His black eyes twinkle with the reflection of the spotlight. As menacing as his toothless grin.
Don’t give in, Paige, I chastise myself, willing my hands to stop trembling.
I will show them no fear.
I will give them nothing.
If there was anything I learned at the mercy of Ford, it was that once you stopped being afraid, it stopped being fun for them. And when it stopped being fun, they would stop doing it.
The announcer straightens. The drawn-out hiss of the s that would end in my being sold to the burning beast leaves his lips. I shut my eyes.
“Fifty thousand.”
My heart stops. I peel my eyelids back to find the man who spoke. I search the faces of the crowd but can’t find him. Not until movement catches my eye and I watch as a shadowy form cleaves a path through the throng of slavers.
The gathered Diablim fall away, opening a wide channel of bare, dirty cement floor for him to walk unimpeded to the stage.
Voices quiet, replaced by whispers bloomed on devilish lips. A low hum fills my ears and a hush falls over the crowd.
The advancing Diablim stands several inches taller than most of the humanoid Diablim around him. His long black jacket is blown open in the front to reveal a loose cotton shirt tucked down into the trim, belted waist of his dark denim jeans.
The Diablim’s disheveled raven-black hair waves low over his brow, concealing most of his face in shadow. His presence commands attention from the throng.
“Fifty thousand,” he repeats to the dumbstruck auctioneer when he finally reaches the front, his voice deep and threatening.
“S-sold,” the auctioneer croaks. “For fifty thousand.”
The Diablim tips his head up to examine his purchase, leveling bright yellow eyes on me. His sharply defined jawline and cheekbones are taut, but otherwise, his expression is emotionless as he watches me quietly for a moment. His piercing stare makes my hair stand on end.
He would seem to be in his late twenties, if he were human. Which he most definitely is not.
“Shall I have your purchase delivered, Mr. Kincaid? We can see to it that she’s properly bound and won’t cause you any problems,” the auctioneer nervously asks when the silence stretches on, a wilted grin squirming at the corner of his mouth.
“I think not,” the Diablim replies. “She won’t be causing any problems. Will you?”
Mr. Kincaid waits for my reply, a dangerous glint in his eyes and a sharp edge to his words that dares me to disagree.
“No.”
His brows lower; disappointment evident in the purse of his full lips. “Pity,” he says with a mournful sigh. “Perhaps another time.”
8
The parted sea of bodies in the demon market buzzes with the hum of animated conversation. Whispered snippets rush past my ears as I put one foot in front of the other, making for the illuminated exit. The Diablim who purchased me on my heels.
“What could he possibly want with a low-level Diablim?” an old crone sneers as I pass.
“Has he ever even bought a slave before?” another inquires in a haughty whisper, though I can’t see who.
“Probably overdue for a good fuck,” one lanky man with short horns slurs drunkenly to the shorter Diablim at his side. “Think ’bout it—you ever seen him at Midnight Court with a woman? Pshhh, I know I ain’t!”
Kincaid has to be hearing their lurid speculations; he’s only a few steps behind me. But he does nothing, his focus wholly on me. I can feel his gaze as though his unnerving yellow eyes are the same as the press of his long fingers.
The other customers and vendors stare openly, and I’m grateful when the throng of Diablim thins as we exit the squat building.
Sunlight kisses my bare arms with its warmth, and a whip of wind sails up from the river a hundred meters to the right. My pink and purple hair lashes over my face, skewing my view of The Hinge above.
The demon market crouches in its shadow. It’s a wonder I didn’t notice it from above, but then…I’d been more than a little distracted.
I peer back across the Mississippi, trying to gauge the distance.
If it’s true that demons can’t cross rivers, then all I would have to do is make it to the bank and throw myself in.
My feet move of their own accord, a slight pivot and a tiny step.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Kincaid’s rough voice fills my ears, and I jerk back. “You’ll never make it across.”
In a knee-jerk reflex, I turn to glare at him, earning myself a curious tilt of his brow. “But if you’d like to try your luck,” he amends. “I’ll give you a three second head start.”
When I make no reply, he leans in closer to my side, putting his mouth level with my ear. “Go on, Na’vazēm. Run.”
When I don’t immediately bolt, the bastard chuckles to himself and jerks his chin toward a parked black town car. The thing is ancient but pristine. It looks like something straight out of The Godfather.
The silhouette of a driver sitting erect in the driver’s seat and the low rumble of the engine tell me the vehicle has been waiting for Kincaid’s return.
The exit area is a roadway where what look to be poorer classes of Diablim gather cross-legged on the sides of the street to peddle wares from bits of cloth instead of tents and tables.
There are no other cars on the street—in fact, there is a clearly marked sign down the road that says foot traffic only. But I get the feeling Kincaid isn’t someone who has to play by the rules.
Just my luck.
Kincaid pauses with his hand on the polished silver handle of the back door. “Come,” he calls back without bothering to turn. “I have things to do.”
“Who are you?” I blurt the question without thinking, fisting my hands and refusing to move.
His head tilts so I can just see the side profile of his face: the glint of golden yellow eyes in the sun, the sharp, angry line of his jaw.
“Precisely what I would like to know,” he spits back, all the cruel amusement vanishing from his tone. “Who and what? Now—get in the car.”
My throat constricts.
But I was finally free…a tiny voice cries within. I can’t be a prisoner again.
I can’t.
“Get. In. The. Car.”
With one last wistful glance toward the river I can’t reach, I bow my head and stomp to the car, folding myself into the backseat when Kincaid opens the door.
When Kincaid slides in next to me, his jacket brushing my shoulder, I press myself into the opposite door, getting as far away from him as I can in the cramped space.
Warning bells go off inside like blaring sirens.
I am in the backseat of a town car in Elisium with someone who might very well be one of the most powerful demonic beings in the Fallen City—if how he was treated in the market is any indication.
Screwed doesn’t even begin to cover what I am right now.
I am totally, epically, royally fucked.
“What are you going to do with me?” I ask as the driver, a man whose face I have yet to see, pulls the car around, narrowly missing two Diablim women. One, I notice, clutched a smoldering babe to her breast. They are both steaming. Their skin charred and lined with rivers of what could be magma. Salamanders. They must be.