“Please,” he had said. “She’s only six. Be mindful.”
The journalist apologised. “But do you have a comment on his death?”
Magnus removed his hand from my eyes and smoothed back his well-oiled hair, smiling his pearl white teeth. “Justice has been done, more confirmation that the Execution Battle is necessary for peace in our society.”
My older brother and I sat in the teahouse, side by side. Lavender perfumed the air, my white buckle shoes only just brushed the floor, I folded the cloth napkin over my lap just as Magnus had told me to and he ordered a three-tiered selection of cakes, scones and biscuits. He looked at me, his elbow resting on the tabletop, cradling his chin, watching me sip from my teacup, studying.
“Who was he?” I had asked him.
“Who, Duckie?” He reached over and fixed a bobby pin into my hair and smoothed back an untamed strand until my hair was as neat as his.
“The Soulless man who died.”
“Someone very wicked. Were you frightened?”
I thought on this and could not answer.
“Not to worry, Duckie.” He pressed my nose. “I will make sure not a single wicked thing touches you.”
The wicked thing had children.
Quite a few. The Soulless man had committed numerous atrocities before he ended up in prison, some of his deeds included raping copious amounts of women, and those he did not kill ended up growing his seed, birthing a new generation of Soulless.
The eldest son was Slash Artery.
The dumbest name.
His people collected Dig and I by smuggling black cotton bags over our heads. They tied my wrists in front of me and prodded me to walk. Rude. I couldn’t see where I was going.
“If you touch her, I’ll gut you!” Dig’s voice ripped through the void of the dark.
“Dig!” I kicked him—at least I assumed it was him. “They need to touch me, I cannot see. I need assistance in walking. Please stop saying that.”
When we finally arrived at our destination I was forced to kneel. I balanced myself by touching a cold concrete floor with my tied hands. The bag was ripped off my head, ruining my hair. They did the same to Dig who knelt at my side. Dig’s arm was not broken. Just dislocated. He had fixed it now and it was in a somewhat useable state.
We were in a warehouse—no, a night club. Black walls and floors bloomed a permanent night. Underground, soaked with ancient scents of sweat and alcohol. Strobe lights were still intact along the ceiling. A child’s doll was strangled and hung by its neck for decoration. Clusters of inmates circled, peering down at us with perpetual grins. A large crew. Much larger than any I had seen at Ricker. There was only one inmate forerunner who had this many cult followers.
I looked to the stage in front of us. Upon the two-stepped dais where collections of bones and pieces of metal and wood had been stuck together to create a throne, sat the infamous Soulless man’s first-born son.
Slash Artery.
The dumbest name.
Donning black leather pants, a pink sequined crop top and a fur stole, he pressed down on a woman’s head as she knelt between his opened legs, using her mouth to pleasure his—oh, he had a large appendage. It was impressive.
When he came, he did not make a sound, falling into minute irritation as he looked down at his hedonism, which apparently did not seem very enjoyable, but rather very nothing. He waved for the woman to leave him and packed himself back into his pants. The leather made a statement out of his bulge, and he leaned forward, showing us his face.
Black messy hair, a gaudy smirk and…
His eyes.
The same pair of eyes I had seen when I was six years old. The same pair of eyes that forced me into a tremble.
Slash loved his father’s eyes he had been given so much that he had tattooed two arrows on either of his eye temples. The arrows pointed inwards to his father’s black eyes, forcing whoever saw him to look upon the fierceness of his gaze.
“Bow!” A woman strained my head to dip to Slash Artery.
The dumbest name.
