Page 2 of The Celtic Resolution
The men supporting me waste no time in dragging me through cold, winding corridors and stairs that catch on my toes when I don’t lift my feet fast enough. The higher we climb, the louder certain sounds become. What I once thought was the rumbling of the underground is actually the crashing of waves and the distant honk of large ship horns.
The docks.
I’m near the docks.
A vital piece of information that I can do absolutely nothing with.
Great.
Higher and higher we climb with both men on either side of me sighing in irritation each time I stumble or trip. If I could get my mouth to work I’d tell them they’re walking too fucking fast, but what’s the point? It won’t save me.
Soon, we’re walking in light dull enough that I can open my eyes without pain. The plain corridor we’re walking down has nothing of note besides several copper pipes running parallel to us along the ceiling. The air is slightly warmer and the crashing waves are soon drowned out by low, thumping music. I glance at each guard escorting me, but their faces aren’t familiar. Justgrunts, if I had to make a guess. We approach the silver double doors at the end of the corridor and we’re a foot away when they fly open and a man dressed in dark jeans and a ripped black T-shirt strides toward us.
“This her?” he barks, jerking his thumb toward me.
“Yes, sir,” remarks the guard to my left.
“You couldn’t have cleaned her up first?” He casts his eyes down me while his lips curl in disgust. “How the fuck are we going to get a good price when she looks like shit?”
“Boss doesn’t care,” says the guard on my right. “He says her name is her worth. No one will give a shit what she looks like, but you can throw her up there naked if you want.”
My heart punches up into my throat. Humiliation before death? Why the fuck not?
“Nah,” the man says, and relief bleeds through me like ice water flooding my veins. “Only her buyer gets to see that shit.” He grabs my jaw with his thick, stubby fingers of one hand, then licks the thumb of his other hand. As much as I recoil, I can’t stop him from smearing his thumb across my cheeks and wiping away any traces of my tears, though my weak struggles make him smirk. “So they haven’t beaten all the spirit out of you. Interesting. Maybe I’ll place a bid myself.”
He steps back with a jerk of his head, and I’m dragged past him as the gravity of his words finally sink in.
Bid?
No fucking way.
They’re going to auction me off, aren’t they?
I should have known. There’s no easy death for me, not in this life. In fact, death would be a mercy. Suddenly, underneath the ache of grief at my twin's fate, I’m glad Cian is dead.
It’s a better fate than what I face.
My guards drag me up a short staircase and suddenly, the floor beneath my bare feet is warm, polished wood. I’m baskedin a bright but warm light that gleams down from above like a spotlight, highlighting the circular stage I’ve been dragged onto. Blinking quickly, I try to peer through the haze around the stage, but whatever lies beyond is blanketed in darkness, hidden further by the light focused on me.
My heart races faster and faster. By the time I’m dragged to the middle of the stage, I’m able to keep myself upright, and both guards release me, but they only step a few feet back. I try to stand straight, as if my defiant stance will warn away anyone from bidding on me, but I can’t maintain that posture. Every muscle is bruised, and tensing to stand straight creates more pain than I can bear. In the end, I simply wrap my arms around my bare stomach and cling to the threadbare remains of my tattered shirt while my knees knock together.
“The most anticipated item of the evening!” booms a voice that seems to come from all around me. “Saoirse Gifford. A thorn in our side for far too long. She’s young, she’s healthy, and as you can see, she can still hold herself up. Whether you’re looking for another bitch to add to the collection or you just have a point to work out with the Irish, this is your only chance! Starting bid, two hundred and fifty!”
Just as I quietly scoff that I’m worth more than that, the amount goes up. Five hundred. Seven fifty. One million. Still pocket change to the scumbags who buy humans as a commodity.
Struggling for where to look, I blink quickly. My eyes are slowly adjusting to the lighting, and the once dark abyss that stretches before me slowly takes shape. Somehow, it’s worse than I could have imagined.
I’ve never attended an auction like this. My family—most families—are vehemently against human trafficking, but in my mind, it was a dirty affair. I’d pictured scummy people crammedinto a small space, sharing sweat and grime while bidding on people like you’d bid on cows. But it’s not like that at all.
Beyond the golden light surrounding me, the floor beyond my stage is filled with neatly decorated tables covered in flowers and fancy bottles of alcohol. Men and women stand and sit at these tables dressed in their fine dresses and suits, engaging in light and humorous conversation while waiters walk back and forth with trays of drinks and food. The thumping music rises from a band in the far corner as bids are placed by people lazily lifting golden placards.
It’s not the grimy pits I’d imagined at all. If anything, it looks like a fancy party. Somehow, that makes it worse. The rich and the elite out here bidding on people makes my stomach turn. I was supposed to stop this. How many people will come after me because of my failure?
Despair rises like a wave in my chest and my lower lip quivers. Sinking my teeth into the flesh does nothing to calm it as the monetary bids on me climb higher and higher. And then a loud bang makes me jump so violently that the guard to my left surges forward to grab me as if he expects me to collapse.
“Sold!” bellows the auctioneer. “For eighty million dollars to number seventeen! Come, sir. Collect your prize!”
Number seventeen. Who the fuck is number seventeen? I wearily scan the sea of faces that turn away from me, no longer interested since they’ve lost.
