Tales from Arondell: Sodom - Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Sinah Darian

Stomping across my bedroom floor, I kick up the piles of hats, handbags and designer garments, and crunch over the broken bits of porcelain and glass. It's all trash and like the garbage littering the sides of the street, it'll be swept up and burned soon enough. But the one thing that gives my life any meaning or satisfaction was whisked away from me!
The indignity! The sodding indignity!

I scream at the walls until my chest hurts and my throat burns, my ears ringing with the terrible sound. "I don't care who hears me! I want them found. I want her back, now!"

Chances are my bellowing is useless, falling upon deaf ears again. The other servants don't pay any attention to me. As for my mother and Bayne – the rotten bitch – they care only about their petty concerns. They don't even know I exist.

That's how Uncle Kellen got away with what he did to me for so long. That's how the Caines got in and nabbed my slave. If my parents hadn't been so incompetent, they would've sealed those passages long ago!

Picking up my tortoise-shell hairbrush, I fling it at the mirror and shatter my reflection. I shriek again, grip my hair in both fists and pull. Yes it bloody hurts, but I don't care. To the Spawning Pit with Zaenack Caine and Isabella! I'll see them burn in Taros for what they've done to me.

I pace the littered carpet like a caged animal, muttering to myself as my agitated movements carry me from the dressing table to my canopy bed, and back again. My fingers twitch. I clench my hands at my sides, so tight my long violet nails puncture my skin. I revel in the fleeting stab of pain. But ultimately any satisfaction I feel is bitter and hollow.

Fighting off the savage urge to break something else, I fling myself across my bed and bury my face in the pillows. It doesn't matter if I destroy my bedding. In this house, there's plenty more where that came from. Knotting my fists in the yielding cloth, I scream, thrash, and bang my head until at last a numbing quiet settles over me. I'm panting, my throat burns, and I've got a headache.

Damn you, Zaenack Caine! I flip over, still breathing heavily, and glare at the floral canopy. How many times did I gaze at that curling rose print, with my thighs in Zae's hands or my ankles around his neck? Even now, I still remember the feel of him inside me.

Tears of fury burn my eyes and spill down my cheeks. “I hate him... I hate him! I want him dead!” All because he's the only man who knows how to please me. Seizing one of my pillows – it's the softest and plumpest I can reach – I crush it to my breasts and shriek again. Nothing short of a slow, agonising death will do for the likes of him! Public castration, dismemberment, impalement, breaking, or burning..? I conjure in my mind the most barbaric ways to execute criminals of the North.

Of course, many of those methods went out of style more than a century ago. The Crater Council says the public spectacles cost too much, and they aren't stopping the jail cells from filling up.

Higher cost of living and the Fraternity are responsible for that. I frown. Despite the Council's decree, it's never stopped my fiance from adopting those older practices; just to scare some sense into the masses. Oh, it works. The man and his ideas terrify me. Simply because, if I'm not careful, I could end up in prison myself. Or worse... I shudder. Adultery and association with the Fraternity are serious crimes in Sodom, tantamount to insurgency and murder.

Clutching my pillow, I roll on my side and stare vacantly across my trashed bedroom. Regardless of what I've done in the past, Zaenack must be punished, Isabella must be brought back to me.

My mind made up, I toss the pillow aside, and slide off my bed. I pick my way through the mess – the servants will clean that up in the morning – bending to retrieve my favourite coat and dress, and stand before the broken mirror. Even cracked in three places, it casts a sweet angelic reflection.

If the matter of my fidelity is ever questioned, I can always say Zaenack broke in and raped me. Half of which is true. He has broken in here, multiple times. As for the rest... I snort and roll my eyes. He likes it rough and had a thing for rape role-play. I think that's why fucking him was so much fun...

Give it up, Sinah. I shake my head. There's more men out there, even if half of them can't use their tongues and cocks properly. Smiling in spite of myself, I slip on the dress and zip it up. Like many of my dresses – the ones I bought, anyway – it caresses my curves, teasing the eye with everything it hides. If a man wants more from me, he has to work for it.

I wiggle my hips at my reflection and apply a little crimson lipstick, darken my blond eyelashes, brush my hair, and finish off with a dab of musk to my neck and between my breasts. The rich and sultry scent drives men like Zaenack crazy.

There. That should do it. Inspecting my reflection, smoothing the wrinkles from the tight pink satin, I pull on my tweed overcoat and button it up. Where I'm going – to the Shiv and Tankard – it gets really cold, and the polluted water could ruin my dress. I search the drawers for a pair of leather gloves, and collect my black umbrella on the way out. I don't even bother pulling the door shut behind me.

Normally, on nights like this I'm quiet and cautious, because the servants like to gossip, and I really don't want Matthias knowing everything I get up to. But tonight I don't care. Head held high and shoulders back, I stride down the hallway, past the antique paintings and tapestries, and sashay down the staircase. My hand follows the marble balustrade, my heels clicking on the polished steps until I reach the bottom.

Off to the sides of the tiled foyer – with its glittering chandelier, parade of ivory busts and sour faced portraits – two doors hang open a crack. Beyond one, a news broadcast blares on the television.

The butler's still awake, I see. Good for him. I snort and flick my hair off my face. The second door leads into the Drawing Room, where Bayne and Uncle Brannack are arguing again. Ugh. Most likely mother – cold-hearted bitch – was sitting back and enjoying the spectacle, because Bayne always shouts Brannack into submission.

There was only one man, aside from the Harrier-Confessor, who could stand up to her but he's dead now. Publicly drawn and quartered for every disgusting thing he did to me.

I shudder and hug myself. Although it's no less than the bastard deserved. If anything, he should've suffered more.

Pushing the thought from my mind – I'm going to have a good time tonight – I stride across the dark tiles, and unlock the front door. I stopped listening to their bickering months ago, because it's always the same: Mister Scarlett's undercutting us again. He's snapped up the last shipment of Jawbone cigars... He's raided our warehouses... He's stolen our finest whiskey and cigarettes... The list goes on.

Yeah, sure it affects me too. Less money coming into the house is always bad news, but... It's their business. They can sort it out.

I pause with my hand upon the ornate brass doorknob, and cock my head as the arguing stops abruptly. Good. I smile. They heard me. Lets see them try to stop me.

Coughing loud enough to draw their attention, I wait as familiar footsteps thump upon the carpet, and the solid door swings open. There stands Bayne Septimus – my step-mother – her arms akimbo, blocking the doorway. She's an impressive woman, square-shouldered and masculine, not so different from her younger cousin, and elegantly dressed in a tailored pin-stripe suit.

Everything about her person is immaculate and polished, from her cropped platinum finger-waves, to her flawless complexion and designer leather shoes. The only thing spoiling her perfect silhouette is that gaudy violet cravat. When will the stupid woman learn that she can't wear those acidic colours? I lift my lip at her in contempt.

Bayne scowls at me. "Where do you think you're going, young Lady?"

"Out," I snap back, holding my chin high, and tighten my grip on the door handle. But I don't tug it open just yet. She can stew in my defiance for a bit longer. Bring it on, bitch. I narrow my eyes, silently goading the older woman into the inevitable explosion.

"No. You're not." Showing a remarkable amount of self-control – at least in her voice – Bayne advances, her jaw clenched.

I can't help but smirk at her. “You're not actually going to restrain me, are you?” I almost laugh, and tug the door open, allowing a cold blast of damp night air to sweep into the lobby. It rips at my coat and hair, making my skin prickle and my nipples tighten. Shit, it's cold. I resist the urge to shiver.

"Try to stop me, Bayne." I sneer at her and cross the threshold, letting the security screen bang shut behind me.

As I expect, Bayne's composure shatters. "Get back here you little witch!" She dashes after me.

“Ha! The joke's on you, bitch!” I cackle. I'm already a few strides ahead of her, and despite the miserable weather, I sprint across the front porch and dash into the rain. I know Bayne. She won't run after me. When it comes to her vanity, she's worse than I am.

From the doorway behind me, my step-mother screams: "Sinah Darian!"

Continued in Chapter 4