Raised to Kill

And to make matters worse, it was a blind auction.

“Stand and hold your hands behind your backs,” the Song Mistress bellowed. “It is time for your blinding.”

Allara swallowed hard as her hands were fastened securely behind her and a piece of rough, black material was wrapped around her eyes, effectively blinding her. Now she would not be able to see what kind of man had bought her until her new husband chose to remove the blindfold.

During a regular Bride Auction, the brides retained their power of sight. This allowed them to plead with their eyes or exchange glances with a man they thought would be a good husband. Many an auction had been decided by a little silent eye flirtation, as Allara well knew.

But during a blind auction, the brides-to-be were unable to plead their cases—not even with their eyes. They were more helpless—more vulnerable—than they had been since their birth and just as unable to choose who they would be living the rest of their lives with.

“You all know what follows from here,” the Song Mistress shouted, her voice echoing in the holding chamber. “I’ll march you out to the stage and you’ll step up on the block one by one. Once your new husband buys you, he will bring you to the Song House where you will sing your song of submission. After that, he’ll sing his song of dominance and then you’ll be taken away by him, never to be seen again—at least not by anyone who cares.” She laughed coarsely. “Now, all of you grab hold of this rope and follow where I lead.”

Allara felt a length of thick, scratchy rope thrust into her palm and she grabbed it as well as she was able with her hands tied behind her back. She could hear the uncertain shuffling of feet and knew the other girls were also holding onto a bit of the long rope. Then the Song Mistress shouted, “Come!” and gave the rope a yank.

Stumbling forward with the other girls, Allara felt as though her heart was made of lead. Why, oh, why hadn’t she swallowed the poison pill while she had a chance? At the time she hadn’t thought she deserved a quick death—and to be honest, she still didn’t think so. But the idea of living the rest of her life with a man who wasn’t Brand was almost intolerable.

I don’t care if he beats me every day like Aunt said, she thought miserably. It can’t make me any more unhappy than I already am.

She had given her heart to the big Kindred and the idea of being another man’s wife was somehow worse than the idea of any beating, no matter how bloody and brutal it might be.

Forty-One

Brand shouldered his way through the crowd of merchants and tradesmen waiting for the auction to begin. Half of the males he saw were Q’ess and the others were aliens—some humanoid and some not. Most of them took one look at him and made way quickly, which made him grateful for the costume Kat had synthesized for him.

He was dressed as a Havoc arms dealer in a tight, black leather suit that encased his body completely, showing off his large, muscular frame to best advantage. The outfit also came with a Valeran Flame Sword which was strapped over one shoulder and spiked black boots, which made him six inches taller than he already was.

But the finishing touch—the one item that really sold the aura of menace and danger he was trying to project—was the black helmet with the mirrored front panel which hid his face and distorted his voice to a low, inhuman growl.

The entire look screamed—Don’t Fuck With Me! Brand was hoping he looked menacing enough that the Q’ess authorities—if there were any around—would try to avoid him rather than taking an interest in a merchant who looked suspiciously like a Kindred.

Of course, he wouldn’t be able to reveal his true face and identity to Allara until he got her safely back to his ship. He hoped she wouldn’t be too frightened of him in this outlandish gear.

He came to a stop near the front of the stage beside a Uvian with green, scaled skin and an elongated snout and a Tasi’teer who looked humanoid enough, but was exuding the strong minty scent of anticipation from his large, very visible pores.

“I hear this is the best place on the planet to pick up a Q’ess girl, cheap,” the Tasi’teer muttered, speaking to the Uvian. “Is that right?”

“It’s the only place on the planet,” the other alien grunted back. “They don’t sell their women-folk to outsiders unless they done something wrong. And this is the only place they sells ‘em.”

“Done something wrong? What do you mean?” the Tasi’teer demanded, his large-pored skin exuding a whiff of suspicion that smelled like rotten meat.