“Your résumé said restaurant experience?”
-
ADULT CONTENT
This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Sexual References: Features sexual themes or language, without the depiction of sexual acts.
Sexually Explicit: Description of sexual acts.
Sexual Assault: Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Gore: Depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts.
Child Abuse: Features severe mistreatment of children.
Self-Harm: Description of self-harm.
Suicide: Description of suicide.
Torture: Description of torture.
Explicit descriptions of cannibalism.If you are above the age of 18+ and wish to read such content, then you may click Continue to view said content.
February 13, 2020
Every conceivable shade of green lived in that garden, and with each breath, Dorian drank in fresher air than he had ever known. To no one’s surprise, Percival Darke’s estate was magnificent.
The days following the auction had kept his nerves taut as violin strings, each part of his orientation more shocking than the last. When Madam Percival had brought him to her home in the countryside, he'd expected it would only get worse.
Yet, shortly after his arrival, she'd invited him to accompany her on a walk through the gardens. It was not an invitation one in his position could refuse, but that did not make it unpleasant. Although she terrifies him, Dorian appreciates the face time.
“You've had a busy week,” she says. Her voice is soft and sympathetic, yet composed in a regal way that effortlessly commands authority.
“Yes, Madam,” he replies. Too quickly, he adds—“Bearable, though. Nothing that I’m not willing to handle, of course, just—”
“Oh, I know that,” she smiles down at him. “You've shown impressive fortitude and cooperation, despite the learning curve—but that's exactly why I wanted to speak with you. I wanted to take your pulse, so to speak. Give you a chance to air your grievances, your concerns, all of it. I’d like to make sure we understand each other.”
“Alright,” he says as his gaze is pulled from Percival by a distracting flutter of bright colors. A butterfly lands serenely on a blossom in a nearby hedge. “Where would you like me to start?”
She tilts her head. “Any concern for your immortal soul?”
Really easing into this conversation, it seems. Dorian shrugs too flippantly.
“I'll sort things out with the big man when it’s time,” he says. “Until then, no reason to live my life by the rules of an absentee father.”
Percival laughs at this, a demure sound of surprise.
“Well said. And what of your earthly father?”
“Dead,” Dorian replies. “Suicide was considered very en vogue in two-thousand-eight New York."
“I see," Percival’s brows float upward. "Was there an insurance payout?"
"No—I'm afraid he wasn't that considerate," Dorian says, reigning in the bitterness in his voice. "New policy, fell under a suicide clause.1 We never saw a dime."
Percival shook her head sympathetically before shifting her inquiries to his other parent.
"So, clearly, you were closer with your mother," she says. Dorian nods. "Why don’t you tell me about her, then? Lana, was it?”
He considers his answer for a moment before he begins in a quick but even cadence:
“She’s a stern woman, more withdrawn than warm. I don’t blame her for it in the slightest. When my dad died, he left her with five kids and a mountain of debt on top of the mortgage. The youngest of us was barely three, the oldest nine. Mouths to feed, nothing more. I don’t remember her ever grieving—I don’t think we gave her the chance. You have to realize, this was right after the market crashed, too. It was a horrible time to be anything in New York, especially a widow.”
“It takes a strong woman to survive that,” Percival says with respect. “A stronger one still to keep a lifeboat intact with five others on it who know not how to even swim. But if there is a way, a mother will find it.”
In the corner of his eye, Dorian spots a dew-decorated web strewn between tough branches. A spider methodically bundles up a fly next to a milky egg sac.
“I've tried to repay her,” Dorian whispers. “God knows I've tried. I can't… I can't bear the thought of us going back to that. I can’t tell you how many nights I sat at the dining room table with her and my older sister in the middle of the night over coffee and spreadsheets, trying to make ends meet.”
“You poor thing,” she replies gently, to which he barks an untimely laugh before she can continue.
“Ah, sorry— just… yeah, that's one way to put it.”
“There will be no need for that in my employ, Dorian,” she assures him. “Your pockets will stay well-lined, and we've a very capable team of accountants to handle the tedium that comes with it."
“Thank you, Madam.”
“Of course,” she says, words dripping with honey, yet no less sincere for it. “Is she aware of your abilities, your mother?"
“Yes,” he confirms with a nod.
Dorian had been born with charm, but it had not sharpened into what it was now until he was thirteen or so. Somewhere along the way, heinous voice cracks gave way to words like velvet, weaving into the heads of others with an ease that had landed him here in this garden with a snake promising him power and profit beyond his wildest dreams.
“It’s funny,” he says. “I think we just took it for granted, after a while. We knew it wasn’t … natural—but what was there to do except take it and run with it?”
Percival gives a solemn nod, allowing for silence to pass between them as she leads him to a small mosaic-topped table encircled by dark foliage, its wiry white legs grown like thrones into the ground, matching the chairs on either side of it. A full tea set is already waiting for them, and Dorian swears the teacups go still and cut a conversation short amongst themselves as he and Percival approach.
“If one starts opening every door simply because they can, one will eventually find something on the other side they do not like,” Percival reflects as she waves for Dorian to sit.
Immediately, he reaches to pour tea for both of them, only for the kettle to stand up and do it itself. He draws his hands back in surprise, then lays them in his lap.
“Sure—but so long as you’re opening doors.”
“Indeed,” she grants. “And opened doors you have, Mr. Sloan— though you’ve certainly realized as much. Not just for yourself, but for your mother and sisters.”
He decidedly doesn’t like hearing his family invoked. More than anything, he wishes this could all be as simple as wiring the girls a check and never having to explain a damn thing about where the money had suddenly come from.
“Sure,” he says quickly. “Opportunity's great, but what of their safety?”
Percival’s lips curve into a smile, apparently pleased with his concerns.
“My protection extends to them as it does to you, I assure you. No harm will come to them, and if—providence forbid—it does, I promise you retribution, the likes of which have made kings cower and nations fail.”
Dorian knows with bone-deep certainty that she’s not exaggerating. It’s a comforting thought.
“Thank you,” is all he can say, staring down at the golden tea, a warm floral scent drifting up from the cup.
Percival swirls a teaspoon once, producing a quiet clink before she responds with another inquiry. “What does your mother do for work, Dorian?”
“She was a bank teller till she got laid off. Next job she got was at a nursing home—I guess they’re always hiring, but there’s a reason no one wants those jobs,” he tells her. “She’s been working at a pharmacy for the past six years. Sometimes she'll pick up some other work, usually a cleaning job here or there."
“And how old is she?”
“Forty-one?”
“And how is her health, by and large?”
At this, he gives a grim smile. “Perfect—so long as she doesn’t go to the doctor, none of them can find anything wrong with her… You know how insurance is across the Atlantic."
Percival clicks her tongue once in contempt. The sound almost sends Dorian into a panicked addendum clarifying that he is absolutely not a communist or a socialist or anything else that Percival might have him shot against the wall for before she says—
“A dreadful dilemma, truly. Though, as I’ve told you, we've seen to it that you and your family will never be without coverage again. After all, what good is capital if we cannot use it to serve those who make our lives rich in the ways that matter?
“All those years working so hard and for so many people…I can only imagine she’s exhausted. By her age, most people are thinking about retirement.” She tilts her head, pity in her pure blue eyes. “But she was never living with the impression she’d achieve that, was she? No, your poor mother was willing to run herself into the ground for you and your siblings. But now, she doesn’t have to. Now, you get to give her a break. Don't you think she deserves to slow down, enjoy a break? A good cancer screening, a massage, a day at the pool to forget about everything for just a little while?"
“Of course I think so,” his reply comes out quieter than he expects. “I hate to think I’m worrying her so much, being away, but …” He trails off, hoping the check he’d sent after the auction will make up for his absence.
“But you understand this is a short period of worry for her long-term happiness,” Percival tilts her head. “Unless…Well, do you think money can buy happiness, Mr. Sloan?”
“Of course,” he says simply. She gives another small laugh and brings her teacup up to midnight-painted lips.
“You were quick with that. Many of our employees spend a lifetime grappling with that question.”
He shrugs. “I’m guessing they wouldn’t be any happier if they were broke.”
“Probably not,” she agrees. “But you understand what they don’t; even if happiness is no measure of anything, money can still buy food, a roof, a cancer screening, a university tuition, and enough stocks and bonds to live comfortably off dividends for the rest of one’s short, precious life, if so desired. Money allows you endless amusement, and magic in the right hands. It does not simply give you power—it is power. Happiness is a fickle, fleeting thing—but freedom and luxury are tangible, and well within your grasp. Well within your sisters’ grasp, as well."
When he thinks of the four of them, Dorian has to wash down the bundle of bittersweet emotions in his throat with a sip of strong tea.
Percival doesn’t push him to respond right away—she’s made her point, after all. If he didn’t before, he knows now that this is someone who can seamlessly rattle off a solution to every mortal problem he can think of right now.
Truly, there are no words for his gratitude. Even if he has put his whole being into debt of some cosmic magnitude with this viperous creature of capital, he can justify it to himself.
“What do I tell them?” He asks the question without thinking, his eyes trained on his hands for a long moment before braving Percival’s gaze again.
“Whatever you think they’ll understand,” she says. “On paper, you will legitimately be an auctioneer, though even the most successful of those could hardly justify your income. I suggest private equity or lobbying. I like to keep details about the company and our involvements on a need-to-know basis, but I will leave it to your discretion how much you feel you must lie to or omit information from your family. In regard to normalcy, I understand you may be hesitant to expose them to the truth of our world, but to be clear, I do not forbid it. Frankly, some exposure may be inevitable, but that is a timeline of years–you have no reason to worry over it.”
He nods slowly, taking in her words.
“Transparency isn’t always …” he picks briefly at his nails, then sighs, looking up at a bird on some nearby branches. “When we had time as teenagers, my older sister and I would go into Manhattan looking to make the right people like us. She wanted modelling gigs and men's money, and I wanted to charm every damn banker in the FiDi.2 We were a pair of flirts and grifters, but Mom waved her hand and told us that so long as we stayed alive and out of jail, we had her blessing to spare her the details.” He met Percival’s gaze again with a thin smile. “Am I going to stay alive and out of jail?”
“We’ll do our very best to keep you that way,” she assures him.
He shrugs in resignation. “Then what my family knows won’t hurt them.”
Dorian could live with being a bad son, he thought, so long as he was a bad son who paid the bills.
“Remember, we’re your family now, too,” Percival states, leaning it. “And family loyalty is everything. It is the only thing.”
“Understood and agreed.”
“Good. I want to see you protected, Dorian, I do. But to justify that, you must do your job.”
“Of course,” he says, meeting her gaze despite the tightness in his chest. “What’s next?”
“You’re aware it’s Iris’ birthday tomorrow, yes?” Her voice itself seems to gleam with the mention of her daughter’s name.
“Yeah?” Dorian smiles, knowing that the manor has been prepared to receive the full ranks of Iris’ family and friends tomorrow morning—Robert Carter and Chrysophilius Marshall are already there. “I’m awfully sorry I haven’t got a gift.”
He meant for his words to be ironic—after all, what could he hope to buy for Iris that she couldn’t purchase herself? But then Percival flashes a smile full of razors, and Dorian feels the cold coil of unease constricting slightly around his heart.
“Oh, except you do have a gift, Mr. Sloan. It’s why you’re here.” Percival sips her tea almost coyly, then sets it back down without it making a sound. “Now, I considered surprising you with your next assignment tomorrow, but I’d wager you’ve had more than enough surprises this week.”
“I won’t argue with that,” he replies softly.
“In that case—Iris and I will be taking our dinner in private tomorrow night. We’d like a tableside performance from you.”
February 14, 2020
He hadn't worn a tuxedo since his restaurant years. Although Iris’ birthday had no explicit dress code, most of the guests had arrived wearing at least black tie.
Dorian spends the evening being cordial and amicable, but aside from facilitated or polite introductions, he holds himself quietly apart, making little deliberate effort to engage with the other guests, aside from those Iris feels inclined to show him off to.
At one point, she introduces him to Chaz Ambrose, who sets him with a dazzling smile and turns out to be an easy conversationalist, allowing Dorian to lead him through discussion of restaurant work, anomalous cuisine, and his trusted supply of magical ingredients from MC&D over the years.
There’s a lot to be learned, Dorian figures, from a talkative new acquaintance who has been in this world for a few decades. However, his hand starts trembling when Chaz brings up Iris Darke's exquisite palette.
“Well, this has been lovely, but I really must find where Marius has run off to,” Chaz says at last, furrowing his brow as he scans the guests and notes the absence of his business partner. “They're not quite so fond of these things as I am. If I ever find them, I’ll introduce you.”
“Please do."
“Toodles,” Chaz says before stepping back into the fray. Dorian leans back against the wall, sipping from a champagne flute. He’s limited himself to no more than two glasses of the cold bubbles tonight, and its main purpose is to occupy his hand.
He is not sulking—simply studying. The same way he watched and learned how to act like those young and hungry financiers fresh from every target school in his state, he intends to adapt to this new echelon of people. To try and mimic them outright, he knows, would be a dreadful insult, but he figures it will do him well to be able to mirror their manners.
The party itself is no networking event, but closer to a family affair. However, as he notes the magnetism amongst some of those bonded by blood, he cannot help seeing the distance between others. For instance, he doesn’t see Amos and Chrysophilius exchange a single word. It makes him feel for the junior Marshall, though, as he recognizes it, he also realizes he doesn’t know exactly what he should feel toward him.
Actually, that’s the case for all three of his younger bosses. He speaks with each of them over the course of the evening, further solidifying his opinion that if he must endure the horrors this job will inevitably bring, at least he will do so in good company.
Nonetheless, he still feels like a stumbling fawn attempting to masquerade among wolves.
The mingling all feels too intimate, and Dorian has no doubt he’s been sniffed out as an outsider already, even by those he is supposedly meant to consider his new coworkers.
On that note, he spots Iris leaning down to converse with a pale, lean man in a navy linen suit with a matching wide-brimmed hat pushed down over blond hair. Lucas Monaco seems to Dorian like something carved of marble—stiff, cold, and inhumanly immaculate. He raises the hair on Dorian's neck as much, if not more than, the Sextet themselves; at least his bosses all seem to like him, but Monaco has given him no such impression.
Iris is still whispering something to him when his eyes—sharp, and iridescently crimson—flicker to Dorian. He freezes in place immediately, as if too quick a motion might set off some hunter's instinct. But then, Monaco's expression shifts to something between amusement and pity, and he begins to laugh.
He prays he's not trembling as he holds Lucas' gaze. Two seconds pass, and Dorian breaks first, looking away to down the rest of his champagne.
When it's emptied, Dorian snaps his head to the side just before someone else can sneak up on him. Hogarth would have succeeded, if not for the click of his cane on the marble. The company's head accountant is an eerie man with a shock of white hair, patchily scarred skin, and a live black python slung around his thin shoulders.
"Hello, Mr. Cartwright," he says amicably.
"Hello, Dorian," he replies, something sardonic in his expression as he tilts his head. "Not a fan of parties?"
Dorian blinks, taken aback. "No—Actually, I like them quite a lot."
"Really?" Hogarth seems surprised. "Because you look miserable."
"I—" Dorian tries not to cringe. "I'm not, really."
"Hmm," those noxiously green eyes narrow at him. "And you haven't eaten a damn thing."
He swears internally as Percival’s words from yesterday ring again in his ears: “If you are at all squeamish, I advise you fast beforehand. It would not do to ruin a good dinner with a display of sickness.”
"I'm not hungry," he says unconvincingly.
"Bullshit."
So he doesn't know, Dorian thinks. At least, not yet.
Dorian smiles thinly, and although he knows it would be prudent to put himself on good terms with Hogarth, he's just not inclined to give anyone the satisfaction of information tonight. Not when doing so would mean lowering what few, feeble defenses he has left. Besides, surely sharing those details is the Darkes' prerogative, not his own.
Whatever his excuses, Dorian firmly repeats: "I'm not hungry."
Hogarth pauses, dumbfounded, then actually laughs. It's a low, scratched-up sound, like a needle skipping the grooves on an old record. There's not an ounce of humor in it.
He opens his mouth to reply, only to notice Lucas striding their way. The light glints off his fangs in the quick flash of a cruel grin. Dorian goes stiff, his apprehension only compounded when Lucas claps his shoulder once and remarks—
"In bocca al lupo,3 Mr. Sloan."
"Monaco—!" Hogarth snarls after him, but he's already departed. His gaze snaps back to Dorian. "What's he wishing you luck for?"
Dorian doesn't answer—not out of defiance, but because he's too busy trying to swallow his nerves. He bites the inside of his cheek and attempts to put his mind on something else, but there's no purchase to be found in anything besides noise and terror.
"Dorian!" It's an unexpected relief to hear Chrysophilius' voice. His eyes snap back into focus.
"Hey," he manages hoarsely.
"I'm here to save you from bad company," he says, throwing Hogarth a familiar wink. "How are you doing this fine evening, Mr. Cartwright?"
"Fine, thank you for asking."
Pleasantries complete, Chrysophilius turns back to Dorian— "Are you about bored of this yet?"
"Are you?"
“Well, people are starting to find their way out, and there are a few consoles upstairs,” Chrysophilius mentions. “I got them for Iris a few birthdays back. Not sure if she ever uses them, but she’s got one hell of a selection.”
“That’s cool.”
“Come play a few rounds with Robert and me,” he says, probably thinking of it as some sort of charity.
“I would, but I–” Dorian pockets his hands. “I don’t think I’m done down here yet.” Chrysophilius waves him off, not getting the point.
“Oh, Iris won’t mind if you leave. She’s just gonna go have dinner with the big boss.”
“I know, I–” his voice, disturbingly, was failing him. Chrysophilius and Hogarth are both staring now, and all he can manage to say to explain himself is– “I’m helping with dinner. Tableside performance."
“You—” Hogarth starts, eyes going wide, he and Chrysophilius reaching the same realization in unison.
"No," Chrysophilius chuckles. "You're telling me—"
"Oh, don't act shocked," Hogarth says harshly. "Jesus fucking Christ…"
Dorian strains a smile.
“I’m sure I’d be no good at whatever you’re playing, anyway,” he tells Chrysophilius.
Chrysophilius just sighs and brings a hand to his temples, then down his face. Hogarth's mouth is set into a hard line, his eyes fixed unnervingly on Dorian.
“Have you ever done something like this before?” Chrysophilius asks.
When Dorian laughs, the sound is frayed at the edges. “Yeah, of course. We actually had Femur Friday at Dorsia.” Chrysophilius looks semi-hopeful, only to realize his incredulity. “No, of course I haven’t done something like this before!”
“Just … do what she asks, and don’t kill yourself after.”
“Really?" Dorian cocks his head. "That’s your pep talk?”
"I mean… yeah."
“Don’t worry—I’ve got too much riding on this to off myself now…But god, man, how many deep ends are you all going to throw me into before you buy that I can swim?”
“Oh, it’s not that,” he smiles, half in pity. “We know what you can do. The Darkes—and the rest of us, for that matter—want to see what you will do.”
“You will be instructed to act upon our judgement, and you will perform accordingly, and we will not tolerate any room for error on your part, nor questioning of our intentions.” Chrysophilius looks surprised when he recites that bit of dogma, but Dorian suspects he’ll have those words burned into his soul’s memory until death finds him. “That’s what was said during my initiation, yes? Clearly, refusal’s not an option.”
Chrysophilius can’t argue with that, and why would he? The most pessimistic, practical side of Dorian wonders if he isn’t jumping for joy inside over his new hire's willingness to endure such orders.
Or does that not give him enough credit? He looks genuinely upset to learn about Dorian’s charge, at least for a few seconds before he composes himself with a sigh.
“Well… you didn’t think money was free, did you?” When Dorian doesn’t respond, Chrysophilius claps him on the shoulder. “Lighten up. Between you and me, this will probably be the most gruesome job you have for a while. You may think me vile or cruel or whatever else, but at least I don’t have Iris’ appetites.” He glances past Dorian. “Speaking of which—”
Dorian turns, expecting to see one of the Darkes. Instead, there is a grim, bald man in a white Chef’s coat.
“Mr. Sloan, if you’ll follow me.”
Riches and grace
like you've never known
Flesh and blood
Off the bone
So much to prove
Before we send you home
Dorian seldom entertained contrition for his actions. He assured himself that his actions up until this point and beyond, no matter how heinous, were justified, even if unjust. But that night, he faced one simple regret: he should have stayed at Dorsia.
“Hey, help me out here, man,” he entreats the chef.
“Pardon?” is the reply of distaste. But as Dorian knows there’s no weaseling out of the deed, he wants to make sure he does it right.
“Is there a recipe? Steps? Preparation guidelines?” He gestures with a vague wave of his hand. "I've never even taken an anatomy class." He’s met only with hard eyes and lips in a tight line.
“Madam Percival and Madam Iris will instruct you to meet their exacting standards, I’m sure.”
Oh, fuck me. Dorian thinks as he flashes a thin smile, exhaling slowly through his nose.
He’d always thought of those he affected with his voice as rungs on a ladder, not as victims. Manipulation was one thing, but this…
Can I really charm a man to death? Percival seemed to think he could. Wasn’t that all that mattered?
“Go. They’re ready for you.”
The room is candlelit—grand, but not exorbitant—with tall ceilings, but no windows. The floor is jet black, and the only furniture is a single table at the room's center—clothed in white silk and immaculately set for two.
The Darkes greet him cordially, almost patiently. Dorian returns the pleasantries, swallowing his apprehension as he thanks them for being such gracious hosts.
“That’s intended for you,” Iris informs him, pointing at the single glass of water before him. “It would be regrettable if you were forced to suffer a dry throat throughout this, and besides–we’re sure the culture shock has been jarring.”
When he steps forward and registers the iced water, he actually laughs.
“Thank you, that’s very thoughtful,” he says genuinely. Even if it’s just an attempt to put him in a good mood before the show, he appreciates the moment of relief before what comes next.
He doesn’t balk when the Chef brings out his victim. The main course is a man about six feet tall, between thirty and forty years in age, if Dorian had to guess. He’s bald—recently shaven, it seems like. He’s nude, revealing tanning-bed-kissed skin scrubbed clean.
Dorian takes one last sip of his drink and clears his throat.
“So kind of you to join us,” he tells the man, only because he knows he has to start somewhere, and because he has to keep his voice from stalling.
The entree’s only reaction is to lift his gaze and fix Dorian with the most empty stare he’s ever felt, like the eyes of a fish on ice had been fixed onto a dead man walking. Actually, it wouldn’t surprise Dorian if this man had been pulled out of a cooler tonight.
“Now,” Percival starts, voice serpentine and authoritative, but no less melodious for it. “He’s been very well-sedated. In fact, he won't be in any pain. Ruins the taste of the meat, you see, if they feel the knife on their skin. More relevantly to you is that there’s barely any risk of him retaliating against you.”
Dorian nods. “Thank you. I understand.”
Percival’s smile is almost warm.
“Good,” she says, and picks up a knife from the table. It’s an ornate carving blade, a keen edge fastened into a jeweled hilt. She extends it to her dinner, who barely even registers it. A smile pulls at her lips, like she’s privy to some inside joke. When she lifts her otherworldly blue eyes to Dorian, it’s as if she expects him to be in on it too.
“It’s terribly rude to refuse your hosts,” he tells the man without looking away from Percival. "And especially so when it’s one of their birthdays…I know it’s usually you giving gifts, not the other way around, but I need you to take that knife from the Madam, yes? Hilt first, don’t slice your fingers off. Not… Not yet.”
The man does as told, but that was but a simple request. Dorian knows that if the rest of this is to work, he has to sink his hooks properly into the man's head. In his experience, he's found that the speed of his words contributes to their degree of persuasion, and so he begins with an excess of rapid, near-nonsensical filler falling from his lips. If this confuses the Darkes, they do not comment on it. After a few seconds, Dorian takes more care to enunciate—
“Let's see how the bosses want to go about this before I start telling you how to hack away at yourself?” Dorian wrings his white-gloved hands once before setting them stiffly at his side, looking up for further instruction.
All Percival and Iris do is lift their crystal chalices forward.
“Go on and bleed him from the wrists,” Percival says as calmly as if telling him to run the dishwasher.
“But not so deep he bleeds out,” Iris adds quickly. “The show has only just commenced.”
“Well, you heard the ladies. Sharp blade like that, all you need to do is put it to your wrist and press down a bit. Stop when you see blood, then do the other. Try not to spill, yeah? Bleed into the cups.”
When the main course splits his wrists open at Dorian’s behest, the smell hits him immediately. It’s sharp and metallic, likely to stay in his nose all night, even as a phantom. Blood spills out into the waiting cups, one wrist over each.
“Stop. Lift your hands. Hold your wrists. Let them taste, make sure it’s up to their standard.”
Despite their initial reaction to being cut off, both Darkes–Percival, especially–seem tickled by the attention to detail. She raises her glass to her daughter, then swirls the blood in the cup once, sniffs it, and tips it back against smiling lips.
“No cork taint,” she remarks. “You may proceed.”
Breathe, Dorian commands himself. Faltering’s not in the fucking budget. Not tonight. Not ever.
“Go on and fill their cups now,” he tells the man. “One wrist for each, same as before. Had to make sure there weren’t flaws, you know? Clean, and all that …” The blood runs such a deep red it’s almost black. “And then… Well, I guess it’s time for the other half of the pairing, mm?”
“Indeed,” Percival says, though she casts a glance of deference to Iris. The next steps are her call, and she looks as if she’s absolutely relishing those options.
“Well, first, have him get on his knees so he doesn’t topple over too hard if the blood loss gets to him,” Iris says pragmatically.
“You heard her. Kneel.” He says, his voice unusually cruel and exacting.
“I want the fingers off his non-dominant hand,” Iris demands.
He nods, ignoring how sick he feels.
“Hold out your other hand. Put your knife against your pinkie. Right there at the joint. Cut off your finger, and then do the same for the rest.” The blade is sharp, but it’s not a bone saw. The act is slow and grisly.
Keep breathing, he thinks. Don’t lose your nerve.
“Do you see the salt and pepper there?” Percival points toward a large porcelain bowl on the table. Dorian nods just as another snap travels to his ears. “Between steps, have him apply a layer to his wounds. It will serve as an anticoagulant.”
His chief source of dread comes from realizing how long this is going to take.
“If we don’t want him bleeding out, then I… I start from the top and work down, yes?”
“Yes, that’s sound thinking,” Percival confirms.
“Head, shoulders, knees, then toes,” Iris muses as she twists a detached middle finger, inspecting it for leftover meat to polish off the bones. He wants to laugh and cry at once.
I can’t do this.
But he must. So he does.
“Well, man, say goodbye to that stubborn shoulder and arm fat,” he says, leaning uncomfortably hard into a customer service inflection. “Put the knife to your shoulder and slice down. Do try and go against the grain, unless my bosses or their chef informs me I don’t know what I’m talking about?”
He hears no complaints when the man on the table begins to cleave thin slices from his bicep. Iris and Percival both produce a pair of tongs to remove the cuts as they’re flayed off, setting them on their plates. Dorian has their meal pack seasoning onto his whittled flesh between each pass.
The man is beginning to look uneven, given that he only has one functional hand for holding the blade. The Darkes don’t seem to mind, and something tells Dorian that none of the good meat will be wasted.
He stares at exposed muscle and fatty tissue, at the wetly pulsing veins of a man he is trying his damnest to quit viewing as a man at all.
“Dorian,” Iris calls, her voice like the ring of a service bell. “I desire one of his eyeballs.”
He closes his eyes, then takes a sip of water before giving the necessary instructions.
“Pick your non-dominant eyeball and stab it. Take it out of its socket and present it to Iris at the end of your blade.”
Sometimes, reality gets in the way of vision. He forces himself to look, and sure enough, the knife had simply sliced through tender flesh rather than removing the orb from his skull.
“Aww, I was hoping that would work,” Iris frowns. “It would have been a lovely gesture.”
“Don’t want to ruin your food. What’s the best way to get these out?” He asks, his words to her far more terse than what he’s using with their victim.
“Thumbs,” Iris informs him casually.
A violent shudder goes through him, but so long as it doesn’t translate into hesitation, he knows he’s in the clear.
“Put the knife down—carefully.” Dorian looks away when he can, but there’s no way to conduct this blindly. “Okay, now, we’re gonna try this again. Put your thumb into your eye and remove it in one piece.”
Squelch … Pop. For the first time, he brings a hand to his lips and tilts his head back, his stomach in knots.
“H-Hand it to her,” he orders, not looking down from the intricate tiling of the ceiling. Iris’ teeth piercing the eyeball are even worse than the sound of its initial removal. He chokes down a small sip of his drink, then continues. “The other one now, or later?”
“Mum?” Iris defers thoughtfully.
“Oh, they’re both yours tonight, dearest.”
“Mm, I’ll save that one for the end, I think,” Iris decides. “Dorian, you may proceed as before.”
As his new masters greedily devour the cuts of bloody meat, he thinks of all the times his own mother went without food in order to make sure he and his sisters were fed. Along the way, this evolved into him and his older sister starving with the same noble intent.
Never again, Dorian thinks as he tells the stranger to carve his thighs off in sheets.
His mouth moves as if merely a nervous reflex. His voice feels and sounds alien to him, and he mourns the fact that it will never be entirely his to own and control again.
But he doesn’t dare stop. Instead, he periodically views the carnage, and is steadily rewarded by an ugly coldness encasing his heart.
Maybe it’s the knife, or something mixed in with the seasoning, or some curse set upon this stranger, but after a while, Dorian cannot fathom how the man before him is still alive.
That is until, without warning, Iris reaches forward and plunges her hand up through his sternum. She grasps his bottom rib in a large hand and snaps it off, amused by Dorian’s flinching at the sound like a gunshot.
Dorian allows the words to quit flowing as Iris sits back in her chair, using the sharp point of the bone to pick her teeth.
“His name was Reginald Fletcher,” Iris declares. “And he insulted me.” Dorian tried to swallow his dread upon being robbed of the chance to let his victim wither away as a John Doe in his memory.
“Well,” Dorian replies, feeling the spell slip out of his voice at last. “Bad call on his part.”
Iris approves of his answer with a satisfied smile, the candlelight glinting off her bloody fangs. Strangely enough, Dorian can almost trick himself into thinking it’s a crime worth being carved up for. After all, Iris saved his life, and he doubts he’ll ever fully understand the risks and maneuvers it took to do so.
Loyalty was the least he could offer.
For a moment, he believes himself to be on the other side of this. He nearly opens his mouth to ask if this has been sufficient, only to see Iris reposition the body in front of her, pulling the intact calves and organs closer.
Greed glitters in her eyes as she stands up and unapologetically continues to glut herself, now without the pretense of manners. He can only stand there, shaking and stupefied, as Percival fully crawls onto the table.
What the fuck…?
Mother and daughter feast together on flesh, utensils discarded for teeth and hands, black mouths stained red.
The world is spinning—spinning with Iris Darke at its center, gorging herself on anything and everything she can take from life, regardless of whether or not it is offered.
He turns away, but that does not alleviate him of the smells and the sounds. Those flitting images of the past do not exist anymore, he reminds himself; nor do any intangible, golden promises about his future. There is nothing but this awful, infinite moment.
I want to go home.
"Dorian…?"
Please. I won't tell anyone. I won't cause trouble for you. Just let me leave.
"Dorian." Percival's voice is firmer now, snapping his attention back by force. His back goes straight, and his head turns in staggered increments. Her hands and face are covered in blood. Everything is— oh, god—
Worst of all, Percival looks perfectly calm.
"Look at it," she tells him evenly.
His eyes flicker to the table. Iris tosses the skeleton of a hand carelessly over her shoulder.
"You understand, don't you?" Percival asks gently. "Why your loyalty is paramount."
"Y-Yes, madam."
"Good," she smiles with a warmth that feels sickeningly genuine, then assures him— "You've done excellently, Mr. Sloan. You’ve really such a natural talent for showmanship, and it complements your abilities quite nicely. And what a relief, on my part! It’s near impossible to train into someone, you know.”
"Thank you." The words do not feel like his own. In a sense, they're not—not anymore.
"No, thank you, Dorian," Iris says jovially, smiling at him before looking to Percival. "And to think, there was such pushback to his onboarding. But I'm overjoyed this has been such a superb return on investment. These are only his natural gifts—imagine once we teach him a few more tricks."
Perhaps Percival replies, but he struggles to register the words.
A fucking dog—that’s what I’ve become. What a delight it must be to bring in a mangy stray and find it already knows how to shake hands and speak on command.
“Oh! I almost forgot,” Iris reaches into her suit’s pocket and produces a cigar. “Would you like one of these?”
“…You sure?”
“I’m offering, aren’t I?” She playfully waves it once. “Here, it’s all yours.”
A treat for his amusing tricks, for his obedience.
Completely by reflex, a smile ghosts over his face as he takes it gingerly from her.
“I’ve got this for you, too,” Iris says, recovering a vintage lighter from her pocket to pass to him. Its gold surface is burnished and intricate, not to mention smeared with blood from Iris’ fingers. “Keep it.”
“Iris, I can’t take a gift from you on your birthday,” he says, pausing to look it over, forcing it to be the only object in his universe for a few moments. She waves him off.
“Oh, please. A cigar requires lighting, last I checked. Besides, I’m particular, and I have plenty already.” This comment makes Dorian realize this was not at all like the one he’d seen her use.
His veins turn to ice.
Wordless and wide-eyed, he points at the butchered body on the table. Iris flashes a smile, as if delighting over a new inside joke.
He was holding a trophy.
“That’s very generous. Thank you.” He says as he solemnly pockets the lighter.
Percival seems more keenly empathetic to Dorian’s state of mind than her daughter, and simply said unto him:
“I believe that is all we will require of your service tonight, Dorian. You may go, if you would like.” Yes, that was very much something he would like.
He dips his head to Percival, the slight lowering of his shoulders making it nearly a bow. Then, he raises his gaze to say simply: “Happy birthday, Madam Iris,” before absconding.
He disappears back into the kitchen, acknowledging none of the staff as he searches for the nearest door to take him outside. After too long, though it could not have been more than two or three minutes, he was free of the manor, stumbling out into the cold night air.
Despite knowing the Darkes would have no qualms with his smoking inside, he waits until now to light his cigar. He knew it would not make his throat feel better, but he couldn’t care. It was not his voice in anguish, but his nervous system. And the sledgehammer-hit of a million dollars' worth of nicotine rushing straight to his head certainly helped with that, if only for a moment.
He’d never smoked alone. Nicotine was an expensive and demanding habit, but Fiona’s agent had started supplying her with cigarettes to curb her appetite from the time she was fourteen. Every now and then, Dorian would sit with her by their bedroom window or on the fire escape, savoring the burn and the company.
The morning he’d met Iris, after she'd narrowly rescued him from his Foundation pursuers, they’d smoked cigars in a suite at the Waldorf Astoria. The association had felt so, so similar to him then.
But now, it is just him and the Gurkha Royal Courtesan between his fingers. It helps him mind his breath, at least, so he doesn’t start hyperventilating.
It’s done. Nothing to do now. Put it behind you.
He smells blood again, even through the smoke and petrichor.
Goddamnit, pull it together. Your two options moving forward are to get paid or get eaten: that’s not a difficult fucking decision.
Would the Darkes eat his tongue first, or save it for last? Would it be served raw or boiled?
Stop it. You’re safe. His jaw refused to unclench, save to take short-breathed hits from his cigar.
Yeah, so long as they like us. If not, we’re vocal cord tartare.
His mind is racing frantically, trying in vain to compete with the stifling silence. His feet carry him further into the gardens, desperate for movement.
He thought the fresh air would give him reprieve, but where had he gotten such a silly notion? He had seldom tasted fresh air in his life.
Beyond the manor, there was only open space, luscious greenery, cradled in the stillness of midnight. Every brilliantly twinkling star, so disturbingly visible out here, seemed to look down at him, mocking him. What had been unfamiliar yet enchanting at first now seemed uniquely torturous. There was not a bone nor drop of blood in his body accustomed to nature’s quiet tranquility.
Give him London proper, at least, loathsome city though it was! He craves light and noise and a sea of strangers. If he must be wretched, so be it—but by god, at this rate, he’d be mad by morning.
There is a thrashing in his heart and head that protests each step down the peaceful, winding path of cool dirt and cobble. Repulsion causes his stomach to churn and his blood to run hot, pounding in his ears. Everything he sees, no matter how beautiful, seems utterly revolting to him. That night, he beholds the whole world with a blanket odium.
It could get better from here, he thinks as the cigar reaches its end, thoroughly burning his fingers before he lets it fall to the damp grass. Or maybe it gets much, much worse.
His stomach turns over itself once more, and at last, he recognizes it as hunger.
Despite the flux of his standing and accounts, he’s lost weight since his recruitment. And now, his appetite—muted as it was by nicotine and unease—refuses to cooperate with his physical inanition.
What did his family have for dinner tonight? As soon as he wonders this, he remembers the time difference. What, then, would they have? Whose turn was it to cook? Or would his mother realize they were in a position now to afford food from a restaurant?
What you do, you do for them, he resolves for the hundredth time.
Unwilling to think of the girls now, he takes out his phone and checks a map. The results only confirm his situation. There is nothing that could be considered urban life for forty miles in any direction. That puts walking out of the question, and he is not so inconsiderate as to make a cab come all the way out here, nor does he feel entitled to the Darkes’ personal drivers.
Before he reaches a decision, the sky opens up and spits a few drops of cold rain upon him in warning. He swears under his breath.
It’s London—it’s going to rain all the fucking time and you’re just going to have to get used to it. Damned place with its damned people…
Hey, hypocrite—that includes you, now.
The weather should have made his mind up for him, but as his spite apparently extended now to the very heavens, he allows it no such power. Dorian turned his face and palms up and welcomed the shift from drizzle to tempest.
God, I know we’re not close, he thinks as the rain pelts down. And I’m probably out of your jurisdiction now, anyway. But please … approve my undertakings. Barring that, please forgive me.
After a few minutes, the biting cold wins out over Catholic guilt, and though it had felt worth it in the moment, Dorian feels foolish treading back into the manor. He re-enters through a side door, drying out a bit in a mudroom, teeth chattering lightly. He doesn’t think of his phone until after the fact, and despite the brief streak of panic that shoots through him, he finds it still works.
Terrified of tracking water inside, he removes his shoes and socks entirely, then carries them back to his room. He slips inside, locking the door behind him before proceeding to the bathroom.
Dorian strips off his wet tuxedo and runs scalding water into an ornate clawfoot tub. Along with warming him up, he hopes it might relax him in the slightest—a fruitless endeavor, of course.
In want of reading material to distract him from his thoughts, he finds a stack of magazines by the toilet that seems out of place for the rest of the room’s old-world elegance. Nonetheless, he selects a tabloid to keep him company. Whether due to distraction or to not knowing many early-2000s British celebrities, he flips through half the magazine without looking at a single page.
With a sigh, he gives up and slides the volume across the floor. Then, he submerges his head under the water.
Though his head and heart were a mess, it was neither guilt nor regret plaguing him. Not yet, anyway.
Tomorrow morning, he’d turn over in bed and find guilt waking up beside him. His first thought when he opened his eyes would be the age-old: What have I done?
Regret, on the other hand, would knock at his door like an uninvited guest that he would never even deign to entertain. He would never ask himself Why?. There was no world in which he did anything else.
And for that, repulsion was to be his only companion tonight.
He comes for air thinking about the stranger he’d vicariously carved apart. No, not a stranger–Reginald Fletcher. God dammit, why did Iris have to tell him that? What had he done, exactly, to end up on the Darkes’ menu? Did he have family? Aspirations? Last words?
Dorian dunks his head back under the water and screams.
His mind serves up images of the Darkes dragging themselves onto the table, shucking off that insistent, impenetrable veneer of aristocratic manners as if they were mere coats to be worn in good company, fashionably bundling up unsavory, bestial natures. The memory of the display is so ludicrous and surreal that he can almost hope it isn't real.
Eventually, he emerges from the lukewarm water, only to become instantly lightheaded. He grabs the edge of the sink and lowers slowly to the tile floor until the spell passes, cursing under his breath as his stomach cramps loudly.
What a captivating dichotomy—starving in a place such as this. Too bad Dorian wasn’t interested in drawing out the ironic or picturesque. He soon gets up, throws on a cotton lounge set, and ventures down to the kitchen.
By some miracle, he makes it without being spotted by anyone but a member of the kitchen staff, who causes him to flinch as they practically appear out of a nook in the shadows. They offer to whip something up for him, but ultimately respect his polite entreaties to be left alone.
The myriad of options between the pantry and the fridge borders on intimidating. Despite the evening’s options, there are no leftovers to be found in the kitchen. Either the staff has yet to bring the catering in from the drawing rooms, or they’ve thrown out the waste already.
He’s upset only until he discovers a loaf of sliced sourdough. Good–he needs something more filling than fine dining right now, anyway. There are at least a half dozen varieties of jams and jellies to choose from, but he eventually selects a tri-berry blend to pair with a glass jar of creamy peanut butter.
Standing there in the dark next to the sink, Dorian scarfs down what is, without a doubt, the best PB&J he’s ever made. Already on the stove, he finds an ornate kettle that boils water in ten seconds flat, and he uses it to steep a cup of Earl Grey. Once mixed with a healthy spoonful of honey, the warm tea provides some relief for his throat and nervous system.
He's weighing the option of making a second sandwich when his phone buzzes. The alert indicated that Iris had wired a million dollars directly into his new account, set up under a company umbrella to dispense with the usual hassles around large transactions.
“For a 5-star service :)” read the memo—at least the Darkes tipped well.
A heartbeat passes before the smell of blood burns in his nose again, acrid and foul. He clumsily slams the phone onto the counter and grabs the edge of the metal sink, leaning over the basin just in time to vomit.
