Page 77 of Her Tortured Beasts

Just over one hundred of the country’s elite sit on the plush chairs to observe, and the richest, nastiest of them saunter down to the front, where the first five rows of seats are set up with electronic auction buttons. A more recent invention, to create a curated bidding experience. If they’re going to spend millions tonight, they might as well do it in style.

As the attendants get ready to close the doors, I stride through them into the auditorium.

Food and drink flow, and white-coated waiters run back and forth with bottles of the most expensive Scottish whiskey, Cuban cigars, and Colombian cocaine.

I head past all of these bottom dwellers right to the front where the real money is: ancient houses, century-old trust funds, vaults full of gold bars. Damien Agnis sits in his white suit right at the front, his finger tapping against his wine glass like he’s rearing to bid. To his right lounges The Collector, in a sparkling magenta gown, cigar in hand like she hasn’t a care inthe world, when everyone knows she’s just as keen as Damien to win this auction.

Behind them sits Mace Naga and my father, conversing over their crystal tumblers. On the other side of the aisle in the first row sit some interstate tigers, arrogance and poise dripping off every ruby and diamond-encrusted finger. Behind them sits Francesca and her parents, no doubt judging every part of the evening. In the fourth row from the stage sit a line of staff from various houses, overseen by Drakos administrative staff. These represent the anonymous bidders of the evening. Beasts and humans, who want their faces and business kept private from the rest. I can only guess who they are, but I don’t care so much. All I know is that they had to pay a healthy deposit just to have their staff sit here.

Just in front of them sits Uncle Fabian. I take a seat next to him and he smirks at me before looking back at the stage. He’s clearly excited, like the rest of them, their hearts all pounding in that annoying, pitter-patter rhythm excited people have. It grates at my ear drums before my attention is dragged to the stage where the auctioneer we imported from the UK strolls onto the stage to a round of applause.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Flores Drakos and his Estate presents to you a premier event, the likes of which you’ve never seen.” He bounces on shiny heels. “For tonight, we have something extra special.”

There’s another round of applause and someone hoots at the back. If I could have rolled my eyes, I would have.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he says with dramatic gusto. “The combined powers of Drakos Estate and Naga House present to you the last known Boneweaver in existence.”

They roll her out then. This time, without the electronics, because Mace justhadto get four of his generals pulling the ancient thing with ropes like a roman carriage.

Uncle Fabian chuckles softly in his chair before leaning forward to look. I too observe the stage as numerous gasps resound through the audience. For some of them, this is their first live look at her.

Aurelia stands naked before us all, the points of the cage making indentations all over her flesh and curves. Her raven hair is darker than obsidian, trailing to the small of her back, small strands framing her face. Ghoul’s ball gag is clenched between two rows of white teeth, her face the picture of such violent aggression that it makes the hairs on my neck stand on end.

She glares out at us. Challenges us. Those blue irises like the brightest sapphires from the deepest parts of the Earth. I don’t realise I’m leaning forward in my seat until the auctioneer’s voice brings me back to reality.

“Female Boneweaver anima, twenty years old. Unbred. Pristine condition. Estimated ovulation less than a week away!” The auctioneer turns to look at her, shaking his head and smiling like he can’t believe it.

“So much spirit left in those mythical blue eyes! So muchfire. We are living in privileged times indeed!”

He assumes a formal position at his lectern and bows to the bidders on the left and right. “Bidding will commence at eight million USD. Who would like to begin? My! Lady Crocodylus, you are looking fine tonight indeed.”

The Collector tilts her head back and laughs before shrugging. “Ladies first,” she says flirtatiously before pressing one of her buttons. “Eight point five.”

“Do I have a nine in the room?”

Damien Agnis excitedly enters the bidding, exuberantly pressing on his console. According to our intel, he’s had his sperm frozen for some years, meaning Lyle’s old castration trick didn’t work as well as we thought.

“Ten and a half, ladies and gentlemen, ten and a half million dollars.”

“Twelve, dammit!” Lady Crocodylus shouts, poking her button with gusto.

Four of the anonymous bidders and the Collector go at it for a bit, eventually bringing us up to eighteen.

At that point, Damien bows out with a shake of his head and a fist smashing into his table. The bidding goes up by two hundred-thousands before The Collector starts grimacing.

It’s at that point that Uncle Fabian presses one of his buttons. A giant red twenty flashes in the screen above us and people clap. The Collector whips her head around and gapes at him before crossing her arms and chewing on her lip in thought.

Something in me shifts then. Something made of magma and smoke. Blue flame and steam.

I hadn’t intended to interfere with this whole farce. But this is different. This is personal. No fucking dragon will outbid me for my property.

Whipping my phone out, I text the Drakos administrators.

A second later, another bid flashes on the screen.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer exclaims excitedly, “we have an anonymous bidder entering the game at twenty-one million!”

Mutters break out and everyone looks about as if they can figure out who it is. We’re not taking phone bids tonight. While they may have a representative at the bidding chairs, all parties must be physically present. It was part of the exclusivity of the whole affair.

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