Chapter 2: Liquidating Assets
The scent of the foyer—sweat, perfume, fear—clung to her skin like a second gown. Zoe shed it in the bathroom, the silk-draped walls swallowing the echoes of her dominion. Here, the only sounds were the drip of gold-plated faucets and the shallow, wet breaths of the man on the floor.
Piggy Bank knelt on the icy marble, his broad back rounded in a curve of pure resignation. He was newer, still fleshy with the memory of autonomy. That made him interesting.
Zoe propped one boot on the crest of his spine, tracing the elaborate embroidery with her eyes. “This filth is from the terrace gravel,” she said, her voice soft, almost intimate. “Little Measure tried his best, but a footstool can only do so much. Look at it.”
She didn’t mean the boot. She meant him. He knew. His shoulders tightened.
“Lick it clean,” she said. Not a command. A suggestion. The most dangerous kind.
A choked sound escaped him, half-gasp, half-sob. He didn’t move.
Zoe sighed, a whisper of disappointment. She reached for the pearl-handled razor on the vanity, its blade catching the light from a hundred mirrored fragments. She tested its edge against her thumb, a thoughtful gesture. “You know, I had a taxidermist visit once. Charming man. His hands were so precise.” She leaned over, the cold flat of the blade coming to rest against Piggy Bank’s florid, trembling cheek. “He told me the value of a piece isn’t in the animal. It’s in the posture. The perpetual suggestion of life.” She pressed slightly. A bead of blood welled, startlingly red against his pale skin and the silver steel. “You’re worth more as taxidermy than you are as a man.”
He whimpered. The sound was small, lost in the vast gilded room.
“I could have you posed. Something useful. A footstool, perhaps. Permanent. No more cramps, no more weeping.” She removed the blade, watching the blood trace a path toward his jaw. “But that’s static. Boring.”
She stood, walking to the enormous sunken tub, already brimming with steaming water and a confetti of crushed rose petals. The scent was cloying, sweet. She dipped the razor in the water, swirling it, watching the tiny crimson thread dissolve.
“I think I’ll set you free,” she announced, her back to him.
Silence. Then a rustle of fabric. Hope, stupid and immediate, was a reflex she loved to trigger.
“Tomorrow before dawn. I’ll have you driven to the edge of the black pine forest. The one with the cliffs. You’ll be naked, of course. And you’ll run.”
She turned, leaning against the tub, her green eyes holding his. “I’ll give you a two-hour head start. Then I’ll come. With my dogs. Not the servants. Real animals. All teeth and urge.” She smiled, seeing the blood drain from his face, leaving the cut on his cheek in stark relief. “If you make it to the river, you’re free. Truly. I’ll even leave a cloak and some money on the far bank. A fair chance.”
Piggy Bank’s mouth opened and closed. “Why?” he finally croaked.
“Sport,” Zoe shrugged, a casual roll of her shoulders. “And philosophy. I want to see what you become when you’re not this.” She gestured at his kneeling form with the razor. “Will you be cunning? Will you hide? Will you find a strength you never had here, licking my boots?” Her smile widened. “Or will you just be meat?”
She let the question hang in the perfumed air.
“And if you’re caught?” she continued, walking back to him. She placed her boot, still dusted with terraces grit, directly before his mouth. “Well, then the taxidermist gets his commission. I’ll have you stuffed exactly as you are in that moment of capture. Exhausted, terrified, perfect.” She nudged his lips with the leather toe. “Now. Clean it. You’ll need your strength for the run.”
Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the blood. He stared at the dirty leather, a world of horror contained in its intricate stitching. Then, with a shudder that wracked his entire body, he closed his eyes and extended his tongue.
Zoe watched, her expression one of mild, aesthetic interest. The slow, degrading ritual was its own kind of chase. The forest would just be a bigger room. She already knew how he’d run: clumsy, crashing through the undergrowth, easy to track. The anticipation was better than the hunt itself. Almost. She wondered if Dust Dog, silent in the foyer, could smell the new fear from here. It had a different note than his own. More panic, less acceptance.
She’d have to tell him about it later.