2

New Orleans, 1821 (centuries later)

“Quite the beauty, aren’t you?” The auctioneer murmured, causing my skin to crawl. 

Unmoving, I stood on the platform, iron shackles circling my wrists. Slowly, I lifted my chin, and allowed my gaze to land briefly on the men who filled the floor below the platform. Their boots were planted wide, their hats tipped low as their gazes roamed over me with a kind of interest that had nothing to do with mercy and everything to do with lust.

I wanted to lash out…to light the whole damn room on fire and burn the place to ashes. Instead, I controlled the need and shifted, trying to ease the bite of the metal that had already rubbed my wrists raw. With no relief of the burn I inhaled, the stench of the room assaulting my senses: an overwhelming odor of sweat and burnt candle wax.

Behind me, Aunt Javaleen stood silent, so still she barely looked human. Her back was straight, and her hands were folded at her waist. Only her eyes seemed alive: sharp green orbs sweeping slowly across the crowd as if searching for a decent soul within the room: I already knew there wasn’t one.

Circling me, the auctioneer’s boots thudded heavily against the wooden planks of the platform. “Healthy,” he announced loudly, spreading one arm toward me like I was livestock at market. “Young, strong, pretty enough to turn a head, and useful enough to earn her keep.”

A few of the men in the audience laughed, but I kept my face blank. Humiliation burned beneath my skin, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing it.

As the auctioneer’s fingers hooked beneath my chin, I jerked my head back before he could lift my face higher. My rebellion caused a murmur to roll through the room, and the auctioneer’s smile thinned, yet he showed no other outward sign of his displeasure, though I held little doubt he was. “Got spirit too,” he chuckled.

Inwardly, I snorted. Spirit, yeah, that was one word for it. Rage felt more accurate: it vibrated beneath my skin, hot and dangerous.

Forcing myself to look past him, I fixed my gaze on the back wall. A jagged line ran through it from floor to ceiling, and focusing on the crack, I wished I could disappear within it.

As the words, “This one,” drifted from the back of the room, my gaze shifted. The man’s voice didn’t emerge as a shout. There had been no need. It cut through the noise easily, deep, smooth, and controlled.

At the words, the auctioneer turned immediately. “You’ve got an eye for quality, sir,” he declared. Then, as he gave a curt nod toward the guard, the guard shoved me before I could brace myself. Bare feet slipping on the worn boards, I lurched forward, my shoulder twisting as the iron around my wrists bit into my skin anew, causing pain to flare to life once again. 

As I regained my balance, the voice in the audience continued, “Let’s see what she can do.”

“Ah,” the auctioneer said with satisfaction. “Then you’ve heard the rumor about this one.”

My gaze flicked briefly toward Javaleen, and she raised an eyebrow, giving a silent lift of a shoulder.

“Go on, girl,” the auctioneer coaxed, stepping back. “Show them.”

For several seconds, I debated denying his request, then slowly, heat gathered low in my stomach and spread upward through my chest, then down my shoulder and into my arm until my fingertips prickled. Afterward, lifting my hand, a spark came to life at the tip of my finger.

From a back wall, a woman gasped, and I couldn’t stop an inward eye roll. Seriously? It’s a mere spark on the tip of my finger, not as if I’d set my whole body on fire.

With a small shake of my head, I focused again. The spark grew, and a small flame curled to life above my fingertip, no larger than the wick of a taper. It danced across my skin without burning, the air around it crackling faintly.

Every eye in the auction house locked on it and someone whispered, “Sweet Jesus.”

Within seconds, another voice breathed, “Witch.”

My jaw tightened. I wasn’t a witch… I was just…me.

The flame pulsed once, casting warm light across the room, revealing the man in the shadows. However, darkness quickly seemed to settle around him again like a cloak, displacing the light. Yet, within my mind, I could still see him. Tall and broad-shouldered, he’d stood still in a way that had made everyone else in the room seem restless by comparison. His coat had been black, tailored sharply across his frame. Gloves had covered his hands, and dark waves of hair had brushed at the collar of his coat. But it had been his eyes that had really caught my attention: silver…not gray, not blue, but an incredible shade of silver.

A chill slid down my spine as out of the shadows, he asked calmly, “How much for the pair?”

The auctioneer rubbed his jaw greedily. “Ah, a generous man,” he said smoothly. “And a collector at that.”

Collector. The word didn’t sit right within me. Men collected paintings, watches, horses…not people.

“How much?” the man prompted the auctioneer.

“Well now,” the auctioneer announced, spreading one arm toward myself and Aunt Javaleen as if presenting a set of prize horses. “A rare pair tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” he called. “Youth, beauty, and a rather unusual talent. We’ll begin at eight hundred coins.”

A hand lifted immediately from the front row. “Eight hundred,” the owner called.

“Eight hundred!” the auctioneer repeated, pointing toward him before sweeping his gaze across the room. “Do I hear nine?”

“Nine,” another voice called from somewhere near the back.

The numbers climbed quickly after that.

“Nine hundred!”

“One thousand,” a man near the center of the room declared, lifting his hand lazily as if the sum meant nothing.

The auctioneer’s smile widened. “One thousand coins, ladies and gentlemen! A fine investment already. Do I hear eleven?”

“Eleven hundred,” someone answered.

I stood still on the platform, staring over the crowd while the voices bounced through the room.

“Twelve hundred!” another man called, his voice sharp with interest.

“Thirteen,” someone countered almost immediately.

The auctioneer slapped his palm against the wooden podium. “Thirteen hundred coins! Remarkable!”

The room buzzed now, excitement creeping into the air.

“Fourteen hundred,” a heavyset man near the front announced, leaning back in his chair as he studied me openly.

A murmur rolled through the crowd, and the auctioneer turned slowly, his gaze sweeping toward the back of the room.

“Fourteen hundred coins,” he repeated smoothly. “Do I hear fifteen?”

For a moment no one spoke, then a quiet voice answered. “Fifteen hundred.”