The Dancer and the Masks by Bea Paige
Chapter 21
CHRISTY
Jakub’s knuckles rap against the thick wooden door before us, the sound cutting through the silence that we’ve been cloaked in ever since he led me from his room of curiosities. We wait, me still on a leash, and Jakub refusing to look anywhere but ahead of him. “Thirteen, hurry up!” he demands when she doesn’t open the door right away.
The faint sound of footsteps approaching moments later seem to appease him as he side-eyes me, his anger evident in the tightness of his jaw and pursed lips. I keep a straight face even though I’m smiling internally, knowing that I’ve won at least some of my self-respect back. He’d meant to debase me, humiliate me, fuck my mouth and make me choke and gag, but instead, I’d made him confess something personal. Unbeknownst to him, it was something that I already knew. I’d stolen a part of him, just like he’d stolen from me.
“You’re still Nothing,” he says cruelly, reading my expression, sensing my triumph.
“And you might hide behind your mask, but you're more transparent than any man I’ve ever met,” I blurt out, unable to help myself. I’m not sure why I insist on poking the bear, but it feels good. No, it feels better than good. It feels great.
This time he turns to face me completely, smirking whilst Thirteen, apparently, takes her damn time to open the door. “What men? Beast? Your uncle, Frank? Because we both know they’re the only men you’ve got to compare me with. Pathetic,” he goads.
I scowl, pressing my lips together at his scathing look. “They’re both more of a man than you’ll ever be!”
“Don’t presume to know me, let alone lump me in with them. Just because you’ve sucked my dick doesn’t suddenly make you an expert on who I am. Both your uncle and Beast are under the thumb of their women. That will never happen with me,” he retorts. “I will never be controlled by a woman who so easily falls to her feet at a compliment filled with lies. You think I’m actually attracted to you? You stupid, naive little girl.”
“Oh, yeah? Didn’t seem that way a few minutes ago!” I retort, anger rolling off me to hide the hurt that insists on settling in my stomach, as if I actually care what he thinks of me.
He tips his head back and laughs, reminding me of so many people who’ve done the same over the years. I raise my hand, ready to strike him but the door swings open precisely at that moment, preventing me from acting on impulse.
Thirteen coughs, dragging our angry gazes to her. She stands before us hazed in white light from a huge window streaming sunlight into the room behind her. She looks almost ethereal, giving off a sense of serene calm, like an ocean breeze gently cooling heated skin. Instantly I relax, relieved to have another person capable of stepping in and stopping The Masks, or at least respected enough to be listened to. She’s dressed in a simple pair of brown slacks with a white t-shirt that dips between her breasts in a low V, her feet bare. In her hands she holds a sprig of rosemary. Its distinct smell rises up to greet my nose.
“Thirteen,” Jakub says in greeting, his voice as tight as his body. You wouldn’t think he’d just come down my throat.
She smiles warmly, her kind eyes flicking between us both, before resting on my face. There isn’t any disgust or pity as she absorbs my birthmark. I’m grateful for that at least. Jakub yanks on the leash, pulling me forward. She doesn’t say a word and betrayal seeps beneath my skin at that.
“Nothing will be staying with you until the Ball,” he says, filling the silence. “I’m going to speak with One in a moment. I’ve decided she will perform in The Menagerie. She needs to be put to good use.”
Thirteen raises her brows in surprise but remains quiet whilst her eyes doing all the talking. They’re very expressive. If I didn’t know any better, she’s questioning his decision.
“She won’t be available to our guests. She’s ours.” Jakub explains, not bothering to hide the possessiveness of his tone. I snort, unable to help myself. He couldn’t even cope with a member of staff looking at me, how the fuck is he going to deal with his clients doing the same?
Jakub’s jaw jumps, but he doesn’t respond, clearly trying to save face.
Thirteen nods, the slight tightness around her eyes relaxing, but still she doesn’t say a word. She simply takes the leash from Jakub so he can unclip the necklace holding the key to my chastity belt.
“Take this. Look after it. Do not, under any circumstances, give it to Leon, Konrad or myself. I will take it back the night of the Ball.”
Clasping it in her hands, she fastens it around her neck, the key nestling between her breasts. Jakub locks his gaze on it and for a moment we all just stand, waiting for something to happen. I half expect him to snatch it back from her, given he seems so controlling, but he doesn’t. He simply nods, glares at me one last time, then stalks off down the corridor grunting at Seven who appears out of a door further along the hallway. He baulks, stepping out of Jakub’s way before casting a surprised look at me.
Once he’s turned the corner at the end of the hallway, Thirteen removes the collar from around my neck and slides her cool hand into mine. Relief washes over me as I rub at my skin. Thank God I don’t have to wear it any longer. Squeezing my fingers gently, she guides me into her bedroom, shutting the door behind us.
“Who are you to these men?” I ask, not bothering with niceties. I need to know if she’s a friend or a foe. I’m confused by her relationship with them. They trust her, that much is obvious, and yet they probably shouldn't have, given what she did to help me.
Shaking her head, she lifts a finger to her lips and guides me further into her room. It’s well kept, large and as beautifully decorated as The Masks’ apartment, but way more feminine. Her room has a soul, purpose. Plants of all different species hang from hooks fixed to one of the walls, some are completely dried, others are in the process, their scent filling the air and reminding me of the meadows filled with wildflowers back home. Below the drying flowers is a huge worktop that stretches from one wall to the other. On its worn surface are all manner of glass containers filled with herbs and vegetation. Seeds and husks. There’s a pestle and mortar situated in the centre of the table, mixing bowls, spoons and knives, and jars filled with strange coloured liquids of varying consistency. At the far end, by the open window, is a tabletop gas burner. Its flame is lit and a medium sized copper pot sits on top of it, steam rising up from the liquid.
“What is this place? Who are you?” I ask again.
She drops my hand, turning to face me, shaking her head and tapping her lips with her forefinger. I frown, not understanding. “Is this place bugged or something?”
Smiling, she shakes her head, her pretty grey eyes lighting up from within. Clearly I amuse her. I’m not sure I’m in the mood to be the brunt of such hilarity.
“Then why aren’t you answering me…?” I ask, frustration and anger leaching into my voice. She taps her lips again, urging me to understand, and then it dawns on me, she can’t speak. “You can’t speak?” I repeat out loud.
She sighs, shaking her head. No.
“You can speak?”
She nods, biting on her lip.
“Then why don’t you?” She shakes her head harder, tapping her lips, pleading with her eyes. “Ah, I see. You don’t want to…”
She nods, squeezing my arm gently before turning on her heel and walking over to the opposite side of the room where her bed and wardrobe is situated. She grabs a pale pink kaftan from the wardrobe, bringing it to me. I take off Konrad’s shirt and put it on immediately. The material is made of silk, its scent heady and perfumed like this room. I instantly relax, my shoulders dropping in relief.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
Taking my hands, she urges me to sit on the bed, I wince in pain, suddenly reminded of the tender skin from the lashes to my arse and the fact I punched Leon. Funny how the pain returns now even though it was absent the whole time I was with Jakub. She frowns, pointing. Where? Her expression seems to say, Where is your pain?
“I punched Leon,” I say, pointing to my right hand. Her eyes widen in surprise, then she blinks a little before gently pressing her fingers over my knuckles. It’s a little sore, but nothing too painful. She frowns then holds up her hand, wiggling her fingers, indicating for me to do the same. I copy her, and wiggle them well enough. Holding her thumb up, she gives me a small smile and nods. She doesn’t think anything’s broken.
Bringing her hands together, her palms facing upwards, she gestures again. The action reminds me of Oliver Twist asking for more, and I realise that’s exactly what she means. Do I have any more pain?
Nodding, I stand, lifting up the hem of the kaftan and turn my back to her, showing her the lashes to my arse. Thirteen huffs out a breath and when I look at her, her expression changes from serene to troubled. With a shake of her head, she strides over to her worktop and reaches for a blue bottle, its contents hidden by the dappled glass. Snatching it up, she returns, then reaches for the hem of the kaftan.
“Wait, I can do it,” I say, understanding that whatever’s in the bottle it’s something she thinks will soothe my skin. “I don’t want you to touch me!” She stiffens, apologising with her eyes and hands me the bottle, pointing to a door in the corner of the room. I’m guessing it’s a bathroom. “Bathroom?” I ask.
She nods. Yes.
“I need to pee,” I say, quietly blinking back the sudden tears at the look of empathy on her face.
She nods her head, grasping at the key around her neck and unfastening it. She hands it to me, jerking her chin as she wraps her fingers around mine and pushes my closed fist towards my chest.
Here.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
Entering the bathroom, I push the door shut behind me as more tears pool in my eyes, blurring my vision and preventing me from seeing my reflection in the mirror hanging above the sink. I let the tears fall, allowing myself a moment of sheer misery, letting the emotions so bound up inside of me, out. Anger, pain, anguish, shame, hate, it all falls from my eyes, giving me desperate release. It’s cathartic.
A couple of minutes pass and I feel immeasurably better for it. Crying is cathartic so long as it doesn’t feed someone else’s twisted fantasies.
Placing the bottle on the counter, I pull up the kaftan and unlock the chastity belt. It falls to the floor with a thunk and I step out of it, kicking it aside. After relieving myself I strip off the kaftan and wash using the soap left beside the sink, needing to scrub The Masks from my skin even if I can’t scrub them from my memories. I don’t bother asking permission from Thirteen, I just do it. I get the feeling she wouldn’t mind anyway. She seems kind, sympathetic to my situation, and I resolve to find out as much about her and The Masks as I can, despite her refusal to speak.
I’ve heard of selective mutism. I know that it often occurs on the back of something traumatic, but I’ve never met anyone with the condition before. Of course, she could be being deceptive, but somehow I don’t think that’s the case. I might have little reason to trust her, but my gut instinct is telling me she’s trustworthy. Right now, that’s all I’ve got.
Drying myself off on a hand towel hanging from the back of the door, I reach for the blue bottle and twist off the stopper, pouring the unknown liquid into my hand. Its consistency is thick, opaque, but it smells like the sea, salty and fishy. Wrinkling my nose, I smooth the liquid onto my arse, wincing at the initial sting that quickly fades to a cooling sensation. The pain instantly eases, the recent events dampened by the soothing concoction. Once I’ve covered all of the sore skin on my arse, I pull the kaftan on, pick up the chastity belt, wipe it clean and step into it, clicking the lock in place. I might hate this contraption, but if it keeps those monsters from taking what isn’t theirs then I will gladly wear it.
By the time I’m finished, Thirteen is sitting on a stool in front of her worktop stirring two cups of what looks and smells like peppermint tea. As I approach she hands me one. I take it from her, breathing in the fresh scent. My eyes flutter shut as the smell conjures up memories of my aunt and uncle who loved to suck on mint sweets. My throat tightens and a sob escapes my lips. I swallow it down and blink back the tears.
Thirteen smiles kindly, pressing her fingers against my hand, jerking her chin. Drink, she urges.
“Thank you,” I mutter, taking a sip and humming my appreciation as the sweetened peppermint tea permeates my taste buds. The consistency reminds me of the liquid she’d poured into my mouth with her kiss and I find myself asking her about it. “You gave me something to counteract The Quickening, didn’t you?”
Her hand stills, her cup of tea midway to her mouth. She sighs, placing it on the worktop. She nods, Yes.
“Why?” I ask.
She frowns, chewing on her lip. I’m not sure if her hesitation is because she doesn’t want to tell me why or if she doesn’t know how to explain without words to make communicating easier. After a beat she reaches for a pencil and pad that appears to be filled with recipes, then flicks to a clean page.
No one should have the right to choose taken away from them, she writes.
“Yet you make a drug that does exactly that.”
She shakes her head, furiously writing. The Quickening isn’t meant to be used to trap and ensnare. It’s supposed to be used to enlighten, to heighten sensation to a willing participant. It’s for pleasure.
“I see,” I reply, cutting her a look. “Surely you understand, given who The Masks are, that they would abuse such a drug?”
I wait for her to respond, to scribble her reply. Instead she sighs heavily, and places the pencil on top of the paper, apparently not willing to answer. Part of me wants to persist, to make her reply, but another huge part is tired. I’m tired of being held prisoner in this castle, exhausted from the constant emotional and physical battle with The Masks, and fatigued with trying and failing to understand why the Numbers stay when they appear to have every opportunity to escape.
She reaches for me, her fingers gently squeezing my arm. Her grey eyes tell me to trust her, that she knows what she’s doing, that she has my best interest at heart, but trust has to be earned, and whilst she’s helped me this one time, it doesn’t mean she won’t turn her back on me the next. I step back, putting some distance between us.
Reaching for the pencil once again, she writes: Trust me. Please.
The Masks trust her, which counts for a lot given the type of men they are. Yet, they’re my captors, my enemy. Why on earth should I trust her when her loyalty lies with those wankers?
“I don’t trust anyone here,” I say. It’s a lie, however, because my gut is telling me to trust her and my gut has never, not once, been wrong.
Then trust your instincts, she writes before gently tapping her finger over my heart then my temple as though reading my mind. We lock gazes, and after a beat she holds out her hand, her palm facing upwards. I understand what she wants, and despite not really wanting to give her the key, I do, my gut telling me that it’s far safer in her hands than it is in mine.