if either of the three women get their hands on a phone or a connection. So many liabilities. Safer to keep them confined, but then all it takes is one investigator, and we have a problem on our hands.

“Thanks, father,” I say, accepting at least his attempt to help. “I’ll sort out the Vow. Then we’ll see what we can do to help them.”

He inclines his head. “I’d like to be able to pinpoint Gentleman myself,” he growls. “That’s the kind of despicable filth I want to stamp out. Our society’s rotten, son.” He lights a new cigarette with a puff of flame from his nostrils. “Next time the devil tries to make a deal with you, refuse it, won’t you? We don’t want to give them more ground to stand on.”

“No,” I agree. “I’ll be sure not to make that mistake again.” Though if I could go back in time and change my decision, I’m not sure if I could. The result would still mean that Roze and her friends end up in a horrific situation. Worse than anything I can offer. They’d be sucked into the criminal underworld, used, abused, and never have any chance to return to their human lives in their human countries.

I don’t see myself making a different choice, except in the scenario where I never met up with them at all, and know nothing of them. But that’s just spilling into impossible, hypothetical notions.

Octavian follows me out of the study shortly after I’ve discussed more with my father, who is due to appear on a televised debate tonight, and Beron follows behind us, as ever my faithful shadow. Octavian will mark the women with his magic ink, and because people like Octavian are expensive, father’s anticipating potential investigations as to why the Dagens need a magic concealer. A couple of the servants glance at us as we travel down one staircase, and I can’t help but wonder just how much we can trust any of them. There’s been no leaks from the estate, but investigators love bribing.

Glancing at Beron, a stab of guilt enters my stomach. He’s been steadfast and loyal to me for years, but as far as I’m aware, he’s never taken much time to pursue a relationship. He insists that it’s fine, but he also has to watch me flirt with women, and frankly, I think that’s a horrible task to endure. Not least because of my flirting skills, though confidence tends to make up for any other pitfalls.

I think of Roze, of her proud and stern features. Beautiful if unadorned, the light catching her cheekbones from all the candles, and how flushed with excitement she’d been when we first met.

Now my emotions twist into a disgusted knot when I remember how terrified and miserable she’d been when dragged up onto that stage, with betrayal wrought in her expression when she realized I’d been the one to buy her. That same expression manifested itself in Alex and Tiffany as well, and it stings, because it feels like a door’s been shut on me.

Maybe if the night had been allowed to continue, I might have found myself with Roze, Tiffany or Alex in an entirely different scenario. Maybe we’d have spent their holiday exploring Halberg comfortably, and screwing in the night, if my flirting had achieved any success in that department..

But that particular scenario is dead in the water. Reality presents a different face. If only I’d tried negotiating harder with Gentleman. If only I’d thought of another alternative. Explained myself better.

I sigh.

The faint smell of vanilla candles permeates the air of my now occupied suite. The other dragons prefer roosting on the top floors, with balconies for their dragon forms to stretch out in and soak up sunshine.

I like the damp cool of a cave, and the solemn mood of the candles, though Beron thinks my choice of accommodation would be better suited to an evil vampire’s lair. He’s probably not wrong, but I’m happy with the result.

Inside my suite at last, I see Alex and Roze sitting opposite Tiffany, and it resembles an interrogation. When Roze turns her eyes to me, they’re raw and red rimmed, like she’s been crying for a good part of the night, and Alex isn’t faring much better.

My original intention to triumphantly announce Octavian’s presence vanishes in the sucking, pervading atmosphere of the room I hadn’t previously picked up on. “What’s up?” I glance at Tiffany, who wears a bored, imperious expression on her features. From what expressions I’ve seen on her, it doesn’t match at all. Like the expression was made for another face. “Is it… there hasn’t been another incident, has there? With the call of the void?”

Beron had phoned me to say that Tiffany made another attempt on her life, but it seemed like Roze got to her in time, since Tiffany was up and walking shortly afterwards. Roze had needed recuperation from overextending her magic, but no one mentioned anything else interfering.

“Not another incident,” Roze says, in a dull, colorless voice. She rubs at her reddened eyes, and Alex leans into her, a dry cough leaving her mouth.

“Then what?” Again, I glance at Tiffany. Something’s not right. The way she holds herself, the expression she uses, haughty and arrogant as opposed to eager and cheerful, along with how her nails drum the side of the armchair in a detached way – all of it serves to reinforce the unease.

“What am I going to tell her parents? Her brother?” Roze was saying, in a quieter tone of voice which I suppose she thought I couldn’t pick up on, but unfortunately for her, my hearing’s better than most. “There’s no way they can understand.”

“It’s freaky,” Alex hisses back. “Like a zombie. Wearing the face, but nothing like...”

“I want her gone.”

Tiffany/The Morrigan clears her throat. “I told you that there was nothing you could do to save the girl. Not with such a powerful rejection of bone and body.” Her smile becomes cold, heartless. “With the house empty, the owner gone – why not occupy it?”

“You had no permission. No right,” Roze chokes, shaking, unable to tear her eyes away from Tiffany. “There must be some law against this.”

Oh, bother. Beron catches on the same moment I do. “Tiffany’s possessed?” Cautiously, I sniff at the magical energy in Tiffany’s body. It’s being concealed, which instantly speaks of the signs of a powerful magic. Those with enough control and confidence don’t need tattoo marks to conceal their whereabouts. That’d be why I didn’t suspect anything off at the start.

“Yes,” Roze says, while Not-Tiffany smirks.

“Not precisely,” Not-Tiffany says.

“There are laws against that,” I reply. “Fifteen years in jail if proven to be in direct mental possession of a body not your own.”

“Don’t forget the sub-clauses,” Not-Tiffany says, stopping her slow, annoying finger drumming. “If the possessed body is an empty vessel, it can be claimed under extenuating circumstances. Such as if the possessor’s own body was destroyed illegally, but enough of their essence remains to reform in a new body. Active reincarnation. That was in Irish law. I’m sure you brought some of the old laws from Ireland here, did you not?”

Irish. Cold, regal manner. Roze’s apparition in the mirror, that I’d been dubious on believing. “The Morrigan,” I groan, and Beron lets out a small gasp. “How is this possible?”

There are some things in magic that aren’t supposed to be done.

Once a person’s dead, that’s it. Their essence might cling to their bones, but the thing that makes up their minds, their souls, doesn’t. And as far as I’m aware, The Morrigan is nothing else but a collection of bones with potent magical energies, scattered throughout the world.

“Never mind that,” The Morrigan says. She then lets out a dramatic sigh. “This isn’t ideal, admittedly. I don’t have all of my essence here, so my power is a pittance of former strength. The garden fairy bone is quite powerful, though. Not something to be underestimated.” The Morrigan inclines her head towards Roze. “It was unfair to your friend, placing something like this inside her. I remember the garden fairies in my court being capricious and unwilling to bow to rules.”

Roze gazes at me with a miserable expression. “Please tell me you can do something about this. That you can get her back.”

Her pleading voice wrenches at my heart, and if I could, I would have booted The Morrigan’s soul back to whatever hell it came from. A powerful being like that should stay dead. I’ve only ever heard rumors and stories about The Morrigan, but she was one of the oldest, strongest creatures around. Part of the Irish court of preternatural beings that had existed when humans first started forming major settlements. Not that being old and strong could prevent being taken by surprise, and killed before gaining a chance to fight back. I can think of a great number of absurdly powerful beings caught with their pants down, so to speak.

But if Tiffany had succumbed to the call of the void… if what The Morrigan says is true, then we have a ghost wearing the face of another ghost.

“Beron, stay with them and Octavian,” I say grimly. Unwilling now to look Roze in the eye. “Get the tattoos done. Morrigan, you’re coming with me.”

The Morrigan smiles primly, threading fingers through her hair before standing up and gliding over to me. When I risk looking at Roze, her expression is a mix of grief and anger. It seems like a chasm has opened up between us. If being contracted into slavery was bad enough, then how would losing a dear friend to an ancient, morally ambiguous and previously dead sorceress feel like?

Seems like this trip to Halberg is more of a one way ticket to hell, for humans unfortunate enough to find themselves on the wrong side of the world.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Roze. The Morrigan is not my fault, but I can’t help but feel like it is. The magic’s something from my world. The world humans still struggle to accept, because of the atrocities magic can commit. Though I’d argue the atrocities humans commit with technology and chemistry is far worse. Because at least magic tends to operate on a karmic scale. “I’ll see if there’s a way to get your friend back.”

Roze nods, but I can tell she’s not convinced. “Please. Get her back.”

A part of her has already processed the possibility that her friend is dead.

I squeeze Roze’s, and as an afterthought, Alex’s hands in reassurance. There is nothing else I can say to comfort them right now.

And I have to deal with the worm that’s inside Tiffany’s body. A worm that I want to cross even less than a demon.

The whole situation’s spiraling more and more out of control, and all I can do is weather it as best as able, and work out what to do next.

* * *

Roze

The needle stings my flesh, but I accept it, because I don’t want to be stuck in this place any longer than necessary. I get it between my shoulder blades, in a place people won’t see, since a lot of jobs out there frown upon those with tattoos, and I have to make a living once I’m out of Halberg.

All Beron and Cato seem to be able to do is apologize. I’m sorry. I’m sick of hearing it. I get that none of us asked for this, but I don’t want to keep hearing sorrys out of their mouths. I want action. I want a solution to this predicament. No patient ever fixed themselves just by wishing for it and saying sorry, though we have dealt with some cracked ones over the years who sincerely believed all they needed was prayer and a good, toxin free diet to “purge” themselves of impurities. Let alone the ones asking if we’re going to inject them with mercury. I engage in small talk with Beron and Alex, noting again how animated he is when he talks. He just resembles a brick when he’s still, his cheek muscles unmoving, but in motion, there’s a certain elegance to his expressions I can admire.

Trailing down to his arms, I think privately that one punch from him could kill me, let alone whatever power he possesses when he shifts into his bear form.

When Beron offers to transform to fill up an awkward stretch of silence, where the emptiness was occupied of thoughts of Tiffany, of The Morrigan, of the fact that all of our families right now must be sick with worry.

It’s been four weeks since our impromptu kidnapping. I can only imagine the flood of messages I must have on my phone now.

Beron trots out to the center of the cavern where Cato likely sleeps in his dragon form. I’m yet to see that as well, but the thought of some twenty foot lizard that can breathe fire being nearby causes marginally more anxiety than the thought of a bear.

Beron shifts, his thick, squarish features melting like candle wax into thick, wiry brown fur, his bulk expanding until he squats on all four limbs, big grizzled snout facing our way.

Jesus. I think he’s bigger than a normal bear. he’s at least three times as big as me, and when he rears onto his hind legs, he towers, multiple shadows dancing at his feet.

“Suddenly I’m jealous,” Alex says, a small attempt at brevity on her part. She’s taken it harder than me with Tiffany, and focusing on helping Alex is keeping me grounded. As long as I’m doing something with my hands or brain, I’m okay. I can keep it at bay. She continues with: “I don’t have a power like that. If I could have had a choice of magical powers, I’d love to be able to shapeshift, I think.”

Beron lets out a grunting laugh, his surprisingly small ears wiggling. His snout also twitches from side to side, and he plops back onto all fours, ambling over to us, so we can inspect him closer. I wonder if a shifter is able to keep full control of their own minds, or if something more primal takes over when they’re encased in their animal forms. I’ve heard tell that this is the appeal behind them. Why romance films involving shifters have exploded in sales.

People like the idea of taming a beast. But it seems to me that there’s something wonderful and human in Beron, as he noses his snout into our hands, offering his shoulder for us to pat, and lock fingers in the thick, rough fur.

“Seriously? You’d be a shapeshifter? I’d like to stop time, or control people’s minds,” I say, before realizing with a jolt of shame that controlling minds isn’t the most appropriate thing to mention at this point, given what’s happened to Tiffany. With that, comes that shivering, maddening grief, which takes a great deal of effort to suppress.

Thankfully, Alex doesn’t notice the mishap. “That’s boring. Plus, space-time control would be paradoxical at best.”

Beron chooses this moment to shift back into his human form, and I note that he’s able to take his clothes with him in both cases. Interesting. Where do the clothes go?

I latch onto those thoughts, instead of letting my mind go to the one place I don’t want to touch. “I think they’re both amazing powers. I’d stop time, catch up on a few hours of sleep.”

“That’s what you’d use it for,” Alex says in a flat tone of voice.

“Yep.”

“You have powers that could literally change the world, and you’ve worked in surgery, and your first thought is that you’d use them to… sleep.”

“Sleep’s really important.”

Beron chuckles, before offering, “While sleep is important, I agree with Alex that any manipulation of temporal reality is paradoxical. Those who do have time based powers are more able to look into the future or the past. Those who have physical time powers – they tend to end up in an alternate dimension where then that dimension just ceases to exist if they continue altering things. Best not to mess with time.”

“I’m sorry, what? Alternate dimension?” I’m also surprised at the articulate words coming from Beron’s mouth. I keep getting surprised, because he does have the kind of face that makes you think he’d barely be able to string together more than three syllables at a time.

“Long story,” Beron says. “But it’s also why you don’t hear about time travelers going back in time and killing dictators. Moment they do that, they just create an alternate reality. A quantum break in what we know.”

“Neat,” Alex says, while I just nod and hope I look like I understand. “Say, speaking of sleep, do you hibernate? Like a real bear does?”

Beron shrugs. “I can do. Usually best not to stay too long in bear form during the colder months, because it does create quite the impulse. But some of us like it traditionally, having quiet dens for us to slumber away the winter months. Not ideal if you live in human society, where bills have a tendency to not get paid if you decide to sleep for five months at a time. Though I can stock up on sleep hours if I want to, and then go for a mega power sleep to catch up on it.”

I chuckle at that image, and when Beron smiles, I stare at his lips as he does so. It’s a really nice smile. Doesn’t look like he does it enough, because the lines that appear are thread-thin, barely making an indent in his features. His eyes have a far more human color than Cato, who feels alien. Beron just looks warm. Inviting. Like you could snuggle next to him at an event or on the sofa, and he’d loop his big arm around you, giving off the deception of safety.

Another time, another circumstance, and I’d consider dating someone like that. But this isn’t the time or place.

We continue our small, distracting talk, finding out we all like the same color (green), that Beron also has a passing interest in crime documentaries like Alex, and he’s also partial to nature ones, and loves the birds of paradise because they all do elaborate dance routines, and have ridiculous extra appendages. Alex of course, starts talking about her serial killer based shows, and I’m asked once why it is that I wanted to become a surgeon.

Not for the best reason, I admit. My mother pushed me into it, for the most part. I mean, I was interested from a young age to help. I watched veterinary documentaries, and medical dramas that my mother liked. I also knew there was a demand for doctors and surgeons, and figured it to be the one path where I was guaranteed a job once I’d gone through all the training and gained residency. How many times had I heard the whole you mustn’t let yourself fall far from the tree spiel from my mother, who had an uncle I never heard of, one who fell into drink and depression shortly after becoming redundant in his job. She didn’t know what became of him, but it was assumed he had died, since there had been no contact for years.

The talk’s good, but it’s all a distraction.

A distraction that ends once Cato enters the fray once more, and Tiffany/The Morrigan is behind him, wearing different clothes, and her blond hair tied back into a severe bun, making her look years older.

Our talk dies out, and Tiffany/The Morrigan finds an armchair, plonking herself upon it. Her expression isn’t as arrogant anymore, and I wonder for a fleeting moment if Cato found a way to reject The Morrigan from her body.

“I don’t want to be the one to tell you this,” says Cato, and his words deliver the sensation of a rock sliding from my chest and into my stomach, “But your friend is dead. Even if The Morrigan left her body right now, it would not return your friend. The implant in her body killed her.”

“No.” It escapes my mouth in a whisper. My heart feels like lead, along with my lungs. Air struggles down my throat, and I know, I knew Tiffany was gone, knew it the moment I poured everything into her to try and revive her mind, but I’d hoped all the same. Refused to process it.

“Then what –” Alex pauses, her eyes slits, “– What’s she still doing in Tiffany’s body? Get her out.”

“That...” Cato looks even more miserable. “That won’t be in our interests.”

“Why the fuck not?” Alex asks, while I just sit there, numb, trying to muster up energy to speak, to express my feelings, but finding myself unable to. Finally, I raise my eyes to examine The Morrigan (no longer Tiffany, but god, it’s her face) – and she stares back impassively. If she’d been smirking at me, I might have seriously considered lunging at her, just to wipe it off her face. Tiffany’s body or no.

“According to The Morrigan, it would be in our best interest to keep her within Tiffany’s body,” says Cato, and now he looks like he’s swallowed something hard and disagreeable. “Since someone’s trying to assemble all of her bones. So as long as she has one bone out of their reach, and a body to occupy, they can’t assemble her, even if they have all but one thing left to collect.”

This doesn’t register with me. All I can think about is that Tiffany’s dead. I was too late to reach her, and when I poured all my magic into her, I ended up instead pumping The Morrigan into her shell.

I caused this. And all Tiffany wanted to do was cheer me up. She just wanted to be a good friend… and now she’s fucking gone.

“What’s the deal about assembling her?” Beron asks. He twitches a hand towards me, like he wants to comfort me, but pulls short. Alex has withdrawn away now as a simmering ball of rage. “Isn’t that a good thing, to return her to the Irish throne?”

“It’s not a good thing. The rest of her bones are somewhere she can’t escape from. The person who intends to resurrect her wants to use her for the Great Wish.”

Beron claps a hand to his mouth in apparent horror. “Is it near the time? Really?” I feel out of my depth yet again, and Alex lets out an irritated growl.

The Morrigan clears her throat, gaining our attention, and in a flat voice, says, “Every five hundred and four years, I gain enough power to be able to grant a wish. I can’t grant my own wishes, but someone can demand one from me, and I will have no choice but to grant it.” She smiles, like she thinks she can see my thoughts, and I wonder for a moment if she actually can. “The power is significant. Enough to cause a hellish amount of destruction, should the wrong person demand it off me.”

Alex splutters something about not caring about whether The Morrigan was a magical genie or not, but I hear something else in The Morrigan’s words.

A faint hope stirs in the embers of grief. “Could I wish for Tiffany to return?”

The Morrigan stares at me with Tiffany’s blue eyes, though I think I can detect the echo of the dark haired, sea-glass eyed woman from the mirror. “Yes,” she says, and a shock of excitement and hope ripples through me. She said yes. Alex falls silent in her complaints, registering The Morrigan’s response. “But not for another year and a half. The power will be dormant until then. Let’s hope you’re the one that gets the wish.” She pauses. “Note, however, that for a resurrection, only one person can benefit from it. As bringing someone back takes enormous energy. The gods of death are not pleased when someone takes back that which is supposed to remain dead. They have a strong, calamitous grip on souls.”

“But...” Cato says, before falling silent.

“But what?” I say, challenging him. Just daring him to say his thoughts.

A fierce glare from Beron seems to crumple the last of Cato’s resistance. “Alright. Fine. We’ll use the wish for your friend. I was only thinking that it’s a huge power. And it’s very rare. But of course, of course you’d want to use it for your friend.” He appears pissed off, and I know it’s because of me. Because he wanted to use that Great Wish.

“My friend died,” I say, hating the words coming out my lips, because even though I know them to be true, it’s another thing to have death said so plainly, “and it should never have happened. She didn’t ask for the implant. She didn’t deserve this.”

“Most people don’t deserve to die,” Cato says, and his expression is rather cool. “And you’re not the only person to have lost someone. But seeing as The Morrigan is occupying your friend’s body... I will allow it.”

Allow, he says. Meanwhile, Alex has grown even more still, and I remember in a rush of guilty shock – she lost her father and brother in a car accident eight years ago. T-boned in what should have been a normal shopping trip by a driver running through red lights.

And Tiffany herself had recently lost her grandmother. Onset dementia.

My hope extinguishes almost as fast as it appeared.

If The Morrigan’s capable of granting a wish like that – to bring back the dead, then I can think of a number of people who would grab that kind of power for themselves. Clearly, Cato had intended to do so. Even though he’d offered to step back in light of the fact of my friend.

Shit, this is complicated.

The Morrigan seems to read my mind, for she says, “There are so many people, and so many wishes. I would grant them all if I could, but some dreams are dark and knotted, and others create knock-on effects no one can possibly anticipate. I would wear your friend’s face until my wish-granting is gone. Then I suppose it will be up to you to see what you want done with my essence. Since I won’t be needed for another five hundred years. And you can’t burn or dissolve my bones. People have tried.”

I don’t believe her, despite the eloquence of her words. I don’t think someone like her would be content to relinquish life once given it. I know I wouldn’t. But her words are kind for now. And her eyes have softened, no longer imperious, but sympathetic.

Cato sighs. “Feels like my life’s getting more complicated by the second. Who would have thought Gentleman happened to be holding the bone of The Morrigan in his macabre collection?” He pauses, and the same question likely pops up in all of our minds in that moment. “And why on earth would he allow such a powerful object to be placed into a human he intended to sell? Why would he not sell to that collector who you claim has the majority of your bones?”

None of us can answer that. Not even The Morrigan, and she was the one who had absorbed all the information. Somehow. Not that I would have a clue how the fuck a bone can pick up anything. Magic isn’t exactly my field of expertise.

After a long, icy silence, Cato clears the air once more. “I will send for a Vow-Maker later. Once you three,” he says, with a pointed glare at The Morrigan, “have made the Vow, then I will escort you out into Halberg. it’s not right to keep you locked up. And as long as I advertise you as guests, we can hope that no one will suspect of the contract made with your names. And you will be allowed to call your homes.”

Home. My mother and father pop up into my mind then, and a true, heartfelt smile breaks through the ice for the first time since dealing with Tiffany.

Yes. It would be nice to call home again.

Though I still have no idea how I’m going to explain Tiffany for a year and a half, until that wish is made.

Or if someone else snatches it away from me.

* * *

Cato

I progressed from lacking any responsibilities to suddenly dealing with several women at once, none who can leave Halberg without the demon’s curse kicking in. At the best, they’d simply die of something debilitating like cancer or motor neuron disease. The other side would be instant punishment, like a car hitting, or a lightning bolt striking out of thin air.

I watch the women make their calls on my cellphone, standing close to listen into their conversation, to make sure the Vow’s working. I’m also praying that they don’t do something stupid like try to run away from me. It’s a risk, taking them out as it is, and I had to argue with my father long and hard to allow it, maintaining that we could create an illusion of guests staying at our place, rather than contracted slaves bought from the black market being imprisoned in our basement.

The Seal masks their magic, which would instantly give them away as slaves, and the Vow locks up their tongue if they attempt to reveal sensitive information. My father utterly insisted on these conditions, and I didn’t have a mind to disobey. I understand his caution, and it’s horrible to restrict the girls more than they are already, but if I don’t respect my father’s wishes, he’s the kind of person who might resort to more extreme measures. Measures that may or may not include silencing the women permanently, just so nothing interferes. I hear Alex seize up several times as she speaks to her loved ones, and watch her face darken when she realizes how completely the Vow hides her words. Roze, in the meanwhile, locks up only once, and tells her parents that she’s staying over at some lord’s house in Halberg for a bit while she gets her shit together. I appreciate the lie, though I’ve clamped down on her ability to convey the entire truth. Still, at least she’s making an effort, unlike Alex, who I think might be a problem. So Beron is sticking to her like glue.

Rather miserably, Roze had asked if The Morrigan could make a call to Tiffany’s family, and maybe pretend to be Tiffany. The Morrigan agreed, but warned that she could not impersonate Tiffany as she didn’t know the girl’s personality. Roze gave her a quick crash course, while Alex wanted nothing to do with it, to associate with this obvious impostor. Roze at least went with it. The Morrigan’s conversation on the phone was brief and curt, and I doubt her performance was entirely convincing.

Though it does cement the fact that Roze fully intends to use The Morrigan’s Great Wish to bring back precisely one person.

I’m stressed because I truly want to do right by Roze. But a part of me is mortified that I’ll just let her waste the wish like that.

I don’t want to sound like an asshole, so I’m not saying anything: but I think that wish could be put to better use. It’s game changing. In the past, The Morrigan held a total of two tourneys when they were all the rage, and the one who won the tournament could be allowed to stay with her and extract a wish. Unfortunately, that wish turned out to be devastating if you happened to belong to the kingdom of Lyonesse in the Cornish region of the now United Kingdom – also linked with Camelot.

Millions of people ended up drowning beneath the waves, because the tourney winner happened to have a deep seated, racial hatred of the Lyons.

That’s the kind of power The Morrigan’s Great Wish has. She’s drowned Atlantis, caused the fall of the Greek Pantheon, set in event for the fall of Ragnarok at some indeterminable point in the future, and quite possibly was the one who caused the downfall of the Assyrians and of the Egyptians.

And to use that kind of power just to bring back one human? It’s utterly ridiculous. I could make the world so much better. And I wouldn’t be using it to drown civilizations and eradicate people.

There must be a way around it. Assuming someone doesn’t uncover The Morrigan’s new location and Roze’s link to her, I’ll find a way to make the wish work for more than one person. Or perhaps persuade Roze in that year and a half that there could be a better way to distribute the wish.

I sound like a monster – but there could be so much good done in the world. So much, in the right hands.

Which is also why I haven’t told my father who The Morrigan is, yet. I think he would want to lock her up, the same as the one currently on the hunt for her bones. I think he would insert his own version of an ideaл world, which clashes somewhat with mine. He believes it necessary for some people to die. He’d believe in sacrificing a large chunk of the population to increase prosperity for the ones that remain.

Roze ambles up to me as we walk down a slippery, icy runway, clinging onto the sides, while other people use skates to glide about the place. It’s a preferred means of travel in parks, and we have icy sidepaths like designated bike routes, specifically for those who make a habit of ice skating. The glint of white-yellow sparks spray from the blades of the skates, and the chaotic freedom has drawn the attention of all the women, even The Morrigan, who seems impressed at how the magic is used.

“What did you hope to achieve,” I ask Roze, when her attention is on me, rather than clinging desperately to the side railing to prevent slipping, “once you had finished your holiday? You said that you were not sure if you wanted to go back into hospital work. Did you have any back up plans?”

“None. I had nothing,” Roze admits, and she appears to shrink into herself. “Maybe I would have tried again, but my last hospital didn’t exactly leave a glowing recommendation behind. They tore me to shreds, actually.”

“I see.” I’m hit by a sudden impulse to offer her something. To try and secure her a job within Halberg in one of the ordinary hospitals, but I also suspect she wouldn’t appreciate service like that. Someone who has spent their entire life aiming for one thing tends to hate hand-outs. “One thing you could consider: once everything blows over a little, is maybe opening a little practice of your own. Using your magic, rather than your former training. This can be legalized in districts that enable human freedom.”

“Will that be allowed so publicly?” Roze frowns as she studies me, and bites her lip in a way that’s entirely too distracting. “I thought humans with magic were consigned to bolstering private businesses, given that you’re not too fond of those with stolen powers.”

“Well, private businesses earn a lot of money, as long as they don’t advertise what’s funding them,” I say, lifting up one side of my face in a smile. “And who knows? Maybe we’ll pass a bill that allows you to be in the open. It’s always a possibility. You’re technically legal as it is, but there’s heavy opposition on the matter.”

Just as we’re smiling, and I’m starting to believe we can salvage the situation between us in a way that suggests a better future between us, one man stops directly in front of Roze, Alex, and The Morrigan, and spits at their feet. He then glares at me, and there’s hatred in his piggy eyes. I wonder how much of our conversation he’s heard, and suddenly feel mortified of how publicly I’ve been talking, though I have been making an effort to keep my voice down.

Talk about being an idiot.

“I hope to the gods that your bill fails,” he hisses at me, which causes a squirm of unease in my stomach. “Humans shouldn’t be allowed to roam free. They don’t deserve it.”

“And pray, how many do you have locked up in your house?” Beron says politely, though his expression is anything but polite. His whole body towers menacingly over the man, who, although tall, has nothing on Beron’s size and girth. I clamp a hand on The Morrigan’s shoulder, because there’s a thunderous expression building upon her face, and although I don’t know how strong her magic is without her entire body, I’d rather not have it tested out in public, when everyone thinks these are three normal humans. Two have implants, one’s an ancient sorceress, and all three are enslaved.

Would be slightly awkward to be outed on that little amount of detail.

“Humans have every right to be free,” I tell him flatly. “And their technology is more than a match for our magic nowadays. It would be wise to treat them with respect.”

He makes to spit again, but is cut off mid-hawk by Beron seizing him by the scruff of his neck and lifting him, so that his feet dangle off the ground. People pause to watch in interest as Beron says, “How would you like me to deal with this scum, master?”

“Well,” I say, considering.

“I would take his head from his body and be done with it,” The Morrigan says, and Roze and Alex stare at her with as much alarm as I feel.

We don’t do that anymore, I think, while I say, “Let him slide down the street a little. No need for public executions in this day and age.” I slide some stinkeye The Morrigan’s way, but she ignores it.

Beron happily pitches his arms close to his chest, before thrusting outwards, sending the yellow-eyed man flying, before he hits and skids a long distance over the icy pathway, causing people to jump over and around him to avoid a collision. A few people cheer, others pretend nothing happened, as we all continue on our sedate way to explore this little region of Halberg.

“Humans don’t say that kind of thing,” Roze says to The Morrigan, who doesn’t seem to pay much heed to the statement. Seems she’s been blithely ignoring us whenever we ask her to curb her more destructive instincts. Try to mention that laws have changed and all that.

“I never claimed to be one. And I’m afraid I come from a rather different age from you,” she says. “In my time, public executions were rife. Torture commonplace. It feels like the world has grown softer since. Though it was already softening at the point where they dismembered me.”

“Keep it quiet,” I hiss, because this isn’t the sort of thing I want said in a public space, where some individuals have sensitive hearing. “Let’s not make it blindingly obvious who you are. I thought you wanted to hide?”

“Hide, but not be a mouse,” The Morrigan declares. Her head turns back to face the sullen shifter treated to an icy floor. “Such open disrespect should hold more severe punishment. It’s astonishing that you don’t punish character slurs.”

“I agree,” Roze says, surprising me. The Morrigan twitches an eyebrow.

“You do?”

“Yes. People are far too disrespectful nowadays. They think they can bully, intimidate, do whatever they want without consequence.” Roze’s fists are clenched, and I suspect this is more to do with her former workplace than with the man who spat at her feet.

“When you remove consequence from actions, the actions become worse,” The Morrigan says. “People give into cruel impulses if they believe there is no judgment.”

There is truth in that, I think. Without consequence, many people would push boundaries. But I also don’t know if it is right to punish.

Our walk continues the same way, exploring the ice paths, breaths frosting the air in puffs of cream, until we reach the landing zone where the flying shifters transport friends and customers. When we stop in an empty space, I make sure to catch Roze’s eye before telling her, “Let’s give you a better view of the city, shall we?” Just before I begin my transformation.

* * *

Roze

Turns out, dragon-riding is in my top list of things to never do again. They make it look so easy in the movies, but I’m not a fan of gripping onto cold scales and desperately trying not to fall off, no matter how iridescent those scales might be. Cato as a dragon is every bit as magnificent as I suspected. He wasn’t as big as I thought he might have extended, but he was still of a size to comfortably support five or so people on his back – more than enough for two humans, a witch, and a bear shifter. His scales were a deep, abyssal blue, tapering into dark, bat-like wings that spread out from what might have been his shoulder joints. Four legs like scaly tree trunks with white petaled claws protruded from his body, and a long, thin, whip-like tail ended at the tip like an arrow-point.

His snout is squat and boarish, with frills like the thin membrane of shark purses, and a lot of small, white horns descending over his back. He must have been fifteen feet long, and almost eight feet tall at his head.

His form also attracted photographers, who were probably family to his colors, and there were plenty of snaps taken of four of us clambering onto his back. It was only under the flash of cameras and yells for interviews that I appreciated why he wanted to seek anonymity in a different district, and was less inclined to let me out into the open. I have no idea what kind of headlines will be attached to those photos, or if my yelps of terror as those great wings lifted off will indicate cowardice in me or something.

Imagine me posing for Victoria’s Secret like this, I think wildly, as a distraction, while praying for the flight to end, and burrowing my face behind some spikes to avoid the wind ripping tears out of my eyes. Bet Tiffany would have been impressed.

The flight ends, and with it, I breathe an all-too noticeable sigh of relief to have my feet touch upon bare ground. (Beron sighed much the same.) Other dragons, and winged horses were lifting from the ground around us, but I needed Alex’s support to keep myself steady.

One thing’s for sure: I’m never going to aim for a career in aviation.

“Don’t look so relieved,” Beron says, though not without some sympathy. “We’ll still need to fly back afterwards.”

“I can hardly wait,” I groan, queasy at the prospect. The last thing I want to do is fly and potentially slip off a giant dragon.

In the new area, there’s little hills, where people are snowboarding and skiing over obstacles and down glittering slopes. In display are gigantic globes with snowflakes tumbling inside them, shifting between different colors for a spectacle. It’s so much beauty. So many scents in the air from all the stalls cooking foods. Snowflakes tumble from the sky biomes like sugary powder, and for the first time since my imprisonment, I feel happy.

Breathing in the cold, delicious air, letting the chill freeze the blood vessels in my cheeks, watching the shapeshifters and fae with all their differences amble or fly by, and a little boy made of flowers offering me one from his hair.

This is the side of magic I wanted to see. This is the world I wanted to see. It’s a better place than being stuck in the hospital. It’s inspiring to witness. The Morrigan, pulling expressions nothing like the ones Tiffany did, is also fascinated by the lights. My resentment for her gowns down when I remember that for her, she hasn’t had a body for decades. I don’t know if she had consciousness or not, but the image of being locked in a room in pitch darkness, unable to move keeps trickling into my mind, and I shiver at the prospect.

I also have to remember that she was murdered. Taken before her time. I try hard to keep all this in mind, but livid heat pulses through when I picture having to explain to Tiffany’s parents that an ancient Irish queen and possibly an Egyptian one too, is wearing their daughter’s face.

Don’t see that one going down well.

“I was thinking we could try skiing or snowboarding,” Cato says, gently touching me upon the shoulder. “Or snowball fights.” He points over to a high fence with a banner draped over it, depicting fully covered people firing snowballs from guns. I grin and loop my arm around Cato’s, ignoring the strange hammering in my chest as best as possible.

This is starting to have the hallmarks of a date. Though maybe there’s a few too many people around to let it happen. And no date would make me so jumpy whenever someone stops to stare at us, as if they’re trying to drill the secrets out of me. The little tattoo on my back is what protects my magic from being detected, though I still feel it lick inside me, begging to be used. It certainly doesn’t stop me from using my magic.

The Morrigan and Alex are walking in front of us, slow, engaged in hesitant conversation. I can see Alex is still reluctant to talk to The Morrigan, but it seems she wants to find out more about this person in her friend’s body. Cato and Beron are with me just behind, and we’re out of their hearing range.

I like how big Cato’s grin is, or how concerned Beron is for the two of us, to make sure that we don’t get ourselves into trouble, though it seems we’re all a little leery of approaching any establishments where there happens to be a lot of humans. Even although the paranoia is over the top, it’s not exactly unfounded, is it?

“I wish I could take you out more like this,” Cato says, as we begin to stroll through a beautiful, flower-stuffed park, with plenty of benches, and people feeding the birds on them, or the squirrels that make their way down from the trees and scuttle across the ground, their fluffy tails moving like a tidal wave.

I want to join the feeders as well, just to have the experience of a squirrel jumping onto me, but Beron seems less willing to do the same. One of the pigeons land on Beron, anyway, apparently detecting a bread crumb in his beard, and he swats it away in startled anger, prompting roars of laughter from us in response.

We continue walking, enjoying the tranquil gurgle of the river next to us, where barges float gently over it. Snow edges its banks. Cato rests a hand upon my shoulder, and I shiver from the contact.

“Hey,” he says then. “I have a question. Or two, or three.”

“Hundreds, he means,” Beron adds.

Wary, I arch an eyebrow at him, unsure of the intent behind it, but feeling excited all the same. It’s an energy rippling through me, because there’s an odd twinkle in his eyes.

“I may be mistaking the situation – so in that case, just ignore me and pretend this conversation never happened – but are you attracted to me? Us? Still? Or has everything that’s transpired since put you off that thought forever?”

I gape at him, not expecting this question at all. Which also causes my cheeks to flame out. And for my heart to take a leap, as if it’s trying to jump out of my throat. Nothing dramatic or anything. But of course, he’s going to notice such a reaction from the get go.

“Um,” I say, wondering if I should lie. It’s hard to lie under pressure without it sounding bad, though. “I, well, that is to say...” Goodie, look at me, doctor extraordinaire, unable to articulate a single sentence. Typical, really.

“I’m going to take that as a yes.” Beron’s now grinning, and I want to burrow my head in the ground like an ostrich from those cartoons.

“It might be,” I agree, and then I decide I want to burrow myself some more. “But I feel pretty fucked up about it, if I’m honest. Because I feel like I shouldn’t like either of you two after all this, but I keep getting these random impulses. Ever since that implant, if I’m honest.”

Instead of this exciting Cato, however, the twinkle in his eyes dies out as a result. “Oh,” he says. “That might be a side effect, then. If it’s random.” He moves his hand away from my shoulder. “Is it the implant, do you think?”

“How would I know?” I say, though a tiny part of me thinks it is. The other, larger part doesn’t want this to be used as an excuse to not associate with these two. In a slightly different way. Though now I consider it more, I realize I’m not just focusing on one person at all. I thought I’d end up preferring one of the supernaturals over the other. But it seems I’m very good at imagining them both. Cato being rough, Beron being gentle. Wondering if I would have them separately, or together.

“Hmm. That could be tricky then.” Beron also seems dejected, and I wonder sharply if these two discuss anything to each other. Regarding this whole situation, regarding their own feelings – if they have any – towards me. “We’ll keep a distance from you if you think it’s going to cause trouble.”

“Oh no, it won’t be. It won’t be any trouble at all.” I muster a smile this time. “In fact, I think it’s only a small influence. Boosting what’s already there.” At least, I hope it is. Because I know I was interested in them beforehand. I couldn’t choose, because they were both attractive, both had something appealing about their personalities, and both also seemed to be interested in me. So that was something.

I do know a relationship based on purely lust probably wouldn’t go so far. But friends with benefits…

But could I call them friends, though? Do I even have the presence of mind to be able to separate something like that for what it is?

Or would I fall, and fall hard?

“Well, if you are attracted,” Beron growls, “is it me or Cato?” He seems to be preparing himself for disappointment. “I get it if it’s Cato, he’s pretty good with the ladies. I usually hold myself back from them.”

“Why?” I ask, astounded. “They’d be crawling all over you, surely. Big man like you, muscles like that. And your eyes: you don’t really smile much with your mouth, but man, there’s something about your eyes that tell a different story. That’s how you smile.”

The more I talk, the more deflated Cato seems to become, while Beron swells up in pride like a balloon, drinking in my compliments.

“Thing is,” I admit, “I find myself liking the both of you. I keep picturing one or the other. Sometimes the both of you. But I also know that’s not exactly what you want to hear.” Hey: I want you both. I’m not fussy. It’s not something you normally say. People like to be chosen.

Neither of you are that important.

Or both of you are more important than you think.

“You’re not a whore,” Cato says immediately, but there’s a slightly different reaction from his guard.

“Both of us?” Beron’s eyes are about ready to pop out of his head. “Like at the same time… with you?”

“That’s what she means, yes,” Cato says, thoughtful, rather than angry or offended, which I’d admittedly expected. I mean, people would rather prefer if you just liked the one.

I’d prefer that too, to be honest. It sounds a lot easier. But then there is that annoying quirk of being attracted to multiple people. Wanting to taste them all. Wanting to give into whatever heat there is, blossoming inside my chest, like little flames nibbling at kindling, threatening to increase in strength until it’s completely out of control.

Maybe it’s the implant within me, increasing the desires until they spiral out of control. Maybe, maybe…

“How does that even work?” Beron says, and for a moment, we just stare at him.

Good question, Beron. Good fucking question, actually.

“Don’t look at me,” I say. “I’ve never had a threesome before.”

“I have,” Cato says, which is surprising to hear. Our heads are swiveling like we’re watching a tennis match. “Twice. It was pretty fun, but it depends on the preference of the other two. She liked the idea of being spit roasted. That is, uh,” he gestures rather vaguely, but we get the idea. I consider that for a brief moment, and I’m not sure if it appeals. It’s deliciously naughty, it’s almost degrading, really, which thrills me a little more than I’d like to admit – but I’m not a fan, I think, of having something in my mouth.

Terrible gag reflex and all. But if they asked, well, I’d probably try all the same.

“I just think, won’t someone get jealous? Won’t it feel weird to see two naked guys?” Beron struggles with the idea, still, but it’s clear that he’s not wholly opposed, either.

“I’d be fine with it,” I say. “Don’t you watch lesbian porn anyway?”

“I don’t watch porn,” Beron says, and Cato chokes back a snort.

“At least you’re not a virgin, aye?”

“As opposed to you, who could be considered a whore,” Beron says, now garing at Cato. I step in before the two of them decide to be at each other’s throats.

“Like I said, I don’t want to cause trouble. I don’t even really want to be attracted to anyone. I don’t like this situation. I don’t want to be in it. Rather be back home.” Without a dead friend, but I refrain from saying that out loud, because I don’t want to sour their moods.

“I understand,” Cato says, though his expression is now sadder anyway.

“Hey.” I pat him on the cheek. “We can’t always control what we feel, can we?”

He finally seems to get the meaning. And I feel a little stirring of hope in my chest. No matter what happens, maybe we can make something of what’s happened. Maybe the five years I’m scheduled to spend with them can be made into five good ones. Maybe once my friend’s brought back, and we’ve found out about Gentleman, located him, somehow, and got him to revert the trade.

Then maybe I would be far more willing to explore things with them.

But for now, it feels like there’s a taint on what could be something wonderful.

Cato quickly glances around the park, before he takes me to the side, behind a tree, out of sight of the others.

Without warning, he kisses me, firm and confident, and just like that, wildfire rages through my body. My brain buzzes, along with a lash of excitement between my legs. When he pulls away, I’m barely able to keep myself upright. I draw in a surprised breath, and Cato’s grinning madly. There’s something in Beron’s expression I can’t ascertain, but it doesn’t look like jealousy.

“Just checking,” he whispers, before he offers an arm, and helps me in a rather wobbly manner start to walk again. I’m surprised just how much that felt like being hit by a truck full of hormones.

It’s worse, too, with the implant. The one they say might be enhancing my emotions further. The desire wells so thick in my throat, aches so sweetly between my thighs that I’m half tempted to give into impulse here and there. In the middle of the park, with everyone watching, and to hell with them.

Cato smiles wider at my expression, my loss of words, but before he can add anything else to the matter, a familiar figure comes into view. One that makes all of us pause, and for my own heart to give a panicked lurch. Alex recognizes him and gasps. The Morrigan scowls at the one responsible for keeping a part of her cranium locked up in a cabinet.

The demon gives us a thin, malicious smile.

Gentleman.

* * *

Cato

Gentleman’s here. On what should have been a pleasant day out. In my attempt to make Roze and Alex feel less like prisoners, even though every camera pointed my way feels like it’ll transform into a damning newspaper headline the next day. Beron lets out a soft growl, his hackles rising, and Gentleman smiles with enough arrogance to make me want to punch the smirk off his demonic face.

“May we talk for a moment?” Gentleman says, bowing slightly, and I can’t help but notice how secluded this section of the park is, which is probably why he picked this spot to turn up with. “I’m afraid I don’t have your number, so I had to find another way of procuring a meeting.”

“It’s easy to find numbers nowadays,” I say flatly, while Beron prowls, checking for any hidden men. “I’d prefer a text.”

Gentleman lets out a soft laugh. “I prefer face-to-face. And you don’t strike me as someone I’d want to arrange a meeting with beforehand. Too many chances of getting trapped, if you’d pardon me.”

“What do you want?” I ask, while considering if we can overpower Gentleman. There’s five of us here, and if he has any backup, they’re not showing themselves right now.

“To make an offer,” he says, now leaning upon his silver-embossed cane handle. “For the healer that you bought from the auction. A buyback, if you will, but for double the price that you put in.”

Roze releases a soft gasp from behind me, and The Morrigan offers a low, breathy chuckle in return.

The money offer doesn’t tempt me in the slightest, but the fact Gentleman wants her back is. Because I’m pretty sure that if I refuse him, he’s going to attempt to take her by force. I take a few steps to my left, which shields Roze from his view. His eyebrows purse together at the gesture.

“Do I take it you are not interested?” He sighs. “I can sweeten the deal further. I can take a hand in your father’s campaign, put some pressure on several of the politicians to vote one way. At least three out of that mess of forty have dealt with me before.”

“Why are you so desperate to get her back?” Beron asks, and Gentleman narrows flinty eyes at him. “You sold her to us. You specifically promoted her as a product and sold without any qualms. The contract was signed, the deal is secure. Are you reneging on it?”

One of the biggest insults you can offer a demon is to suggest that they are less than their word, their promises and oaths. They take an almost fanatic pride in sticking to contracts, so whatever else you might think about a demon, this is one area where they can be trusted.

“There was an error in the distribution of her magic that I was, at the time, unaware of,” Gentleman says. “The bone that was used was never meant to be.”

“How does that even work? Someone put it in there. Clearly, it was meant to be used,” Beron says. The Morrigan’s smirk grows wider. It occurs to me that Gentleman would have no idea that The Morrigan’s possessed someone else’s body. He thinks she is still tucked inside the bone Roze holds. Which is a headache in itself. The bone contains a slice of her power, for certain. But The Morrigan’s consciousness is entrenched within Tiffany’s body.

Gentleman smiles. “Never mind the circumstances of how it ended up where it shouldn’t. The point is, I’d be willing to offer a lot to have it returned safely.”

“And what would happen to me?” Roze says. Gentleman doesn’t even bother to look at her.

“Nothing that shouldn’t,” Gentleman says, but in his eyes, that might as well mean her death. Because we both know that the moment she’s returned to him, that bone’s being yanked out of her. She will die, and I can’t let that happen. Not for all the gold in the world. She is under my protection: she will remain so.

But at the same time, I know refusing will bring his wrath upon us as well.

“Well, since we all know you love humans so much that you sell them as slaves, that’s reassuring,” Roze says, and Alex lets out a brief snort of laughter as well.

“It’s a generous offer. The bone was never meant to be distributed.”

Sounds like he has a traitor in his midst, then, I think. I consider the masked man who tried to buy Roze at the auction. Who was so upset when I outbid him.

Could he have anything to do with it?

“What happens if I refuse? Since I made it my duty to protect these women, and if I sell Roze back, it’s highly likely she’ll be placed in danger.”

“She won’t be,” Gentleman says, but we all know he’s lying. He also doesn’t know that we’re aware the bone belongs to The Morrigan. Hopefully no one’s going to blurt out that little distinction and make it obvious. “I can even sign a contract to prove that she will be kept safe and alive, if you wish.”

“No means no,” I answer. Tensing and preparing to shift, I keep an eye on Gentleman, waiting to see if he’s going to snap his fingers and summon people to take us out. Or if he has a kind of magic I’m unprepared for. My only awareness of their magic comes from contracts.

But there could be far, far more I haven’t seen.

“Well, if you do change your mind…” He places a piece of paper in my hand, containing a cellphone number. If I did go to the police with this, I would breach my own contract – but I also suspect that this number isn’t directly his, either. “I will appreciate a more frank talk.” Gentleman regards Roze with what I suppose is meant to be a kindly smile, but it appears sinister and twisted on his angular face. Roze just glares back, at the man responsible for disrupting her life.

Gentleman leaves, and the potential assassination Beron and I anticipated doesn’t come.

“We’re going back to the estate,” I say immediately. “I don’t feel safe.”

We agree and leave, while speculating on how Gentleman could have messed up so much that The Morrigan’s bone ended up in Roze.

“He was likely intending to sell it for a much higher price,” Beron says, as we flag down the taxis I ordered to take us back. I don’t feel much like shifting into my dragon form right now. “Whoever’s collecting her bones is clearly putting pressure on him. I doubt he’s going to let her happily walk around free.”

I wish now that I’d pressed Gentleman harder. Tried to force him somehow to revoke the contract. But I didn’t have those thoughts at the time.

“If he’s got someone in his organization who deliberately had it implanted, why go through all that effort?”

To buy the person wielding it, I can see. To smuggle it inside a human, perhaps – if they receive a tattoo like the one on Roze’s back now, it all but conceals the magic. The bone would be hidden.

But did they, whoever was behind this, did they expect the carrier to die? Did they think they would buy the carrier, and kill them after, or wait for the carrier to do the job themselves with the call of the void?

I don’t have an answer. But I do think that I should be watching the shadows. Not just for Gentleman and his kind, or the people determined to fail our campaign to abolish slavery: but to the stranger who infiltrated a demon’s shipping ring in an attempt to smuggle out a valuable bone.

Halberg is the least safest place for Roze right now. Yet I can’t take her out of it.

Only solution left is to deal with Gentleman by myself.

Chapter 8

Roze

Somewhere along the line, we change our decision.

Instead of heading back to the estate, we elect instead to drop off at a four star hotel. It’s not quite as glamorous as others seen along the way, but it does have a small alcove where we can drink and sit out on a balcony to watch the snowfall. The night is young, and for once, I’m able to take a breather. I’m not stuck in a dragon’s basement wondering if I’m going to be let out. I’m not brooding about my power, or about Tiffany and knowing that I’ll have a year and a half to wait before she has a chance to return to us again. Meanwhile, an imposter holds her face, one who is hard to have any warm feelings towards, simply because it feels like she makes a mockery of Tiffany with almost any line she speaks.

To start liking her in any form is akin to a betrayal.

I’m sat with Beron and Cato on either side of me, and we’re all drinking together, dancing around topics while Alex and The Morrigan are elsewhere, trying out the substantial menu the hotel has to offer, and the arcade locked within its ground floor.

Those two have been talking more and more, since Alex’s initial outburst. Alex went from refusing to contact The Morrigan entirely to “keeping an eye on her in case she tries something,” to digging for knowledge from The Morrigan’s ancient brain. In the meanwhile, The Morrigan wants to learn a little more of technology and what the world is like today.

Hence the arcade. I guess that’s a prime example of modern technology.

Neither the bear or the dragon seem to be scared of those two running off, but that possibility lies in the back of my mind as I survey the snowy gardens belong, before letting my eyes scour over the men’s faces. Beron is more solemn than usual, and I catch him checking me out a lot, curiosity plain in his face. It’s the kind of checking out I’m used to before someone flirts with me, except if he has that intention, he’s not making any moves about it.

Cato, in the meanwhile, I know has been interested from the start. But we did have that unfortunate interruption of being kidnapped. I’ve mostly forgiven him since, but I’ve not told him as such out loud. Since a part of me still keeps thinking, if only I didn’t come here. If only we just chose somewhere else to make our vacation, rather than Halberg. Though it’s undeniably a beautiful city, counteracting natural earth physics with its magic. When the rest of Arizona has car tires melting into the asphalt, Halberg stands as a shimmering beacon of icy magic, with its own unique fashion of winter wear, and methods of travel involving shifters, ice skates, skis and boards. There are cars, but not nearly as many compared to those on foot.

But there’s something about Cato and Beron that keeps me here, more than the contract. If it was removed right now, I’m not completely sure I would get up and leave in that same instant.

Cato stretches and rolls his neck to crick out tension, and Beron holds his glass close to his lips at all times. “You won’t believe the amount of times I’ve had to protect this idiot,” says Beron, while Cato smiles innocently. “I was assigned to him when he was just twenty years old. I was twenty-five, even more big and strapping than I am now. Age’s shrinking me.”

“If you’ve shrunk, it’s probably on a microscopic level,” says Cato, pinching his thumb and forefinger together to indicate the amount. “You’ve always had that unfortunate tendency to be almost twice the size of everyone else.”

“Bear genes. If we’re already big, we don’t have that much to transform when we do merge with our bear. Anyway, what was I saying? – right, this idiot here is lucky to only have about three assassination attempts a year. First time, some political protester had been sending threatening letters through the mail for weeks, before turning up at a World Peace gig with a sawn-off shotgun. Took the buckshot right in the chest. Even my healing couldn’t get rid of the scars.” With a grin, Beron puts down his glass and tugs at his tunic, buttoning it down until it reveals a broad, muscular chest with a smattering of thatched brown hair. I hold my breath for a moment, cheeks flushing as I pretend to be entirely unaffected and merely curious. But damn, I wasn’t expecting that flash.

I have to get closer to see his battle-scars, and getting close makes it very hard for me to hide my sudden interest. Which flares up as if someone’s lit kindling inside me.

This is what it means to lust, I think wildly, reminding myself to breathe as my eyes trace over white spots on his skin, almost like the cigarette burns I’ve sometimes seen on patients in our hospital. I’ve witnessed a few gunshot wounds as well, but not so many concentrated over a single chest. “I’m surprised you didn’t die,” I say, resisting the urge to reach out stray fingers and brush over the skin. I could pretend it was just casual, but it’d just be an excuse for me to touch him at that point.

“We take more battering than humans,” says Beron, his eyes wide and glittering, irises almost black from his pupils. “So people like me make good bodyguards.”

Curiosity bleeds into me. “Wait, do you think you could recover from a C4 fracture?” There are quadriplegics that suffer immobilization of all their limbs. “Or is that something that can’t be fixed?”

“What’s a C4 Fracture?”

“Uh, it’s damage to the vertebrae that ends up in paralysis. Severe enough to make someone quadrileptic. Which is, uh, when both the arms and legs are paralyzed,” I add, at another questioning look.

Beron nods. “Oh. We can recover from injuries that paralyze people, yes. But it does take us longer. We do, however, die. It just takes a lot to take us down.”

I can believe it, examining him. I can believe he’d survive a rocket launcher to the face, if I was honest. I just wouldn’t want to test it out. What amazing powers these shifters have. As a human, I feel meek and fragile in comparison. One bullet is all that’s needed to take us out. Poison. Some undiagnosed medical illness that lies dormant for years until one day it just slaps us in the face.

“I can take a few hits as well,” Cato says, sounding almost defensive. “And endure most poisons.”

“Except dragonsbane,” Beron points out. “There’s no coming back from that.”

I smile and stare at the both of them as they start bickering on how strong their shifted forms are, and who’d be able to endure the most injury – but my interest is more in their bodies. Faint stirrings of lust has me wondering what it’d be like with either of them. Both would offer entirely different experiences, I think. In my mind, I imagine Beron to be gentle and considerate – a mountain of muscles hesitant to use too much strength. He likely has to be careful in his day-to-day interactions, to not accidentally bowl people aside. I think Cato would be more likely to experiment with different things – more open to the kinds of suggestions that are best saved for later on in relationships.

Not that I’ve experimented much, myself. I’ve had interests, sure. Who doesn’t? I’ve imagined celebrities in interesting positions. Beron wouldn’t be winning prizes for his features anytime soon, but there’s something magnetizing about the way his face moves, and the gruffness of his words as they leave his mouth. Cato would make it onto one, but I think if I saw him posing, I’d believe him too arrogant for my tastes.

He certainly has personal confidence.

It hits me then – realizing how much of my life I’ve suddenly wasted. Years pumped into my career – fighting for a job that paid well and enable me to eventually mortgage my own house and pay off my university debts.

But I never spent any of that time getting close to anyone. No relationships – I’d shrugged myself out of them, second year of uni. I needed to – I was falling behind in my work and ambition. Now it seems like I was lonelier than I believed. Or a part of me always knew, but just refused to acknowledge it.

Damn.

“What happened to that last girl you were dating, anyway?” Cato directs to Beron, which instantly yanks my attention right back on the conversation.

Even though I’d never heard him even breathe about another girl, he must have some time off to do things.

“You forgot already?” says Beron with a hint of irritation. “It didn’t work out. She moved to Canada, and I didn’t want to come along. As it meant abandoning my duties here.”

“Oh. Right. I think I do remember you mentioning that.” Cato rubs the back of his neck in an adorably awkward way. “Did I thank you for that?”

“Many times,” Beron says. “But if you forgot, maybe you should look into getting your memory checked.”

“My memory’s just fine. What about you, Roze,” says Cato, and I stop blinking as he examines me, as if I’m staring into the headlights of a car about to crash into me.

“What about me what?”

“Do you have someone waiting for you at home? I’m afraid I never thought of asking. With everything you’ve said, I assumed not, but...”

“I don’t.” My tongue feels thick and clumsy in my mouth when I say this, because it does feel like a declaration that I’m single and therefore interested in them.

But haven’t I been indicating that, anyway?

The chill night air spirals all of our breaths in opaque clouds, and I shiver.

“Right,” Beron says sympathetically, cutting across Cato before he has a chance to reply. “With your work in the hospital, you probably found it difficult to make any time.”

“Mm.”

Beron steps a little closer to me. “You ever thought about looking for someone?”

“N-not really,” I squeak, silently wishing I hadn’t drank any of the stout, because it’s infecting my system. I’m sure it is. I should change the subject, perhaps, or make my excuses and go to bed, but I’m also having fun, and feeling bolder than usual.

“Sometimes. But where would I find the time? It’s as Beron said. Mm.” I stare at my own fingers, imagining holding a syringe, or scalpel. Anything to distract me from the intensity of this. Since it seems now I realize I’m alone in their presence, that they’re both intrigued by me… I want to chicken out.

“If you ever want to get back into healing, you’re welcome to do so here,” Cato says. His eyes twinkle with ideas. “We could disguise you so no one need think you a human. Set up a small private practice in my district and let patients pay you for the healing. You could charge thousands.”

“I wouldn’t want to charge thousands,” I reply, angry at the notion. “If I ever went into business, I’d want fair prices.” It’s another thing I’ve found despicable within my line of work – the way corporations stick their hands into the money pot when it comes to other people’s lives. The way they insist that if you want to make sure you don’t end up on the bottom of the heap, then you better pay a lot of insurance. Fuck your health if you’re poor. Just hope the hand of God doesn’t accidentally fall upon you.

Cato seems to be looking at me with additional admiration in his eyes, and maybe even a little awe. I’m not used to someone regarding me in that way. Same with Beron. Something about those two gets to me.

I feel like I want to impress them, somehow.

“If you do feel up to it, then I wouldn’t mind helping you set up a practice,” Cato says. “But don’t feel under pressure to take up the offer. I know you were thinking of a change of career, too.”

Our eyes don’t move from each other for a while. I feel myself being sucked into them, lost in the intensity of that gaze, until Beron clears his throat.

“I have a question for you, actually.” He waits until we were both paying attention to him. “Do you… what you said before: would you... would you ever want to act upon it?”

“Uh,” I croak, now suddenly feeling exposed, and more than a little anxious. The moment Beron spells it out, embarrassment blooms in my cheeks, along with a sharp spike of arousal. Which is extra mortifying when I consider they might be able to smell my body’s reaction. Given their sense of smell is heightened compared to mine.

It’s the drink. That’s why I’m feeling like this. That’s why I’m seriously considering just giving into whatever this might be. Again, I try to think of my worst medical procedures, of the bullying I endured, just to wrench my mind and body out of the arousal.

But it doesn’t work. All I can think of is them. Cato’s silver eyes have a way of staring right through the soul, and Beron’s darker ones are warm, matching the color of his unruly beard.

Wordlessly, we choose to retire from the lounge, in case someone walks in on us. Equally wordlessly, we make our way to Cato’s suite, the whole time with my blood singing in me, the wildness inside expanding and demanding for release. The part of me that I’m not sure is completely me, or the alcohol, or the implant doing something to my emotions. Either way, the moment that door’s closed, I launch myself at Cato first, kissing him hard, recklessly, until he forgets how to breathe, and spots whirl in front of my vision. I then turn, on the surprised Beron, who almost looks disappointed – and kiss him as well.

It clears up the disappointment then. His beard is scratchy, but there’s a pleasant, comforting smell about him that makes me sink deeper into him, digging my fingers harder into his shirt. His kisses are softer than Cato’s, and when I draw away, my cheeks are burning, and a warm shiver’s traversing through my spine.

“I don’t really know what to do for something like this,” I admit. “I’m worried I won’t pay someone enough attention, or I’ll mess it up.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Cato assures me, and gives a small, eager smile at Beron. Cato gently steers me to the bed, taking a firm command, and gets me to lower. I see he’s conscious about giving me direct commands, because he knows that I’d have to obey, regardless of whether I felt like it or not. Another reason to appreciate him further.

I’m not the only one anxious to make this work, yet unsure of how the dynamics should be. But the wildness is in me now. The wildness, the blossoming desire play havoc upon my emotions, my soul. I want it rough, I want it soft, I want everything that can be offered. I want to see the glint of animal lust in their eyes, to feel that all consuming effect when you give yourself fully to something, in exchange for undulating, relentless ecstasy.

Perhaps being a little too eager, I already work on taking away my clothes, not giving them a chance to do the same. I hop stupidly as I tug my pants off, shimmy out of my underwear, and fumble for a few seconds too long when it comes to unclasping my bra. I’m doing this before I get any last thoughts about backing out. I’m there, standing in front of these two powerful men, still clothed, with nothing but bare flesh upon display. A red flush creeps up my skin, settling in my cheeks and beginning to stir a light, eager fever within. Cato devours me with his eyes, which have gone wide, the pupils dilating. Beron is the same, but he’s the first to move to me, the first to touch me with surprisingly gentle fingers under the chin, tilt my head up towards his, and place a heated, wet kiss upon my lips. Wet because of the way our lips part and our tongues duel, and when his hands start roaming, flowing over my skin, quick bolts of desire settle between my legs, as I think: this is it. It’s happening. It’s really happening.

“Don’t hog her all to yourself,” Cato chides, and now I feel an additional pair of hands caressing over my back, taking the time to travel over the contours there. “She’s a lady, to be treated right – not some morsel to devour.”

But maybe I want to be devoured. Maybe I want to be bent over backwards, rough lips on my neck, rough hands scratching along my skin and taking me whiplash fast. Maybe a part wants to hear a command, something like on your knees, and regardless of whether I could choose to disobey or not, I’d obey anyway, give myself up and all the control I possess.

There’s something deliciously vulnerable about having no clothes, and the brush of shirt and pants from the men, as they chose to keep theirs on. For now. Soon the men switch, and it’s Cato’s lips against mine, his front pressing against me, and I feel the rise of his arousal, and a giddy sort of happiness strikes through me at the thought that I have that power, that I’m attractive enough for it.

Is it possible, then, to be submissive, yet still somehow holding all the cards? Yes, I think, feeling their hands over me, letting myself sink, swimming in my emotions, in every shivering touch. Yes, it’s possible. There’s power in giving yourself up for sure, in releasing the string of a kite and letting it drift, drift into blue sky and breeze.

Cato seizes me and props me upon the king-sized bed, shaking in his eagerness as he undoes his pants. Beron watches from the side, eyes glazed, mouth parted as he strokes over his clothes, tending to his own arousal.

“Don’t be shy,” Cato beckons to his bodyguard then, and I watch in an excited haze as Beron takes off his shirt, then the rest of his clothes, joining the same club as me. Such muscle. It takes time and effort to look like that. The thing between his legs, that’s what he’s born with – but the curvature of his muscles, the toned shadows of his legs and the impact of his stomach – I’m not afraid to say my mind might have stopped functioning for a brief, drooling second.

Beron’s a little awkward, just because he’s unsure about how to conduct himself. But he’s doing just fine in my opinion.

“Why don’t you taste her first, Beron? If she doesn’t mind, of course,” Cato says, looking at me. I nod eagerly, still in a way unable to comprehend how lucky I am, that they’re both willing to try this.

Beron comes close, and begins to kiss me, softly but with passion, and I indulge with it, slowly melting into a world of my own. The world consists of breaths, the smell of our skins, the heat burning from our bodies, and the rising sense of excitement as tiny swirls of pleasure continue to pepper my body. Beron’s mouth moves from my own lips down to my neck, to track along my breasts and taste the pebbled tips there, before trailing lower.

My excitement’s at fever pitch, and I’m getting impatient, wanting more than just this teasing, wondering if he’s going to pass me down there or do what I’m hoping for him to do.

“She’s not going to wait much longer for you if you keep that pace,” Cato says. “Go for the prize, or I’ll be taking over from you.”

Beron lets out a little growl at this, and ducks his head between my legs. His breath is hot against me, and when his tongue moves with one flat, broad stroke, I arch up from the bed, heart bursting from the explosion of pleasure emitting from this. My legs keep tensing, drawing up into my body as he locates my clit and begins to tackle it, from light, broad strokes to jabbing, precise movements, all which serve to heighten the experience.

Cato steps in close and begins to massage one of my breasts, and I close my eyes completely, giving into the twin pleasures inflicted by both men, and the soft growling of Cato’s voice as he continues to talk.

“Surrender to us, Roze… don’t tense up so much, you’ll limit what we can give you.”

Surrender? I shiver at the word, and become aware of just how much my muscles are tensing. How else am I to endure what’s happening, though? The pleasure’s almost too much, and I begin to squirm, messing up Beron’s rhythm, until Cato presses a firm hand against my chest.

“Be still. Let him take you away.”

The command sends another thrilled jolt through me, and I gradually untense, even though it’s so hard, even though every touch of Beron’s tongue sends little waves through me, that increase in strength over time, rather than weaken. Soon I’m gasping and begging, though I’m not sure what for. To keep going, to stop: none of it matters except the flood of sensations.

I come with a strangled cry, not prepared for it at all. My body shivers through the orgasm, and Cato coaxes Beron away from between my legs, as he was still trying to pleasure, but it’s sensitive, so sensitive that even a breath causes me to twitch.

“My turn,” Cato growls, and he repositions me slightly, moving between my legs. He’s completely naked and impressive, and I’m still swimming in the endorphins as he carefully positions his cock to press against my entrance. I gasp as he slowly pushes his way within, filling me up and stopping, to check that I’m okay with this.

I nod, after remembering to breathe, and Cato begins to slide in and out of me, sending me into a new world of sensations. I orgasm again within a minute, clutching at Cato’s shoulders for support, and he doesn’t take too long to come inside me, either. There’s something wonderfully decadent about it, being taken and consumed by these two men. No sooner has Cato removed himself from me that Beron is there, too, sinking to the hilt inside, making me arch and cry out.

Cato’s saying something else, but I can’t hear him right now, and I don’t care, because nothing matters but these singular, overpowering pleasures that burn through my body, making my heart beat at a crazy pace, and my breaths come in short, excited gasps. I can barely cope with all of it, and I think at one point I black out from the pleasure, because my next memory is Beron removing himself from me, and his voice asking if I’m okay, if he was too rough.

“It’s fine,” I croak, finding it difficult to focus. “It’s fine.” I grin like an idiot when I see both men by me, almost as spent as I am.

“That can happen if you forget to breathe,” Cato chides me gently. “Poor Beron was worried for a second.”

“M’fine,” I insist, but smile when Beron curls up beside me. It’s enough for us to lie there right now, just absorbing what’s happening. More will come, and I look forward to it. It’s different from any other experience I’ve had before, and it makes me realize I’ve been missing out for all these years.

About time I did something about those years, then.

Chapter 9

Cato

It feels like a whole new avenue’s opened up for us. One that we’ve managed to explore several times in the past night, because Roze ended up having a lot more energy than either of us anticipated. We felt almost inadequate, having to take breaks, while she could keep going, keep sinking into that pleasure, reaching high after high.

But as much as I’d like to keep exploring this further, to just lock us up in this room for the next month and do nothing else but indulge in all the fantasies under our commands, there’s unfortunately, lingering problems that are threatening to bite us in the ass.

For a start, we know Gentleman’s watching us, and is hungry for the implant within Roze. He doesn’t realize The Morrigan has adapted her own mind inside an empty vessel, so we’re taking care to at least outwardly address the old sorceress as Tiffany, though the name barely crosses our lips if we can help it. We head back to the estate, where I also have to navigate the pitfalls of my father not obtaining the information that The Morrigan is alive and well, and not so far off being able to grant one of her legendary Great Wishes.

He also pulls me aside, to warn me not to get too close to Roze, because he thinks that I seem to be spending more time with her than entirely necessary.

“She’ll topple your entire career, if you give her the chance,” my father warns, a darkness in his expression. “If people were to find out that you were close to someone under a demonic slave contract...”

“Don’t worry,” I assure him, lying to his face. “We won’t get close. She can’t ever be interested in the person responsible for keeping her here,” I say, though I’m thinking of Gentleman when the words come. “Are we still avoiding the likes of Gentleman until the campaign and vote’s done?”

“For now,” my father says, arms folded, standing behind his desk, one foot tapping the floor in impatient thought. “Though it irks me that he’s allowed so much power – like he’s laughing in our faces. My security’s barely able to keep the wolves from our door. People are questioning why we won’t let them in for interviews, and I have to keep citing personal privacy. But they don’t think people like us deserve any kind of privacy at all… and one journo, Hester Bainwright – he’s being particularly vocal. Our biggest critic. Tempting to do something about him.”

My father’s no longer talking to me. He’s just voicing his thoughts out loud, for me to hear, but if he can, he would rather solve any problems himself. I might have inherited that trait as well, because I’m always thinking of ways to solve problems, too. And sometimes, solving one just creates another.

Like Roze.

She’s a problem I can’t quite solve right now. She’s lodged there within, and she’s not going away any time soon.

The problem of whatever it is I feel. And the problem that she wants an entirely different Great Wish than I do. I can keep quiet on that for now, but when it finally reaches the moment…

I’m not entirely sure I’d let her use the Wish to bring back her friend.

“Gentleman’s been sniffing around us,” I interrupt my father, just when he’s potentially brooding over finding a way to the irritating journalist he hates so much. “He’s keeping tabs on us. I think he’s going to try and find some blackmail material.” I almost tell my father that he wants to buy back Roze, but realize almost instantly that this would be a mistake.

Because my father would jump at the chance to rid ourselves of a problem, gain some extra cash – yet the reason for Gentleman’s sudden interest in Roze would remain hidden. If I told him she had The Morrigan’s bones, that will start up a whole new avenue of conversation.

I think there would be security twenty-four seven around my suite. Her friend, Alex, and Tiffany’s body then can make great hostage targets to keep her pinned in place.

“I’ve heard he’s becoming more active,” my father says, nodding to my news. “I’ve also been hearing some strange rumors from my underworld contracts. They tell me whatever people in that kind of world are saying, real or imagined. And one such rumor that keeps cropping up is that one of The Morrigan’s bones is in Halberg.” My father pauses to examine my reaction. “Of course, you’d need the rest of the body for anything remotely interesting to happen, but there’s talk that the bone has been placed inside a human. You’ve heard of this?”

“I have,” I say. “But I think it’s a load of bull. Wasn’t it only a month ago they were talking about finding a fingerbone from the first ever shapeshifter? Pretty sure that turned out to be a dead end.”

“Yes..,” my father says, as if slowly chewing cud. “All sorts of nonsense crop up in that channel. But The Morrigan’s a little more traceable than a fingerbone from someone who lived potentially millions of years ago. She was last alive in the 17th century, then killed, and said to have her bones scattered. At least 206 of them in the world, more if those ones have been fragmented. So I find this rumor perhaps has weight.”

“I see,” I say, my hands suddenly clammy. He’s gotten a little too close for comfort. And if he’s mentioning this, then that means he might already be guessing about the worth of Roze or Alex or Tiffany. The notion chills me to the core. And I realize I might not be able to hide away from him forever.

The time might come where I’ll need to tell my father. But in doing so, it’ll become abundantly clear that I’m not following his commands to stay away from her. To keep the distance.

“Did you hear anything about it, son?”

I consider only for a split second. “I think so. But that was all I heard. Just little things that didn’t seem significant. Being kidnapped temporarily didn’t improve my knowledge either, father. I still rely on the contacts like you do. But they’re having trouble gleaning anything extra and useful. And I have to be careful not to step too near Gentleman.”

“But he wants to try and blackmail us, you say? Well, he’s got the perfect material. We’ll have to arrange another meeting. Ask what the devil he wants.”

Fuck it. “He wants Roze, father.”

My father narrows his dark silver eyes. “Your healing slave?”

“The human who was implanted with that, yes.”

“That makes no sense. Why sell her to you, and then demand her back? That’s insolence,” my father says, almost breathing fire through his nostrils with anger.

“It’s because, well, we think Roze might have an implant of The Morrigan in her,” I say, and my father’s face goes slack with shock. Hastily, I try to inform him of what I know. That someone deliberately implanted her and tried to buy her. I bought her first. And that someone’s searching for the final bone so they can get the Great Wish in a year or so’s time. I keep out the fact that The Morrigan is in Tiffany, and I don’t say that we can actually have the Wish granted ourselves. That’s one too many.

My father digests the information, before giving me a flinty stare. “You kept this from me,” he accuses. “Whatever for? You know I’d want to help keep this bone out of another’s hands.”

“Because I wanted the human to have her freedom,” I say, not using her name. “I wanted the three of them to be bought and freed.”

“That’s not possible, and you know it. Not if she has The Morrigan’s bone in her.” My father sucks at his teeth. “So Gentleman wants her back. Presumably to sell the bone on. But who was it that intended to buy it at the auction?”

“Maybe the person who was originally collecting them,” I say, disturbed at the notion.

“Precisely,” my father says. He looks like he has a plan, but he pauses before he storms out the office. “You’re not holding anything else out on me, are you?”

“No. But I do want the humans to have their freedom returned to them.”

My father simply gives a soft snort, before leaving through the door.

* * *

Roze

Imagine my surprise when four days after I’ve arrived back into my comfortable prison, Cato’s father announces that he’s giving me a small, private hospital for me to work my magic in, and he’ll provide services for Tiffany and Alex as well.

“Where the hell is this coming from?” I say to Cato, when he comes to take me to this new place, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed.

“I’m not sure. You know what I’ve told him. But it’s three weeks before the bill gets voted on. If he whisks you out now, I don’t see how it’d end up with good results...”

“I don’t want to,” I say, heart clenching, gripping onto Cato’s arm. Beron is pacing behind us, soft and quiet. “I don’t want to be a surgeon anymore.”

I feel Beron touch me lightly on the shoulder. “You could do a lot of good from this position, couldn’t you?”

I could. But do I want to? Especially considering how desperate some people were to buy me. Considering how desperate Gentleman was.

“Is he trying to make me more public so that Gentleman has nothing to blackmail you guys with?” I ask, mind swirling as I fathom through the possibilities. I can’t help but think that the whole point of me being stuck in this suite, only allowed outside under guidance is to hide this secret. But making me part of a private hospital blows all of that out of the water, so to speak.

The “private hospital” however, turns out to still be within the estate grounds itself, but in one of the outbuildings that I previously thought belonged to one of the servants that worked on the premises. Since there was the main building, and tucked behind it in the walled off enclave was a row of smaller properties, and I know older styled estates used to have such houses for their servants. One of them appears to have been refurbished, and inside, I’m greeted with a gleaming, sterile environment that seems more to me like the inside of a 70’s asylum, rather than a nice, modern hospital. It’s just missing a few torture instruments lying on shiny trays on squeaking carts.

“Your working grounds,” Cato says, still looking ill at ease. “I’m sorry about this.” I feel a light touch of my cheeks, before he withdraws his fingers. “I’m sorry for all of this.”

The brief interlude of memory from what happened in the bedsheets a few nights ago from his touch dissolves just as fast as it had appeared. I want to cling onto those moments more. They’re still so fresh, so vivid, but I also know that I have to be prepared for a potential trap.

I’m sure Cato and Beron are not in on whatever this is, or had the choice. The head of the household has the final say, after all.

I’m shown around to what appears to be my office, and it becomes clear that I’m going to be the only healer in the premises. An entire little clinic, just to myself. There’s even a computer in the office, and a rather bubbly Personal Assistant, a Vickie McKenzie, helps draw me up my current client list, and I see that I already have clients coming today.

“What the hell,” I say to Beron and Cato. “I don’t have a license. I don’t have anything that makes me legal!”

“Um, you do, actually,” Cato says, still wearing the tight-jawed expression when he pulls open a desk and reveals to me documents, and a lanyard, and Halberg based I.D, all shiny new, the lanyard still smelling of fresh, hot plastic.

“What the hell,” I repeat, softer this time. The magic’s tickling inside me. Begging to be used. “Why wasn’t I asked? Why?”

“When my father get something in his head, he assumes everyone will say yes. Even if they don’t. And he never really bothers to sit down long enough to check in with them, either.”

I know a few people like that. Including colleagues from the hospital I worked at. The problem is, I feel like I can’t refuse someone like Cato’s father. Not if I want to find myself sold back to Gentleman at the price he’s been asking. Not if any signs of disobedience means that he might decide I’m a little too unreliable to keep around.

God forbid he aggravate Alex, who already has heavily negative connotations with the history of slavery, or he check in on The Morrigan and realize that she’s stuck in a twenty-something year old’s body.

“I’ll make up for this. I promise,” Cato says to me. I stare silently at my office, at my perky new assistant who also looks suspiciously like some kind of pixie, with the reminder on the computer screen that I have a client to see in less than an hour. Is this is an attempt to make me too busy to leave?

It seems that cynical.

“He also...” Cato swallows, and swallows again. Now he can’t look at me in the eyes, and Beron has a soft growl rumbling in his throat, “told me to command you to work here.”

I let back a soft hiss. “And will you do that? Will you force me to work this?” They’re forcing me anyway, but if he makes it a command, then disobeying means pain.

“I won’t. I command you instead to do what you think is best,” he says, and I breathe a small sigh of relief. For a moment, I thought he was planning to. I see how important it is for him to remain in his father’s good books.

When there’s no one around and looking, Cato quickly pulls me to him, and gathers me up into a firm but tender kiss. His thumbs rest on either side of my face, and I take comfort in the gesture. Beron closes in, too, and I accept his embrace. Where Cato is soft, Beron is solid and big, and my fingers dig into his arm muscles.

“You’ll be okay. And I’m still going to keep a secret eye out for Gentleman. Okay?”

I nod, a lump in my throat. A moment later, The Morrigan saunters in, and gives me a cool, appraising expression. “Such a tiny fraction of my power that you happen to wield now, human. Don’t embarrass me with it, will you?”

“I’ll try not to,” I reply. “But I have a question for you. Are you planning to do anything with this new life of yours, since you have, uh, since you’re alive?” I almost said “have a body,” but that feels remarkably callous in light of everything that’s happened. It’s not just any body, after all. But I suppose The Morrigan probably has a bucket list of things she wants to do, now she’s walking once more.

“Naturally,” The Morrigan says. “I want to see my descendants in Ireland, see how things have changed there since I last breathed. Travel the world a little, recover my bones so they can’t be used.” She stares at her borrowed hands for a moment. “Though being placed in this body also gives me the same limitations as it. The slave contract. So I’m thinking I’d like to do something about that.”

“Can you? Do you have the power?”

“Once. Now I am fragmented. I have the power to see through mirrors, still. Parlor tricks, mostly.” She smiles, then. “I’ve been looking for Gentleman’s mirrors. Still haven’t found them yet.”

“Won’t he notice you looking?” I say, also wondering if The Morrigan would be looking with Tiffany’s face, or the one I saw in the mirror previously.

“Not if I don’t want him to.” She twists her lips into a smile that’s nothing like Tiffany’s. It’s colder, harsher, somehow. “Don’t you worry. I’ll be working on a way to break out of these chains, too.”

And flee, I think, but don’t say as such. I simply thank her, then check up on Alex. Alex is listening to a song by herself, mimicking the chords she hears. Her singing is impressive, resonant, and she’s also plucking her way through a newly bought keyboard, and I have to listen for a moment, before congratulating her. The moment she realizes she’s being observed, she flushes darker and stops.

“Figured I might as well put these new talents to use,” she says. “Just wondering what to do with them. Make my own songs? Copy other people’s songs like I see everyone do?”

“Something that stands out,” I say to her. “Something both with your voice and keyboard, I’m sure.”

She nods. “If I can start making myself some money here… I can prepare for when I eventually leave. And if I get successful, then why not?” She grins, and for the first time, I see there’s an eagerness, a hope in her. An acceptance of what’s happened, and a determination to move on.

I’m so damn proud of her. Though I do miss her talking about her serial killer documentaries. She’s not done that for a while. Probably too stressed from the current situation to think about them. Hopefully she’ll be back to talking about them soon.

Less than an hour later, my first client arrives. I feel like a complete fraudster, and incredibly uncomfortable when I find out that my client is a “Baron Velonis,” who apparently is a multi-millionaire wolf shifter who has been having some issues with headaches. An important client who takes one sniff at me and curls his lips in distaste.

“Humans with implants… what on earth is the old boy up to?” Baron Velonis glares at me, until I do my precursory examination. From my medical training, I know there are several reasons for headaches, ranging from tension based to chronic to sometimes the hint of a hidden disease, or just an overuse of certain drugs, such as caffeine. When I touch him with my magic, however, which constantly keeps raging through my blood and asking for the chance to be used… I see that there’s something else there. Merged in his body, I can feel the turn of his blood, the crackling static of his thoughts and the impossible speed that the brain processes information at – and I also detect a small, malign tumor within his head that will kill him in roughly seven months, werewolf healing be damned. I tell him as such, and his eyes bug out in surprise.

“The tumor is pressing directly on one part of your brain, hence why you’re getting that constant, dull headache. You should have gone for a doctor before when you felt this. You had it more than twice a week, yes?”

“All the time,” Baron Velonis says, suddenly humble, rather than boastful. “I just took those painkillers to help. People get headaches all the time.”

“They do,” I concede, “and usually they’re nothing to worry about. But it’s always worth a check if you’re feeling it’s persistent. Lots of people like to dismiss their problems as not really problems. So let me heal this for you.”

I feel strong. Comfortable. And it surprised me just how easily I slot into the role that’s been forced upon me. I gently target the tumor until it’s gone, and probe his body for any other potential problems, either existing or might occur in some years time. “You have a high chance of developing Alzheimer’s in your sixties,” I inform the baron. “I can offset the patterns in your body that will lead to them. If you wish.”

Baron Valonis isn’t about to refuse such an offer. And at the end, he’s all smiles and gratefulness.

My second client is someone else who seems to have a significantly important background. She sells perfumes and branded clothes in Halberg, and there’s nothing really wrong with her, aside from the fact her monthly cycles cause her a lot of pain, so I simply adjust the dial on that so she won’t feel pain when it reaches that time. My third and last for the day is a baby boy, born to a couple who again have influence, this time in logistics for providing supermarkets over Halberg with food. The boy was born with Tay-Sachs disease, and the symptoms became obvious when he was around four months old. It’s a nasty, degenerative disease, an inherited autosomal recessive condition. It targets the nervous system, and is usually fatal.

Unless you have healing powers, like I do. I cure the little boy, and it takes almost all of my energy to do so, because the disease follows a riddle of other defects within the infant as well, including his heart, his lungs, and a potential kidney problem. The healing of something genetic is harder to do than healing something that’s been inflicted. I actually rearrange the DNA and clamp down certain genes that aren’t benefiting the host at all. It’s fascinating. So much power at my fingertips.

So much potential to help. It lights a fire in me, seeing the couple weep with happiness, cradle their little boy and thank me, over and over again. I sit there in my office afterwards, feeling as if I’m drifting, floating, all the puzzle pieces of my life trying to slot into place.

Like I’ve just remembered why I wanted to become a doctor in the first place. Because I wanted to help people. I could handle a bit of blood, of digging into someone to solve their problems.

What I couldn’t handle was being treated like shit, day in and day out when trying to do my job. People under stress are more likely to make faulty decisions, and that’s no good when people’s lives are under stake. Maybe there are people out there who can work ninety hours a week no matter how much stress they’re under, but I’m pretty sure those people fizzle out and forget what it is to live.

And I suppose no one talks about the high suicide rate of people in the medical profession. Not that far off the suicide rate of those abandoned veterans. We go through our own horrors every day. Someone shot by their son in a freak archery accident through the head and yet survives. Someone who bumped their head on a windowsill and the next day, they’re dead. People with suspicious objects in their backsides, all claiming they have no idea how they ended up there.

People in horrific road accidents or shootings, begging us to save their lives, panicking, rebelling in horror of facing their own mortality, or perhaps their hospital bills. Even those who are critically wounded trying to tell us they need to go back home, they can’t afford this.

All of these people turned up at some point.

But now I can heal them. Without qualms, without years and years of medical training needed. I can save all of them.

I grin to myself.

Sure feels good to be reminded.

* * *

It soon becomes blatant that Cato’s father is trying to rein in bribes. Or get himself good with higher society. He’s plucking out people who have a problem of a sort, whether it’s something manageable like diabetes, or something fatal like cancer. Apparently, healers like me are exceedingly rare and ludicrously expensive, to the point where I wonder why I was ever auctioned at all. Maybe my worth was underestimated. Maybe they expected the allergy to the implant to kick in and kill me.

Either way, I’m ensconced in this property, now, servicing high end clients with their numerous health issues.

All of them thank me profusely, and some ask me questions about how I ended up working here. I had been specifically asked to answer a certain way, which wasn’t quite a command, but enough to put some considerable pressure on the way I phrased myself.

I tell them I was kidnapped on a visit. I tell them I was rescued by Cato and Beron. That I wanted to put my powers to good use, and they kindly provided me the opportunity to do so. It felt like the complete opposite of how we started out, locking me away to keep potential trouble low. It’s as if they switched their strategies. As if they needed to, because something changed.

Maybe they want to make it harder for Gentleman to secure me by making me a known figure to higher society.

Alex is asked to perform for these clients as well, and she does so, with reluctance, but grace in her voice. The Morrigan uses the implant in her borrowed body to cultivate the garden, usually muttering something about how undignified it is for someone like her to be reduced to peasant’s work. Ordering around an ancient Irish queen is probably not the best way to endear her to anyone, but since she’s trapped in that body, she has no choice. And she seems unwilling to leave it. Unwilling might not be the best turn of phrase. I’m not entirely sure if she can.

Out of magic for the day, I sit in my comfortable armchair, looking at the former medical records of my last client, who had a nasty degenerative disease waiting to kick off in his last thirties. I’m just sipping at my water when the door opens, and Cato and Beron sidle in, smiling gravely.

“Hey,” I say, with a slight edge to my tone. Not entirely sure if I have the energy and willpower to deal with them at the moment.

“Hey,” Cato replies. “Good job with the last client, by the way. He’ll be a solid ally to my father.”

“I don’t really care about treating all these rich, influential people,” I reply. “When am I going to get patients who actually need me? The ones who can’t afford all of these things?”

“I don’t know,” Cato admits, his silver eyes wide as if pleading for forgiveness. “I’m afraid that my father might have you booked up for a while. But it is intended for your protection.”

Rage simmers through me, and I feel my blood heating up. I’m deceiving my parents for this person, chafing against the limitations of the contract.

“Charity cases,” I say stiffly, “might very well help your father’s reputation. I’m sure the locals will be most satisfied to know they have someone looking out for them.”

“Yes, but the security will be harder. More chance we might get someone we don’t want to get if we start admitting the poorer public.”

“I don’t care,” I reply. “I just don’t. Make it happen. So I don’t feel like I’m helping the kind of people who don’t deserve it.”

Beron nods, and after a moment, Cato nods as well.

“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told my father about you. That the implant you had was valuable to Gentleman.”

“It did sound like you had no choice,” I point out, softening. “At least this isn’t abuse, and I’m rediscovering what I liked about being in a position to help others. I can’t deny I’m benefiting from this, too.”

“In more ways than one,” Beron growls, and a rush of heat accumulates instead between my thighs, and I wonder if maybe I have more energy than I previously thought. “We should take you out again. Find a nice restaurant, maybe do some activity like ice skating or...”

“I can’t skate well,” I say, but I think immediately that it would be nice. Although the views here are expansive and lovely, they’re also limited. I want to do more with my life, even under the terms of the contract. I want to feel as free as possible, to forget for a moment that taking one wrong step results in the burning of my soul.

“But Gentleman’s watching us,” Cato says, then shuts up when I glare at him. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t want you to be hurt. I’m not too good at deciding what the best course of action is when it comes to that, however.” He places a hand at the back of his head, looking awkward but adorable at the same time. “Really, I just want things to be normal.”

Normal. Yes, so do I. But we’re pretty far from it right now. I ditch my desk to advance to Cato and Beron, allowing myself to be wrapped up in their embraces one at a time. For a moment, I’m sad, because I want things to be better between us. Without the heavy burden of a demon contract looming above our heads, of Gentleman waiting in the wings to snatch me back and rip out the bone, of the mysterious stranger who tried to buy me, the woman in my friend’s body, and healing people who don’t need it.

But I know they’re trying their best. None of us asked for this situation, but we do what we can anyway.

And maybe I like the two of them more than expected. Big, strong, dependable Beron, with those scars upon his chest, and his determination to protect. Cato, polite mannered and immaculate, trying to keep up his charm, but failing and giving into the other side – the side that genuinely wants to help others, and feel responsible for them.

I look at these two individuals, the bear and dragon shifters respectively, wondering about my attraction to them. Wondering what our future might hold. If we might fall apart screaming, or if we find a way to function together.

I picture myself in a house, without that father of Cato’s breathing down our necks. Some place with a garden, access to shops, and my own private clinic like this one, where I’m booked up with appointments from all over the world. Helping those who need it.

Though, of course, I’d need an income. As much as I’d like to heal people completely for free, there’s rent to pay and mouths to feed. But I’d make my charges manageable. Part payments. People who might pay tens of thousands for treating, not including their insurance and other taxes would be elated to have treatment for a fraction of those prices. I could do it.

Live in a house with these men. Forge my career, and perhaps my heart as well.

We just have the tiny little problem of Gentleman.

Later that night, Cato produces some flowers to place upon my desk, and Beron gets one of those bobble-head bears as a gift, for me to poke my finger at if I should start getting fidgety. I fall asleep happy and content, determined to make the next day a good day. Alex is happier now than I’ve seen her. The Morrigan, aside from her occasional mutterings, does seem content to allow me to use her Great Wish to revive my friend. Cato also seems willing, though sometimes I wonder if he is thinking something otherwise. The problem is making sure his father doesn’t know, because that’s a man of ambition if I’ve ever seen one.

We take each other that night, under the cover of darkness. Furiously and with passion, the clothes fly off, and we consume each other body, mind and soul. It’s less of an act and more of a need, as if we need to confirm again that we want this. That both of them mean something to me, and I mean something to them. We each offer something different when it boils down to our hard, writhing passion, and I wish I could explain to them how important this is. I don’t feel like a prisoner at all. I feel free. I feel like me.

Collapsing into slumber afterwards has never been so sweet. I was dressed back in my day clothes, sprawled on the sofa, rather than the bed. It was too hot and sticky to share between three people for long. But I fell asleep with utter contentment.

Next day, however, it all goes horribly wrong.

Chapter 10

Roze

When I wake up, it’s not sprawled on the sofa with a likely sore neck, as I was hoping. (Maybe not the neck.) In fact, I’m somewhere I don’t recognize at all. My body aches, my tongue feels heavy, like lead, and it takes a moment for me to register the familiar rumble of a moving vehicle, and to observe I must be in the back of some truck or van. What’s more, I appear to be tied up at the feet and wrists.

From there, it’s a quick plunge into panic. I don’t bother screaming hysterically, because there’s no point, and instead look through the wiry meshing that separates me from the front seat duo. Both seem to be wearing beanie hats, and possessing a masculine profile. One part of my brain’s still rebelling, wondering how on earth I ended up from a night of passion into a van, and why there’s absolutely no memory of this. Had it all happened when I was asleep? Did I really not wake up when I was hauled out of bed. Didn’t the others?

Am I dreaming?

Dreams always felt real to the dreamer. But at the same time, I was thinking far too clearly to be in a dream, and I ached all over. A horrible pins and needles sensation began to creep up my arm, and I discovered that my left leg was cramping, too. I wanted to stay still, to not alert them to the fact I was awake, but the discomfit forces me to stretch and roll, trying to return some flow into the limbs.

The man in the passenger seat turns around at the sound of movement, and cold yellow eyes appraise me, before he says to his companion, “You didn’t give her a strong enough dose. She’s awake.”

The driver curses slightly. “What? How? That should have knocked her out for hours!” He grabs something from his pocket and hands it to his companion. Meanwhile, I think I recognize the look of the street they’re driving down.

This is a bad kidnapping. I can see where we’re going. Kidnapping. I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. “What do you want? Why have you taken me?”

They ignore my questions, but stop the vehicle in a secluded spot. The passenger gets off his seat and enters the back of the van. There’s a brief, futile struggle, before I’m injected with something, and feel the weight of the world crashing down on my consciousness.

Blinking awake next, I quickly take in the fact I’m still in the van, and a rushing disappointment floods through me, that it wasn’t just a dream, that I’m really, physically here. The only difference this time is that the man in the passenger seat is still in the back of the van with me, slouched on the side as there isn’t anywhere to sit. “God’s body,” he says, eyes narrowed as he regards me. “You just won’t stay asleep.”

“She awake again? Lawd, I bet Den sold me a tainted batch. Well, we’re hardly stopping on our route, so you’ll just have to make sure she stays quiet.”

I think of Beron and Cato, and a cold shiver goes through me as I know there’s no way someone could have crept into the rooms without them knowing. Their animal senses have a way of picking up on things human senses never can. Which means something might have happened to them. Something bad. My mouth goes dry, and my heart stutters faster, in fear and stress. I know the best thing to do is to keep calm, but it’s hard when you factor other people. Alex will be worried. Don’t know about The Morrigan. Don’t really care about her either, aside from the fact that I don’t want her abusing Tiffany’s body.

“Why am I here?”

“Questions, questions,” the man says. In the dim light offered by the front, his eyes seem dark, his face heavy, like a weight pressing down upon him. He raises a fist, and I scowl at him.

“If you’re going to knock me out, you could cause severe trauma. Do you want me in one piece or not?” I have no idea where the bravado has come from. Really, I just want to curl up, squeeze my eyes shut, and make this whole sorry situation disappear.

“Hmph.” He stays his fist, to my surprise, but I try to keep it off my face. “How’d you wake yourself up so soon?”

I contemplate answering him, since I have an idea how. “Why do you have me?”

He sighs exasperation. His fist slams close to me. “Answer my questions. You’re not in a position to bargain for anything.”

True. But worth a try. “I suspect it’s because of the implant inside me. I’m able to heal others because of it, and it probably heals me as well.”

Now I have a closer look at the man, I see his eyes are yellow. That he’s a supernatural, and I instantly feel colder. I’m fully aware not so many people appreciate humans with implants. Perhaps I should have been a little more discreet about that.

“That makes sense,” he concedes. “With The Morrigan’s bone inside you, you should be able to perform some feat of strength. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t had an allergic reaction.”

I stare sharply at him. “You’re kidnapping me for the implant, then.”

“Glad you’ve cottoned on,” he says, while the driver yells at him and tells him to stop “talking to the target.” He ignores this and there’s an odd gleam in his eyes now, and all the questions about Beron and Cato’s welfare rises to mind again.

“Are you planning to cut me up? Do you work for Gentleman?”

At this, he lets out a derisive snort. “No. I don’t work for Gentleman.” He shook his head as if offended. “No, I hate that demon’s guts.” I notice a slight lilt to his tone, and puzzle over it. Not American. European of some sort. Pale skinned, dark haired, a thick set to his jaw.

Irish? “You’re part of The Morrigan’s court.” I say it as a statement, not a question. I want to bluff him into thinking I know, when I don’t.

He raises one eyebrow, lips tightening and drooping as he regards me. “Not of her court. But you could say I know her. How do you know about The Morrigan, anyway?”

“I sensed it,” I say, figuring I’m not going to mention that The Morrigan happens to be walking and talking right now. “The bone in me sometimes gives me these little gut impulses.” A lie, but a plausible one, I think. The man certainly seems to consider it. I also notice that the driver has stopped trying to shut us up now.

“Interesting. I didn’t think that might be possible.” The man’s yellow eyes harden. “You were supposed to be a way to smuggle the bone out of Gentleman’s grasp.”

It takes me a little longer to put two and two together. “Were you the other auctioneer? The one who lost out to Cato on the bidding?”

He laughs softly this time in response. “Too clever for your own good. Yes I was.”

I nod to myself. In all our worrying about Gentleman, we didn’t really stop to consider too much about the opposing bidder. They’d placed a lot on attempting to win me as well – and from what I’ve gleaned about The Morrigan’s bone, I was never meant to have it inside me in the first place. But that makes it worse, in a way.

I was little more than a bone mule. The only significant thing about me was that I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. No other reason.

“How do you know The Morrigan, then? Who are you?”

The man shakes his head, and rubs at his left arm as if an insect bite was bothering him. “Oh, we’re not answering that one.” He grins rather maliciously.

“What will you do with me?”

“Depends.” He then delivers me a smile. “Perhaps we keep you safe. Perhaps we will have need of the bone inside you. But rest assured that the last thing we want is The Morrigan to become reformed.”

I believe him, actually. And it makes me feel uncomfortable. He speaks like he’s a good guy, but his actions of bone smuggling, kidnapping and knocking me out are all clearly not the actions of someone who proclaims to be good.

“What happened to Cato and Beron?” I say, the most important question waiting to be answered. The man nods, obviously expecting this one. I wait with bated breath, worried I’m going to hear the worst thing possible.

“There is nothing to worry about with them. You were all hit with darts. Though it’s interesting to see you in the same room as two naked men. You were on the sofa. Kicked out of the bed, I wonder?”

I flush, but I don’t rise to the bait. “I’m glad you didn’t do them permanent damage.”

He examines me then like I’m a piece of steak. “You might be more valuable to us intact. With your healing powers, the Order could very well benefit from someone like you.”

The Order? My senses sharpen, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed his little slip. An Order – like a cult, perhaps. An organization. Dedicated to keeping The Morrigan’s bones out of dangerous hands.

Dedicated into making the Great Wish of hers null and void.

No. These aren’t good guys. They’ll end up using me just like anyone else would. I’d be tossed around the hemispheres, perhaps hidden from view forever, never able to contact my family again.

But maybe I can make them turn back.

“What if I told you that The Morrigan is actually alive right now?”

At this, the man’s eyes bulge slightly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I’d say you were lying.”

“I’m not.” I remain casual. “Taking me won’t be good enough. The Morrigan lives and breathes. I know, because I’ve talked to her. She said how she was assassinated. How her Wish comes only every 500 years. That there’s one person who has most of her bones, but she doesn’t have to grant their Wish as long as a piece of her remains outside of the person’s grasp. And what if that piece is her soul?”

“You’re lying,” he says, but I can see it in his eyes that he’s doubting. The information I’ve given him is too precise.

“I’m not. Why would a simple human know so much about someone long dead?”

He chews the inside of his cheek, calculating, clearly furious at the wrench I’ve thrown. “How on earth would she manifest?”

“An empty body,” I say, trying not to flinch from referring to one of my best friends that way. “Recently dead. Have you seen the blonde woman with us? We pretend she’s still called Tiffany, but she’s housing The Morrigan’s soul.”

“Damnit! Jax, I think she’s telling the truth!” The man knots his hands together. “I knew I sensed something strange about that woman. I’d just assumed it was a bad implant. Christ. How is this possible?”

“You told me she wasn’t a jumper,” Jax says reproachfully from the driver’s seat. “I took your word for it.”

Jax rocks back and forth a couple of times, before coming to a decision. “We’re still taking you away first. That’s our mission. That won’t change. But we’ll have to go back and deal with The Morrigan afterwards.”

My heart sinks a little in disappointment. I’d hoped they might just turn around completely. Worth a try.

“We’ve got someone tailing us, Edwin,” Jax says. Edwin. I burn the names of my captors to mind, hoping all the details I scoop up will be of use later. “Some dirty vehicle. Latched onto us two stops ago. Tinted windows.”

Dirty vehicle doesn’t sound like the kind of thing Cato might rescue me in. From my uncomfortable position, I try to find a way to loosen the knots, the pins and needles biting through me. I can’t loosen the knots. But my magic flows through, trying to alleviate the blocking in my blood vessels. It can reach where my blood does not.

I might have all this power, but I’m trussed up as useless as a turkey for dinner.

A moment later, something slams into the side of the van with great force, and the whole thing totters and swerves. I crash into one side, along with Edwin squishing me, while Jax yells obscenities and attempts to control the vehicle. Pain blazes through my back, and my magic whispers, flushing out the damage in a determined sort of way, without me thinking on it too deeply. Edwin seems to be in worse shape. The sound of screeching tires, vehicles, shouts and even an explosion penetrates from outside, as something slams into the van again, toppling it onto its side. Jax yells something incomprehensible, before a hail of bullets stops the yells in a more permanent manner.

All I can do is heal myself and cower for shelter, unable to have the reach for anything else.

Edwin growls ominously, sheltering next to me, and I see his skin ripple as he prepares his own brand of magic. Fear rises in my throat like bile. This day’s already insane enough. Why doesn’t it just stop?

Light floods in as someone rips open the back of the van door, and I catch a glimpse of three figures, guns pointing at us, yells, shouts, and gunfire into the back of the van.

I recognize a fourth figure, standing back from the others. Gentleman.

Two of the bullets slam into me, and I gasp from the pain, my magic instantly targeting the damage. Abdomen. Lung. It spits the bullets out from me, but all my mind can register, beyond the blaze of pain, is that they’re shooting to kill. A furry bundle of malignant anger lunges out at the attackers as the bullets keep spitting, slicing the air, clanging into metal and sinking into upholstery, shattering glass and finding their way into my body. I shelter my head by placing my legs to face the open door, the bloodbath unfolding, and relentlessly heal whatever hits my lower half, hissing and whimpering from the pain, burning through my magic so fast that I’m not sure if I can outlast.

It’s an ongoing nightmare. Factions squabbling over the bone inside me. Waking up from a night of pleasure into a hailstorm of destruction. Secret Orders and a demon who want that bone back at all costs. The Morrigan being a constant source of desire, and by proxy, me, who can heal to foster political connections, or die to provide power to someone else.

There’s nothing I can do. All my power is spent into keeping me alive. I can’t run. I’m bound and worse than useless, but I can at least minimize my chance of death. Control my rising panic.

The bullets stop, and there’s additional voices, all of them a blur. Additional must be good. Perhaps the official police. Perhaps Cato and Beron. Something occupying the shooters.

Please, please, please, let it be help. Not that I ever wanted to be the damsel in distress, but there are some things I just can’t do.

Now the haze of pain has dissipated, I’m able to concentrate better on the noises from outside, though I don’t dare move, in case someone attempts to shoot me again. If they catch me in the head, I might not be able to heal damage like that.

“Ma’am? Ma’am?” The voice is loud but no-nonsense, and I stir, raising my head cautiously to see someone in police uniform holding a gun, clearly taking in the sight of my ropes, before hastily tucking it away. I don’t respond, and he calls for someone else. Another policeman arrives, and they clamber into the van, while two more see the dead driver. The police crawl like ants over the scene, and I’m lifted out as if I was a lamb, carried to a paramedic who is able to start working on my bindings, cutting them off. Sirens flash everywhere, and from what I can see, the street is in utter chaos, with numerous crashed vehicles, a few of them charred – and some bodies covered, others being lifted into ambulances. So much carnage.

All because of me. It’s horrifying. The type of person I want to be is someone who heals others. Someone who rejects violence. Not someone who causes it just by existing. It’s a gut punch to the stomach and I don’t know how to handle it.

“Ma’am? Are you alright? Ma’am? Let us see… you’ve been shot...”

Oh. Right. Even though I healed the injuries, I still have the bullet holes that tore through my clothes. I have bloodstains from where the blood spilled, before I was able to patch it up with my magic.

“I’m fine,” I say, as the paramedic begins to fuss over me. “I was shot, but I’m fine. I healed it. I can heal.” My eyes widen. “Let me help. Let me help the people who are injured. Please.”

The paramedic looks startled, and I suppose I probably sound insane, crazy. One of the police, however, has at best, what I’d describe as supernatural eyes, being a strange, light purple color, and an almost elven slant to his cheeks. He steps close and holds out an injured hand to me.

“Heal this, human.”

I nod. I have some energy left. My magic threads through me, past my fingers which have made contact with his skin. The injury on his hand heals up in an instant. His purple eyes widen.

“Get her healing. Now,” he says, grabbing me by the shoulder. “We need all the help we can get.”

The paramedic looks as if he’s touched something dirty, but doesn’t respond when I’m led away.

I’m happy, however, to be able to repair some of the damage I’ve done. I note that I can’t see Gentleman anywhere. He’d risked himself in coming out, when he could have left his cronies to do all the work. I’m not sure why. But he most likely got away without a scratch. People like him are cockroaches. There when you don’t want them, and hard to kill. They always seem to bounce back.

He’s not the concern right now, though. The people who need me are.

Chapter 11

Cato

I’ve never felt as useless as I did when I woke up with a banging headache, and realized Roze was gone. Beron had instantly sniffed out the danger, evidence of a break-in, a lone kidnapping in the night – and the tranq darts used to keep us down when we should have reacted and stepped up to the mark to protect our own.

We called the police. We told my father. He was more angry that the clients he had booked to visit Roze’s clinic would have to be delayed, but after some nudging, was reminded that perhaps he better be a little more considerate of the fact that she might be in danger. He wanted to go off in a mad dash himself after her, but Beron restrained him. There was nothing they could physically do right now until they figured out who had taken Roze.

It had to be Gentleman, of course. I couldn’t think of anyone else culpable. So fuck it. I called up all my contacts, all my private investigators, and sent them firmly down Gentleman’s path. Anything they could dig about him, they should. Yes, I was risking everything by defying the terms of his contract, but I didn’t care. He’d fucked me off by threatening us and sending a hit against us. Risking eternal torture and public exposure sounds like something mild when taking those into consideration.

The police, however, contacted us shortly afterwards, to say that they’d managed to secure Roze, and take down a few suspects to the bargain. Something about a shootout happening in the highway which alerted them to Roze’s position.

And that she was at the public hospital, currently using her magic to heal others.

In a slight daze, I follow Beron out of the estate after informing Alex and The Morrigan of the disappearance, since Alex came clamoring to knock when she couldn’t find her friend anywhere.

We are escorted to the hospital, and eventually find her taking a recuperation break, snug in the hospital’s cafeteria, talking to what looks like a journalist of all people.

First things first, I rush to her, and envelop her in a hug when she registers what’s happening. Beron hovers anxiously behind, desperate to check in on her too, but self-conscious of the people around us. Eventually she solves the dilemma for him, leaping at his big chest for a hug as well. I know Beron’s worried about how it looks, but to me, it’s a friend greeting a friend. He still needs to wrap his head around the dynamic we share.

“Gentleman’s dead,” she says with some relish in her voice. “Seems demons aren’t invulnerable to a hail of bullets.”

“Are you serious? That cockroach survives everything!” I say.

She shakes her head. “Not this.” She then awkwardly brushes the back of her head. “I survived it, though. I was just healing myself if I got hit. If any of the hits made me unconscious, though, I don’t think I could have done it.”

“Sounds like you’re tougher than a shifter,” I reply, though now this puts me in a different sort of dilemma. What becomes of the contract if Gentleman is gone? And if the Contract is eliminated, then what’s to stop The Morrigan from disappearing on us? I internalize the questions and smile, relieved beyond measure that she’s okay, frustrated that I was helpless to stop her abduction. She should have been safe with us.

The tale she tells us afterward, though, in the car as we return home is interesting.

“I forgot about the opposing buyer,” I admit, hand covering my mouth. “I honestly forgot. Gentleman was our problem. He was the one threatening us.”

“Yeah, well, apparently this organization was trying to keep the bones out of people’s hands. They obviously had a mole in Gentleman’s entourage, but it seemed he found out about the abduction. He must have been watching us. Both of them.” She appears slightly green as she says this. “How can we be safe like this? If they’re going to hunt me down for this magic. And I can’t remove it, not without dying myself.”

“Well, if Gentleman and the Order member is dead, then we have two less threats after you. I can focus on trying to procure the contract. Once we have it, we can then look to see if the terms can be legally changed.”

“I’d like that,” Roze says, now looking exhausted. “I’m tired already of the idea of looking over my shoulder.”

Beron places a hand on her knee. “I’ll protect you. Whatever it takes.”

“Thanks, but there are some things you can’t protect from,” she says, and Beron flinches back in shame.

“That’s not fair,” I say to her. “He was worried out his skull when he couldn’t find you.”

She has the grace to look guilty, some of the anger bleeding out of her face. “Sorry.”

We remain silent for the drive home. She’s mobbed by Alex when they meet up, and The Morrigan is icily indifferent to the ordeal, aside to congratulate us for continuing to remain alive. My father’s canceled all appointments for the day, though he’s still sour about it, since he hates unexpected things throwing a wrench in his precious plans. It’s only when we sit down to talk to The Morrigan that a few sparks fly… and not the pleasant kind.

“He didn’t say which organization he was a part of,” Roze says to Alex and The Morrigan, rubbing her hands anxiously on her knees. Sometimes glancing at Beron, sometimes at me. My heart aches for contact, to close the distance and comfort her, but I give her the space for now. “But he said he was protecting the bones. Stopping them from being used by people who would abuse your powers, I guess. And maybe I told him that you were living… but he’s dead. They’re both dead. No one knows who you are.”

The Morrigan hisses. Honest to god hisses.

“Defilers,” she whispers. “Murderers. This Order you speak of, Roze – I believe they are known as the Order of Bones. Ghastly, horrible people.”

“Come again?” Roze says, utterly baffled at The Morrigan’s sudden aggression. She’s not alone in that. I’m pretty baffled as well.

“The Order of Bones have been around for centuries,” The Morrigan bites out, eyes glittering in fury. “They kill beings of potent magical power, beings whose bones can’t be destroyed – and then keep the bones out of public reach. They target people who can grant immense powers like me. What they don’t know, or care,” she says with a shudder, “is that we can still feel everything. There’s still a part of us aware and conscious. They stored me with the bones of someone called Bouddica – she used to have the power to galvanize thousands of people with a single speech. And they thought she should die. We should die.” The Morrigan’s all puffed up, and my mouth’s hanging open, speechless.

“These people killed you?” Roze threads her hands together. “Do you think, maybe your powers are too dangerous?”

“I was careful,” The Morrigan spat. “But there were still people who managed to use my powers for their own gains. Men – and women – can’t be trusted. Humans are greedy little bugs.”

The suite falls into a rather ominous silence.

“Glad to see what you think of us,” Roze says lightly, though there’s no mirth in her features.

“I refuse to be sent back into that cursed state. Move me if you must. Obscure my location. But I will not go back. Let me grant this fool’s wish,” she says, pointing a finger at Roze, who shivers in offense. “And then it won’t matter anymore. The mistake the men made is that they need all my bones. Not so. All that is needed is my consciousness.”

“Fool?” Roze seems seconds away from lashing out, before Alex restrains her.

“Is this really true?” I say. “There’s really a bunch of people who guard the bones of powerful magical beings?”

“There is,” The Morrigan says. “Perhaps they call themselves something different. The Order of Bones. You will not find information about them in a book or scribed in any form. But I can tell you this – they lost all my bones some years back. A break-in to one of their precious vaults.”

“Wow,” I say, seriously impressed at the idea of these protectors, keeping magic like The Morrigan’s out of harm’s way. Because I agree that her magic is dangerous. But I’m not about to say that to her face. “I’m surprised. Don’t usually have run-ins with secret societies.”

“Will we need to move?” Roze asks. “Should we no longer live here?”

“It should be fine. I’ll increase security and see what I can do about sneaky people attempting to tranq us in the middle of the night,” I reply, which prompts a small laugh from her. She then claps a hand over her mouth.

“That’s the first time I’ve laughed all day. Been a hell of a day, if you ask me.”

What can I do but agree?

The “hell” of a day transforms into something better once we’ve all eaten, washed, and thoroughly rested from the chaos – though it was more chaos for Roze. We catch on the news about the accident, and of the “human angel” that healed several victims, saving some from certain death and lowering the final death toll completely.

“You’re famous now,” I tell her, giving Roze a gentle nudge in the side. She’s not happy, however, to see herself plastered on the news, as they managed to get a shot of her face.

“I’m going to have an even harder time hiding now than I already do,” she grumbles. It’s true. But with the way my father was handling her anyway, I don’t think the situation could be avoided. Someone with her kind of power, with The Morrigan fueling inside, would always eventually become a target.

I wish I could make it all easier. Find and rip up the contract, if we know where it is. Let her have her freedom, let her fly and never feel beholden to me.

Or maybe I could fly her around. Demonstrate to her that I can protect her, along with Beron.

But all we can do is hug her, and comfort her.

The next few days blur past as my investigators attempt to dig up the contract but fail to do so, as Roze gets back into her client sessions, arranged by my father, and I arrange in return for her to visit the local hospital, with the express purpose of her dealing with critical cases that the hospital is unable to manage.

She comes out of her sessions exhausted but happy, finally motivated from the fact that she’s doing something close to what she’s always wanted.

I’m happy for her. She makes a good doctor, a good person. Although I work in my father’s campaign, sometimes I still don’t know if it’s really something I want to do or not. But it also remains one of the few things I can do, and it makes sense for me to follow in his footsteps. That path’s already made.

I’m a little envious of her, really, but not in a bad way. I think it’s amazing. I think she’s amazing. I just wish we could have been together in better circumstances than this.

Alex is beginning to be a lot happier with her situation, too. I’m bending over backwards to make sure the contract doesn’t feel too much like slavery, though I still have to give them orders to stop the thrash of pain hitting their bodies. The Morrigan, at first refusing to leave the estate at all, becomes a little more confident once she decides that people aren’t lining up to kidnap her. Meanwhile, all traces of Gentleman and his operations seem to have disappeared. I’m determined to get my hands on that contract if it takes all my energy to do so, because I want more than this for us.

And maybe there’s a small part of me that thinks she won’t ever be able to truly love me or Beron unless she’s free. There would always be something forced in our interactions.

She assures me it’s not like that, though. “I’m finally getting some sort of equilibrium in my life,” she admits to me. “I dropped out of the residency, but I found a chance to live a life as a healer, instead. Actual magic. I can have a career here – the hospital offered me a salary to come in a few times a week.” She’s smiling as she says this, her legs swinging from the chair she sits within the estate garden, sunbeams falling on top of us. It’s me, her and Beron – Alex and The Morrigan are on the other side of the garden, watching watermelons magically grow under The Morrigan’s borrowed greenfingers.

“I’m inclined to agree with Cato,” Beron rumbles, his huge form somehow shrunk in. He usually manages to look intimidating without even trying, but today there’s something subdued in his mannerisms. “Regardless of how well you believe yourself to be now, the fact of the matter is, you were forced into this position.”

She pauses to chew over our words. “I know. It’s not something I would have chosen. But I’d have to be a fool not to see the current benefits of what I now have. As long as nobody else tries to abduct me in the middle of the night.”

Beron rubs the back of his neck, awkward but with a slight smile. “I was wondering, what will happen with us?” He blinks and looks down at the green, rather than into our faces.

“What do you want to happen?” Roze asks, deadly serious. I hold my breath, wondering, wondering.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. I’ve never done anything remotely like this before,” he says, thrusting his hands up in the air. “I know I’m not attracted to Cato in that way. No offense, sir,” he adds.

“None taken.”

There’s a beat of silence between us, as we wait for what Beron has to say, as I wonder if the next words will make or break us, confirm all my feelings or feed into my doubts.

“I know I’m attracted to you, Roze. But am I really that attracted if I don’t mind sharing you with Cato? Shouldn’t I be insanely jealous?”

“I admit,” I say quietly, “sometimes I feel this tiny stab of jealousy, when I see her with you.”

Stricken, Beron holds my gaze. Roze is silent and calculating.

“But it’s just a flicker. My mind overrides it. So all I see is two people enjoying each other. Showing me their enjoyment. Willing to share it with me,” I manage, not sure if I’m expressing myself right. “I don’t begrudge one of my oldest friends having a chance at something like this.”

The silence this time has a hidden noise, as if all our brains are working overtime to answer this. Roze looks so lovely in the sunlight, casting sculptured shadows over her cheekbones, giving her skin an almost ethereal glow, as if I could see the magic within dancing over her flesh.

“Sometimes I like one person more than the other,” Roze admits then, and I fight hard, hard as I can to control the sudden, icy fear that shivers through my body. “It depends on my mood. It’s not to say I don’t like you both. Sometimes I’m just in the mood for light, or for rough, for peace or for conversation, and you each have a different… style and presence about you. There’s joy I can find in each of you. But I don’t want to be the cause of some great rift, so I understand if it becomes too much. All I know is that I’m willing to go for this. I’m willing.”

At this, I breathe a sigh of relief. “Well, to whatever this is, so am I.”

It seems only natural then to progress from conversation to kissing. We keep it light and chaste, because there’s a high possibility of being watched from servants or even my father. And I’m not about to explain to him the merits of a threeway relationship. Polyandry as the official name – one woman with multiple male partners. It exists. There’s good reasons for it to happen.

At least now with us, the panic of abduction from Gentleman and the buyer from the auction is over. The Morrigan likes to ominously hint that the Order of Bones will investigate the deaths of their colleagues and maybe connect the dots, but for now, our protection over the estate is absolute. We have a Scryer now who can anticipate invasions before they happen, who charges way more money than they should, but it’s worth it for the added security.

Alex has crawled out of her shell enough to decide that she’ll be happy to make a career out of her singing. The media by now has leaped on the fact that our anti-slave family has slaves, but the clients my father’s been cultivating help to counter the negative sluice of information, so that in the end, no one really cares, because of the amazing things we’ve achieved together.

My father has the vote on his bill – and it passes. By only three votes, barely skimming the status quo – but it happens. Slavery in our district is completely abolished, completely illegal, and we have powers to extricate slaves from other districts if suspected of it, and to work on freeing their bonds. Severe punishment awaits those who think it a good idea to keep doing it, while there are extenuating circumstances such as mine, if we buy a slave with intention to free them.

Celebrations from humans and supernaturals flood up the streets. The media declares it as a step forward to a bright and shining future. Roze is featured prominently in some interviews as the beaming, charming doctor who uses her stolen magic for good, with a talented set of friends who might surely pave the way for more freedoms in the future.

Gentleman’s slave contract is never found, which means we have to wait out the original terms until expiry, and then test for freedom. The Morrigan takes on a slow slant of learning how different the world is, though there’s always something archaic about the way she speaks, and the way she thinks.

Roze, Beron and I are still figuring out the proper dynamics of our relationship or whatevership, but it’s clear there’s something between us that is reluctant to break, to vanish. The whispers of love at night, the caress of skin and warmth and heady passion, of the dance of pleasure with hands, lips, tongues – and promises, so many promises, to make this work, no matter what.

We have insecurities that bloom. Insecurities we attempt to talk out with one another. We have periods where we can’t take our hands off Roze, and periods where we don’t touch at all. Sometimes we’re busy, sometimes we’re not, but we always, always seek to have time to communicate, to iron out the insecurities, to make an effort if any is lacking.

My father’s roping me up in his next project, a far more risky one to legalize magical implants. We already have laws that rescuing someone implanted without their consent is considered fine, that we will not sacrifice the human to prevent them from using their magic unless it is deemed a risk for them to possess such – but legalizing is a whole other ball game.

I’m determined, however, to work towards a future where shifters and humans can be side by side, without judgment or fear of oppression. I’ll do it for Roze, and all the other Roze-like humans out there. I’ll do it for myself, because I want the world to be better.

I’ll do it because it’s right, and because we love her.