Bought By The Masters Read online

  Bought By The Masters

  Daniella Wright

  Contents

  1. Roze

  2. Roze

  3. Roze

  4. Roze

  5. Cato

  6. Gentleman

  7. Cato

  8. Roze

  9. Cato

  10. Roze

  11. Cato

  Chapter 1

  Roze

  Snow fogs over the bar windows. I witness the streets speckling over with fresh layers upon solid frost as well, and the hard-worked residents already clearing their driveways and salting the roads. It snows a lot in this city, which is impressive, given the fact that it’s in the north-western part of Arizona. Or maybe it’s less impressive, considering the entire city is influenced by magic. Magic has a way of disregarding reasonable weather patterns, as it does for the laws of physics. Also applies to the creatures that envelop themselves in it.

  I sip at my virgin mojito, which is a vivid, toxic green color, with a little umbrella and a lime edging the glass for no other reason than decoration, and I crunch through the sugar sprinkled on top as I drink. The bar isn’t so busy, but it is early afternoon, so people will be at their day jobs. May as well give it some time. Tiffany, meanwhile, comes back to the table with a dark beer. Tapping my nails on the glass of my mojito, I glare at Tiffany. She’s not pacing herself, and I’m obligated to at least point this out “You know, you should really stay off the alcohol until evening. Otherwise you’ll be blackout drunk by the time you get your pick.”

  “It’s just one,” Tiffany says in dismissal, not particularly impressed by my argument. “Not everyone who drinks alcohol is an idiot and irresponsible.”

  “Really,” I retort, thinking of at least five different incidents where Tiffany, all blonde hair and manic horniness, ripped into the college guys, or had to be dragged back to safety by whoever was at hand. She’d be an angel to the lecturers, but showed a completely different side to her friends.

  “I’ve changed since then,” she replies airily, knowing exactly what I’m thinking about. She doesn’t feel shame about her drinking – she thinks it provides great conversation material. “Everyone lets loose a little in college. Free from parents, flying out the nest – it’s normal. Like you didn’t do the same.”

  Seems like years ago since I graduated. Years more since I dropped out of residency, though in reality, it’s been three weeks since I gave up on my aims of being a surgeon. I’m trying my best not to think about it too deeply, and to swallow up the disappointment and shame that insists on poking holes in my mental defenses.

  When one door closes, another one opens, I tell myself. My grandmother used to say this to my mother when she lost a job, or if she wanted to quit painting, or writing, or whatever new idea she’d wanted at the time. Grandfather was more of a keep calm and carry on type. Both their mantras seem useful to me at the moment. I might feel like shit, but I guess I can pretend to myself that everything’s okay.

  Finally, Alex joins the table as well, and she’s gone for the coffee. She glances around nervously. She’s always been less comfortable about visiting magical cities than visiting obscure human cities in equally obscure countries, because she doesn’t like the lack of control magic presents. Magic belongs to the witches, the warlocks, the animal shifters, and the fae. Creatures who used to be nothing but human mythology for years, until a century ago, when they decided to establish their own cities, rather than hide in human ones.

  Guess a world war really put things into perspective for them. Now while the rest of Arizona is so hot that people can’t even walk in normal shoes without the soles melting, there’s this little Arizonian city of eternal winter. A place I’ve always wanted to go, but never found the time to during my medical courses, and hundreds of thousands of tax dollars poured into my education.

  Just to quit.

  “You look like shit,” Alex says helpfully. Where Tiffany is blonde, and tall like some ancient Norse Valkyrie (though those might actually exist too, I’m not sure), Alex is stocky, with a slight hue of blue to her dark, fuzzy-wire hair. I’m the dark hair, dark eyed one, with a native American grandmother somewhere, which can be seen in wider cheekbones, and a strong jawline. My mother used to joke that the women of the family could cut steel with our jaws, but strongly encouraged me not to do so.

  “I feel like shit,” I agree, raising my cocktail in salute. “It’s hard not to feel like a complete failure. And let’s ignore the fact I had student debts higher than a mountain.”

  “I’m worried about you,” Tiffany says then, slurping at her drink in a way that makes both Alex and me glare. “You were doing so well. You had all the training, and you started your residency. And then we hear nothing from you for weeks. You were refusing all attempts to meet up. So what happened?”

  “I’d rather not talk about that,” I croak. Everything inside feels spiky. There’s a taste upon my tongue like copper, a tightness in my throat. I keep a chant up in my head. Keep calm and carry on; one door closes, another one opens. Keep calm... “I just want to forget.”

  Neither of them push further, but I see it in their eyes that they want to know. And really, I owe it to them. So I condense it. Keep it brief so that it doesn’t have time to sting. “Too much pressure. Bullying. And mobbing.”

  “Mobbing?”

  I lick my lips, already adopting the persona. “Group think. You know, like when one person alone is nice enough, but a group of people can end up doing stupid or cruel things?” I smile grimly. “Applies even to people in the medical field as well.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard about that,” Tiffany says, picking at her cuticles. “Something to do with the way people follow the crowd, right? Mob mentality.”

  “Mm,” I say, not quite willing to keep talking, hoping my reticence will stave off the really awkward questions.

  “Yeah, I watched a crime documentary where these people kicked to death someone because...” Alex trailed off. “Not appropriate, I guess?”

  “Not really,” I agree, but I’m smiling. “But we love you anyway.”

  I’m glad my friends do steer off the subject. I don’t know when I will be ready to talk about it, but right now… I absently tug at my long black sleeves, until the tips cover my palms. Right now – it’s still too soon. Too raw and my insides are tender, not quite stitched up.

  “I was promoted to manager recently,” Tiffany says, flicking her hair for dramatic effect, and to prompt smirks from us. “And they said I couldn’t do it. Too feminine, so no one would take me seriously. Take that. Just because I’m pretty, doesn’t mean I’m incapable of being smart.”

  “Hear, hear,” Alex said with a vigorous nod. “They’re not mutually exclusive.” She ran a hand through her thick, short hair. It did absolutely nothing, as the hair sprung back into position like a rocking doll. “Wish I could say the same about my job, though. I don’t think I’ll be seeing a promotion there for years. The manager prefers giving his friends promotions even though they’ve been working in the job only for a few months. Seen it happen a few times now.”

  “Shit,” I say sympathetically, giving her a pat on the shoulder for good measure.

  “So, Roze,” Tiffany says, after the patting’s gone on for about five seconds, “what’s your plan with Halberg city? Aside from getting rat-ass drunk, bar crawling and making snow angels, I guess.”

  “Whatever catches my eye,” I say, as I examine the other patrons in the establishment, noting the genuine ice hockey table, the blue-white frozen liquid gleaming on the table’s surface, and two teenagers – one who looks like some kind of demon, with a red tail and horns on her head, playing against someone made out of twigs and leaves. My friends noti
ce the direction of my stare as well, and Alex gives a visible shudder upon seeing the twig guy.

  “That’s so fucked up. Do you think he snaps like a twig?” she says, staring at him as if she expected him to fall apart at any moment.

  “I don’t know, he’s kind of attractive,” Tiffany says, now showing decidedly more interest than either of us in him. “You think he’s as hard as wood?”

  “Ugh, gross, man. Do you have to think about that right now? I’m gonna spit up my coffee,” Alex says, while I consider the possibility as well, examining the bark-like arms in cursory interest. I didn’t specialize in supernatural medical studies, so I don’t have a great understanding of their complete anatomy, but there are enough similarities. Maybe I should have taken the exchange program, and supernatural medical studies instead. Magical cities are notoriously more open and diverse. But it cost four times more the tuition of my regular course, and they didn’t accept scholarships. And I think I’d rather fix up humans than magical creatures, but hey.

  We all watch the twig guy smile at the demon girl, and she laughs and says something that has them both in stitches a moment later.

  “You think they’re dating? How does that work?” Tiffany’s just as curious, and I have to admit, I’m not entirely sure, either. Presumably both people are…. anatomically similar enough to do the things my friends are clearly wondering. But it is an odd sight as a human to behold. Alex, meanwhile, is now studiously looking away. She doesn’t get the fascination with shifters.

  I have a fascination with them. I know there are many that present as perfect humans, but have a beast lurking under their skins. There’s something thrilling about that concept. Maybe it speaks to a primal part in my brain, to associate with someone who fights a battle between their human and animal selves.

  Not someone I’d want to settle down with, but certainly someone I’d want a fling with, however brief.

  “Much like how we date anyone else, I suppose,” I reply. “But in cosplay.”

  Alex snorts at this, and Tiffany gulps more of her beer, before announcing: “I wanna try the table, that looks fun. And is that a magical puck?”

  It was indeed a magical, glowing and pink puck. We crowded the table after the young couple or friends had finished, and played among ourselves for a good hour, and also spend some time failing at the slot machines. With the early darkness starting to encroach from outside, we started seeing more patrons trickle the bar. Including one that caught my eye from the moment he entered – and everyone else’s eyes, as well. I mean, it was hard not to notice him. Ruffled tufts of dark hair poking out of a blue beanie, eyes obscured by huge aviator glasses, and the fact that he slunk over to the furthest, darkest corner like some dodgy drug dealer probably had something to do with it. His companion, a robust, mountain of man who I suspect might be a bear shifter ends up being the one to buy the drinks and carry them over to his heavily obscured friend.

  “He’s someone famous,” Alex decides, sitting with me while Tiffany heads for a bathroom break. Alex likes to assume things, and make up stories about said things. When she met me, she thought I must have been a Victoria’s Secret model, she was ‘99 percent sure’ she’d seen my poster somewhere. Joke’s on her: I barely had enough time to sleep back then, let alone model underwear and straddle a chair suggestively. “All the famous people act like that. And this is a pretty beat up bar. I mean, there’s a table there for board games, and chess sets and books tucked up in the shelf over there, and some slot machines. This is probably that kind of indie bar for those who don’t want noise.”

  I stare at this half-obscured stranger, eyes running over a distinct, angled jawline, with a hint of stubble upon that face, and the long, slender fingers that unravel from an otherwise ordinary and ugly Christmas sweater with a picture of a reindeer on it, complete with a fluffy red and prominent nose. The sweater is ugly and contrasts absurdly from what I can see of his handsome face. I want to just throw caution to the winds and go over there to talk to him, and just ask why the hell he’s wearing that stupid thing. He has to be supernatural in this place, with a companion like that, though he’s going out of his way to look awkward and out of place. Maybe the burly man with the coarse beard is his bodyguard. Alex nudges me, and I blink out of my staring, slightly embarrassed with myself.

  “I said he’s someone famous,” she repeats, and I grunt a reply. Yeah, probably.

  “Who’s famous, now?” Tiffany flops back at our table, rather dramatically tossing her hair, her Pandora bracelet jangling. I glance at the little emerald-eyed owl attached to it. Her birthday present from me two months ago, ordered online. Pretty much all presents from me were bought online out of necessity and limited time allowance.

  “Dude with the glasses,” Alex says, doing her look-in-this-direction-but-not-really skill, perfected over the years of school we suffered together. Tiffany, never exactly subtle, stares blatantly at the guy like I did. “God, you two are useless. You’re far too obvious.”

  “Those glasses are opaque. You think he even sees through those window shutters?” Tiffany squints, and I guess she’s probably weighing up the famous theory in her head.

  “And, any moment...” I say, my right fingers drumming the dark brown table. As predicted, the man finally clocks the attention he’s getting, and lifts his head to face our direction.

  Tiffany doesn’t flinch away, but Alex suddenly looks like she has better things to think about. I manage a guilty glance in the man’s direction, before stating to my friends, “The other possibility we didn’t entertain is that maybe he’s some serial killer, and we’re going to see him in a few month’s time in one of Alex’s killer documentaries she’s always watching.”

  Alex snorts, and Tiffany scoffs. “A guy that hot? Come on, he can’t be a killer.”

  “Are you serious right now?” Alex’s voice is dripping in a condescending way, and thumps the table, snatching Tiffany’s attention.

  “What? He can’t be. He’s too confident and whatever.”

  “You literally just argued before that being pretty doesn’t mean you’re stupid. And now you’re saying being hot means you’re automatically not a serial killer? The fuck, Tiffany? You know Ted Bundy was handsome, right? Didn’t stop him killing all those women, did it?”

  Their voices are loud, and heated, and I’m about a hundred and ten percent sure all fourteen other people in the bar can hear them. They’re having too much fun so I don’t interrupt, but a part of me wants to die when the man raises up from his seat, and heads straight to our table, followed by his hulking companion.

  “Ladies,” the shaded man says, immediately causing a wave of silence. “I hope you don’t mind me stepping in like this.”

  “I’m hoping you didn’t hear what was being said,” I reply, since Tiffany looks like she wants to die of embarrassment, and Alex is smirking in a very punchable way.

  “No, but you were glancing my way an awful lot,” he says, in a low, growly voice. “So I got curious.” He tilts his glasses slightly, and I catch a silvery flash in his eyes.

  A shifter. But that might be slightly obvious, given the fact we are in a shifter city. Though there’s a surprising amount of human tourists and residents from the districts we’ve seen so far. I have this handy little app on my phone that gives recommended districts, and ones to avoid. It seems like Halberg itself has something like four spoken languages used by its shifters, and even two kings, though their titles are mostly just symbolic nowadays.

  Not that I should be thinking about my app at this point, because the shifter gives a wide, dazzling smile, and my doctor’s brain instantly goes oh hey, nice set of dentures you’ve got there. Very straight, so probably used bracers, definitely bleached. His skin is a healthy hue as well, though there’s shadows the faint color of plums under his eyes when he takes the glasses off.

  “You’re famous, right?” Alex says, eagerly scanning his face, and I suspect she’s planning to get an autograph and then mayb
e see if she can sell it.

  “Moderately,” the shifter confirms. “Though I’m not as well known in this district. I’m Cato Dagen, of the Dagen clan.”

  “That sounds like a really drunk way of saying ‘dragon’,” Alex notes, and I snort into my drink.

  Cato grins. “You’re right about that. This is Beron,” he then says, indicating the mass of muscle next to him. Well, he’s not all muscle, but I’m finding the size of him very distracting. As for that beard: it’s about as magnificent as they come. “Can you guess what shifter he is?”

  “A bear?” Tiffany ventures.

  Of course, I think. Why wouldn’t he be named that. “That’s a little strange. Do all shifters walk around with a variation of ‘bear, ‘wolf’, and ‘dragon’ in their names?” I say then, and Cato’s eyes lock onto mine. I’ve never seen a color like that before in my life.

  In pictures, sure, but there, only a few feet away, they’re like pools reflecting a full moon.

  “Not all of them, no. But some of the older families have it incorporated into their surnames. Beron’s full name is Titus Grenaven Beron, but he dislikes the first two names, and prefers to be called by his surname only.”

  Titus Grenaven Beron glares at Cato. “Did you have to trot my name out like some prize pony?”

  Cato claps his arm over Beron’s shoulder. “I think it breaks the ice better.”

  “You’re the one who has a name that your sister calls you ‘Catie’ with. If anyone has a girly name, it’s you.”

  “Not true. My name means ‘shrewd and intelligent.”

  “Two things you’re not.”

  I can see this is familiar banter. Cato wears a polite smile, the kind that suggests he expects to be photographed at any moment, whereas Beron doesn’t bother with mouth smiles. There’s something in his eyes that makes me think he has other ways of smiling instead.