Auction

I stare at him ferociously, baring my teeth so they all know this fight is not over. Their lies mean nothing to me. They came to buy a girl today. They are not the heroes. There are no heroes.

"Let me go," I repeat in a snarl as I look around at their faces. They have very little in common, any of them. They seem to have been drawn from all over the world. We are all a mixture of genetics, survivors of the global pandemic.

There is a tall Nordic-looking man, then a darker skinned man with elegant features who reminds me of a pharaoh. He is holding my left leg down, and if I could, I'd kick him right in his gorgeous face. Tattoo Face has the heavyset build of a warrior or a wrestler. I can see the influence of the Southern Isles in him. Then there is another one, whose deep-set eyes and Roman nose put me fully in mind of a gladiator. His hair is thick and dark and curls ever so slightly. Put a robe and a wreath on his head and he could be Julius Caesar. Next to him is a man with brownish gold stubble, a square jaw, steely narrow eyes. Cowboy. The word pops into my head. He looks exactly like the pictures of cowboys I saw on the old novels my father used to read.

I am starting to calm down now, only because there is no option but to calm down. I don't know these men. I definitely don't trust them, but my body only has so much adrenaline. It has been coursing through my veins since I lifted the blade, and now it is seeping away, leaving me weak and tingling.

The fear is still there, but it's impotent. And there's a new feeling, one I know I shouldn't allow myself to have for a second: guilt.

I took a life, and that is wrong, I know that. But what was done to me was wrong, and what will still happen to me is just as wrong. I will not feel guilty for this. I will not. I will not be sorry. I will not apologize. No matter what they do to me.

"What is this?"

A shout from the room we just left announces the onset of more chaos. The sheriff's guard has found what remains of the sheriff and is about to raise the alarm. In an instant, five of the seven men holding me rush from my side and make their way to the guard. I am left with Silver Eyes and Cowboy, who swiftly prove that they can hold me down on their own just as easily as seven men can.

"Will you lose your life for a dead man?" I hear strong, definite tones. Is that Tattoo Face talking? It's hard to tell, but I recognize the way he is speaking. It is the authoritative speech of a leader, and it is what calmed me down somewhat. Maybe it will calm the guard as well.

"Murderers!" The guard's voice quivers.

"No, this seat is decided by blood. His is already shed. Will yours be too?"

"We have taken control of Dallas," Tattoo Face says. "Call your captains and have them report here. And do it now. Any attempt to overcome us will end badly, I promise you that."

I don't hear what happens next. A few seconds later, the five men return. This time, I am not the center of attention.

"Alright. This is an opportunity."

Nordic Man speaks. He has bright blue eyes and the kind of blond hair that only men seem to ever have, the thick, shaggy kind that has to be cut into submission.

He isn't talking to me. He's talking to the others.

They don't say much in return, but I can see agreement in their eyes.

"Zen?" The Nordic man addresses the man who has been holding onto my right arm. He is an intense-looking man, not as old as some of the others, or as large, but his olive musculature ripples with every motion he makes. He has green eyes and brown hair, and unlike the rest of the group, he is the only one I can't see visible tattoos on.

"Tie her up," Tattoo Face says. "Before we talk about this."

"No!"