Blood That Binds: A Vampire Romance (Blood Legends Duet) Page 5

  We’re all being pushed back into our line, chained and paraded down the maze of hallways. We walk for a short distance before coming upon two massive iron doors.

  “You will remain quiet and only speak when you’re asked a question. Do you understand?” Ramsey demands.

  We each dip our heads, not knowing if we should speak. With that, he throws open the doors, showcasing a cavernous room. The walls are made up of some type of grey stone. There are no windows, save for the small circle at the top of the domed ceiling. Bright light filters down, meaning it’s daytime. On one side of the large room, red velvet barber chairs are lined up in front of a row of mirrored stations. Statuesque men and women stand behind the chairs, unmoving. They are cloaked in black robes that reach the floor. Thick black collars cling to their necks. Are they prisoners too?

  On the other side of the room is a line of elegant wooden wardrobes with circular platforms directly in front of each. What the hell is this place?

  The enormous doors are shut behind us with a loud crash. We all jump at the noise, on edge and unsure what to make of the scene before us. Ramsey begins to unchain us while Sarcos slams a long iron bar across the doors, effectively bolting us in.

  “You.” He points to the mousy girl. “There.” She scurries to the nearest chair. Every girl is placed at a station until it’s finally my turn. A woman with purple-streaked raven hair motions for me to take a seat. She says nothing, but begins tugging at my hair with a comb. I wince at her lack of tenderness. Not that I expect anything else in this hellish prison.

  “We should keep it natural and long.” Her smooth Australian accent is beautiful in a place born of ugliness. “Your hair’s natural highlights will draw attention from bidders. You’re stunning.” A small smile graces her lips. It’s the first sign of kindness I’ve been shown. Fruitless hope wells to the surface, but I smash it down.

  She begins to trim, blow-dry, and finally curl my strawberry blond hair. I want to smack her hands away and run, beg her to help me. Anything to garner a reaction, but I don’t bother. There is no escaping this place, and I’d do well to remember that. I would never survive. My best chance at this point is to play by the rules and plan my escape once I leave this fortress.

  My face is powdered, eyeshadow applied, mascara added, and a gloss placed on my lips. After what feels like hours, I’m turned toward the mirror. I gasp at my reflection. The person staring back at me is stunning. But it’s not my face that stares back at me. It’s Maggie’s. We were twins, but you could always tell us apart. She was always the one that liked frilly things. Her makeup was always exquisitely done, and her hair curled to perfection. I didn’t have time for those things. They seemed ridiculous given our life and all the crazy that accompanied it.

  The woman gives me a handheld mirror and spins me around so I can see the back of my hair, as if I had a choice about the style. “You will bring in so much money at the auction,” she says, then leans into my ear and whispers, “Get out of here and find a way to help us all.”

  My eyes widen at her words. In the mirror, I see the choker on her neck turning red. The mirror slips from my grasp, shattering into a million pieces on the concrete floor. I spin around in time to see her hands come to her neck, desperately trying to remove the collar. “Help me.” Her strangled cries have two men approaching, grabbing her by her wrist and dragging her away. I sit stunned. What just happened?

  A lady with pink and purple hair and a clipboard comes over to me, completely ignoring the scene that just unfolded.

  “Number seven-seventy-six.” I sit dazed and shaken. “Number seven-seventy-six,” she bites. I raise my eyes to her. “You are number seven-seventy-six.” She points to me. “I’m Ratilda, not that it matters to you.” She tsks. “I need to pin this to your chest,” she says, not waiting for me to respond. A piece of paper with the number 776 is attached to my hospital gown. “You will go to the next station when they call your number. Do you understand?” She raises a brow.

  “Yes. Seven-seventy-six.”

  She nods and walks away briskly. I don’t know what to do from here, but a few other girls wearing their numbers are sitting on chairs. So, I go and take a seat beside the redhead from earlier. Her knees shake, and she wrings her fingers. We sit in silence for a few minutes before she leans into me and whispers unsteadily.

  “D-do you think they killed her?”

  I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

  “I don’t know,” I sigh. “Probably.”

  “Are we being trafficked?”

  I really don’t know, after everything I’ve seen. If she had asked me that before I saw that girl killed in the cell next to me, I would’ve said yes, but now . . . my wildest guess would probably be inaccurate. The two men’s eyes glowed red, like the monsters from my childhood. Maybe I’ve just lost my damn mind, and this is all a horrific nightmare.

  “That scary guy said auction. We’re being numbered. What the fuck else could it be?” she asks, but she isn’t directing the question to me. Really, she’s just talking aloud.

  The truth of the matter is, it doesn’t matter. Either way, our chances of survival are looking grim, but I won’t tell her that. I’ll let her hang on to any hope she has. Hope fuels courage, and courage is what she’ll need if she wants any chance of escaping with her life.

  “It’s my best guess. But I don’t know,” I admit.

  She huffs before asking, “What’s your name?”

  “Marina.”

  “Stacey Ryan,” she chokes. “I’m Stacey Ellen Ryan.”

  I smile, not knowing any other way to comfort her. She’s clearly wanting to hang on to her identity, and I can’t blame her. If she gives up on herself, it’s all over for Stacey Ryan. She needs to be strong, and if repeating her name helps, maybe I should do the same.

  “You’re number seven-ninety-five. Stacey Ryan no longer exists,” a cold voice says from behind us. I see Stacey shudder—whether at the voice or the thought of losing her identity, it’s hard to tell. “Now, seven-seventy-six, follow me.” I stand, following Ratilda reluctantly.

  “Hmm. You’re a size four. Full C cup, approximately five foot seven.” She taps her finger to her mouth, contemplating. My eyes narrow slightly. “I have the perfect dress. You’ll be radiant.” She beams, clearly pleased with herself. How does she know all of that just by looking at me?

  She walks to the large armoire and shuffles through the gowns. “Here it is,” she says, pulling a beautiful gold-colored dress from the back. “Drop your frock.” The garment falls to my feet as I’m ushered onto the raised platform. She holds the golden dress near the floor and I step into it, waiting as she tugs and pulls it into place. When she’s done fussing, she spins me around to the floor-length mirror, and my eyes widen at the beautiful rose-gold dress.

  Exquisite beads are embroidered onto lace and tulle, which overlay satin. It molds to the curve of my body, flaring just slightly from my waist. Swarovski crystals showcase my slender neck and shoulders. The neckline scoops just enough to show the swell of my full breasts that have been enhanced by the corset hidden by a row of crystal buttons.

  “Ah. The aristocracy will not be disappointed with you. I dare say we shall have a bidding war.” She giggles while my insides rumble in protest.

  I don’t want anything to do with this. Nobody that engages in this sort of perverse and insidious act is anyone I want to draw attention from. I’d rather die now than be sold off to some sicko. And aristocracy? What royal needs to pay for girls?

  No Prince Charming, that’s for sure.

  “One more thing,” Ratilda says. “We need to draw your blood.” I furrow my brow. Draw my blood?

  More women with collars approach with a cart full of needles and other objects I vehemently object to. “No,” I say, squirming. “No, I won’t do this,” I repeat, shaking my head.

  “Don’t get blood on that dress,” she warns the other women, ignoring my protest.

  “If you hold
still, I should only have to do this once,” a woman with short purple hair says to me. “Let me see your vein.” I flinch away from her. “Don’t be stupid, girl. Do as I instruct.” With trepidation, I hold out my arm. She pokes at it with her finger. “Fabulous. This will be painless,” she promises as she stabs a needle into my vein, drawing the blood through the syringe and into a tube with a bag attached. I wince, feeling light-headed. A few minutes later, a woman is removing the tubes, cleaning the area, and placing a Band-Aid over the tiny wound.

  “There you go,” she says, handing me a small glass of what appears to be orange juice. I gulp the liquid down and pick up the two cookies sitting on a plate in front of me. “See? It wasn’t so bad,” she chides. I nibble greedily on the chocolate confections, hardly hearing her words. “Now, now . . . you mustn’t overindulge. We can’t have you busting out of that lovely dress. Your future owner will want you at your best. Remember to remove that bandage before you enter the auction room,” she chuckles, eliciting a hard scowl from me.

  “No one owns me,” I snark under my breath, but it doesn’t go unheard.

  “That attitude will get you killed around here. Best to keep your head down and mouth shut.”

  She doesn’t say it to be cold or frighten me, but to warn. The corner of her mouth lifts into a semblance of a smile, conveying that she doesn’t like this situation any more than I do, but she’s been through it enough to know the ropes.

  Minutes later, the final touches are being forced upon me by various strangers’ hands. I don’t pay them any mind. Instead, I plan my murderous revenge on them all. If I ever escape, I promise myself I’ll hunt them all down. Even the unwilling participants. The lot of them will pay.

  I take a moment to look at the other girls’ transformations. Mousy girl is no longer mousy. Her hair has been colored a brilliant shade of caramel, and curls cascade down her back. The sweetheart top of her fuchsia dress showcases cleavage and makes her look confident. I can’t help but admire the work that has been done to each girl in such a short amount of time. Every one of them looks magnificent.

  “It’s time,” Sarcos calls.

  We are once again placed in a single file line, as if we are back in grade school. This time the chains are absent, not that it matters. Large men flank us on all sides. We aren’t going anywhere other than where they want us to. My body shakes while my mind races, imagining all the possible scenarios that could transpire wherever we’re being led. Before long, Ratilda calls out for us to stop moving.

  “All eyes over here,” she commands.

  We all turn to look at her.

  “Once we step up to the platform, you’ll find the part of the stage marked with your number. Stand tall and still in your designated space. You do not talk. You do not move. Understand?” she demands. We all nod. “Well then. Let the bidding begin,” she says, standing aside and waving her hand in the direction of a set of stairs.

  I rip off the bandage for no other reason but to feel pain. Something to keep my mind off of what’s to happen next. Who will bid on me? Where will I go? Will I be beaten? Raped? Murdered? Who knows what awful humans are waiting to buy other humans?

  Monsters.

  One by one we ascend the stairs, coming out onto a slightly raised stage. The colossal room around us is empty, giving us a clear view of the ominous space before us. “Move,” Ramsey barks behind us.

  I stagger my way to my spot, knees wobbling and hands trembling. Feeling helpless, I concentrate on the gold rhinestone-covered monstrosities I’m forced to wear on my feet. They are already causing sores, but that doesn’t matter. Nothing does when you’re being marched to your death. I may not know what’s to come, but one thing’s for sure—it’s not good.

  When I’m in place, I take in the muted space. All the seating has been removed, making one large open space in front of the stage. White and grey marble floors spread out as far as I can see. There is not an ounce of color to be seen. Everything is grey and white, making the elaborate and bold gowns we wear the central focus. We’re the only color to be seen. The thought sends chills down my spine.

  Men and women wearing black tuxedos roll in carts containing champagne flutes about a fourth of the way full of a dark red liquid. A cart is situated directly under each of us girls. Is this a wine tasting and auction? Disgusting.

  “Are we ready?” Ratilda addresses the tuxedo-clad waiters.

  They all reply with a stiff yes.

  “Wonderful. Let them in, let them in.” She claps her hands. I vow to myself right here, right now, that if I escape, I’m hunting her down and wiping that freaking smile right off her face. My hands clench into fists. I don’t have long to plan that out, as the room begins to fill. The closer the people get, the more peculiar this entire situation seems.

  They are all dressed in lavish ball gowns and tuxedos, acting as though they’re attending the event of the season. Cackles and shrieks fill the once empty space as the elegantly dressed meander about the room. Waiters move around the area, offering appetizers and flutes of champagne. Music begins, and couples begin to dance to a string quartet that is set up somewhere out of my line of sight. Nobody has paid us any attention and I pray it stays that way, even if it is a pointless prayer.

  I’m horrified to see women partaking in such a vile activity, but quickly I’m reminded that evil doesn’t know gender, color, age, or ethnicity. Their idea of fun is watching a group of young girls paraded around to be sold off to the highest bidder. They are in fact the definition of evil. There will be no help from any of them.

  They’re all monsters, with or without the glowing eyes.

  Chapter Five

  An hour or more must go by as the creatures mill about, chatting, eating, and thoroughly ignoring the six girls on the stage before them. Aren’t we the entire reason they’re here? They haven’t so much as looked our way. The whole thing is strange. Not that human trafficking should be anything other than strange, but this is entirely different than anything I would’ve expected.

  It’s frightening as hell as I watch the group couple off and dance. Every one of them is

  passing their partners around like it’s a swingers convention and the more time that goes on, the more it feels like just that. The champagne is flowing freely, and with every second these monsters get looser. They grind against their partners a little more as their inhibitions disappear. Hands roam liberally, groping and fondling private parts, and nobody even blinks.

  My knees are starting to quake, whether from standing in these heels or from the increasing awkwardness of being a voyeur to an expanding orgy. The weight of the dress I wear is pulling on my shoulders and I do my best to yank it up to hide my cleavage. I don’t want anything to do with what I’m witnessing, and I won’t give them any reason to think otherwise. Who knew ball gowns could be so daunting and so damn provocative? I hate it.

  My eyes roam away from the dance floor, landing on Stacey. She stands stoically, her face masking any fear she may be experiencing. Her lavender gown flows to the floor in waves of tulle. She looks sophisticated and beautiful. Her head never moves, and I wonder what she’s thinking.

  Suddenly, the music stops and the feedback from a microphone sounds, pulling my attention away from Stacey.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Ratilda says into a microphone. “The auction will begin soon. Please take your places.” The partygoers immediately stop what they’re doing and head toward the stage, attention now on us. Everything in me tenses as the reality of what’s about to happen sets in. We were mere decorations a moment ago, but based on the intense gazes of the bidders below, we’re their central focus now. My palms begin to sweat and anxiety builds in my chest. I will myself to take deep breaths.

  “The rules are the same as always. You may walk the line, examining the donors from the floor. A sample of each is provided below. Help yourselves to one glass,” she stresses.

  A sample of what?

  My mind is fixated on what could be
in the flutes and what it has to do with each of us girls. The answer is just out of reach and before I can grasp it, Ratilda’s shrill voice bats it away.

  “You’ll have thirty minutes to peruse the fine selection. At exactly midnight, the auction will commence.” The people begin moving even closer to the stage. I slink back just slightly.

  If I was scared before, I’m petrified now. My entire body is shaking as the people descend upon us. The first person to stand in front of me is a portly woman wearing a white wig and a black dress. Her gothic guise is intimidating. She looks me over from head to toe, smiling widely. I don’t like how she relishes my body as if I’m dessert. Taking a glass from the cart, she brings it to her nose and inhales deeply. A look of ecstasy transforms her face, and my stomach sours at the thought of her finding anything tied to me appealing. She swirls the liquid in the glass and brings it to her lips, tipping it back and swallowing. For a moment, I don’t breathe as I await her reaction. She scrunches her nose and purses her lips. A promising sign that she didn’t enjoy the wine on my cart. As she swiftly moves on from me, my shoulders relax, relieved that I’ve clearly been given a bad batch. Perhaps this will keep others away from me as well.

  Men and women come and go, none giving me an impression—good or bad—until a tall, dark-haired man approaches. Something about him has me feeling as though a million spiders are crawling over my body. His cold eyes penetrate me, chilling me from the inside out. He oozes evil, and at this moment he’s paying too close attention to me. His eyes rake over me, pausing at my breasts. He licks his lips, causing me to shudder in response.

  This isn’t good. He looks like the sort that enjoys torturing his possessions before finally discarding them. I know without a doubt if I leave here with him, I’ll die. He walks closer, grabbing a glass of the red liquid. He doesn’t waste time with formalities or etiquette, raising the glass right to his mouth and gulping the contents greedily. He moans in pleasure at the taste, and I wince at the sight of it. A droplet of wine spills out from his lips, slowly moving down his chin. It’s then I can see how thick the liquid is. Is that . . . it can’t be. Blood.