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Noise.
The deafening, clamouring din of coins clinking in pockets, banknotes unfurled and handed over, crisp as the day they were taken from the machine, ice clashing against the side of glasses, shouting, screaming, cheering, and cursing. It was a cacophony that couldn’t be ignored, couldn’t be tuned out. And all born out of human greed, human lust, and human desire for violence, carnage and destruction.
In the center of all this noise, however, was an island of almost perfect quiet, marred only by the sound of flesh on flesh, laboured breathing, and the occasional soft sound of pain. Two men circled each other carefully, warily. One, the older of the two, was limping, feeling his way gingerly with a foot that would never be the same again. He was sweating freely, the shirt he was wearing clinging to a heaving, muscular chest. But there was real pain on his strong face, pain, weariness, and resignation.
His younger opponent was also breathing harshly, laboured breath struggling through a throat ringed by bruises. His face was similarly battered, with a few cuts still emitting the occasional droplet of blood to mix with the sweat that coated his well-formed, attractive features. Curling black hair was matted to his head, but his blue eyes were bright and intent, never faltering from the gaze of his opponent. The two men circled in the centre of an empty ring, bare feet moving across concrete stained with blood, dirt, and scraps of clothing. The ring was bordered by a steel fence that was stronger than it looked, unbroken except for a padlocked, solitary gate flanked on the outside by two huge bouncers that looked at least half giant.
On the immediate outside of the ring were the people, staring through the links of the fence, many clutching the money that they had made their bets with. They were standing, packed together like sheep, eyes dilated with adrenaline and a pure, animal enjoyment. Front row view. Further back was the tiered seating, filled with people holding shimmering cocktails and leaning close together to engage in polite, business-like conversation underneath the permeating din.
Huge fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling cast a bright glow over the two fighters as they simultaneously moved to the attack. The older one seemed to gain the immediate upper hand, planting a flurry of blows on the younger man’s chest. But despite his pained flinch and stumble, he recovered immediately, scything an unexpected kick into the older man’s legs, breaking his balance and sending him to the unforgiving ground for the fourth time that evening. The surrounding audience sighed, pressing impossibly closer. But the still-standing opponent backed off, catching a painful breath.
The muttering started again.
James Carstairs was entranced. Dark brown eyes unerringly traced the younger fighter’s pained progress around the ring, tracking over clearly defined muscles and the starkly visible scars from previous fights, cataloguing all with an interest uncharacteristic of his visits to this particular establishment. Dressed in an iron grey, two-button Armani wool suit, each crease ironed with precision and care, and not a single smudge in sight, he was the epitome of grace and sophistication, the polar opposite to the braying masses down by the ring.
He reached out, then, thin, delicate fingers waving momentarily in an abortive gesture that nevertheless arrested his servant’s attention from the fight below. The younger man was stood just behind his master, dressed in matching grey in a suit of lesser quality, and had until now been watching the fight with almost as much interest as his master. Now, he leaned forwards, moving close to spare Mr. Carstairs the indignity of shouting over the din.
“I will be purchasing the younger one, Frank. See to it.” Each word was articulated perfectly in Mr. Carstairs’s cut-glass accent, but Frank stared at his master as if he’d just spoken in flawless but incomprehensible Chinese. Thankfully, Mr. Carstairs’s eyes were fixed upon the ongoing spectacle, and he had not noticed Frank’s predicament.
“I…you…” Frank stammered helplessly. In the four years that he had worked for Mr. Carstairs, the man had shown no indication of even being remotely interested in the slave trade. He owned a huge mansion, several cars, and employed a number of servants, all of which were paid well and treated with perfect civility. Slaves, on the other hand, were a different matter, and Frank privately detested the whole concept, and had believed his master shared his sentiments.
James Carstairs turned his full attention upon his servant then, and Frank quailed visibly, retreating from the intense gaze. James Carstairs was charismatic and compelling, but he could also be terrifying.
“Yes, Sir.” Frank’s back straightened, he dipped his head in a nod, and then he hurriedly strode off, trying desperately not to run.
Frank circled the stage, and arrived at a door flanked by another two huge men. Flipping out his credentials, which established him as a servant of Lord James Carstairs, he gained entry to the room. The doors closed behind him, and Frank took a moment to settle his nerves, glancing around as he did so.
Opulently furnished, and without a penny wasted, the small room was an instant shock for anyone unused to this part of the entertainment. A deep, luxurious carpet cushioned Frank’s feet deliciously, soft music played from a CD player resting on a polished mahogany table, two loveseats graced the largest walls, a Grecian sculpture stood in one corner, and a large, overweight man slouched in front of a mirror, fiddling with his tie.
As Frank’s gaze alighted upon him, he noted with experience and distaste that the suit was of cheap quality and badly maintained, the bitter tang of alcohol lingered in the room like mist over the sea, and that the sculpture was clearly a well-disguised fake.
Frank cleared his throat, waited politely while the auctioneer sprung around with about as much grace as a beached whale, and then began. “Mr. Wimbourne. It is an honour to meet you.” It wasn’t, but the auctioneer preened smugly. “Mr. Carstairs sends his regards,” and there it was, the flicker of wariness, the understanding of his status finally, “and wishes to inform you that he would like to set an entering bid upon the younger of the two fighters.”
The auctioneer didn’t even have to reach for his papers. Despite the length of the bout, the result was still anticipated. “William Herondale,” he said promptly, revealing yellow, nicotine-stained teeth and bad breath. “Eighteen years old, fine condition, black hair, blue eyes, 5’8, sexually inexperienced.”
Frank nodded. “How much?”
The auctioneer’s dark eyes gleamed with greed, and Frank sucked back the urge to plant a fist in his stomach. It would be immediately satisfying, but was unwise in the long term. “£1,000,” came the amount from thick, slick lips.
As a starting bid it was ridiculously high, but Frank knew that demand would be heavy for this particular prize. “Done.” He handed over Mr. Carstair’s card, and waited calmly, yet impatiently as the auctioneer slid it through the machine. Frank entered in the code, handed the machine back, and waited impatiently again. The receipt printed, Frank slid it into his pocket, and the act was completed. The entering bid was designed to determine interest, and after the show, those who had entered themselves into the proceedings would bid until there was one winner. In the unusual case of no bids being given, the prospective slave would return to the cells to fight again.
Frank left the office, sparing a nod for the two men flanking the door.
Just as he did so, an ear-splitting roar split the arena, startling Frank out of his reverie and sending the seated people straight to their feet.
Inside the ring, William Herondale stood over the motionless body of his opponent. He was breathing with clear difficulty, blood trickling down his face and across the bruised, cracked skin over his knuckles. Beneath him, the body of his opponent was no longer doing so, windpipe crushed by a punishing blow.
The crowd was pushed back, away from the ring, by a group of bouncers who completed the task without care for whom they squashed – this particular part of the audience paid the least for their space and were most definitely an inferior class – and then the two bouncers flanking the gate cranked it open, steel screaming against steel.
The entire arena went silent as William Herondale was pulled from the ring. He stumbled each step, disorientated and dizzy, ears ringing from the blows he had sustained, drunk on adrenaline and pain. He was half dragged, half carried into the plush room owned by the auctioneer.
The show was over. The audience surrounding the ring and the cheap seats emptied calmly towards the large door, thrown open to the mild night. The screams and shouts of earlier had turned into calm chatter, the patrons talking over the fight like one would discuss a football game. Winnings were collected from the officials outside to supplement a diminutive income, and losses paid up promptly. A good number of the expensive seats also emptied, leaving only those occupied in the subsequent proceedings. After supplying Mr. Carstairs with a fresh drink, Frank had vanished to the auction.
A full hour later, Mr. Carstairs owned his first slave. He had paid £50,000 for the privilege, disappointing a good number of his peers, all of whom had been attracted by unusually striking good looks, undamaged by his previous experiences and stint in the ring, but ultimately disappointed. They departed, one by one, as their servants emerged from the auction room, shaking their heads, until Mr. Carstairs was the only Lord remaining, sipping from his cocktail with a satisfied smile curving his lips.
Then Frank emerged with the slave on a lead, collared by a thick black leather band embossed with the theatre’s insignia. The slave’s hair was damp from recent washing, blue eyes shining brightly from tanned features, still high from the fight. The cuts on his face had been expertly stitched, with due care, and the wounds on his knuckles taped over. He had been checked over for broken bones, and his damaged ankle now sported a brace. Finally, he had been dressed in a simple white shirt and black drawstring trousers, and the muted colouring served only to emphasize his striking good looks. James Carstairs allowed himself a soft chuckle as his servant and slave drew closer to his position. Wimbourne certainly knew how to play a crowd.
In his other hand Frank held a small box of pain medication, for use in the upcoming weeks, as well as the necessary paperwork. He stopped at his master, and then proffered the lead, as calmly unruffled as ever.
James Carstair’s hand closed over the worn leather, and a frisson of excitement ran through him. The striking creature on the end of the lead was his. His to love and to cherish, his to wound and to hurt, his to use as he saw fit. His.
“I am James Carstairs,” he began the ritual exchange, dark eyes meeting dark blue, “and you, William Herondale, belong to me.”
The slave wasn’t new to the game, James noted with interest, for his gaze didn’t even flicker at the traditional words. He bowed his head, as was required, but he kept his eyes on James, casually, uncaringly, rebellious. James was utterly entranced. “I, William Herondale, am your slave, Sir.” The exchange completed, James mused, as he always did, how similar to wedding vows it truly was, but how it bound so much tighter, a bind that could only be broken now by James’s discretion.
Frank had already departed to collect the car, perceptive as always, leaving owner and slave alone. Mr. Carstairs was under no threat from his new purchase – whatever their intentions at rebellion – as to attack an owner here was to invite immediate death. And William Herondale was nothing less than a survivor.
This, James thought, is going to be fun.