I don’t know how I know it, but the idea comes with such surety that I don’t question it once I have it.
These men are foreigners.
My eyes slide off the last man to the wall behind him, and my whole body jerks.Because there on the wall is some sort of cataloging system.It’s like a Google doc done on a chalkboard, column after column with notes at that top and check marks below.Place Collected.Age.Family Name.Destination.
And in the horizontal columns, girls’ names.
Even now, someone is standing at the board, adding new names to those rows.
Name after name.Hundreds of them.Thousands, maybe.
That’s a catalogue of all the fucking victims–or at least the ones who’ve come through this building.And my God, the details.There are columns for where they’re going and when, like the smugglers decide a girl’s fate the moment she comes in.Other names in those columns who are potential buyers.Each girl’s features and hair color, like that’s somehow important.
My mind rebels at the fact that they’re keeping records in such a strange way.Have these people never heard of fucking computers?But then I remember the people around me, and my guess as to their nationality.These aren’t Americans.These aren’t even people from New Orleans.They’re old world Europeans, if I’m guessing right, and maybe they like to do things differently over there.I know that they do use computers–hell, I’ve seen the spreadsheets on some of them–but maybe they start here, with this strange chalkboard setup.
Or maybe they just like the girls to have to see themselves listed like cattle on their way to the fucking auction block.
That thought has my fingers twitching for my gun, and I suddenly wonder whether I can steal Andre’s and start shooting before anyone stops me.Because this feels all sorts of wrong, and the idea that I’m in here, presumably interning or whatever they want to call it, while those girls are standing there sobbing, doesn’t sit right with me.
Before I can do anything, a shout rings out from the sitting are and I swing my gaze to the spot, panicked at the sudden noise.Two men are facing off there, like someone called someone else’s mother a whore, and within moments they’re swinging at each other and other men are joining the fray, rushing from around the club like they’ve been waiting for this brawl to start.One man picks up a chair and throws it, and another pulls out a gun and shoots the man next to him, and within seconds the entire club is erupting into shouts and chaos.Men are rushing around, shouting orders, and one of the lights goes out.
Then the girls start screaming.
I’m frozen for a moment, confused at what’s going on, and am just about to run down to start grabbing girls in the dark when I hand clamps down on my shoulder and yanks me backward.
“Enough learning,” my father’s voice says in my ear.“We’re done here.”
He pulls me away from the dance floor and turns me toward the front door like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and as I’m hustled out of the building, my mind is full of the chaos we’re leaving behind, along with a set of very important questions.
Are those girls still alive?What were those men fighting about?What did all the columns on that chalkboard mean?
And along with that, a question that’s been bothering me for hours, now: Why the fuck amIthe one here seeing all this, a mere girl who could be sold or stolen at any moment?I saw Beau days ago at my father’s party, so I have to assume he’s still in town.He’s the heir to the kingdom, at least in theory, and though I hate the thought of him being involved in any of this, I can’t afford to be naive.
He should be here, and he’s not.
Where is my brother?
Where is Lucien?
And why are the most important men in my life constantly disappearing on me?
Lucien
Ilean against the lamp post and take a long, slow drag on the cigarette in my hand, my eyes on the black and purple monstrosity on the other side of the street.Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an uglier building.The place might have been beautiful once–almost certainly, as it’s in an important part of the city–but whoever owns it now should be fucking shot.
Painting an entire building black and then adding gold and purple?
Jail.Immediately.Do not pass go, and definitely do not collect that $200.
And honestly, that should be all there is to it.An ugly building that I saw while I was out smoking.I should be able to feel sorry for the building itself, then turn and go back into the cafe behind me and get back to work.
But that horrible building currently holds something very important to me, and I can’t stop thinking about her in there on her own, surrounded by people she can’t trust and shouldn’t even be around.
I can’t stop wondering how much she’s pissing them off with that sharp tongue of hers.
Or when I’m going to be able to get my hands on her again.Preferably to shut her the fuck up.
My fingers twitch at the thought, like they’re already preparing to settle down over her mouth and force her to be quiet, and I nearly groan with the tension of it.I haven’t seen Brooks since I was pulled out of that van, and though I know where she’s been, physically, it’s not enough.Because she’s with her father–a man I know we can’t trust–and has been in his house, amongst his men.Unarmed.No allies.
