Page 2 of The Bargain

The room is silent, heavy with held breaths and watchful eyes. Will he do it, they seem to ask. Will he accept the final insult, will he get to his knees?

I suppress a sudden surge of anger, throat tight, teeth gnashing hard. I should know better than to still hold on to pride: everyone knows that this is how people like him pay people like me. Whatever I’m given in this life, I have to pick up off the ground, even if I’ve earned it. Maybe especially then.

So I force myself to push it all back–every part of me that screams denial, that demands dignity. Dignity is a luxury; I can survive without it. I crouch down to pick up the cash…

And that’s when Desdemona finally flinches.

A tiny shiver runs through her and her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. White knuckles and a trembling mouth. Then she tears her gaze off me.

That’s what she finds disgusting? I could laugh. To her, it’s the money that makes this whole thing distasteful. Not the knives, not the blood.

When she glances back at me, I see a muscle tick in her jaw, as if she’s trying to bite back something. Julian has already moved away, but she lingers near me. To my surprise she speaks, barely moving her lips, her voice so low only I can hear it.

“You don’t have to demean yourself like this.”

There’s a twisting in my gut like she’s just stabbed me in the stomach. This time, I can’t help it, I laugh. Low and mocking, under my breath. I straighten, ignoring her words, which are somehow more insulting than anything her boyfriend’s done so far.

Glancing down, I flip pointedly through Julian’s cash, counting shamelessly. It’s all there: five hundred pounds total. And now, the corners of the notes are smeared with blood.

Disappointed or annoyed, Desdemona’s already looked away. Now, she’s listening to her boyfriend loudly telling a hunting story featuring his uncle, a former minister. The Blood Brotherhood watches like amused wolves—who do they disdain more? Julian, for not being one of them despite all his money and power? Or me, the worthless nobody willing to be disfigured for some cash?

Other rich kids are pouring drinks, laughing, kissing. The party’s already moved on from the game, already bored with the sight of my blood. Guess I’ve served my purpose, then. I did what I came here to do, and I’m not about to overstay my welcome.

On my way out, I make sure to go right past Desdemona. She’s standing near the doorway, Julian’s arm wrapped around her waist. She doesn’t meet my gaze as I make my way to the door, but she visibly stiffens. When I pass her by, I brush her waist with my hand, smearing a crimson line across the bodice of her pristine white dress.

Her skin is warm beneath the smooth fabric. I don’t turn to see her reaction as my palm drags lightly over her, but her muscles contract beneath my fingers. Then I let my hand fall away, and I cross the threshold without looking back.

I know it’s petty, but I couldn’t care less. She’ll know exactly whose bloody hand left that mark on her—that her boyfriend might have taken something from me, but I took something from him, too. It’s almost enough to wash away the bitter taste of humiliation lingering in my mouth. I walk away, grinning to myself.

I might be disgusting to look at. But now, you’ll remember me.

“For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.”

​— ​Carl Sagan

Part I

The Rise

@spearcrestinquisitor

A new year begins. As we all return, dragging with us our desires and secrets, it falls to me, your humble inquisitor, to keep the truth sacred above all things, and visible no matter what.

This is what I pledge to you, once more: the truth, no matter how foul or fair, how lovely or vile. Good luck to all, and never forget what we must all come to accept eventually: fortune doesn’t favour the bold.

Fortune favours no one.

1

Unforgivably Late

Desdemona

It’s my final year at Spearcrest, and I hit my first failure before September even ends.

I used to hate it here, but Spearcrest made me into the person I am, and even the old, isolated campus has grown on me over the years. The red brick buildings under their curtains of ivy, the old clock tower where I’ve caught so many kids smoking or kissing over my years as a prefect. The library—my favourite place—with its lush monsteras and bronze railings and enormous glass cupola. On quiet Sundays, you can hear the church bells in the nearby village, Fernwell.

But quiet Sundays are rare in Spearcrest—especially for me.