His Reluctant Thrall

Even before I open my eyes, I know the bed I’m lying in isn’t mine. But it feels incredible. The sheets are almost indecently soft, the blankets luxuriously heavy, the mattress cloudlike beneath my shifting weight. It’s so comfortable that it takes several moments for the obvious question to fully register: Then whose is it? I sit bolt upright, my heart thudding in my chest. It doesn’t slow down as I take in the dimly lit room, which is high-ceilinged and richly furnished and entirely unfamiliar. Is that an actual fireplace? Where the hell am I? A floor-to-ceiling window at the far end of the room reveals a stunning view of the New Avon skyline, glittering in the night. I swallow. Wherever I am, I’m very high up. There’s a door a little ways beyond the foot of the bed, to the right. I move to pull the blankets aside, but stop short at the sight of a needle with an attached tube sticking out of my left hand. It coils up and away to an IV drip positioned to the left side of the headboard. “What the fuck?” This doesn’t look like any hospital I’ve ever seen. So who did this to me? Before I can move, a soft rattling seizes my attention. The door to the room opens, and a young woman steps in holding a carafe of water. She’s wearing a pale blue button-down dress with a high collar, and her silver hair is gathered into a neat braid. As she takes in the sight of me, her flat expression doesn’t change. “You’re awake,” is all she says. - - -    [[“What’s going on? What am I doing here?”->Part 1A]] [[“Who are you? Are you some kind of nurse?”->Part 1B]]

“What’s going on?” I don’t want to scare someone who looks to be half my size, but though I’m trying not to yell I definitely don’t sound calm. “What am I doing here?” She observes me for a moment before setting the carafe down on a low table. Far from being scared, she seems almost bored as she proceeds to approach the bed, which I scramble out of in response. Though the stupid IV I’m hooked up to means I’m forced to scramble towards it, away from the door. Still, at least I’m on my feet. Although I have no idea where my shoes are. Upon seeing this, she stops short by the foot of the bed, still looking supremely unconcerned. This close, it’s also apparent that she’s incredibly pretty. “You were passed out in front of the entrance to this building last night. If you’d been left there, you would have contracted hypothermia.” She glances towards the IV bag. “Do you not remember?” I stare at her, my memory slowly stirring at her words. It’s true, I was out last night. In fact—I look down—I’m still wearing the same clothes from then. It was a birthday thing. I’d come from work, I’d arrived at the bar late—but then my recollection of the evening is frighteningly blank. “I passed out? But I didn’t even drink.” Nothing alcoholic, anyway. Had I been drugged? “You were dehydrated, malnourished, and exhausted.” She looks me over. “When was the last time you ate?” [[>>>->Part 1AA]]

She’s not exactly dressed like any medical worker I’ve ever seen, but there is something clinical about her outfit. “Who are you? Are you some kind of nurse?” I demand as she closes the door behind her and steps into the room. She pauses ever so briefly, and somehow in that tiny gesture I sense that I’ve screwed up. “No.” Her voice is as flat as before, but her air of detachment has now been replaced by a distinct aura of disdain. How is that even possible when all she’s doing is setting the carafe down on a low table? When she turns and makes to approach the bed, I try to get to my feet, instinctively moving towards the side of the bed closer to the door. The stupid IV drip pulls me up short. Fuck this. I yank the needle out of my hand, stifling a small hiss of pain, and swing my socked feet off the right side of the bed. The not-nurse watches me impassively. “Who hooked me up to that IV?” I demand. There’s another brief pause. “I did.” I stare at her. “You said you weren’t a nurse.” Her gaze is icy. “I’m a doctor.” What? Even with her silvery hair, she looks way too young to be a doctor. She probably won’t appreciate me pointing that out, though. “What happened? Why am I here?” [[>>>->Part 1BB]]

“I—” I think back to my last package of instant noodles. That had been yesterday, right? Or was it actually the day before? Fuck. It’s been freezing out for the past couple of days. If I’d really passed out, and nobody had helped me, I might have actually—I could have actually— A shiver runs through me, and I can’t bring myself to answer her question. “Did you bring me up here?” I’m not exactly a big guy, but there’s still no way she could have moved me herself. Could she? “My master did.” Throughout all of this, her voice has stayed flat. “He tasked me with overseeing your recovery.” “Your—” My brain falters. “—master?” All at once I’m filled with renewed awareness of my plush yet unfamiliar surroundings, including the needle in my hand. “Why do—what do you do for him?” I’m almost afraid to hear the answer. There’s a brief pause. “I’m a doctor.” Before I can process this, she continues. “He’ll want to speak with you, now that you’re awake.” - - - [[“Okay…”->Part 2A]] [[“Uhhh…”->Part 2B]]

“You passed out in front of this building last night.” Pause. “You’re here because you would have contracted hypothermia otherwise.” What? “I—” Could she be telling the truth? “—I passed out?” What had happened? I’d headed to a birthday thing after work, shown my face briefly before ducking out—then— —why don’t I remember anything? “You were dehydrated, exhausted, and malnourished.” The doctor’s voice breaks into my thoughts. It’s my turn to pause, a chill sweeping through me as goosebumps prickle up and down my arms. Is that why I passed out? Fuck. In this freezing weather, I could’ve actually been in real trouble if someone hadn’t—if she hadn’t—I swallow, trying to get a grip on my thoughts. “How did you even bring me up here?” She’s half my size. Had someone helped her? “I didn’t do that,” she says. “My master did.” “Your—” My brain short-circuits. “—master?” What kind of weirdo made their doctor call them master? I don’t know that I want to find out.   Just as I think that, she continues. “He’ll want to speak with you, now that you’re awake.” - - - [[“Okay…”->Part 2A]] [[“Uhhhh….”->Part 2B]]

Whoever this guy is, he is apparently the reason I didn’t spend an icy November night out on the streets. That said… “Why does he want to talk to me?” She regards me expressionlessly. “You’ll have to ask him.” Right. Naive of me to assume she’d tell me anything helpful. For all that she appears to have been responsible for my care for the past few hours, she seems like she barely wants to talk to me. Maybe she just wants me gone as soon as possible. Might as well use that to my advantage. “Where’s all my stuff? My phone, my wallet…” The sooner I can be out of here, the better. After eyeing me for a moment or so, she reaches over and picks up a tray that’s been lying atop what I realise is a trunk at the foot of the bed. On the tray is my scuffed leather wallet and my phone with its cracked screen. Both look especially dingy against the splendour of the room. Maybe she put them on a tray so they wouldn’t contaminate any of the lavish furnishings. I take them both, tapping reflexively at my phone screen. Shit. Battery’s dead. “Your coat is in the front hall, along with your shoes.” I look up to see the doctor’s gaze boring into me. “Are you ready to speak with the master now?” I let out a breath slowly. Fine. Whatever. He’s probably just some creep with a saviour complex who wants to pat himself on the back about his act of charity. And he must be pretty old if he has a live-in doctor. Probably just wants someone to pontificate to, maybe get off a bit on lecturing me about safety or moral character or something. This whole situation is still incredibly fucking weird, but there’s no point panicking just yet. I’ll just thank him and be on my way. He better not be expecting me to call him master, though. “Okay,” I say. “Where is he?” [[>>>->Part 3]]

Any gratitude I was starting to feel is quickly eclipsed by a sense of alarm. “Uh…is that really necessary?” I ask, cautiously. I try to keep my voice and body language casual, like I’m confused rather than freaked out. She shrugs. “It’s what he wants.”   Fuck. It seems highly unlikely that she’ll just let me leave without talking to the guy, even if I ask real nice. Is it worth just trying to make a break for it? Because the more I think about it, the less I like the situation: some rich guy with a hot young doctor at his beck and call bringing an unconscious twentysomething brown guy into his luxurious residence? Wouldn’t the usual rich-person thing to do have been to call the cops? Or an ambulance, if he wanted to be nice? It must have been clear from my clothes and all my stuff that I didn’t live in this building. My stuff. I feel in my pockets. They’re empty. My sense of alarm kicks up a notch. I glance around the room. “Where’s my phone? My wallet?” It’s taking way more effort to sound casual now. “My keys?” After eyeing me for a second, the doctor reaches over and grabs a tray lying on top of what I realise is a trunk at the foot of the bed. She presents it to me, revealing my scuffed leather wallet and my phone with its cracked screen. The juxtaposition is honestly kind of hilarious, considering both items are probably the cheapest things in this room. I grab them both, swiping at my phone screen. It doesn’t light up. I press the power button. No response. The battery’s totally dead. I try not to betray how vulnerable this makes me feel, and shove both it and my wallet into my pockets. “Your keys are in your coat, which is in the front hall, along with your shoes.” I glance back towards the doctor, who’s watching me closely. “Are you ready to see the master now?” Looks like there’s no getting out of this. Even if I try to run, surely this guy has other staff. I’ll likely get caught before I even figure out where the front door is. Besides, if he has a live-in doctor, he’s probably pretty old. If he tries anything weird, I can take him. “Fine.” I say. “Lead the way.” [[>>>->Part 3]]

Meeting someone several tax brackets above me for the first time while dressed in last night’s clothes is another unappealing part of this whole situation, but the adjoining bathroom to where I just spent the night is filled with every kind of cleanliness-inducing product imaginable, all of them in expensive-looking packaging. After brushing my teeth and splashing some water on my face I feel a little better, though there’s no time to do anything about my unwashed hair and two days of stubble. After sniffing my shirt I spritz myself with something woodsy and cinnamonny from a heavy black bottle. There are house slippers by the bed, which I slip on over my socks. Before we set off the doctor also insists on disinfecting the needle site on my hand and putting an adhesive bandage over it, which seems needlessly cautious. But as she leads me out of my room and to wherever her master’s waiting, needless starts to seem like a recurring theme. I’d vaguely figured from the window view that this was some kind of penthouse apartment, but I’d still assumed that a penthouse would have just one floor. This one, as far as I can tell, has at least three—or two and a gallery?—but I can’t be sure because the doctor walks so quickly and we appear to be weaving through side passages. [[>>>->Part 3A]]

But even from length of the walk, it’s apparent that this place is massive. How many people live here? A whole family, maybe? Across multiple generations? Forget my apartment, I bet my entire walkup could fit in here. What does this guy do that he’s so rich? The soft carpeting, the fine wallpaper, the antiques on casual display that include more than one old master painting…there’s no way he’s in tech, right? This can’t be the home of someone who started a dating app. This looks like generational wealth. Maybe he’s a shipping magnate. Or maybe I’m totally wrong and he’s from somewhere abroad and this is all just old-money cosplay. Whatever his background, this setting definitely isn’t helping me understand his motives. Why did he even help me in the first place? What could he possibly want with me?  The doctor finally stops before a large, ornate wooden door and raps on the polished surface twice with her knuckles. Without waiting for a response, she opens the door and steps into the doorway before looking back and gesturing for me to follow her into the room. [[>>>->Part 4]]

I’m a couple of steps behind the doctor and to the side of the door, so I hear her mysterious master’s voice before I see him. “Ah, Sylvia. Our guest is awake, I take it.” For a fraction of a tenth of a second, I hesitate. His voice, drifting out to me, is like nothing I’ve ever heard before. It’s deep like the ocean is deep, myriad things lurking beneath the surface that could be magnificent or horrifying, or maybe both. It resonates somewhere inside me, making my pulse race and my body grow warm. Then it’s pulling me in, making me want to step into the room, to be closer its source. A tiny part of me, outside of that sudden desire, is resistant. Don’t go in! Don’t go— I step into the room. Nothing about the room registers, not really, except for maybe the large desk, and even that is only relevant because of the figure seated behind it, and as for the figure himself—my heart begins to throw itself against my ribcage as my gaze roves over the sharp features of his face, the soft gold of his hair, words like ethereal and divine drifting through my otherwise blank mind. A sudden, sharp longing spikes through me. I’ve never been so drawn to someone before. So of course I’m immediately suspicious. Vowing inwardly to never let him see the effect he just had on me, I shove my sweat-slicked palms into my pockets and adopt a vaguely bewildered tone. “So, uh…hi?” “I’ll leave you to it,” the doctor announces abruptly from somewhere behind me. She moves out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Leaving me alone in the room with him. [[>>>->Part 5]]

It occurs to me that not too long ago, I would have been happy for the doctor to leave me alone. Be careful what you wish for, I guess. I’m still staring at the door when there’s a soft chuckle from behind me. “Don’t take it personally.” That voice again. Somehow it’s more bearable this time, though. “Sylvia doesn’t like anyone.” I don’t turn around right away, taking the opportunity to try and steel myself before having to look at him once more. “I thought doctors were supposed to have a bedside manner.” Another chuckle. “She’s not your typical doctor.” Finally, I face him. “This hasn’t been a typical day.” He’s still every bit as beautiful as before, but somehow it’s like the magnetic pull I felt previously has eased. Have I gotten used to it somehow? Still, it seems stupid to let my guard down entirely. I keep my expression impassive. Like I’m not particularly impressed by any of this. “Of course.” He gets up from behind the desk—on top of everything else he’s also taller than me—and gestures to a pair of seats in front of yet another fireplace. “Please, sit.” [[>>>->Part 5A]]

As I fold myself into one of the chairs, part of my brain is still attempting to calculate his height. It’s hard to tell exactly from this distance, but he looks like he has at least a couple of inches on me, making him six two at the shortest. His frame is also bigger than mine; beneath his perfectly fitted jacket, his shoulders are broad, although they taper down to a narrow waist. So much for thinking he was some old guy. He regards me from his chair, the firelight playing over his face. Put a frame around him and you’d have a painting. “How do you prefer to be addressed?” he asks. I wonder how he’d respond if I said master. “Just Damien is fine,” I say. “Damien,” he says slowly. Despite my resolve I feel something inside me liquify at the sound of my name in his mouth, and I find my eyes lingering on the alluring curve of his lips. I jerk my gaze upwards when he speaks again. “You can call me Luciel.” I nod, not trusting myself to say his name out loud. “How are you feeling?” he asks. - - - [[“I’m fine, thank you.”->Part 6A]] [[“Just a little confused.”->Part 6B]]

“I’m feeling fine.” There’s a beat. “Thank you,” I add quickly. Was this why he wanted to talk to me? For some reason, my response seems to amuse him. “I suppose you are looking better than when I last saw you.” The last time he—? “You mean when I was unconscious?” I can’t entirely keep the distaste out of my voice. My reaction doesn’t seem to deter his amusement. “Yes. Your colouring’s vastly improved. In fact—” He tilts his head. “Shall I turn down the fire? You seem almost flushed.” That might be because I’m now remembering that he was supposedly the one who brought me up here and part of my brain is currently wondering how he did that exactly. Did he…carry me? And why is that making me feel so— “The fire’s fine.” I say neutrally. “What did you want to talk about?” [[>>>->Part 7]]

“Fine, thank you.” I say cautiously. “Just a little confused.” Maybe it’s just the gently flickering light of the fire playing tricks, but it looks like there’s amusement in his eyes. “I suppose you would be. Sylvia’s a very experienced medical practitioner, but she isn’t always the most reassuring presence.” He pauses, then inclines his head. “Perhaps I should have been the one waiting by your bedside.” Through some concerted effort of will, I manage not to give away what goes through me at the thought of him in that room, watching me sleep in that particular bed. “What did you want to talk to me about?” I say neutrally. Why is this guy having this effect on me? [[>>>->Part 7]]

Instead of answering my question, Luciel lolls back in his chair. “Are you hungry? I can have something prepared.” For a moment, I’m tempted. It’d probably be the best meal of my whole life. But something in me recoils at the idea of accepting any food in this place. “No, it’s okay.” “Are you certain?” He still looks faintly amused. “According to Sylvia, not eating enough may have been one of the reasons for your collapse.” I shift in my seat. “Yeah, I’m, uh…what time is it?” Luciel glances at his watch. “It’s just after 5pm.” Damn it. I knew it was probably late, but the confirmation that I’ve slept through almost my entire day off is still a little depressing. “I’m not hungry, weirdly,” I say. “Maybe because I don’t usually eat at this hour.” I’m probably not being very convincing, but it’s not like I want to stay and pal around with this guy. If he picks up on that, then that works in my favour. “Mmm.” Luciel’s face is now inscrutable. “Well, if you change your mind at any point…” “I’ll let you know. Thanks. Appreciate the offer,” I say, trying to channel my cheerful Service Industry Voice. “But I have food at home too, so don’t worry too much about me.” This is completely untrue, but it feels reassuring to invoke a location beyond this increasingly unappealing place. I want to leave. “I’ll get down to business, then.” Luciel steeples his fingers. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Damien?” [[>>>->Part 8]]

“Trouble?” I repeat. I’d expected him to ask me why I passed out, maybe what I was doing before that happened, but this throws me. “I’m not sure what you mean.” “You must be wondering why I didn’t just have you taken to hospital,” Luciel says. “Given the circumstances under which we found you…” He shrugs. “I thought the situation called for some discretion.” My head is swimming. Does he think I’m some kind of criminal? Or an addict? Maybe he really does have a saviour complex. “I just, uh…like the doctor said, I haven’t been taking care of myself. Guess I’ve just been really focused on, you know, work.” At my non-criminal jobs, I don’t add. “You know how it is.” It occurs to me after saying it that I’m not sure he does. “You have a large bruise on your forearm. And another on your shin. Both several days old,” Luciel observes. “I work retail and bar jobs. Accidents happen.” Half true. I’d been trying to get a box off a high shelf in a storeroom when it slipped off the edge and smacked into my arm. On the other hand, the bruise on my leg was from when I’d walked into a chair the last time the power had gone out in my apartment. (I try not to dwell on the idea of Luciel examining my body. Maybe the doctor had told him. Maybe I should never think about this again.) “It’s not my intention to interrogate you,” Luciel’s tone is delicate. “I suppose I was simply wondering if you might be in a difficult situation.” A difficult situation. A montage flickers at the back of my brain: the email from my landlord that’s been sitting in my inbox like a lead weight since I got it two weeks ago, the recurring toothache that I’ve been trying to ignore for the past couple of days, the way my card got declined the last time I tried to buy groceries because I hadn’t realised the price of eggs had gone up again… [[>>>->Part 9]]

As usual, thinking about all of those things in tandem sends a wave of anxiety coursing through my gut. My landlord’s raising my rent by 40% come January. That takes me to the very edge of what I currently make from working two jobs. I don’t have enough savings to cover moving to a cheaper place—if I can even find one—and all the upfront costs that’ll require. Nobody I know is looking for a roommate. Nowhere is hiring. And now some rich guy is—what? Offering to check me into rehab? Hoping to turn me into some inspirational story for one of his charities? “What happened was an accident.” I keep my voice even. “I’m not looking for a handout.” Luciel holds up both hands. “I’m not suggesting anything of the sort,” he says smoothly. “Merely that if you are in a bind, perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.” Mutually beneficial? “What kind of arrangement?” “I’m looking for someone to fulfill a role for…an upcoming event,” Luciel says. “But there are a number of highly specific requirements involved; discretion chief among them. So finding a suitable individual has been…challenging.” He eyes me contemplatively. “But the right candidate would be more than adequately compensated for their trouble.” Unease slips down my spine. “So it’s a job?” “In essence,” Luciel says, “yes.” [[>>>->Part 9A]]

In essence. More than adequately compensated. Discretion. My head is a war of conflicting emotions. On one hand, I’m perilously close to either losing my apartment, or keeping it and not being able to afford anything else. On the other, this prospective job (‘in essence’) sounds dubious as hell. “What kind of event is it?” “It’s a meeting between individuals of a private society. A celebration, actually,” Luciel adds offhandedly. “They’re a rather secretive bunch. Hence the need for discretion.” Which tells me pretty much nothing. “What would I need to do at the event?” “You’d be an attendant of sorts, though I’m afraid if you want to hear further details…” He pauses. “…you’ll need to sign a non-disclosure agreement.” [[>>>->Part 10]]

This is sounding more and more suspicious. “I have to sign an NDA just to learn more about this job?” Luciel steeples his fingers again. “As I said, the society is…secretive. The members are exceedingly private. Even details about the event itself are highly sensitive. So yes, signing an agreement at this stage is necessary to protect the interests of everyone involved. Including yours.” Even by the standards of cagey litigious rich people, this seems next level. Either these guys are unfathomably wealthy, or… “Is this a sex thing?” Somehow even the merrily crackling fire sounds ominous in the otherwise utter silence that follows my question. Then Luciel bursts out laughing. [[>>>->Part 11]]

Unlike his soft chuckles from before, this time his laughter is utterly unrestrained, spilling out of him so freely that he’s leaning forward in his chair, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, one hand thrown up as though to shield his face slightly but doing absolutely nothing to hide how stunning he looks in this moment. I almost want to close my eyes to better bask in the sound of his delight, but more than that I want to reach over and push the errant lock of golden hair that’s fallen over his brow back into place. I settle for stuffing down both those impulses and mildly resenting him for them instead. “It’s a reasonable question,” I say, once he’s contained himself a bit, “given all the secrecy.” He makes a sort of fair enough gesture. “If that’s what’s been bothering you, no; I can assure you that my telling you about this arrangement has not been a veiled attempt to proposition you.” His eyes are still distractingly bright as he holds my gaze. I return it steadily, willing myself to appear unbothered now that my question has been answered. “And it’s not dangerous?” I ask. [[>>>->Part 11A]]

I’m watching him so closely that there’s no mistaking it: this makes him pause for at least a micro-beat, although all he says is, “You’ll be under my protection. No harm will come to you.” This sends my emotions into another war. No harm will come to you doesn’t mean the situation itself isn’t harmful. And as for being under Luciel’s protection, what exactly will he be protecting me from? When Luciel speaks next, his tone is almost gentle. “Signing the agreement isn’t agreeing to the job, you understand.” My heart jolts a bit. I do know that. But somehow, signing the agreement still feels like a big step, one that I won’t be able to come back from even if I don’t take the job. Do I really want to know more? Luciel’s posture is relaxed, but his gaze is watchful. He’s not pushing me for an answer, but I doubt there’s more I can really ask him about what the job is without signing. - - - [[“I’m not interested.”->Part 12A]] [[“I need more time to think about it.”->Part 12B]]

Not a sex thing. Likely dangerous. Involving a secret society of rich elites who don’t want outsiders sharing anything about their proclivities. Even finding out more feels like a bad idea, one that will tie me to Luciel in a way that would almost definitely be unwise. I shouldn’t get any more tangled up with him, or with any of this. I should leave. I clear my throat. “Thank you for the offer,” I say. “But I’m not interested.” As soon as the words leave my lips, there’s a subtle shift in the air. All at once I feel the polar opposite of what I felt before, when Luciel’s voice drew me into the room. Now I feel an intense urge to leave run escape get out get out get out— “I see,” Luciel’s voice is pleasant. I blink. The feeling has vanished; the only evidence I felt it at all in the goosebumps shimmying up my arms, which are also rapidly disappearing. “That’s a pity.” “I’m sorry. I should probably get going,” I say a little hollowly, rising unsteadily to my feet. “Don’t want to take up any more of your time.” “Nonsense.” Luciel sounds so perfectly amiable that it seems more and more likely that I imagined that moment earlier. “There’s no need to for you to apologise. And talking with you has been most diverting. Give me a moment—” He’s gotten up from his chair too, and crosses the room back to his desk. [[>>>->Part 12AA]]

“Thank you for, uh, helping me when you found me.” I say, as he pulls one of the desk drawers open and reaches inside. “And bringing me in from the cold.” “Not at all.” Luciel takes something out of the drawer and steps around his desk, walking right up to me. Of course he stops short of closing the distance between us entirely; he’s standing a step or two away, but this is the closest I’ve been to him since getting here. Because of this it takes a moment to register that he’s holding out what looks like a small business card. “I was more than happy to help you, Damien,” he says as I take the card, careful not to let my fingers brush against his, and study it. It’s black and glossy, with a number embossed on one side in gold, and it feels oddly weighty in my hand. On the reverse side is a strange symbol I don’t recognise. “And if you’re ever in a difficult situation, don’t hesitate to call me. I’ll do what I can to help.” I have no plans to see this guy ever again, but I tuck the card into my pocket anyway. “Thanks.” He nods to the door. “When you go down to the lobby, here’ll be a car waiting for you just outside the entrance,” he says. “It’ll take you wherever you want to go.” “What? No, that’s not—” Luciel waves off my protests. “It’s no trouble at all, really,” he says, flashing me a smile so dazzling that between that and my empty stomach it’s hard to maintain a coherent thought. “It’s been a pleasure having you.” [[>>>->Part 13]]

Nothing about our exchange so far suggests that agreeing to this job would be a good idea. But is turning it down without at least hearing more really wise? It’s currently the only shot I have at improving my horrifying financial situation. Still. There’s probably some conventional wisdom out there about not signing NDAs after waking up with a needle in your hand. Or something. “I…” I swallow, suddenly nervous, then take the plunge. “I need more time to think about it.” “Mmm. Understandable, given the circumstances,” Luciel says, after a brief silence. He glances at the fire for a moment, shadows playing across his face, before looking back at me. “But I’ll need your answer within three days.” I guess rich people don’t like waiting around. “Okay.” I get to my feet. “Three days.” Luciel rises from his seat as well, striding back towards his desk. “And when you do decide…” He pulls open a drawer, takes something out, and returns to where I’m standing by the fireplace. “…this is how you can contact me.” He holds out a small, shiny black business card. I take it. There’s a number embossed in gold on one side, and a strange symbol on the other. “So I should call this number?” I ask, holding up the card with the number facing him. “Yes,” Luciel says smoothly. “We’ll arrange things from there.” I nod and tuck the card into my pocket, wondering vaguely if I can just turn him down over the phone if that’s what I decide to do. Well. A bridge to cross if I get to it. [[>>>->Part 12BB]]

“Thank you,” I say. “For helping me. And not leaving me out in the cold.” The corners of Luciel’s mouth turn up, and I suddenly realise I’m closer to him than I ever have been previously. Well. While conscious, at least. I tamp down the traitorous thought before its implications can sink in too much. “It was no trouble at all, Damien,” Luciel’s voice is close to a murmur. “Though I must say, I hope I haven’t been making you feel too warm.” “What?” I hope I don’t sound as caught out as I feel. “From the fire.” Luciel gestures. “You’re looking a little flushed again.” “Oh.” At least looking at the fireplace is a welcome respite from looking at Luciel. “I’m not used to being around fireplaces…I guess.” “I daresay you could change that.” Okay. No. This is weird. No matter how attractive he is, it makes no sense that someone I just met is making me feel this way. I take a step back before meeting Luciel’s eyes again. “I should get going.” “Of course.” Luciel doesn’t seem bothered by my response. “When you get down to the lobby, there’ll be a car outside the main entrance. It’ll take you wherever you need to go.” He holds up a hand, staving off my protests. “It’s really no trouble, Damien,” he says. “I look forward to hearing from you again.” [[>>>->Part 13]]

Letting Luciel know my exact address doesn’t seem like a smart move, so I get the driver to drop me off a few blocks from my apartment. Getting home is a complicated mix of feelings—the relief of being back in a familiar space, tempered by the steadily increasing fear that I’m going to lose it soon. One thing at a time. First, I need to figure out what to do about dinner. I kick off my shoes but keep my coat on since the apartment is freezing as usual, toss my wallet and Luciel’s card onto my desk, and plug my phone in to charge before investigating the contents of the tiny ‘kitchen space’, or the corner where my miniscule kitchen appliances are squeezed. I’m pretty sure my entire apartment was just a closet that my landlord figured he could carve up for more income. Maybe there’s still an errant packet of instant noodles in a corner somewhere. My eyes snag on the calendar I have hanging on the fridge. Shit. I’m supposed to meet my sister Violet for dinner in like an hour. And she lives an hour away. I dive back towards my phone, tapping the screen. It doesn’t respond. [[>>>->Part 13A]]

What? It’s definitely connected properly, and the charger’s switched on. I press the power button. Tap the screen again. Swipe. Plug the charger into a different outlet just in case.  Nothing works. Is my phone dead dead? No. No no no no no. Not that. Not on top of everything else. I can’t not have a phone. I currently have just enough in my savings account to get me through a month of increased rent. If I have to spend it on a new phone instead… All right. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. I’m already meeting Violet. Maybe she has an old phone I can use. She might even be able to bring it to dinner if I catch her now. I haul my old laptop out of my closet. It’s barely functional any more—it takes five minutes just to boot up—but the desktop version of the messenger app I use thankfully works. The list of chats jumps around as messages from the last few hours load in, but when that’s finally done my most recent messages are from Violet. Can’t make dinner tonight There’s been an accident [[>>>->Part 14]]

It makes no sense to bring my useless phone along with me to the hospital, but as I enter the hospital lobby there’s still something reassuring about the weight of it shoved into my pocket. Sure, being out and about in the world without a working phone is a little scary, but not having one at all would feel even more terrifying. How did our ancestors do it? I approach the front desk. “I’m here to see Evan…uh…” My memory does not rise to the occasion. “…Lee?” The nurse assesses me, plainly sceptical. “Are you a relative?” I try to explain. “He’s my sister’s fi—” “Damien?” I glance over at the area beyond the front desk and spot Violet. She looks pretty worn out as she lifts a hand in greeting, her office clothes wrinkled and stray locks of hair escaping her ponytail. [[>>>->Part 14A]]

“That’s my sister,” I say quickly to the nurse, who still looks sceptical but waves me on anyway. I can’t really blame her for being doubtful. Violet and I don’t look like we could be related, on account of our mothers being of different ethnicities and all. Still, she’s family. More to the point, she’s the only family I have. I cross the space towards her and wrap her up in a hug. She presses her face into my chest and squeezes me briefly before disengaging and stepping back, blinking hard. That doesn’t seem good. “How’s Evan doing?” I ask cautiously. “He’s asleep right now.” She looks me up and down. “Have you had dinner?” Before I can say anything, my stomach gurgles. Violet nods. “Thought so. Come on,” she says, taking me by the arm. “There’s a diner across the road.” [[>>>->Part 15]]

It’s only when the waitress withdraws with our orders that I feel comfortable prompting Violet again. “So he’s gonna be okay?” She takes a deep breath. “The good news is that he was wearing his helmet, so there’s been no damage to his head apart from some cuts and bruises. And his right arm was a clean break, so that should heal up okay.” “That’s great, right?” “It is. Of course.” She tries to smile. It’s not very convincing. “The slightly less good news is that he’ll need surgery for his broken leg.” I wince. “Like…major surgery?” “Not according to the doctor, but…” Her shoulders lift jerkily, in a kind of shrug. “You know.” “Yeah.” Violet stares out the diner window. “It’s going to take months before he heals up. And he won’t be able to work. He was only doing the food delivery thing to try and make ends meet between freelance jobs, and now he won’t be able to do either. That’s going to be really hard on him.” [[>>>->Part 16]]

Our burgers arrive and we both dive in. Neither of us talks while we eat, giving me a moment to process the information. Violet’s fiancée Evan used to work as an animator, but he got laid off a few months ago and hasn’t been able to find another full-time job since. Not just in the same line of work, but pretty much anywhere even remotely related. But Violet still has her paralegal job, and they’d been getting by. Just about. Until this. “Will you be able to handle things on your own until he’s better?” Even as I ask, I’m suddenly doubtful. Rent, utilities, and now medical bills, plus future physical therapy costs…and without a job, Evan doesn’t have health insurance. They already live pretty frugally, in a one-bedroom on the edge of a slowly gentrifying neighbourhood, but dealing with everything on Violet’s salary alone doesn’t seem realistic.   Violet seems to be following my line of thought. “I don’t know,” she admits, wiping her hands with a napkin. “The vet bill from Ringo’s emergency surgery last month cleaned out a chunk of our savings. We did set aside some money for the wedding, but that was just for a down payment on a venue…” The same cold dread I felt upon seeing my landlord’s email creeps up my spine. “Could Evan’s family help?” [[>>>->Part 16A]]

Violet shakes her head. “There’s no way, not with the payments they’re already making for Evan’s mother.” At my blank look, she elaborates. “She’s been in a care facility ever since his dad died, remember? Evan and his sister split the cost between them, but it’s pretty steep.” “Right.” She has mentioned it a couple of times. Violet bites her lip. “Keep this between us, but his sister has actually been covering Evan’s share while he’s been jobhunting. Before that he was dipping into our savings just so he could keep up. I know I probably should have stopped him, but…his sister had just had another kid. He just wanted to hold up his side of things, you know?” I nod. I do know. Listening to all this is making me feel unbearably helpless. Violet is two years older than me, and the only reason I even knew I had a sister is because she tracked me down a few years ago after my mother died. “Both members of the shit dad club and the dead mom club,” she’d said at the time. “No reason for us not to stick together.” But what’s the point of sticking together if I can’t even help her? [[>>>->Part 17]]

“It’ll be okay.” Violet sounds like she’s convincing herself as much as me. “We’ll figure something out.” She flashes me a grin, almost looking like her usual self, and points one of her fries at me before popping it in her mouth. “You could always move in with us. Be good to have an able-bodied, rent-paying person around.” “Not so able-bodied with your cat in the picture.” No harm trying to maintain the lighter mood, even though we both know this isn’t a real solution for either of us. “I’d be bent double from all the wheezing. Though I guess I’d be out of the house a lot, what with the two-hour-plus work commute. Violet kicks me gently under the table. “Smart mouth.” Her expression softens as she studies me. “You don’t have to worry about me, you know. If you’re ever in any trouble, I don’t want you to feel like you can’t come to me for help.” I hate that she feels like she has to say this to me. Like not only am I a non-viable source of assistance, it’s obvious I’m barely keeping my head above water. I also hate that I kind of need to take her up on it. “Not unless you have an old phone lying around that you don’t need.” [[>>>->Part 17A]]

She bites her lip again. “No, Evan and I always trade ours in.” Worry creeps back into her face, and I curse myself inwardly for ruining the moment. “Is yours totally dead?” I’d mentioned it when I’d messaged her from my laptop, in case she tried to reach me after I left for the hospital and couldn’t get through. “It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Maybe I can still get it repaired. And I can ask around some more, see if any of my friends have a spare.” The last thing I want to do is add to her concerns. No matter what she says, there’s no way I can tell her about my rent going up. And despite the brave face she’s putting on it, I doubt she’ll be able to figure out her financial woes on her own. Violet’s still looking at me with a worried expression. “Really, don’t worry about it,” I say. I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, and my fingers brush against something small and flat. I take a deep breath. “Actually, can I borrow your phone real quick?” [[>>>->Part 18]]

The bell over the diner doorway tinkles cheerily as I head out into the cool night. Did I really grab Luciel’s card before leaving my apartment? I don’t remember doing it, but I guess I must have. So if I want to tell him I’m interested in learning more about the job after all, I might as well call him now while I have access to a phone. And given that he’s so rich, I’ll probably need to set up an appointment through his assistant or something. For extra privacy, I round the corner from the diner entrance before punching the number from the card into Violet’s phone. It rings a single time before a voice comes on the line. “Damien Nayar?” My shoulders jerk up at this mention of my full name. I’d had it changed after turning eighteen, omitting my dad’s surname entirely. How did whoever was answering the phone know that? I wasn’t even calling from my own number. “Uh…” I clear my throat. “Yes. I was told to call this number if I wanted to meet with Luciel.” “What is your current location?” “What?” “What is your current location?” “I’m at Mick’s Diner opposite the Bellmore hospital, but—” “Understood.” The line goes dead. I glance at the screen to be sure. Yeah, the call’s disconnected. I tap the phone icon, preparing to call back, but the number has vanished from the call log. What the hell is going on? [[>>>->Part 18A]]

The phone rings in my hand. It’s an unknown number, but on impulse I answer it anyway instead of going back inside to find Violet. “Hello?” It’s the same voice. “Your car is arriving.” “My car?” I blurt out, even though just as I say it, a sleek black car pulls into the parking lot. “Wait—this black car?” A stupid question, given that the person I’m talking to can’t even see— “Yes, that car.” The voice is perfectly assured. The car stops in front of me, and rear passenger door pops open. “Your meeting will take place upon arrival.” “But I didn’t—I wasn’t planning to see him now—” “Have a pleasant journey.” The line goes dead again. Shit. Shit. I beat a hasty retreat to the diner, return a surprised Violet’s phone, hand a couple of twenties to the waitress on my way out, then bolt back across the parking lot towards the waiting car. (if:(history: where its name contains "Part 12B")'s length >= 1)[[[>>>->Part 19A]]] (if:(history: where its name contains "Part 12A")'s length >= 1)[[[>>>->Part 19B]]]

Over the car ride back to Luciel’s, I’ve had plenty of time to regret my hasty decision in contacting him again. But by the time he steps into the study where I’ve been waiting in front of his desk (a poker-faced Sylvia had shown me in), I’ve been forced to admit to myself that I don’t really have any other options if I want to help Violet. Short of winning the lottery or something. Still. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. “Damien.” Luciel’s tone is light. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.” “I…wasn’t expecting to be back here so soon.” I’m careful not to betray any agitation, but seriously. Having me hustled over the second I dial the number on his creepy calling card? Who does this guy think he is? “When I called the number you gave me, I was planning to set up a meeting tomorrow or something.” “Ah.” Luciel inclines his head in a way that seems apologetic. “My schedule can be rather demanding. It must have been determined that now would be the best time for us to talk further uninterrupted. I hope you weren’t in the middle of anything important?” Guilt twists my stomach at the memory of Violet’s confused expression. I’d just run out of there with barely any explanation, and right now I don’t even have the means to get in touch and check on her. But I’m doing this for her. For both of us. So our whole existence isn’t built around scraping by, unmoored by whatever next tragedy hits. Hopefully that’ll make up for me bolting. “It’s fine. I’ve come to a decision,” I say. “I want to find out more about the job. I’m willing to sign that NDA.” [[>>>->Part 20A]]

Over the car ride back to Luciel’s, I’ve had plenty of time to regret my hasty decision in contacting him again. But by the time he steps into the study where I’ve been waiting in front of his desk (a poker-faced Sylvia had shown me in), I’ve been forced to admit to myself that I don’t really have any other options if I want to help Violet. Short of winning the lottery or something. Still. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. Having me hustled over the second I call the number on his creepy calling card? Who does this guy think he is? “Damien.” Luciel’s tone is light. “I confess, I’m surprised to see you here.” “Yeah.” Wow, what a great response. I need to make this less awkward. “That is, I know I said I wasn’t interested in your offer, but you said to call the number if I changed my mind…I was just calling to see if I could set up a meeting, but then the car arrived right away.” “Ah.” Luciel inclines his head in a way that seems like it might be apologetic. Maybe. “My schedule can be rather demanding. It must have been determined that now would be the best time for us to speak further uninterrupted.” “Oh.” Luciel regards me. “But I didn’t think you’d want to speak again so soon. Has something happened?” The memory of Violet’s confused expression stabs at my conscience. I barely explained anything to her, just ran out of there, and now she can’t even get in touch with me. But I’m doing this for her. She’ll understand. She has to. Even though she’d probably be more horrified than I am if she knew what I might be getting myself into. “I’d like to find out more about the job after all,” I say. “And I’ll sign the NDA.” [[>>>->Part 20A]]

The contract lies on the desk dividing me from Luciel, facing me. It’s shorter than I imagined, and surprisingly to the point: an agreement that I will divulge nothing about what I subsequently learn to anyone under any circumstances. Obviously it’s set out every single possible way I might divulge something in complicated legalese—it’s still a contract, after all—but it’s easier to get my head around it than I was expecting. I almost feel okay about not having Violet here to look it over. Almost. And now that I’ve read it, all I need to do is sign. “Here.” Luciel hands me a pen. Like almost everything else I’ve handled in this place, it’s heavy in my hand, as though weight adds value to things. Or maybe it’s the other way round. The casing is a hypnotisingly deep burgundy, shot through with flecks of gold. I set it down next to the contract and peruse the document again. “It doesn’t say what’ll happen if I try to break the NDA,” I point out. [[>>>->Part 20B]]

Luciel smiles with his mouth closed. Strangely, though his looks haven’t diminished in the slightest, any lingering befuddlement I felt around him has totally dissipated. I’m no longer hyperaware of his every move, or flustered every time he ventures into my orbit. Is it because of my nerves over signing this contract? Or am I just more clear-headed after finally eating something? “It does here,” he says, running a finger along one of the paragraphs. “Any attempt to share…” He skips past a long list of synonyms. “…will result in proportionate obstruction…” “…and any attempts to persist in sharing…will result in further repercussions.” I finish off. “That’s kind of vague.” “It’ll become clear once you sign.” Luciel says serenely. This is a bad idea. I know this is a bad idea. But what other choice do I have? I uncap the pen and sign. [[>>>->Part 21A]]

For a moment, nothing happens. I hold the pen in my hand, staring down at the contract. My heart is racing, which feels a little ridiculous. I haven’t even taken the job. Then, the dark ink of my signature flashes gold on the page. I reel back a little, an involuntary gasp escaping my lips as the text in the document lights up in gold as well, as though some light beneath the paper is shining out through the words. How is that happening? Is it the ink? Some kind of weird technology to make legal agreements feel more exciting? I inspect the pen I’m still holding—and jerk in surprise at the sight of lines of gold text beginning to spread across my skin, twining around my fingers, then snaking up my palm and wrist. I reach to yank up the sleeve of my hoodie and the long-sleeved shirt I’m wearing beneath it, at which point I realize that the gold text is spreading up my other hand and arm as well. The pen clatters to the table as I stare at the spreading text, which goes from feeling slightly warm to hot…then hotter… “What the hell is happening?” I yell at Luciel, leaping out of my chair. The lines are up to my elbows now. I rub frantically at my skin, which has absolutely zero effect. “Stay calm,” Luciel says, his gaze briefly meeting mine before flicking back down to follow the progress of the lines. “It’ll be over in a moment.” [[>>>->Part 21B]]

Stay calm? Is he fucking kidding? Unable to push the sleeve of my hoodie any higher up my arm, I unzip it and pull it off entirely. The gold is so bright that the lines of text are visible beneath the thin fabric of my shirt, and they’re almost at my shoulders. As I watch in horrified fascination, some of the lines begin to flow towards my chest, while others continue up over my shoulders. The text begins to form an elaborate cage on my sternum, over my heart; meanwhile, I can feel the heat of the other lines encircling my neck. There are no mirrors in the room, so I pull out my dead phone and angle the dark screen just above my collar. Even with the cracks distorting my reflection, I can see myself well enough: I look like I’m wearing a writhing gold choker. More lines move up my chin, forming another cage across my mouth. I drag the back of my free hand across my lips, pawing fruitlessly at my face as the lines start to feel even more hot. “It’s all right,” Luciel’s voice breaks through my growing panic. “They’re not going to hurt you.” Just before the heat gets too unbearable, there’s a flash as all the lines of text shine an even brighter gold. Then the almost-burning sensation recedes along with the lines themselves, which fade away into my skin like drops of water being absorbed by a cloth. And just like that, they’re gone. I inspect my forearms, push down my collar to examine my shoulders. No marks, no swelling, not even any redness in the wake of what I just experienced. Like it never happened at all. “See? Over in a moment.” Luciel’s tone is bracing, almost cheerful. I stare at him. “Are you ready to learn more?” [[>>>->Part 22A]]

“What the hell was that?” I grip the back of my chair, more to steady myself rather than in preparation to sit down again. Luciel gestures to the contract, which is still lying atop his desk. “I did say the wording would become clear once you signed.” “Nothing about that was clear!” My voice rises. “What were those lines? What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything, Damien.” Luciel sounds borderline reproachful, which is downright infuriating. “That was all part of the contract. Ensuring your secrecy.” “What kind of contract can do that in—whatever way that was?” I’m starting to feel hysterical. Luciel lifts an eyebrow. The fact that he’s acting like what just happened isn’t totally insane is making me feel even more hysterical in comparison. “What you’re about to learn must be kept absolutely confidential. There can be no chance of you sharing it. In which case, a contract that permits you to break it before action can be taken against you would be foolish, wouldn’t it?” Something shivery and unpleasant creeps down my back as I think of how all the gold text seemed to sink into my skin. “You mean…” “You won’t be able to tell anyone about what this job entails.” Luciel picks up the pen I discarded and recaps it with a soft click. “Because that contract has ensured you’re physically incapable of doing so.” [[>>>->Part 23A]]

My grip on the chair tightens, knuckles whitening. “How could you possibly do that?” My voice comes out ragged, almost a whisper. “Why didn’t you warn me that you could?” Luciel turns his palms upward. “Would you have believed me if I had?” I don’t say anything. What can I say? I’m still trying to wrap my head around what even happened. Luciel studies my expression for a moment, his own flickering with things that are gone too quickly for me to catch. Was that remorse? Or exasperation? “All right. I understand that what happened must have come as a shock. Truly.” He holds up his hands in an apparent gesture of contrition. I feel like a horse he’s trying not to spook. “But think about it this way: you were already prepared to be legally bound not to disclose anything you learn tonight. Unless you were preparing to break that agreement, has anything truly changed?” I don’t really have the capacity to absorb that right now. Actually, wait, yeah I do, because my fury at such messed-up logic is overriding my distress. “I think agreeing to sign what I thought was a normal NDA is pretty fucking different to having my body get restrained by some kind of weird ritual!” Well, apparently restrained. I don’t know for certain. But it’s hard to stay completely sceptical in the wake of what I’ve seen. “And you haven’t answered my other question. How the hell did you do it? What kind of freaky shit is going on here?” I watch as more emotions chase across Luciel’s face before, unexpectedly, they’re all eclipsed by a smirk, twisting his Prince Charming features into something much more devilish. It’s such a startling development that I’m grateful for my stranglehold on the chair keeping me steady. Luciel seems to be relishing my reaction. “I have to say, Damien,” he says, “you certainly haven’t turned out to be boring.” [[>>>->Part 24]]

I glare at him. Maybe the smarter thing to do would be to run, but I’m damned if I’m letting this guy get off on playing mind games with me. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be antagonising someone who’s in a position to give me a job. It’s not like I have other options. Then again again…he’s not exactly swimming in alternate choices either, is he? In which case, why not stick to my guns? I maintain my air of hostility. “Is this your idea of resolving the situation?” “All right, all right,” Luciel says affably. “Let’s start over, shall we? I promise I’ll explain everything. Answer any questions you have. Will you have a seat? You’re already most of the way there.” His movements are looser now, more relaxed, as he gestures to the chair I’m still holding on to. I let go of the chair and sink into it, arms folded. Luciel frowns. “That hardly seems in the spirit of starting over.” His expression grows thoughtful. “Though I suppose you have just had a shock. Perhaps you should eat something?” “I’ve had dinner,” I say flatly. “I’d prefer answers.” Luciel’s eyes glint. “You know, the nature of that contract isn’t the only thing that’s going to be challenging your worldview this evening.” He leans back in his seat, lacing his fingers together. “We have rather a lot to get through. It would be expedient if you could adopt…an open mind.” He has a point. “Fine.” I uncross my arms, laying my elbows on the armrests of my chair. - - - [[“What was up with that contract?”->Part 24A]] [[“So what’s the job?”->Part 24B]]

“So what was up with that contract?” I ask. “How did it do that?” I want to believe there’s some kind of logical, technical explanation: projection mapping, trick lighting, a hallucination induced by ink fumes, anything. “It was a binding arcane ritual,” Luciel says cheerfully. So much for that. I lean forward in my seat and hiss. “Do you seriously expect me to just accept—” “Ah ah ah,” Luciel holds up a finger. “Remember: open mind. Or is it hard to keep one when your jaw’s so tense?” I unclench my teeth. “Okay. Say I believe that I just entered into…” I close my eyes, barely wanting to say it. “…a binding arcane ritual.” “Has anyone ever told you your eyelashes are exquisite?” I open my eyes, ignoring his comment. “How does it work? You said it’d physically restrain me from sharing anything secret?” Luciel tilts his head to the side. “Yes, perhaps seeing would be believing in this case.” He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a fresh sheet of paper and another pen. He moves the contract aside and places the paper on the desk, with the pen on top of it. “Try writing something down,” Luciel suggests. “Anything at all.” [[>>>->Part 24AA]]

I stare at him but decide against dragging this out any further. “Okay.” I pick up the new pen—it looks every bit as valuable as the other one—set the cap aside, and pause, the nib hovering over the paper, before I shrug and write a random word: Hello. Oh man, that feels nice. The pen is smooth and responsive, the dark ink gliding perfectly over the creamy paper. What’s it like to have such good quality things to write with whenever you want? And signing the contract aside, how long has it been since I wrote something by hand? I adjust my hold on the pen, wanting to keep going. “Now,” Luciel continues, “I want you to try writing something specific for me. Try, ‘Vampires are real.’” Weird, but whatever. I’m happy to write some more. I lower the nib to the page again eagerly, preparing to make the first slanting stroke of the V. My hand doesn’t move. I try again. Vampires… My hand refuses to cooperate. No matter what, I simply can’t write what I’ve been told to write, what I’m telling myself to write. I’m relieved to see I can at least drop the pen, lifting my hand, rolling it around on my wrist, flexing my fingers. I pick up the pen again, try a random sentence this time: I can write with this pen. Then I renew my efforts: Vampires are real. It’s like my hand’s been locked in place. I switch to my other hand. Scribble out random squiggly lines. But when I try to write Vampires are real, the same thing happens. Total immobility. I look up to see Luciel grinning at me. Revealing a set of pointed fangs. [[>>>->Part 25]]

Whatever that contract was, it can wait. The more important thing is that it was in service of this mysterious job. And now that I’ve signed the contract, I can finally find out what the job is. “Will you tell me more about the job now?” I ask. Luciel places a finger over his lips, as if in thought. “Yes, that is the plan,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But to be frank, explaining the job will require accepting a few other things first.” Behind his finger, his lips curve into a smirk. “Still keeping that mind open?” “Yes.” “Good, good. To be perfectly candid…” Luciel props an elbow on his desk, resting his chin in his hand. “…the role that you’ll be filling is a highly unconventional one.” I frown. “Being your attendant at some party is highly unconventional?” [[>>>->Part 24BB]]

“Every guest at the gathering will be bringing…attendants. Some more than one.” Something about the way he says that second part indicates vague disdain of such a notion. “As mine, however, you’ll be in a unique position compared to all the others.” As mine. “Why?” I fight the urge to fold my arms again. “Are you super special or something?” Luciel laughs lightly. “That depends entirely on your point of view. But compared to the other members of the society, I suppose my predilections are rather…unusual.” He looks me up and down, his face suddenly inscrutable. “Hence the fact that you’re here at all.” Maybe it’s time to stop dancing around the subject. “What even is this secret society? Who are the members?” Surely the contract’s given me the right to learn that. Luciel holds my gaze for a moment, then grins. “Vampires.” he says, and my knee-jerk expression of disbelief dies in my throat at the sight of his canines elongating into sharp, fanglike points. “They’re all vampires.” [[>>>->Part 25]]

I jump out of my seat so fast that I knock my chair over, almost tripping over it as I back away from Luciel. He makes no move to follow me; in fact he looks equal parts amused and exasperated. “Oh come on, Damien,” he protests. “Must we really go through this? If I were going to hurt you, don’t you think I’d have done it already?” I can barely register what he’s saying. Either he really is a vampire and the world is spinning ever further away from what I thought it was, or he’s a rich guy so delusional that he thinks he’s a vampire, which honestly isn’t much better. Whichever it is, I’m definitely not feeling great about signing a contract with him that apparently takes binding to a whole new level. “Maybe you were waiting to toy with me until after I signed away my ability to talk about it.” “Ooh. Touché,” Luciel looks rather impressed. “That actually demonstrates a very astute grasp of the vampiric mindset.” At least one of us is enjoying ourselves. Me, I’m hitting a wall. This has been such a long fucking day. I rake my hands through my hair, trying to gather my thoughts. Which isn’t easy given that my thoughts currently consist of things like magic agreements and vampires and whether or not my life is currently in danger. Fuck it. “Look,” I say finally, unable to keep the weariness out of my voice. “If you’re going to kill me, can you at least help my sister with her fiancée’s medical bills first? That’s the only reason I came back here at all.” [[>>>->Part 25A]]

A silence falls over the room before Luciel rolls his eyes. “It’s no fun if you start getting all maudlin,” he says. “But fine. Perhaps this isn’t the time to be making jokes. So I shan’t. So believe me when I say I have no intention of killing you. Quite the opposite, actually. There’s something I need that very much depends on you being alive, and if there’s something you need in return, so much the better. But as it stands, whether or not both of us can get what we need depends on your ability to accept a few things right now: vampires exist, I am one of them, and I am not going to harm you.” He leans forward, elbows on his desk, hands steepled, and raises his eyebrows. “Can you do that?” [[>>>->Part 26]]

I stay where I am, a few paces away from Luciel’s desk. Even in the face of his newly reasonable manner, part of me still can’t quite believe all this. “Are you…really a vampire?” There’s a brief pause as Luciel appears to take in my question… …and in the next moment he’s standing next to me. “Yes,” is all he says, as I narrowly manage not to jump out of my skin. A blink later, he’s back behind his desk, seated in the exact same position he was in before. As though he’d never moved at all. “Yes I am.” Shock is still rippling through my body from his sudden proximity. My mind immediately starts racing, reaching for explanations: a trick of the light, a trap door, a body double… I shove them all aside and look around for my overturned chair. Oh. It’s been picked up and placed back in front of the desk. Of course. I sit back down. “Okay,” I say. “I can accept those things. Tell me more.” [[>>>->Part 27]]

Luciel lolls back in his chair. “I believe I told you the job would require attending an event?” “Of the secret society, yeah.” “All of whom are vampires,” Luciel says briskly. “Who are gathering to celebrate the passing of the torch from the previous head of the vampire council to the new one.” “Vampires have councils?” “Maintaining a society of immortals takes a lot of work.” Luciel slouches against one of his armrests, so he’s angled towards the fireplace beyond us. “Preserving order, keeping our existence a secret…there are rules we need to abide by, conventions. So there’s a ruling body who handles all those things. Though none of the posts are permanent. It’s all on a rotational basis.” There are at least a dozen more questions I want to ask about vampire governance, but I try to not to get sidetracked. “So it’s a party with a bunch of vampires? What do you need me for?” [[>>>->Part 27A]]

Luciel heaves an irritated sigh. “The previous council head, the outgoing one, was a pretty reasonable sort,” he says, looking rather more moody as he addresses the fire. “Had a light touch as far as administration goes. But the incoming head of the council…” “Not so much?” I guess. Luciel’s gaze flicks to me, and he smiles mirthlessly. “Not so much,” he agrees. “He tends to be suspicious of vampires who don’t adhere to certain norms.” “Why?” The idea that there might be vampire bigots is oddly depressing. “You guys are immortal. That’s already not normal. What’s the point of trying to police the behaviour of actual vampires?” Luciel stares at the fire again. “Well, the official reason is to ensure none of us have the Illness.” [[>>>->Part 28A]]

The way he says it implies capitalisation. “What illness?” I don’t think I manage to achieve the same effect. “There are vampires who have been known to succumb to a certain affliction,” Luciel picks up one of the pens from his desk and begins toying with it. “In the absence of a more complete understanding, we just call it the Illness.” I watch the pen twirling weightlessly between his fingers. “What happens to vampires who have it?” “They go mad, essentially.” Luciel’s mouth twists. “Out of control. Start behaving in dangerous ways, killing recklessly. Can’t be reasoned with or calmed down. Which makes them a danger to both mortals and other vampires. As well as making it more difficult to keep our existence a secret.” An out of control vampire…I think of how swiftly Luciel moved around the room just moments ago. It’s more than a little terrifying to consider that power in the hands of someone on a murdering spree. “What causes it? The madness?” Luciel shrugs. “We don’t know. The only way to stop a vampire with the Illness is to kill them, and once you kill a vampire their bodies turn to dust.” He gives me another humourless smile. “Makes it rather difficult to do a post-mortem.” [[>>>->Part 28B]]

“So nobody has any idea what causes vampires to suddenly go crazy and start killing people?” I can’t keep the disbelief out of my voice. “How often does it happen?” The pen slows. “According to the records it never used to, much. Maybe once every few decades. But in the couple of decades, it’s happened…” Luciel’s brow furrows. “…three times.” “Weren’t there any signs?” “Vampires are quite solitary creatures by nature, at least when it comes to other vampires. We rarely get together outside of our little soirées.” Luciel contemplates the pen for a moment, then places it back on his desk. “Which somewhat limits our abilities to become whistleblowers.” “Hence more scrutiny at the gatherings you do have, maybe?” I venture. Luciel’s grin is somehow no less disarming for being so sardonic. “Yes, I suppose that does bring us rather neatly to your role in all this.” [[>>>->Part 29]]

“So my role is in service of…maintaining normal vampiric behaviour?” After everything I’ve heard I sound more than a little wary, and Luciel straightens up in his chair to face me properly. “Yes. Well. One norm in particular.” He’s still smiling in that sardonic way. “Specifically, the common—dare I say expected—vampiric practice of keeping thralls,” he says. “Are you familiar with the concept?” “Uh…” I can guess based on the word itself, but the truth is I’ve never been very interested in vampire lore. Monsters aren’t my thing. “…not really. Are thralls like servants?” “That’s the right idea, but it goes a little deeper than that.” Luciel scrubs a hand over his face, a few strands of blond hair falling into his eyes. He seems way more on edge now; this is probably the closest to dishevelled I’ve ever seen him. “Essentially, a thrall is a mortal who is bound, body and soul, to a vampire master.” Sylvia’s face flits through my mind. “Or mistress,” Luciel adds. “A vampire owner, shall we say. In any case, thralls have no will of their own. The vampire they’re bound to dictates their every move.” That part doesn’t sound like Sylvia. Maybe she’s a vampire as well. Although didn’t he just say that vampires don’t really hang out each other? I’m getting off topic. “Do you have any thralls?” There is a silence, which becomes a longer silence, and then somehow gets longer still, during which time several horrifying puzzle pieces click into place in my head. “I do not,” Luciel says. “Hence my current predicament.” [[>>>->Part 30]]

From the way Luciel is looking at me, it takes all my effort not to leap backwards out of my chair again. I settle for squeezing the armrests so hard that my hands start to shake. “You want me to become your thrall?” I croak. Luciel actually shudders. “No,” he says firmly. “Absolutely not. That is the last thing I want.” “Then…?” I’m too flummoxed to continue. As I watch, he hitches his devil-may-care grin back into place. “I want you to pretend to be my thrall.” At my answering blank stare, keeping the grin in place looks like it’s taking a certain amount of effort. “It’s not that hard to understand, is it?” “Why?” It’s all I can muster at the moment. When Luciel’s eye twitches at this, I continue hastily. “Why go to the trouble of pretending? Why not just turn someone into your thrall for real?” When no immediate answer seems to be forthcoming, I attempt a guess. “Can you not…do it?” Luciel’s eyes widen for a split second, before narrowing. “Of course I can. That is not the issue here.” “Then why—” “Because having a thrall for real,” Luciel’s fingers crook in extremely sarcastic air quotes around the words, “would be a nightmare. Do you know what having someone’s will be subsumed by your own entails? Their consciousness isn’t gone by any means. It’s just overpowered. By the psychic connection between you both. So you can hear their all their suppressed thoughts. In your head. At all times. Does that sound enjoyable to you?” [[>>>->Part 30A]]

“But you’re the one in charge, right?” I’m not even sure why I’m making a case for authentic thralldom, considering I definitely don’t want to be one. Except that a part of me is a little fascinated by this aggrieved side of Luciel. “Can’t you just, I don’t know…tune them out?” I can’t resist trying to get a reaction. “Are you not powerful enough?” Luciel looks more than a little rankled. “Not powerful—” he begins to repeat, before his eyes snap to me and realisation of what I’m doing appears to dawn. “Well, aren’t we growing playful,” he notes loftily. “And confident enough to suggest merely blocking out the musings of another sentient being that you’re telepathically yoked to. Do you honestly suppose it’s that easy?” “Okay, fine.” I lift my hands. “You said it’s the norm for vampires to keep thralls, right? What do other vampires do?” Luciel’s expression changes, and he opens his mouth— “They tune them out,” a new voice says from behind me. [[>>>->Part 31A]]

I whip around in my chair to see Sylvia standing in the doorway. I hadn’t heard the door open at all. Was she a burglar before she became a doctor? “That’s not strictly true,” Luciel grumbles from behind me. Sylvia inclines her head. “Yes, some vampires enjoy the feeling of multiple voices in their head. Especially if the voices are pleading for their freedom. It can give the vampire a feeling of power.” She thinks for a moment. “Or if the voices are especially subservient. Which happens with people who willingly become thralls.” “Is there a reason you’re here, Sylvia?” Luciel asks pointedly, which thankfully gives me the moment I desperately need to absorb her horrifying revelations. Sylvia’s gaze flickers from Luciel to me and back to Luciel. “I was passing by and sensed some agitation,” she said. “As well as an undercurrent of—” “All right,” Luciel’s voice is loud as he cuts her off. “Everything’s fine. You can go.” Sylvia nods and retreats, shutting the door behind her. I slowly turn back to Luciel. In the wake of Sylvia’s information, Luciel’s apparent disinclination towards keeping thralls seems much more sympathetic. Maybe I shouldn’t have messed with him. “So you don’t want a real thrall because you’d be able to hear their thoughts in your head?” [[>>>->Part 31B]]

“Is that difficult to comprehend? Perhaps it is for a mortal,” Luciel says with evident distaste. “All of you clattering around daily with five pieces of media playing at all times lest you ever have to hear a single thought of your own. I much prefer the quiet.” “And that’s unusual?” I probe. “For a vampire?” Luciel jerks his head to the side. “Yes.” He gets up from his seat and moves to stand by the window behind his desk, staring out at the view of the night. It makes for a striking tableau. “I don’t know what they’d decide to do about it, so during this changing of the guard I have no interest in inviting any unwanted scrutiny.” [[>>>->Part 32A]]

“What happens if the other vampires learn that…” To say I’m selecting my words carefully would be an understatement. “…you don’t have a real thrall?” Luciel continues to stare out the window. “They’re not going to.” “You seem very confident about that.” “I have reason to be.” Luciel begins ticking things off on his fingers. “It’s one evening. Vampires are notoriously self-absorbed. And…” He turns around. “…with you on my side, I believe we can fool them.” This seems like empty flattery. “Why me specifically?” [[>>>->Part 32B]]

Something like amusement flits through Luciel’s expression. “You seem…guarded,” he observes. “And not easily impressed, at least when it comes to certain things. I need someone who won’t get carried away by the situation, caught up in the spectacle of a vampire gathering. There are humans who would be thrilled to attend such a thing, you know,” he adds, shuddering. “Masquerading as thralls, even. But I don’t think I could rely on any of them to be covert.” Speaking of humans… “Do vampires, um, drink the blood of their thralls?” “Depends on the vampire. I certainly won’t be doing that to you,” Luciel says firmly, and I wonder if I should be offended. “It’s in the contract.” I shift in my seat. “Then, uh…how do you normally…? Like, at the party, won’t you be…?” Luciel smiles faintly. “Fear not, my methods of feeding are perfectly humane. There are many humans who offer themselves up willingly to be bitten by vampires, you know. And no,” he says dryly. “I don’t kill them.” [[>>>->Part 33A]]

I lean back in my seat, suddenly feeling tired. This is so much information, and yet it doesn’t seem like enough to gauge exactly how dangerous the situation will be. Luciel obviously has a vested interest in my agreement; he could easily be downplaying the risk involved. “I understand that I’m asking you to dive into something rather unknown to you.” Luciel’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “Perhaps it would help to see for yourself what you’d be getting out of this deal.” He reaches into a desk drawer and takes out another contract, placing it in front of me. It lays out the agreement between us, and…what I’d be getting out of this deal. It’s more money than I’ve ever seen in my life. Whatever Evan’s bills come up to, I could cover them several times over. I’d have enough for rent. For groceries. For a new mattress. “Is this before taxes?” I ask nonchalantly. This provokes an actual laugh before Luciel catches himself. “Oh, you’re serious. We’ll sort all that out,” he says with a wave of his hand. “You won’t receive the full amount right away, but—the medical bills, was it? You’ll have enough to cover those. You’ll also be receiving a stipend during your training.” “My training?” I scan the contract again. [[>>>->Part 33B]]

“We need to pass convincingly as master and thrall. And you need an education on vampire society, enough not to give yourself away at the party,” Luciel reaches over and points at a section of the contract. “That’s why—” “—you want me to move in here?” I say in disbelief, staring at the page. “The party’s a month away. It’s just until then. Having you commute here daily would simply be a waste of time. We have—” Luciel looks me up and down. “—quite a bit to do.” I lower the contract to the desk and scrub at my face with a hand, feeling tired all over again. Should I think this over? Should I ask for more time to consider? But it’s hard to let go of that number on the contract. It dances around in my brain, alternating with the memory of Violet’s exhausted appearance and my landlord’s email. Because, throughout all of this, one thing has remained true: I don’t have any other options. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll pretend to be your thrall.” (align:"===><==")[END OF PART 1] (align:"===><==")[Thanks for reading!]

(align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[HIS RELUCTANT THRALL] (align:"=><=")+(box:"X")[[Start->Part 1]]

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HIS RELUCTANT THRALL

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