Page 3 of Anorthic Anarchy

A bead of water drops rapidly, clinking off a pipe. In the distance, a whistling wind rustles between stones. Mildew coats my nostrils until it’s difficult to inhale deeply. It’s okay, though; it’ll be good training for my goals.

The Actun Tunichil Muknal cave probably smells just like this. And once I get to Belize, that’s exactly where I’ll journey first. To see the Crystal Maiden. I navigate the path there every night before I sleep. It pushes the white hallway out of my thoughts.

My ears perk at a sound. If I listen closely, I hear high-pitched crying. No. More like…moaning broken up by screams. I can’t tell if it’s someone experiencing pleasure or pain.

“Hello?” I call out. “Hello!”

Nothing answers besides my voice echoing back to me.

As if giving a last-ditch effort to sustain my body, my pulse pounds faster. The last time I drank anything was yesterday, I think. Why would they bring me here to die? Wouldn’t they want to keep me alive after all the trouble from the trip?

Letting a shallow inhale expand my chest, I settle back on the wall and imagine rappelling down into the black hole while trying to remember every bit of information about the Mayan ruins from my National Geographic collection. Then, I sleep.

In the distance, a clicking sound bounces off the walls and wakes me from my nap. The volume increases until it feels asthough the sound surrounds me from all sides. Tap, tap, tap…rhythmic.

Footsteps.

A groaning door swings open, the creaks jolting me up to as much of a sitting position as I can reach in my modest-sized wooden apartment. Through the air, a heavy sigh makes my ears tingle, and the curtain of mildew parts with the fragrance of roses.

“They didn’t even leave a crowbar. Just a second.” The woman’s voice sounds irritated. Her clacking heels fade, then return along with a smaller shuffle. Another person.

With a great wrenching screech, the top of my crate rips off. I’m disappointed that there’s not some enormous light, as I’d imagine when being abducted by aliens. In fact, it’s still dark in this…stone cell. Oh, it’s a literal cell, I discover as I kneel on my weakened legs. Metal bars form the front of my room, which is only lit by one small candle on the wall.

“Stand up, Astrid Lynx, daughter of Barrington.” It comes out of her like a regal announcement, and part of me worries she knows my middle name. Even Ferona and Tom didn’t. At least, not that I know of.

Pushing on the edge of the wood, I help myself up as my muscles quiver violently. I hadn’t vomited at all during the trip, but everything else came out. The feces and urine had stained my underwear and shorts until I took them off and shredded them for wipes. Now, I’m left in a scrap of fabric.

Relief washes over me. There’s a toilet in the corner. And a sink. Thick iron chains pin a small cot to the far wall.

Well, I have certainly moved up in the world.

The Amazonian woman standing before me looks shockingly out of place in a dirty dungeon. She must be six feet tall, but her French twist of blonde hair makes her height even higher. Her long limbs dangle delicately all the way down to her paintedfingertips. Every bit of makeup appears perfectly applied, not that she would need any. She looks like a 90s supermodel. Maybe she was one. She could be in her thirties. Forties? I’m not sure.

A long red velvet gown covers her slim figure. The Mandarin collar of it dips so low, her cleavage is an accessory of its own. Some fragile looking woman about my age cowers behind her in a see-through white shift dress. Both wear collars, but the tall lady’s is jeweled, while the other’s is metal.

“I’m Dilan, your master’s head mistress. Chloe, help her out of the crate.”

A small woman with flowy pink hair shuffles over and pries the side down as Dilan holds an elegant arm toward me. I place my hand in hers, and she nods at the edge of the box as if warning me not to trip.

“Thank you, Chloe. Return to your duties and take the crowbar with you.” Dilan’s narrow hip pops out, and she puts one palm on the other as she speaks. Like she’s about to showcase some letters in a game show. I’m tall, but she towers above me not just in height, but also in presence. She’s almost as terrifying as my prison. “Please, have a seat.”

She waves her hand like I’ve seen those women on TV do and I wobble to the cot and fall onto it. The blanket coating it is also scratchy. But hopefully it doesn’t have splinters like my box.

“Welcome to House Strauss. Here are the rules. You won’t speak unless requested to. If you address the master, it will be with ‘sir’ or ‘master’ only. If he chooses to meet with you, never look him in the eye unless he commands it. You’ll go through the same training as all the slaves here. He won’t make an exception for hiswife.”

She swallows as she says the word, like it’s a bitter tasting pill. I feel the same.

I imagine he’s quite old. Fat. With a large white beard and pouched gut. I don’t know about sex stuff, but I suppose I can close my eyes and hope it doesn’t hurt too bad. Just the thought of it makes my stomach twist with nausea.

Wyatt will come for me.

With a few clicks of her heels, she showcases my generous studio. “In this cabinet are your essentials. You’ll get a warm bath and three meals daily. And you’ll be escorted to the garden once a day. This is only if you choose to obey, however.Lifeis a privilege here.”

Hearing that, I decide I’ll cooperate for prison food and yard time. My stomach growls in agreement.

With a long finger, she points at the mattress next to me. “That is your current uniform. You’ll change out of these, um, clothes you brought with you.”

Glancing to my side, I spot a red shift dress like the one the other girl wore. It seems cold. And I would also be very exposed.

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