Page 9 of Cry for Help

What does red mean?

I squinted, searching for my fellow inmates and their marks, finding various colors I didn’t understand. Yellow. Green and even pink. The sigils no longer looked like burns but vibrant tattoos.

I knelt down, hugging my knees as I found a space in the corner of the human pen—it hit me then.

I was out of prison.

I was in the Red City.

Someone hadboughtme.

Since my mom had died and I’d gone into care, I’d been a ward of the state. My whole adult life.

I’d found my foster family dead the week before I turned eighteen. I’d spent my birthday behind bars and then became property of the state once again.

That was me: property.

I was used to it.

I didn’t like it, but I could acclimatize. Property had rules. Keep quiet. Eyes down. I just needed to learn the rules for demons.

I was so hungry that I’d stopped feeling the sensation entirely—my rumbling stomach replaced by nausea. Shivering, even with the dank humidity of the basement cage, as my body succumbed to exhaustion.

I coasted, head pressed against the chicken-wire with my eyes closed, half awake and half in a dream.

It would have been lights off at the prison by now, and the roar of female inmates in the night was noticeably absent—aside from the criers. Sniffling to themselves as they rocked.

Voices. The cage opened. Everyone shifted positions. One by one, the girls were given to their buyers. I barely paid attention until I heard the word “...Flock...”

I opened one eye, noticing the two people in the doorway for the first time. The announcer, human with his expensive suit and nervous hand wringing, and the demon.

I’d never seen a demon up close, not really. Though the room was dim, I could make out his shape, though his features were in shadow.

He wastall. Taller than the doorframe and almost to the ceiling. Over six feet, probably closer to seven. His frame was willowy, his waist tapered, and his clothes well-fitting. A suit of some kind, but older than I’d ever seen on a living person—and I’d spent a lot of time in court rooms with attorneys.

His hair stuck out in several places, entirely at odds with his serene stillness. As the two men approached, I realized he had black feathers in his hair—a strange blue-black that shimmered like an oil slick.

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he studied me, stepping forward until the light revealed his entirely black eyes. No hint of white at all.

Though he had no iris, the demon studied me, tilting his head to the side, his expression bored.

“She is mute. Not deaf?” The demon asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The MC’s eyes darted over to me and back to the demon. “Mute.” He agreed.

“And what of her crimes? Her history?” The demon fixed his gaze on mine, and I gave up the pretense of sleep and met his eyes. “Her name?”

“Mandy Peck.” The announcer stated proudly. “I managed to find her. Last minute add-on.”

My name wasMadeleine Speck. He’d pulled someone else’s files.

I thought back to Mr. Jingle and the name mix-up.

Too late to fix it now.

“Armed robbery. Second-degree murder.” The MC continued. “Killed the clerk.”

I rolled my eyes.

---