a poor, down-on-her-luck woman that isn’t supposed to be in a slave pen.
Or isn’t supposed to be in this world at all.
No such luck, though. The man points a finger at me and looks over at the guy counting coins. “I’ll take that one anyhow. Best looking of the lot.”
The slave-master finishes counting his coins and grunts. “You’ll want to collar her. She doesn’t think she should be a slave.”
They both share a chuckle at that, and someone puts a hand to my back and shoves me forward. With a yelp, I stagger to the front of the pen, and then I’m hauled out. I would say it’s an improvement from the cramped, filthy pen I’ve been stuck in for the last two days, but given that I’ve just been sold as a slave?
“Improvement” is debatable.
So I smile at the soldier that bought me, determined to make a friend. If I can win him into friendship, maybe he can explain to me what I’m doing in this weird-ass world and how I get home. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Faith. I’d give you my hand to shake, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.” I raise my shackled hands and put on my most winning smile.
The soldier stares at me. He smiles, then crooks a finger.
Even though it feels like a trap, I lean forward. “Yes?”
He grabs me by the neck, and then something rough and metal locks around my throat. A collar. I choke, raising my manacled hands to claw at the hair caught between my skin and the collar, since it feels as if it’s all being pulled out. He slaps my hands away, then grabs them and loosens the manacles before snapping my lead chain to my collar. “Follow me, tart.”
Coughing, I stumble after him when he tugs on my lead. “My name’s not Tart. It’s Faith. And I feel like we really need to talk—”
The man comes to an abrupt stop, and I slam into his front. He gives me a shove backward, scowling. “I say I wanted you to lip off at me, Tart?”
“No—”
He glares again, and I go silent. I know when to take a hint. Fighting back frustration, I follow behind the jerk—my new owner—as he heads out of the slave pens and into the busy Aventine streets.
“Pleasure doing business with you again, Sinon,” the slave-master calls.
His name is Sinon. I file that bit of information away, because knowledge is power, and right now I am absolutely on the low end of both knowledge and power. Words burn in my throat, because I desperately want to talk to this man. I need him to listen to me. I need him to realize I’m not from the filthy streets of Aventine, or anywhere else in this land. I’m not from here at all.
I’m from freaking Chicago.
I’m still not entirely sure how I got here. The kids from Narnia went through a wardrobe dresser and became kings. The chick from Outlander touched some stones and ended up with a hot kilted Scotsman.
Me, I knock on my neighbor’s door because I hear voices shouting, and the next thing I know, I’m being shoved in a slave pen and referred to as “Tart.”
Hollywood has definitely misled me.
The most frustrating thing of all is that no one will listen to me. I’ve told everyone I’m not a slave, that I’m not from here. What did I get?
First, I got backhanded.
Then I got shoved into a slave pen.
Now I’ve been sold and I’m following behind Sinon, the bitchiest soldier ever, all because I was trying to be a good neighbor.
“You keeping up, Tart?” Sinon growls as he pushes his way into the busy streets.
“Absolutely.” I hop behind him as quickly as I can, considering I’ve got no shoes. Even though I don’t like this guy—and “don’t like” is being kind of mild—I know I can’t be left alone on the streets of Aventine. I learned that lesson already. I don’t have a “mark” that shows I’m from here, and everyone that doesn’t gets enslaved because apparently Aventine is at war with someone.
Despite the flowery name, this place is a lot more like a barracks than any city I know of. The streets are nothing but trodden mud, there are soldiers crawling everywhere, and all around the city there’s an enormous stone wall. It’s like a fort. A scuzzy one.
And all of the soldiers that pass by in their regiments, that file out of the city on