“Hoping to ‘surf the Web’ or catch up on your ‘electronic mail?’ Hundreds of Court members are browsing the Internet, just like you! However, the digital realm can be dangerous for the uninformed Kept. Always check to see that you are following the Official Court Guidelines for Safe Nocturnal Internet Use. Remember, these are NOT OPTIONAL:
1: Just like your mobile phone, use only Court-sanctioned computers, or those provided to you by your Sovereign
2: Always make sure you are connected to the Court’s Virtual Private Network (VPN), or a similar structure created by your Sovereign
3: Never post or share identifiable personal data, such as names, addresses, National ID numbers, and dates of birth or Lighting. Usernames and passwords should never contain such data
4: Never arrange a meeting or submit an online order with any address other than the Court-approved Dead-Drop Zones (DDZs), provided in your yearly Court Membership manual
5: Never refer to another Nocturni online outside of their code phrase, provided in your yearly Court Membership manual
6: Never consent to being filmed, nor reveal yourself willingly on video
7: Do not, under any circumstances, state, imply, allude, or otherwise make reference to undead or supernatural presences, including those of your nature
THE INTERNET IS THE GREATEST THREAT TO THE LAW OF SECRECY IN THE HISTORY OF THE COURT. DOZENS HAVE ALREADY BEEN COMPROMISED. FAILURE TO FOLLOW ANY GUIDELINES VIOLATES CLAUSE 21.C OF THE AVALONIAN CODEX AND WILL WARRANT IMMEDIATE EXECUTION.
Please refer to the Court’s Information Technology Allodry if you’d like to know more. Contact details are provided in your yearly Court Membership manual. ”
IMPORTANT: Court Guidelines for Safe Nocturnal Internet Use, distributed by the Office of Davison Wynter, Reeve of North London, January 1st, 2004.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1866
Summer
They file out in the distance. One after the other, a line of marching men. They bake in the summer heat, lit by the early, cloudless night sky. Their arms are muscled and their skin layered in dust. Harriet can’t make out their faces, this far up the hilltop, but she knows they can’t be happy.
Gawen Rowe doesn’t pray when people are happy.
She doesn’t know where they are, anymore. North, yes, but near what and by how far? It’s a land of sloping hills, thick brush and roaring rivers. They’ve abandoned the desert, but only just. Bison roam here, with elk and wild horses and fewer wagons than she’s used to. This might be the biggest town she’s seen in half a moon, and it’s still a fraction the size of Keokuk, to say nothing of Quincy, the largest city she’s ever seen.
“Miners,” Red calls up beside her. “Work six days a week. Sunrise ta sunset. After seven hours, yer arms start ta shake. Ya grow half-blind from exhaustion at ten. An’ this time a’ year, boss is prolly makin’ ‘em work fifteen.”
“So they can blow their company dollars on the owner’s booze and the owner’s whores.” Menowin chuckles, chomping on his farmer’s gum. “And they still think the West will free them.”
Harriet ignores their talk, searching Rowe’s face, her Pa’s trusty Springfield pulled tight along her shoulder. The Black Prince is deep in thought, uncalloused hands clasped together. He whispers in a language she can’t begin to understand.
“Ro dhyn ni hedhyw agan para pub dydh oll. Ha gav dhyn agan kammweyth.”
“Rowe,” she whispers, grabbing his arm. His knuckles are white. The hurried speech grows louder. He’s shaking.
“Kepar dell evyn nyni, dhe’n re na eus ow kammwul-”
“Rowe!”
He gasps. Opens his eyes. Slowly studies the landscape beneath his feet, before turning to her. For a moment, he looks more like a feral dog than a man, but it’s soon replaced by a smile.
“That was so loud, Fireside. The training's worked." He says it with a hint of pride. “You aren’t even coughing.”
The sternness in Rowe’s face returns, and he looks at the town, the mine, the weary men.
“Josiah. What do you know of our Pharisee?”
“Silas Berkeley. Yank. Smelt iron fer the Union, ‘fore he thought ta strike out fer the silver.”
“Silas.” Menowin fidgets, like he always does when they haven’t moved much. “Why are they always named by pricks?”
“And the man in Fort Laramie,” Rowe continues. “Do you trust him?”
“He was one a’ Bedford Forrest’s. I don’t have ta trust him.” Red nods to the town. “An’ small places like these, word gets ‘round. Men who sign contracts they can’t even read. Get trapped in debt. Bills so high they don’t afford posts to their homes. An’ the treatment? Collars. Chains an’ stockades. Even gettin’ shot in the goddamn back if they try ta run. Nothin’ short a’ slavery."
“Except we’re hunting the slavers this time,” Menowin remarks. “For you, that must feel refreshing.”
Immediately, Harriet shivers in the tense air. Red goes quiet, and Rowe turns bolt stiff. The only one who still seems animated is Menowin. Hopping from foot to foot, and grinning ear to ear.
Red’s jaw sets. “Ya wanna repeat those words, Gypsy?”
“It’s called a joke, karbaro.” Menowin reaches up and pats his shoulder. “Maybe in a decade or two, that wounded Southern pride can stand to hear it.”
He stops. Red has grabbed the darker hand. Squeezing it with a pale fist.
“Gadje!” Menowin tries to pull away. “Let go of me!”
Red growls. Deep, and animal. Rowe tries to step between them. “Menowin, there is no need for these provocations-”
“Provocations!?” Menowin shouts back. “I wasn’t the one who hunted slaves!”
The punch is fast. Loud. Hard. Menowin’s forehead seems to crack, and he spirals into the sand, hand pressed to the gash that’s started bleeding. Rowe tries to pull Red back, even as the taller man stands his ground.
“Ya think yer clever?” Red storms up, his voice ragged. “Ya don't know me. It was a diff'rent time-"
“Is that what you told the dozens you sent back!?”
Red kicks. But Menowin’s faster. Rolling across with a fistful of sand. He launches it gleefully into the cowboy’s face.
“RRARH!”
Menowin slams into Red. Punching and clawing. Harriet pales as she watches blow after blow.
“I’m tired of you thinking you’re better!” Menowin shouts between a hit. “I’m tired of pretending..." WHAM! "... like we all have a CHOICE!”
His final punch strikes Red’s jaw. The cowboy stumbles back, crashing into the rocks, while a dizzy Menowin stumbles. He laughs.
“And...” He shakes his head, points. “And you still call yourself an Unbound!"
“What would you have me do, Menowin?” The Black Prince interjects. “Deny him the same second chance I offered you?”
“I’d have you stick to your fucking word!” Menowin turns around. “Though perhaps I shouldn’t. You two are cuts of the same cloth, aren’t you, milord? Rich, pale gadjo, play-acting as Jacobins!”
From the ground, Red snarls. “Stay back!"
“You think you're like your God!" Menowin gets close to the Prince. “With your prayers and your lecturing. But at least your God felt the lash! Am I wrong for wanting to follow people who have known a fucking sliver of my-"
“STOP!” Menowin halts. Harriet has rushed between him and Rowe, arms out, breathing heavy. She gives him a glowering stare, Pa’s Springfield shaking on her back.
“Leave. Him. Alone.”
At first, Menowin’s rage doubles. But slowly, she watches his face warp into bemusement. He looks at Rowe, then her again, focusing on her bare arms. The many freckles. The moonlit skin.
She gasps when he grabs her hair and launches her into the dirt.
“We should’ve kept you quiet.”
And he turns away from all three of them.
Harriet sputters on the ground, lacerated and bruised. She grits her teeth as she watches his figure shrink, her hand reaching back…
“Fireside.” She turns to see Rowe’s raised hand. “He's not our enemy.”
Red slowly climbs to his feet, the tiny town in the distance still glittering to life. Rowe’s silent for some time, listening to the distant cheers caught on the wind.
“Eddards, when Menowin spoke of the owner’s whores and booze… was that true?”
“Yeah.” Red spits out some rogue blood. “Berkeley’s Station, I think it’s called. Also owns the post office, the general store, an’-”
“Does he frequent it?”
“It’s a small town, Rowe,” Red replies. “An’ most of us are better than you at drinkin’.”
Rowe faintly smiles. The cowboy smiles back.
“And Fireside, tell me. Do you get stage fright?
“What?” Red cuts in before she can speak.
“The easiest way to reach a man who controls everything is to present him with something he doesn’t.” Rowe points to the redhead. “You’ve seen her little tricks with the gun. If we make it a sort of spectacle-”
“No. Not what I’m askin’.” Red points. “We’re… we’re bringin’ her!?”
“She wanted to join us, Josiah.”
“An’ ya didn’t ask me?”
“It’s not your choice to make.”
“An’ it ain’t hers, either.” Red huffs. “She can get hurt, Rowe."
“I ain’t scared a’ gettin' hurt.” Harriet frowns.
“I know. That’s the problem.” Red sighs. “Ya can fill her head with yer ideas an’ theories, Rowe. But she’s… what? Fourteen? I… I ain’t gonna stand-”
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“Then don’t.” A voice from behind replies. “Stay right up here. The rakli and I can do this alone."
Harriet tenses before she turns around. Menowin’s back, a bandage over his forehead, the howling wind chirring the bells that dot his clothes. Red looks ready to tear him apart, but Rowe is calm as ever.
“You would join her, Menowin?"
“Sure,” he shrugs. “Dress her with a necklace, a skirt, a diklo. I start the crowd with some svatura." He rolls his hand. "And everyone comes to see the magic girl!"
“I don’t wear skirts, Menowin.” Harriet scowls.
“Pants, then. It doesn’t have to be authentic.”
Menowin watches the Black Prince, clearly deep in thought. He smirks.
“You said you wanted a spectacle, Rowe. You won’t find more than with two Gypsies.”
Harriet doesn’t like it. Grips her gun firmly so that none can see her shake. But she can tell Rowe is already swayed by the fact the is silent. She keeps forcing down the feeling that this is some sort of betrayal.
“Two conditions.” Red cuts in, drawing close to Harriet. “One: Ya two ain’t gonna be alone. Rowe an’ I will be right behind. That a problem?”
Menowin shrugs. “Not if you can keep quiet for-"
“Good, cuz answerin’ me is Condition Two.” Red frowns. “Two weeks ago, ya called her unclean. Now, ya want her ta tag along, get her ta dress like ya! What gives, Menowin? What's yer game?”
“Paradox, gadjo.” Menowin shuffles back and forth. “Maybe I like that she’s pulling her weight around. Maybe I want to crush her little dreams! It doesn’t matter, does it?”
He smiles, amber eyes flaring. Harriet feels something stir, like windchimes on the porch.
“ She wants to come, and you want Silas Berkeley dead. So you’ll just have to trust me.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
2004
She wakes as she always wakes. Suddenly, and without dreams.
Harriet’s in a bed. A nice one. Not hers. Her back is eased by the cushions, and the linens are soft on her skin. She blinks away the ceiling lights, already turned on, and perks up, defensive stance, when she hears the sounds of running water. For a single instant, she’s in the wilderness. The mountains, the aspens, that strong, dry Western air. But then her eyes fan towards the windows.
And she finds herself at the top of one of the tallest buildings in London. Glittering lights, passing dusk, all twinkling hundreds of yards beneath her feet.
The lights cast reflections of the room she’s in, too. The plaid covers, the wooden furniture, the ornate bathroom tiles. A horrid, skimpy outfit has been left on a hook by the closet door. Taunting her.
She breathes. Instantly, her neck strains against that thick black choker.
Weapons. She needs weapons. She could tear the leg off an armoire, or rip the faucet from the sink. But as she searches, Harriet's gaze falls inevitably to a new feature on the bedroom door. Something on the handle. A keypad. Metal. Heavy. Blinking red.
Harriet starts to curse, but her throat suddenly seizes. Right. Soteris must not have lifted that command.
Hunger. It comes as quickly as she’s gotten her bearings. Her arms shake, her face grows taut, and she can barely hold in her fangs. When’s the last time she fed? A week ago? And after burning through all that aether.
She frowns. Whatever. Soteris wants to be her Keeper? He can be the one to bloody deal with it.
Pulling off the covers, Harriet’s relieved to find herself in the same white outfit, layered as it is in red. She keeps trying to talk, tingling at the odd resistance it always builds in her throat. Eventually, she notices the ornate note, tied with red ribbons and adorned with gold lettering, left on the pillow beside hers.
She tears the accessories to shreds.
Fireside
I will arrive at 2100 hours. You will be dressed and composed by that time. Failure will be disciplined like any breach of our contract.
She scowls.
I know what you want to do. Don’t. You have not seen anything close to my worst, and while I enjoyed last night’s game, I get bored very easily.
With joy, your Keeper.
Shitbird. She tears the letter in half. How this man’s haughtiness survived the Court’s elders is a complete mystery. Maybe it’s what inevitably happens when someone who’s been Kept for decades gets a sliver of real power.
She considers refusing him, right there and then, but… then what? He hits her? Screams at her? Orders her to do it again? Running’s out. Fighting’s out. So what options does she have?
Passive resistance, for one. Moving slow. Playing dumb. Blanking out to let the windchimes take her. But that doesn’t gain her a victory, so much as it delays his. And Soteris doesn’t care. His control is absolute. He could move her like a puppet if he wanted to. Half the shit he does seems to be for sheer amusement.
Fine. Harriet springs from the bed. She’ll play. Not seriously, but enough to keep Mr. Ego satisfied. She thinks of Red and the Unbound. They’ll tear through the city. Avenge Janet. Know she’s alive and find her. They have to.
In ten days, Polyphron Ltd. will have a scar on the concrete. Two weeks, at most. But in the meantime, she’ll scout the field, and line her shot. Harriet smirks. They’ve taken her freedom, but not her dignity.
…
… unless Soteris breaks her first.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Warm showers are one of the few modern luxuries that Harriet actually enjoys. She could spend hours breathing in the steam, reddening her skin, and listening to the windchimes. But it’s harder to enjoy it when she’s in a prison cell.
Albeit, an extremely opulent one.
She’s poised, ears pricked to the door to Soteris’ room. so precariously close to her naked body. It’s nice to get the grime out of her hair, but since she can’t find a release latch, she has to wash while still wearing the collar. The shower’s as extravagant as expected, with tiles of gold and lapis lazuli. The shelves are filled with more hair and skin products than one of her caches is filled with guns. They’re all for men, and they all carry ridiculous names. 'Flawless.' 'Aesthete.' 'Bolero.'
Only one seems feminine, and she curiously plucks it out. It’s in Greek, with an image of a small pink flower. She pulls open the lid and sniffs. Citrusy, and extremely fragrant. The four zeroes on the tag make her head spin, but goad her to rewrite her original plan, which was to layer herself in whatever smelled closest to Lynx. Now she pours out half the fancy glass bottle, grinning as the liquid gold seeps through her fingers. She probably can’t stop him from dolling her up, but she can bankrupt him while he does it.
Crash! Harriet rears up, eyes wide. The hunger immediately makes the whispers of the Wilds loud in her mind. Whatever it was, it came from the other side of the door. Heavy footsteps, rattling items. Harriet slowly twists the faucet off. How tempted she is to believe it’s an Unbound, come to the rescue. But she knows better.
She steps slowly out of the shower, shakes her head like a dog, and swipes herself roughly with the towel. The whole time, her eyes focused on the… undergarments… she’s left in the corner. Lace. Panties and a thin bra, with elegant little designs that happen to make large swathes of the skin beneath see-through. Harriet spent ten minutes pawing through her drawers, and couldn’t find any better options. It’s a step above being naked, but only just.
Warily, she forces them on. Adjusting the straps with grit teeth, the fabric on her skin only making her migraine harsher. By the time she’s staring at her scantily-clad self in the mirror, half of her vision is covered by white clouds.
Ten days, she reminds herself. Two weeks at most.
She barely opens the door, peeking out her head. Addana’s slumped on the far wall, reading a thin, well-loved book. Her dark eyes look up for just an instant, but the threat in the gaze is clear. It’s tempered quickly by the body that steps between them. A done-up girl in matching denim jacket and jeans. Harriet’s eyes widen as she gives a shy smile.
“Oi, ‘Arriet. Sleep well?”
Astrid Traynor waves, revealing a thick black cast on her wrist.
Harriet stares at the cast, then Astrid, then the cast again. A part of her feels guilty. Another still angry. But mostly, she can’t help but wonder why the woman didn't take a sick day. She clings to the door, sheepishly covering herself, searching Astrid’s excessively chirpy face for a sense of vengeance or sadism or anything.
But no. There is the girl just leans to and fro, bouncing with giddy. As if they both can’t see the impact her head made in the plaster.
“What’s the matter?” Astrid lifts an eyebrow. “Cat gotcher tongue?”
Harriet’s cheeks glow red. The feeling brings her back to her earliest days with Rowe. When she couldn’t speak, and she was treated like a kid.
“Awwww. First punishment, innit? Well, chin up, girl! Each one gets easier than the last!” Astrid beckons. “Now, cah’mon, cah’mon! Addana’s a mum, she’s seen girls in their undies!”
From the growl, Addana does not enjoy being included in the conversation, but Harriet forces herself out anyway. She hugs her arms, overwhelmed by a sense of cold she shouldn’t be able to feel.
“Aww, lush, ‘ose freckles!” Astrid stamps her feet. “So cuuuuuute~!”
Harriet looks at the ground. The adulation isn’t helping.
“Well, at least we know everyfin’ fits!” Astrid chuckles. “Now, ‘Arriet, the hair. What’s your standard routine?”
Routine? Harriet blinks her.
“You know,” Astrid gestures. “Brush? Blow-dry? Maybe some curlers if you’re… no.” She shakes her head at Harriet’s growing confusion. “No, girl, seriously! You’ve got, like, twenty-five inches! There’s no way you’re… fuck, there is. Are you just air-drying it out!?”
Harriet looks around the room. Yes? Why wouldn’t she? It’s not like long hair’s a problem, anymore. Been decades since she last got fleas.
“Okay, okay, ooooookay.” Astrid rubs her eyes and loudly exhales. “Damage control. ‘Arriet, nod or shake. You ever painted your nails?”
Harriet shakes her head.
“Put on lip gloss?”
Shakes her head.
“Face masks? Heels? Pierced your ears?”
Shake. Shake. Shake.
“Who are you?” Astrid throws up her arms. “I… look, Soteris told me you might need some assistance, innit, but this is a cosmetic Blitz. An actual fashion emergency! Who’d you spend the last century wiff? The fahkin’ squirrels!?”
At that, Harriet genuinely smiles, and nods her head furtively.
“Oh, now you get cheeky?” Astrid huffs, eyes on the clock. “Well guess what, Chip an’ Dale? Boss only gave us forty-five minutes to make ‘is…” She draws a circle around Harriet’s face. “... business-friendly.”
She turns around, and lifts something from the bed that makes Harriet shrivel when she sees. A massive cosmetic bag, overflowing with fake glass and black plastic. There’s a dozen different tools she’s barely aware of, and a dozen more she can’t even name.
"And while I will say your natural’s halfway there…” Astrid smirks. “... I didn’t get Lighted by not tryin’.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The next forty-five minutes are some of the most harrowing in Harriet's... recent memory.
Once again, Astrid Traynor makes liberal use of her Nocturnal super-speed. But it’s one thing to watch those blurred hands work a TV remote; when those hands are whizzing across her face, it’s something else entirely.
Harriet feels her cheeks get pelted. Her lips smear. Her eyebrows pluck out. And through it all, Astrid’s touchiness reaches a whole new stage. There’s never an explanation, never any asking. She just rambles on, pressing on the redhead's cheeks until her lips are puckered, or lifting her eyelids up to keep the poor girl from blinking. The fact that Harriet can’t talk, and that Astrid’s found a way to play Britney over the loudspeakers, only makes it all worse.
“So I had to go to the doctor’s to get dis cast, yeah?” Astrid shouts over the music. “And urrrgghhh, the hassle! Guess which emergency room ‘appened to have no late-night openin’s?”
Harriet’s eyes flick to Chiagozie’s reflection in the mirror. Still leaned back. Still reading. Still utterly unwilling to engage.
“So here I am, cowerin’ in the one room wiffout windows, listenin’ to this nurse prattle on, an’ bein’ all like, ‘Yeah, yeah, no dancin’ doc, no worries there. But hahaha, you know, just between us, would you mind sparin’ me a FAHKIN' UMBRELLA!?"
Harriet twitches. A second smooth texture is being pressed against her lips. More lipstick? Why? Didn’t they already do this!?
“‘Ey say the Court runs the gov’ment, right? So why aren’t there more people on the fahkin’ night shifts?” Astrid sighs, reaching into her bag. “I mean, seriously. We own half the country’s wealth, but can’t spend it cuz the shops are closed!? What kinda system issat! An’ you KNOW what those geezer vamps are gonna say. ‘You don’t need healthcare, Astrid! You can heal!’ Well okay, smart-arse, just wait. Only takes one fahkin’ bloke to bite some poor sod wiff AIDS, and oh shit! Looks like you can't heal from -”
Harriet rears back with a hiss. Her eyes gravitate to the metal wand in Astrid’s hand, bending the air with its heat. Harriet feels her fangs slide out, bearing her nails…
“Oh, hush!” Astrid smacks the top of her head with her good hand. “It’s just a fahkin’ straightenah.”
She pushes Harriet back into her seat, forcing her to endure the Wilds-inducing sensation of flames across her locks. The inability to speak is... frustrating in front of others. She hadn’t realised how much her voice could refuse or resist. But Soteris had. And it burns something inside her to know that this was exactly what he intended.
“Okay, but, like, I’m not meanin’ to give you a bad impression of the elders, right? The Court’s great! I love the Court. Sure, there’s a few downers, a few out-theres. But you’re gonna make so many new friends! And - ergh!”
Harriet suddenly feels Astrid let go, and hears the fiddling of plastic above.
“Cah’mon, you little… stupid… how’d you even get…”
She's struggling with the straightener. The handle's gotten wedged in her cast.
Suddenly, Astrid yelps. Harriet’s climbed up the seat, eyeing the instrument close. Addana springs forward, heavy footsteps echoing on the floor. When Harriet grabs the plastic, the younger girl starts panicking.
“Wait, wait, wait!” She can hear the shake in her voice. “‘Arriet, don’t-”
Tch. Barely the hint of a sound.
"... oh."
Harriet twists the straightener around, her arm half-wrapped by the cord. She sets it down, and studies again the black cast she's holding. Right over what should be Astrid's wrist.
Astrid looks at her like a frightened animal, until they both hear the click of Addana's baton.
“That’s it! Stay away-”
“Addana, stop!” Astrid shouts. “Stand down!”
The Oathsworn growls. “Avery gave-”
“I know. But... please.” Astrid sighs. “I can handle it.”
Harriet’s barely paying attention to their words, instead bringing her face closer to the object that contradicts them. She's never seen one like this up close before, much less explored it with her fingers. It’s surprisingly hard, and bumpy, and lifeless. Cut off from all of Astrid's buoyant and unnatural warmth.
“‘Eyyy.” Astrid kneels down, just as Harriet’s face starts to twist. “‘Arriet… are you worried about dis?"
No. She isn’t. She shouldn’t be. Harriet looks away, cursing the forced silence again. Astrid’s… Astrid’s a crook. A Court crony. She hurt her, and she’s lying to her, even now. But...
“Awwww, don’t be like ‘at.” Astrid grabs her shoulder, her voice soft. “Just a wrist, right? ‘Ese fings fix up fast, an’ you know me! I love a challenge! Always wanted to try a handicap on me good hand!"
Astrid wilts, seeing the way Harriet still can’t meet her eyes. She leans further.
“You were scared, right?”
Harriet inhales. The way she smiles. Her eyes flashing bright. Something she can't put down a sight.
“I would be,” Astrid nods. “And people like us… we do scary shit when we’re scared. So no hard feelings, yeah?”
She’s broken a hundred arms. Blown the brains out of thousands. But this isn’t like hurting FitzGerald.
Or even like hurting Cappie.
“Cah’mon,” Astrid slowly spins the chair until she's turned towards. “Let’s get back to makin’ you gorgeous.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Eight minutes to spare. She’s had her hair brushed, her nails trimmed, her skin marked by a dozen different tools a hundred different ways.
“We’ve gotta do somefin’ ‘bout ‘ose ears,” Astrid remarks to herself. “Bossman’s gonna want piercin’s… but for now…”
She swivels Harriet back towards the mirror. Makes little jazz hands.
“Ta-daaaaa!”
Her breath would have been stolen, if Harriet could breathe.
Her face is a canvas, as daunting in each part as it is in the whole. Her hair loops past her shoulders, clean, lush, curled and vibrant. Thick black liners make her blue eyes spark. Her cheeks and lips are a subtle red, just enough for one close to notice. And forget pale skin, or corpse-grey pallor. Whatever Astrid has caked on her face makes it look smooth, bright, and…
… alive.
For the first time in a hundred years, Harriet looks like she's living.
“You know what I’d call ‘at, luv?” Astrid wipes blood-sweat from her brow, folding her arm. “Pretty spic an’ span.”
Harriet slowly reaches up to her eyelids, letting the dark shadow stain her fingers. She blinks once, twice, looking at it like a mirage, waiting for it to shimmer away.
But it doesn’t. It never does.
“Arright, last port. Want anyfin’ changed?”
Changed? No, never. But yes, everything. Her desire to look on is only barely stronger than the urge to scurry away. She feels so many things, too many things, all at once. Stunned. Disbelieving. Inspired. But more and more, as she feels the smoothness of her hair, sees the blush in her cheeks...
Fear.
She can only feel fear.
“Next time, I’ll start teachin’ you how to do dis for yourself. Nuffin’ big, don’t worry! Just the mascara, but consider it a favour for-”
Astrid stops as Harriet’s breathing picks up, louder and louder. Harriet’s gripping her arms, her eyes looking past the mirror, at the button-down and skirt.
“Oh, I'm flattered.” Astrid completely misreads the room. “You're speechless!”
But when the outfit comes on, even Astrid goes quiet. It's so tight that Harriet needs help with all the zippers and strings. While Astrid works, the Unbound looks in panic at Addana. The baton now dangling from the woman’s hip, with the brass knuckles, the radio, the cattle prod. There isn’t a gun in sight.
And Harriet still considers taking her chances.
Eventually, there’s nothing between herself and the mirror, but what Harriet sees is near unrecognisable. The shirt squeezes her chest, exposing bits of the lace bra and a freckle-filled cleavage she didn’t know she had. The skirt is worse, revealing thick curves, accentuated by unveiled thighs. Add the collar, and the hair, and the makeup, and she looks like something between a secretary and a stripper.
image [https://c10.patreonusercontent.com/4/patreon-media/p/post/109541765/31254d84e3064bd9bc18e1b3aecf66ca/eyJ3ZWJwIjowfQ%3D%3D/1.jpg?token-time=1730678400&token-hash=luaYc2wz6HfPZqDvOmwFAZttfwqHlXvhBIKoKY7U3sA%3D]
And that’s before Astrid sits her on the bed, and coils black tights around her legs that attach to the garters.
“So, ‘bout the heels…” Astrid’s trying her best to ignore Harriet’s paling face. “Boss-man likes ‘em big, but I talked him into startin' small. Three-inches. You can do ‘at, right? It’s just balancin' on little pieces of wood.”
It’s not at all like balancing on little pieces of wood, but Harriet lacks the voice to say that. Instead, she quietly whimpers as her feet get squeezed into the shoes, unaided by the constant rubs of her shin that Astrid must think are comforting.
Click. Harriet starts. Her eyes rocket to the straps in her feet, now adorned with tiny padlocks.
“‘Ey, ‘ey!” Astrid raises her hands as Harriet starts to stand. “Just…”
Astrid hesitates when she sees Harriet's fear. Her eyes twitch, then rocket to the floor.
“He... he insisted we add more security.”
Security? Things start to connect. Harriet has no experience with heels, no training. Soteris has to know, and Astrid hasn't offered. It will take most of her focus to walk, much less run. And if she can’t take them off...
Addana’s sudden movement turns Harriet's attention upward. Harriet’s eyes dim at the sight of the object in her hands. A six-inch chain connected to little cuffs. They’re padded on the inside, but outwards, the same black leather as her collar.
The windchimes roar, now. Astrid's hands are balled into tiny fists.
“Two options, Yank,” Addana spits out before Harriet can think too long. “I can make this easy, or you can make this hard.”
Harriet opens her lips, revealing her fangs, but the sight just makes Addana laugh. She’s about to kick back when she feels weight by her feet. Astrid, hugging them. The Allod still can't meet Harriet's eyes.
But seems to have no problem pinning down her legs.
Breathing heavily, Harriet offers her wrists, recoiling inside as she feels the tightening leather. The black mixes with the white of the clouds. There's no utility in them. She can't stretch or reach or even put her hands to her sides.
In the distance, they all hear the sound of an opening door. Astrid lifts Harriet to her feet, ignoring her desperate twitches back. The chains ring with each step, and the heels stab into her feet. Harriet’s face reddens, and she breathlessly sounds out words she can’t speak.
“Don’t worry,” Astrid whispers.
Beeping from the other side.
“He’s gonna love you.”
The door swings, the apartment comes into view, and Harriet is standing only inches away from her silent, waiting Keeper.
The second he sees her, hunger fills his eyes.
“Look at you.” He seizes her face. "A real Court woman."
He presses her cheeks, tilting her head, and ignoring her cries.
Harriet wobbles in the heels and skirt, grabbing his wrist with her chained hands. He leans closer and closer, taking a deep waft her hair. Cyclamens.
She's constricted. Claustrophobic. Terrified. Exactly as he wants.
“Tell me, Fireside.” He pulls back with a grin. “Do you still feel like a killer?”