Any Price, page 7
Micah agreed to sit in a chair to use the laptop. After Dominic showed him the bookmarks for the different paranormal research sites, Micah actually made good progress with the talismans. As Dominic had suspected, most of them were hokey garbage.
So far, they had a great big pile of nothing.
“I need a beer,” Dominic mumbled. Micah immediately stood, but Dominic waved him back down. “I don’t mean you need to get me one. I mean, it’s late and this crap isn’t giving me any clues, let’s go to dinner.”
Micah nodded, staying on his feet. Dominic grabbed his keys.
“I know a place about forty minutes from here with a tuna melt to die for. You okay going that far?”
Micah gestured to the door.
For some reason, it seemed very important to Dominic that Micah eat a sandwich. It was probably one of the easiest tasks Micah could’ve possibly been given, but he still didn’t understand why Dominic seemed outright bothered by his preference for natural foods. He understood why Dominic didn’t share those preferences: Dominic didn’t know what it was like to live on white bread and stolen gas station chips. He didn’t know about supplement shakes that let your body build muscle but never fat. He didn’t know about show diets. He didn’t know the safety in the unbroken skin of an apple.
Dominic knew none of this, and Micah had no plans to tell him.
Micah knew the bitter-sour taste of an additive that meant Slate had something intense planned. He remembered the confused, heavy sensation that would settle over him and leave him pliable in his master’s hands. He’d been drugged when they did the piercings, hands pinning his mouth and legs open, too confused to even think of struggling. They had pierced him a dozen times that day, for entertainment, to see if they liked the look. Micah had been blindfolded, never knowing where the needle would penetrate him next. For days afterward his mouth had tasted of blood, and even gentle caresses had been agony.
Still, the drugs were the worst of it. If his master had simply told him to open his mouth and spread his legs and allow himself to be pierced, Micah could, and would, have done it for him.
Micah didn’t need the drugs to get through difficult scenes. He could always hold still when his masters worked him over. He’d earned his Signature. He was silent when told to shut up, came when instructed to, and usually cried only when he was allowed. His masters had been proud of him, and with good reason. He would give them what no one else could, and they would praise him and stroke his hair and feed him sweets straight from their fingers. Sometimes they let him stay the night in their bed, sleeping late on soft sheets.
But Adam Slate had been different from the others. Drugs before a difficult task were for Slate’s benefit, not the slaves’. Slate liked that from the first taste of bitter-sour, they knew he was going to hurt them, and they didn’t know how.
Micah had done his best, but the uncertainty and fear were a blanket that coated Slate’s entire household. The slaves never knew how he would come for them, or when. More than once, Micah had been roused in the middle of the night, summoned by a bored guest. He was normally safe in Slate’s bed—normally. But there was never certainty, never forewarning, never time to prepare, and seemingly no excuse for not having done so anyway.
Micah knew he’d been set up to fail there, that failing was the point, but the knowledge didn’t help. The anxiety had soaked into his body along with the pain, and over the years it ate away at his will. He hadn’t just failed to follow orders—he’d deliberately chosen not to. It was a mistake he hadn’t made since the first of his father’s rages, and one he never planned to make again.
So if Dominic wanted him to eat a sandwich?
Micah had been asked for harder things.
The restaurant was busy, so they sat at the bar. Micah paused when Dominic took a seat, but before he could decide his place, Dominic grabbed his shirt sleeve and guided him into the seat next to him.
There were several other indents here, marked by uniforms, barcodes, or subservient positioning. With his sleeves covering his arms, he had none of these. To the outside observer, it would seem as though he and Dominic were friends, or family, or coworkers.
It struck Micah as deeply inappropriate. He didn’t know what was expected of him here. It couldn’t last. The waitress would come to take their order and Micah wouldn’t be able to speak to her and he’d have to write it down and it would be obvious he’d never done it before and she’d just know that he was a slave and he didn’t belong here sitting next to Dominic like he—
“Dude, you okay?”
Dominic was watching him with concern on his face, and Micah realized he was breathing very fast. He tamped it all down, bringing the cool, composed mask over his features. Of course the waitress wouldn’t know, and even if she did, so what? Micah was exactly where his owner wanted him to be. If Dominic wanted to buy a disgraced hospitality slave, dress him up, and take him out for tuna melts, that was his right.
Micah relaxed and gave Dominic a small smile. Dominic studied him for another couple of seconds, then gave up with a shrug.
It turned out that Micah didn’t need to worry about writing down his order, because Dominic had a whole list of things he was adamant that Micah try and ended up ordering for both of them. He insisted that the tuna melts were fantastic, that the locally-brewed beer was a good pair. Micah preferred iced tea but didn’t mention it. He let Dominic put ketchup on the massive pile of fries, rather than gesturing for the malt vinegar.
There was no reason his owner needed to know that Micah’s preferences differed from his own. Micah kept these minor disagreements stored away down somewhere deep, where they belonged. It was good practice.
Dominic knew what he liked, and he clearly wanted Micah to like them too. His excitement had a higher payoff than any condiment ever could. Dominic laughed with his whole body, and Micah thought he’d like to make his owner do it more often.
Dominic clearly liked that Micah liked french fries. Micah thought that maybe he liked Dominic.
It was dumb. He’d met him a day ago and knew close to nothing about him.
But still.
Micah wasn’t stupid. He knew his time with this owner was limited; a hospitality slave could generally expect less than half a year of servitude in any given house. After that, the novelty would wear off and he’d be traded for something new.
And Dominic wasn’t dumb either. He was piecing together the clues about what he’d actually bought. Once he realized what Micah was worth—really worth—he’d turn around and sell him again. Or maybe he’d have Micah start doing fights, make his money that way.
Micah wasn’t sure which prospect sounded worse, but it didn’t matter because it wasn’t up to him. Dominic would do what Dominic wanted to do.
When they got back in the car, the manila envelope with his paperwork was sitting on the dashboard, seemingly surrounded by blinking neon lights spelling READ ME. Neither man acknowledged it, and when they got back to the hotel, Dominic left it in the car.
The next morning was uneventful. When Micah woke up, Dominic was already dressed and working. He glanced at the clock; it was almost eight. Shit. How had he slept in that late? Why hadn’t Dominic woken him?
He didn’t get a clue from his owner, just a neutral “good morning” while Micah made the bed. Dominic didn’t send him to fetch breakfast, so that opportunity had clearly been missed.
He washed and dressed quickly, then went to watch what Dominic was doing. Each item in Annie’s box had to be tested for a handful of different energetic sympathies. Dominic explained the process and gestured to a pile for him to work on. It wasn’t difficult, but it was time-consuming.
By the afternoon, Micah had finished. To the best of his knowledge, the entire pile of trinkets was inert. Even setting aside the obvious “made in China” stamps on most of them, the power they were meant to invoke wasn’t real. By the looks of it, Madeline’s late sister had gone in for every magic fad that popped up on her television. If these spells could do half of what they promised, the spiritual energy in that house would have been focused enough to burn ants.
He tossed the last charm across the room, where it clattered into the box along with the rest of the discarded items. Dominic glanced up at the sound, then turned back to the stack of books he was searching.
Micah picked one up, flipping through it and pausing when he got to highlighted sections.
The spells were real enough; Annie had just been a terrible witch. She seemed almost pathologically disinclined to follow directions, and spell after spell was marked with revisions and substitutions.
Doesn’t work on a half-moon, was scribbled in ballpoint next to one clearly calling for a full moon. Does not work with skim milk, read another note. Do not use gluten-free flour!
Micah scoffed and rolled his eyes, turning the page toward Dominic.
Dom clicked his tongue. “Yeah, they’re all full of crap like that. But she was interested in general wellness spells. These are all about bringing peace and tranquility and that shit. There’s a couple love spells, but it’s more the ‘find your soulmate’ kind, instead of the rapey ones. Definitely nothing about summoning a howling monster to trash your sister’s house.”
Dominic tossed his book to the side, stretching out on the bed. His T-shirt pulled up, revealing an inch of skin along his lower belly.
Micah wanted to put his mouth on it, but he wasn’t sure if that came from inside him or if he was just abstractly aware that the skin there was a secondary erogenous zone, so Dominic would probably like it.
It was difficult to tell, sometimes, where his impulses came from.
Dominic noticed the attention. “See something you like?”
Micah nodded before realizing that the question was rhetorical. But Dominic was laughing again, and that was good.
“You’re such a perv. Is that what happened at the last place? They couldn’t get you to quit jumping people’s bones?”
Dominic presumably meant it as a joke, but Micah’s blood ran cold. He set his gaze back on the floor, where it belonged. Please don’t make me tell, he thought desperately. Please.
Micah was too high up. He couldn’t be here, sitting in a chair and staring at Dominic like they were on equal footing. He slid off the chair, melting easily into the supplicant’s pose. Knees together, palms flat on the floor, forehead pressed to the backs of his hands.
“Hey, man. I’m not . . .” Dominic sighed. “We probably need to talk about this.”
“Please,” he whispered, but of course there was no sound. Slate hadn’t wanted to hear him beg. He’d wanted Micah to bear his punishments in silence. It wasn’t enough to order that he be silent, because sometimes sounds had slipped through anyway. Slate had wanted Micah incapable of begging, and so one day there had been the sour-bitter taste and a bright white room and a mask that turned everything black. He’d woken up to fire in his throat and sobs that made no sound.
The doctor had been kind to him, Slate told him later. The tone had been conversational, as though he hadn’t had a hand fisted in Micah’s hair to hold him still while he’d used Micah’s mouth. He’d planned to have Micah’s tongue cut out, but the doctor had argued strongly in favor of devocalization. The recovery time was faster, and it didn’t interfere with the slave’s ability to suck cock.
“He was very persuasive,” Slate had said, and Micah had closed his eyes and swallowed through the fire in his throat. The late mornings in his owner’s bed were long gone by then.
And Dominic wanted to know what he’d done to deserve it.
Micah’s face burned with shame. A snide little voice reminded him that he was supposed to be in the chair, Dominic didn’t like it when he knelt on the floor, that he wasn’t obeying, he was hiding.
“I’m serious, man. Something isn’t matching up here, and I need to know why. Whatever happened, it pissed your last holder off a lot, and right now I’m just wondering if you’re planning to shiv me in my sleep and make a run for it.”
He said it like a joke, but Micah shook his head vehemently. He would never. Not to an owner a hundred times worse than Slate, and certainly not to Dominic.
“Okay, so what, then? I gotta know. And look, if you can’t talk about it, I get it. I can read it in your file. But I’d like your side, if you can give it to me.”
Micah clenched his jaw, then reached for the pad of paper. He was responsible for his own actions, no matter how much he’d come to regret them. The pen was heavy in his hand. He didn’t know how to start.
Bracing himself, he closed his eyes and forced himself to remember.
In the years that Micah lived with Slate, he learned to work through the effects of the drugs. They made him slow, and confused, and tired, but despite all that, he had a job to do. He wanted to think he was able to do it well, but his memories weren’t clear.
That evening, it seemed, Slate was visiting someone. Several of his favorite slaves were summoned from the barracks, blindfolded, shackled, and loaded into a van. As soon as they recognized each other, it became clear what kind of night they were in for. These weren’t the kitchen workers or chauffeurs or maids—those for whom indent was an actual title, rather than a euphemism to be used in polite company. No, that night, Slate had called for his slaves.
The drive wasn’t long, maybe forty minutes or an hour. Micah let the drugs and the rocking of the van lull him into a sense of calm. By the time they arrived, he was relaxed, pliant. It was a good way to begin the evening. Too much fear interfered with his performance.
The blindfolds and shackles were removed in a garage, and the slaves were hustled inside with the others. This gathering had quite a few attendees, all of whom had traveled with their own entourage. Micah recognized a few faces, but knew better than to greet them.
They undressed in silence, donning the clothes that their host had provided. The theme, as close as Micah could tell, had to do with forest spirits. All the slaves were given skirts in earthen tones, artfully torn and dyed to mimic the aesthetics of age. Attendants flitted through the throng, brushing iridescent powders onto cheekbones and eyelids and nipples and navels. To one side, two slaves were facing the wall as terrifically intricate wings were painted onto their shoulders and backs. Gold rings and bangles and piercings accentuated the interlocking gold circles painted carefully on each wing.
Micah staggered slightly while dressing. He had to sit down in order to don the soft buckskin boots he’d been given. Beside him, another slave was struggling. Micah checked himself, making sure he was presentable, and then knelt before the other slave. The man’s fingers were shaking as he struggled with the laces on the high boots. Without speaking, Micah pushed his hands away, working the laces until they were snug but not tight. He ran his hand up the slave’s calf, smoothing the leather. The man gave him a thankful smile, and Micah smiled back.
A chime sounded, signaling the beginning of the event, and Micah rejoined the slaves from his own household. They were directed through the corridors toward the main gathering. At the door, one of the ushers gave Micah a tray of drinks. The room was dim, but Micah was used to that. In the center was a raised dais, which he ignored. He scanned the crowd, quickly locating his master.
Slate was reclining on a dark couch, listening to another man speak. Micah approached him silently and from the left, taking a knee and presenting the tray.
Slate took his drink without looking, too engrossed in his conversation to acknowledge his slave. Micah was used to this, and he turned slightly, offering the tray to the man speaking.
There were seven people in Slate’s group, four women and three men. They listened to the speaker with rapt attention while Micah went around the circle, presenting his tray.
When it was empty and an usher had collected it, Micah returned to his master’s side, kneeling silently beside him.
One of the women gave him a sly grin, and he returned it before leaning his head against his master’s thigh. Slate’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, fingers stroking the nape of his neck. It was a gentle reward, and he accepted it contentedly.
“What I don’t understand,” Slate was saying, “is why they think we’ll be limited to one creature. Especially now that the door is stable.”
“Maybe they’re trying to drive up the price of their stock,” said the woman who had smiled at Micah. He had no idea what they were talking about, but he simpered at her as though she’d said something clever.
“Rarity is the lifeblood of value,” commented the man who’d been speaking earlier.
A scattering of applause rippled through the crowd, and attention turned to the dais. The two slaves with painted wings were standing in the center, while a man in a suit bowed.
Micah felt fingers hook through his collar. The woman was tugging at him. He glanced to Slate for permission. His master distractedly waved him off.
The woman pulled him onto the couch and climbed, a little unsteadily, onto his lap. Her dress was embroidered with small beads and gems that scratched against Micah’s thighs, but he didn’t let his discomfort show. Instead, he made a performance of reacting to the woman’s hands as they traveled over his body.
The man on the dais was doing some sort of magic show. The slaves with painted wings were subjected to a number of death-defying stunts—impaled with swords, bisected, even beheaded—before emerging unscathed.
With other masters, Micah might have paid more attention. Maybe speculated as to how the tricks were performed, if they were illusions or just real magic. Now, it was all he could do to stay focused on his own tasks.
“I wish they’d skip the theatrics and get to it,” the other woman remarked.
Micah’s guest rolled her eyes. “I’m enjoying myself. What’s the point of acquisition if you can’t stop and sample what you’ve earned?”
