The Dancer and the Masks by Bea Paige
Chapter 16
CHRISTY
I’ve often wondered whether pain is relative. Do we all feel it the same way? Or are others just able to endure more? You see, I feel the sharp sting as Konrad whips my arse. I feel the intense heat that follows. Yet, I’m removed from it. Detached.
It’s as though it’s happening to someone else.
Thwack!
Thwack!
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
My heart thunders, my pulse races, my skin crawls and my legs turn to jelly, but I don’t scream or cry or move. I float somewhere away from my body, feeling everything and nothing all at once, a strange kind of euphoria settling over me. The haunting tune might have stopped playing but the rush of listening to such extraordinary music remains. I find myself wanting to meet the pianist, One.
“Climb up onto the table, Nothing,” Jakub eventually says, cutting through the tether that held me adrift and yanking me back to reality. His voice is oddly calm, as though he’s controlling something inside. I can relate to that feeling. “Nothing…” he prompts.
I obey him, not because I’ve lost the will to fight, because that burns as brightly as I’m sure my arse does now, but because I’m still in that place where peace lives. Where nothing and no one can touch me. Pushing up onto my hands, I climb onto the table, painfully aware that my arse is still on display. The table is so large that I don’t disturb the place settings as I crawl across the centre, but it’s slow-going. I might not feel the pain, but my body is reacting to it nevertheless.
The Masks watch my every move, and when my dress falls past my arse, covering me up once more, I half expect them to tell me to lift it back up. They don’t.
“Stop there,” Leon commands, the flickering flames of the candles dotted about the hall are reflected in his eyes as I lock gazes with him.
Twisting my body, I sit with my legs crossed. My arse stings, but I switch off the pain, compartmentalising it until I can deal with it later. “Am I dinner?” I ask, an almost hysterical laugh bursting free from my lips.
Leon tips his head to the side, ignoring my question and asking another. “Didn’t that hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you scream, cry, make any kind of noise?”
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. I really don’t know how I do it, much like I don’t know why I have visions. It’s a mystery.
He nods, seemingly satisfied with my response. Konrad takes a seat next to Leon and I hear the sound of a chair sliding across the stone floor as Jakub sits down at the head of the table, but I don’t turn my head to look at him. Instead I concentrate on a flickering candle on the other side of the hall, its light glowing brighter as it floats towards us.
A beautiful, raven-haired woman wearing a black lace dress with no bra or panties glides across the room, appearing out of the shadows like a ghost. Her expression is impassive, neutral, but her dark eyes are sharp and intelligent. She stops behind Jakub, her hand resting on the back of his chair. I have to twist my head to the side to look at them both. They make a beautiful couple.
“This is One,” Jakub says, introducing me to the woman who played such beautiful music only moments before. I still feel its effects lingering on my skin like a lover’s caress. “She is the matriarch of The Menagerie. She has lived here the longest and has earned her place by my side at this table. One, meet Nothing.”
One tilts her head in greeting, acknowledging me. “What can she do?” she asks, her voice heavily accented, sexy, the vowels roll off her tongue in an expressive kiss.
“She’s a ballerina. Other than that, not much else.”
My nostrils flare at his dismissal, but I bite my tongue.
“A ballerina,” she murmurs, eying me. “For the show?”
Jakub nods his head. “I’m considering it.”
“Considering it? What is she here for if not for that?” One asks.
“She’s here for us. She’s ours,” Jakub retorts pointedly. There’s a possessiveness to his tone that doesn’t go unnoticed. One’s dark eyes narrow, and despite my appreciation for her music, I’m immediately wary of her.
“She is certainly very… pretty,” she says, her observation not meant as a compliment given the look of disgust on her stunning face. I can only imagine what she’d think if she saw the real me, if my prettiness is as unattractive as her reaction implies. The respect and awe I have for her musical ability is quickly replaced with dislike. Anyone who puts more worth in a person’s appearance isn’t someone I’ll ever get along with.
“Sit, One,” Jakub barks impatiently, keeping his gaze fixed on mine. “I’d like to introduce the others and get this evening underway. I’m suddenly very hungry.”
“Whatever you wish, Master,” she preens, her fingers sliding along the high back of Jakub’s chair and brushing down his arm in a move that is more dominant than obedient. He flinches, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t tell her to stop or punish her for the intimacy. Perhaps he fucks her? The way she looks at him certainly suggests as much.
“Send the rest of the Numbers in,” Konrad says, his deep voice echoing around the grand hall, making me jump.
Two arched wooden doors swing open, spilling light into the space from the hallway beyond. A couple wearing barely any clothing walks in. They both appear to be around my age, and both smile warmly, as though me sitting in the centre of this banqueting table is entirely normal.
“I’m Three, and this is Seven,” the woman says, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear, the ends kissing her chin. Her dress is knee length and a deep scarlet. Like her male counterpart, she is naked beneath it, although he’s wearing sheer trousers and nothing else. Heat blooms in my chest and I pray with everything that I am that no one notices.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Seven says, dipping his head, a flop of curly blonde hair dropping in his eyes.
“Three is a dancer, like you, though she specialises in Flamenco and latin dances. Seven is a Tenor,” Konrad explains. “They often perform together.”
“Fuck together too,” Leon adds.
I don’t respond, I simply watch the beautiful couple take their place at the table, aware of their eyes on me.
“You’ve already met Four and Eight,” Konrad says as the two familiar women step into the hall. Four has her long blonde hair piled up on her head, and her arm looped through Eight’s. They’re both wearing blue, though the floor length dress Four wears is the shade of the ocean, whilst Eight’s is the colour of an inky sky just before night takes hold.
“Hello again,” they sing-song, their bare breasts jiggling with every step as they take a seat.
“Four is a violinist and Eight an artist, the kind that uses brushes and paint. Both are exceptionally gifted like all the performers in The Menagerie,” One explains.
“How does a portrait artist perform in a show?” I ask, unable to help myself.
“You think that I’m incapable of entertaining people, or keeping their interest?” Eight asks, her voice tight as she helps herself to a glass of wine poured by Renard. I hadn’t even noticed that he was in the room.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, the answer to your question is simple. I paint as Four performs. Whatever the client wants, whatever image they require, I paint it.”
“She’s very good at it,” Four adds, smiling at Eight adoringly. “Sometimes she uses the Numbers as a canvas too. It’s thrilling.”
Any further questions I might have are prevented from being asked when two blades thud into the table top either side of my hips. A scream rips out of my mouth and everyone laughs, with the exception of The Masks and the woman who strides into the room wearing absolutely nothing but two leather straps criss-crossing her chest, and heeled biker boots. She’s small, lean, muscular, with tiny breasts, a boyish figure, and skin the colour of warm molasses.
Konrad leans across the table and pulls the knives from the wood, grinning widely. “This is Five, our little knife thrower. Don’t piss her off.” He spins the knives in his hand and offers them to Five over his shoulder. She takes them from him, her strange golden eyes pinned on me, a long black braid hanging over her shoulder. I wonder where she’s from. I’ve never laid on anyone as exotic or beautiful. She’s stunning.
“Thank you, Master,” she retorts, her voice quiet, respectful, and I can’t help but wonder why she doesn’t slide that knife across his throat and set us all free. Taking a seat at the table she dips her head reverently at both Leon and Jakub before tucking the knives into her leather belt next to a third that’s nestled there. I could look at her forever, fascinated by her exotic beauty, except I’m forced to stop when an equally beautiful woman steps into the room. She’s stunning, but the total opposite to Five in every way.
“And this is Six,” Leon explains, his gaze lingering on the curvaceous woman who steps into the hall. She has a wild mane of curly dark auburn hair that falls over her voluptuous breasts, accentuating her curves. She’s wearing a cream slip and looks like a woman from one of those Botticelli paintings, unapologetically female with rounded hips, stomach and thighs, and more than enough sexiness to send even the most restrained man wild. She’s walking sex. She oozes it, and yet she’s the first person I’ve met this evening that doesn’t appear wholly comfortable being here.
When she reaches the table, she holds her hand out to me, offering a gentle smile. I take her hand, noticing how our skin is the same pale shade then remember it was her that Nala borrowed the foundation from.
“Pleased to meet you,” she says, gently squeezing my hand before letting go. Passing by Leon, she takes a seat to the right of Five. He watches her settle at the table.
“Six is a Contralto. Her voice is pure sex,” Leon explains. “She fucks like she sings too.”
Six remains impassive, her hand reaching for the glass of wine Renard has set before her. She doesn’t acknowledge Leon, the other Masks or any of the Numbers, and I immediately feel a kinship with her. I’d bet my life she’s not brainwashed like the others.
“And this is Nine, Ten and Eleven,” Jakub interjects, a dark scowl forming on his face when One leans over and whispers something in his ear. He grits his jaw, anger burning across his face at whatever she’s said to him.
Noticing, Konrad continues with the introduction. “Nine is a contortionist. Ten a mime artist, and Eleven a fire eater. They arrived at the castle at the same time three years ago. Triplets, if you hadn’t already guessed.”
“You make it sound like they weren’t kidnapped like all the rest,” I mumble under my breath, my gaze flicking between the three women. They’re all tall, willowy, with wavy brown hair and wide green eyes. Their only defining difference is the beauty mark that adorns a different spot on each of their faces. Otherwise, it’s almost impossible to tell them apart. All three wear matching gold gowns, their pear-shaped breasts and neatly trimmed pubic hair identical.
“Hello,” they giggle, even more saccharin than Four. Despite their apparent lightheartedness, there’s an absence in their gaze. It’s disconcerting. They take a seat next to each other, still giggling, though their amusement is short-lived when another woman enters the room. She commands the space, her sheer silver dress floating about her legs as she strides across the room in strappy heels, a diamond choker at her throat. She’s the only one I’ve seen wear any jewellery.
“Złodziej,” Jakub snaps. “Thief!”
Konrad’s gaze flicks to the women entering, his eyes narrowing. Jakub grits his jaw, but when One rests her palm on his arm he bites back whatever he’s about to say next. Instead, he stares at One’s hand, snarling. One pulls back as though burnt.
“I am Twelve. You must be Zero,” she asks, cocking a perfectly arched brow, her accent similar to One’s, her demeanor much the same. I instantly dislike her.
“No, I’m—” Christy.
“Zero,” Konrad interjects, preventing me from making a mistake. I’m not sure why he stops me saying my name, given he seemed to thoroughly enjoy punishing me earlier, but he does. Instead he turns his attention to Twelve, his eyes narrowing. “What are you wearing?”
“This old thing,” she says, her hands falling to the dress as she lifts it, dropping her gaze coyly. She knows full well he wasn’t talking about the dress but the very expensive looking item of jewellery around her neck.
Leon snorts and Jakub scowls, but it’s Konrad who takes action. He stands abruptly, grabs her by the hair and forces her face down against the table. I flinch, feeling her warm breath against my hip. I move to shuffle away, but Konrad snarls.
“Stay the fuck where you are,” he insists, looking at me but not letting go of Twelve.
She shifts against the table, her hip pressing back against his cock, a smile spreading across her face as she side-eyes me. “He’s mine,” she bites out.
My mouth falls open in shock at her show of possessiveness over a man who is treating her with such brutality. Why in the world would she think I want this, any of this? I’m a victim, not a threat.
Konrad growls, his fingers yanking at the choker at her neck. He pulls it free, shoving it into Jakub’s hand, then presses the length of his body against hers, his mouth against her ear. “How many times do I need to tell you, Twelve, you are no more mine, than I am yours. You belong to The Menagerie, to any one of our clients who pays handsomely to fuck that desperate cunt. This is the last time I shall tell you this. Next time you need reminding of your place, it won’t be a week in my dungeons that you’ll endure,” he warns, lifting his gaze to meet Jakub, who nods his head, “But a night in the forest with Jakub.”
Twelve sucks in a shocked breath, her passion and fire put out by the threat. Why is a night in the forest with Jakub scarier than a week in the dungeons with Konrad?
“No, I didn’t mean it...” Her voice trails off as Konrad’s hold tightens. A look passes between him and Jakub.
“You didn’t mean to steal what belongs to me?” Jakub asks, taking Konrad’s place behind her. His fingers grasp the back of her head, as he pulls her upright against him. The room quietens, the change in atmosphere darkening. Jakub holds his hand out to Konrad, who places his flick knife in his palm before pressing the edge against her throat. She whimpers, her dark eyes somehow fixed on me. For a moment, I watch in sick fascination, unable to move, afraid to gain his attention and feel his wrath.
“Tell our new acquisition what rule you’ve broken, Twelve?” he asks her, his voice controlled, sinister in a way that makes my skin grow cold.
“I shall not covet what isn’t mine and never will be.”
“That’s right,” Jakub says. “What else?”
“To never steal from my Masters.”
“Then tell me now why I shouldn’t cut your throat and let you bleed out for breaking those rules…” Jakub asks, pressing his lips against her cheek, whilst the tip of the blade nicks the olive skin of her throat.
“One of the staff forgot to close the cabinet after cleaning. I saw it and—”
“Thought you’d take it?” he sneers, pressing the knife in further.
Her eyes widen in fear, her nostrils flaring as she realises her mistake. My wariness of her is replaced with pity. “Don’t!” I say, unable to help myself. Out of the corner of my eye I see Six snap her attention to me. She swallows hard.
Jakub narrows his eyes at me, but pulls back the blade at Twelve’s throat. “Are you daring to tell me what to do?” he asks, his attention focused on me now.
“She’s scared,” I say.
“She has every reason to be,” Konrad adds, though I refuse to take my eyes off Jakub.
“I just miss you—” Twelve mumbles, a silvery tear leaking from her eyes and sliding down her nose. If this isn’t Stockholm syndrome, I don’t know what is.
“Here’s the thing, Twelve, I don’t miss you, or want you for that matter,” Konrad snarls. “Get out of my fucking sight!”
The relief I feel is palpable. If she isn’t here, then she’s safe. At least for now. Of course it was foolish to believe The Masks would let this go so easily. What happens next makes my stomach fold in on itself.
“No,” Jakub snaps, causing Twelve to wobble on her feet and look between the two men. “This is a punishable offence. Renard!” he commands, folding away the knife and handing it back to Konrad.
“Yes, Sir?” Renard responds, appearing out of nowhere like an apparition.
“Wheel in the Stocks and bring me the Cat-o'-nine-tails.”
Stocks? Cat-o'-nine-tails? Jesus Christ.
“Surely, you’re not going to…?” My question trails off as I see the look of sheer malevolence in Jakub’s eyes. Konrad and Leon are no different.
When Renard hesitates and the other Numbers mumble under their breaths, Jakub roars. “NOW!”
Renard nods, rushing off to fetch the items requested as Jakub focuses back on Twelve, whose eyes are wide with a mixture of fear and triumph. “Do not look at me! You stole from me, and you’re going to pay for it right here and now!”
“Yes, Master,” Twelve mumbles, her body trembling.
For a moment I think it’s fear, but then I notice the flush of her cheeks, the way she licks her lips and stares at Konrad with undeniable lust in her eyes, and understanding hits me that it’s desire causing her to shake. This is exactly what she wants. I swallow hard, not understanding how anyone could want pain. I’ve suffered so much of it in my past, still do. Pain is the last thing I will ever seek out from another person.
“Jakub, you know how much I love dishing out punishment, but I’m not in the business of giving Twelve what she wants.”
“I’m well aware what Twelve does and doesn’t want, Brother,” Jakub snaps. “But I see this as an opportunity to demonstrate the rules all the Numbers must live by to our newest acquisition—”
“Acquisition?! I’m not an object, I’m a person!” I snap, unable to control my outburst.
“You are an object, and will remain an object until we decide you’re worthy of becoming more than that,” Leon interjects cruelly.
“Indeed,” Jakub agrees. “So far allowances have been made for your minor misdemeanors.” He looks pointedly at me as though I should be grateful for being tied up to The Weeping Tree, whipped just now and scared out of my mind from the moment I arrived here. “It’s about time Nothing understands her place, and I think this is the perfect opportunity to do that.”
“I agree,” Leon adds darkly, cutting me a look that has a shiver running down my spine. I don’t even want to know what thoughts are going through his head right now.
The sound of metal wheels passing over the wooden floor of the grand hall heralds Renard’s return and snatches Leon’s attention away, allowing me to let out a shaky breath. I watch in sick fascination as the old butler arranges the stocks which, contrary to my imagination, are not made from wood like I’ve seen in history books, but from metal.
Without even having to be asked, Twelve removes her dress, then positions herself in the archaic contraption, placing her head and wrists in the corresponding grooves. Renard locks her in place, the iron bar securing her. I swallow hard at the way she widens her stance, displaying her beautiful body for everyone to see. She looks at me with a slow smile, and triumph in her eyes when all I feel is pity and growing horror.
Konrad holds out his hand for the whip, but Jakub shakes his head. “No. Leon will be dishing out the punishment.”
I hear Twelve’s sharp intake of breath and see how she strains against the stocks holding her in place. “But, I thought—”
“You thought that your beloved Konrad would be the one to whip you raw, huh? Well, Twelve, you stole from me. That means I choose who whips you. Leon…?” Jakub says, turning to his brother who takes the Cat-o'-nine-tails with a smile so sinister that my blood runs cold.
Leon holds the implement reverently, his fingers running through the lengths of leather and the tiny silver balls attached to the end of them. “With fucking pleasure, Brother,” he drawls.
“Don’t do this,” I exclaim. “Don’t hurt her!” My mouth is dry, my voice weakened by the unfolding events, but I can’t just sit here and say nothing, do nothing.
Leon turns his attention to me. “One more word from you and you’ll be next. Understand?”
I nod, blinking back the tears as I look between the three men and Twelve whose whole demeanour has changed. She’s afraid now. Very afraid.
Leon stalks towards her, his tall frame lithe, lethal. The whole room has quietened, the atmosphere has shifted into something dark and sinister. I shift on my arse, sucking in a sharp breath from the pain, reminded of it in this moment of sheer terror that Twelve feeds us all.
Konrad snaps his head around to look at me, a question in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks gently, and I have to blink back my shock.
Am I okay?
Is he insane? Of course I’m not okay. My arse is red raw and I’m about to witness a woman get flogged by a man who’s clearly filled with bloodlust. My mouth opens to respond but slams shut as Twelve screams, the Cat-o'-nine-tails spreading red-hot fire over her skin.
Leon tips his head back and lets out a sigh. “One,” he says, eyes burning hot as he focuses not on Twelve, but on me.
“Five lashes. Five lashes to remind you of the rules, Twelve, and to ensure Nothing here is aware of the consequences of breaking them,” Jakub says, as Leon fondles the lengths of leather waiting for further instruction. One leans over and whispers in Jakub’s ear. He nods, then says, “After every lash, I want you to repeat the rules, Twelve.”
“Yes, M—master,” she stutters, trying to control the wobble in her voice.
“Given Leon has already started, you should repeat the first rule…” Konrad prompts, folding his arms across his chest, the muscle in his jaw feathering as he grits his teeth.
“The first rule is to always obey The Masks,” Twelve says, her whole body stiffening as she waits for the next lash. Jakub doesn’t warn her to relax like he did me, he simply nods at Leon who whips her again. Another scream releases from her lips. It takes her a moment to catch her breath, but eventually when she finds the strength, she continues.
“The second r—rule is to not covet what isn’t mine and never will be.”
Leon is even more brutal this time, the third lash cracking against her skin like a thunderbolt. Her scream is loud enough to shatter windows.
“The third rule is…” Twelve sobs, her voice breaking with pain. “...To n—never steal from my Masters—”
She’s barely finished her sentence and Leon is bringing down the whip. The bloodcurdling scream that erupts from Twelve’s lips has me choking on my own sob and blinking away the tears threatening to fall. I have to remain strong. It seems even more important now than ever before.
“The fourth rule is to respect my fellow Numbers. We’re f—family.”
Another lash, more tears. She’s crying harder now. I feel her pain, hating these men on her behalf because she's too brainwashed to do the same.
“And the final rule?” Jakub prompts, his jaw tight, his words tense.
“To n—never break those four rules, but if we do, then to expect s—severe punishment.”
My gaze is drawn to the Cat-o'-nine-tails that Leon clutches in his hand, tiny droplets of blood dripping from the leather. Drip. Drip. Drip. I can’t take my eyes off it, or how his hand is gripping the handle so tightly the veins in the back of them are protruding against his skin.
“Oh God,” I murmur, dragging my gaze to Jakub who shifts in his seat.
He looks at Konrad who’s been quiet all this time, to Leon who’s breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, then back to me. “Contrary to what you believe, this punishment isn’t the norm but it is necessary. Twelve understood the rules, and she chose to break them. This is the consequence.”
“It’s barbaric,” I hiss, my gaze cutting to Twelve who’s barely able to keep her body upright. Blood trickles from the lashes across her back and nausea rises up my throat.
“We provide a home, shelter, food, and warmth. The Numbers are well cared for, they perform in The Menagerie doing what they love, and they fuck our clients because they want to, not because we force them to,” Jakub continues.
I don’t buy that for one second, but I don’t question it. Too shocked to do anything but sit here and listen to his bullshit lies. Jakub turns to Renard, who has been waiting in the shadows. His expression is tight, but he’s not foolish enough to express whatever thoughts are going through his head right now.
“Sir?” Renard asks, waiting for instruction.
“Take Twelve to her quarters. Lock her in.”
“Yes, Sir,” he nods, flicking his gaze between Jakub and Konrad.
Konrad’s nostrils flare, and I’m not sure what’s going on, but it’s clearly some unspoken conversation that I can’t interpret. “After the meal I will send Thirteen to deal with Twelve’s wounds.”
Twelve sobs, her heartbroken words tumbling from her lips. “No, please, I need you,” she cries.
“And that’s precisely why I’m sending Thirteen. Do not covet what isn’t yours,” Konrad grinds out, reiterating rule number two. “What happened here today is on you, Twelve.”
“Take her to her room,” Leon orders, dropping the Cat-o'-nine-tails on the floor and taking his seat back at the table. He leans forward and brushes his fingers over my knee, the darkness in his eyes abating, and for the tiniest moment I see something odd in his piercing green eyes. It’s as though he’s seeking my reassurance.
“Don’t touch me,” I sneer, flinching away from his touch. I don’t want him to touch me. Ever. He snorts, sitting back in his seat, that fleeting look replaced with hardness.
“You heard Leon,” Konrad adds.
“Yes, Sir.” With a dip of his head, Renard unlocks Twelve and guides her from the room. She cries out with every step, her pain punctuated with sobs.
Silence descends as we all watch them leave, broken only by the light steps of another woman approaching the table. She passes Renard and Twelve, stopping briefly to whisper something into Twelve’s ear, a look of practised calm on her face. I watch as she caresses the bare skin of Twelve’s arm, my eyes zeroing in on how she appears to be rubbing something into Twelve’s skin. No one but me appears to notice the strange exchange, but there’s no denying the air of calm settling over Twelve despite her horrific injuries.
As Twelve leaves—the door to the Grand Hall shutting behind her and Renard—the woman approaching smiles gently, her attention fixed on me. She’s dressed differently to the others, her clothing hides rather than reveals. She’s wearing a cream silk shirt, tucked into a floor length navy skirt. Her light brown hair is hanging in a loose ponytail and her heart-shaped face is pretty but not stunning like the others.
“This is Thirteen,” Konrad says, getting to his feet.
She gives him a gentle nod of her head, and he welcomes her with a kiss to her cheek. Leon and Jakub follow suit as they all greet her like she is more than just a Number. Then I remember what Nala had said. Thirteen is different from the other Numbers. Unlike me, unlike the others, she isn’t a possession, she’s family.
That thought makes my heart squeeze in pain, remembering my own.