Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Elli had forgotten the sigil and I had too—until that very moment. Let me tell you, it worked better than any canister of pepper spray or “Get Off” possibly could. The “high class” client who had been trying to rape me recoiled from it like…well, like a vampire in a horror movie when the priest holds out a cross. He even did that tired old trope where the vampire hisses and bares his fangs.
I took a step forward, keeping the red sparkler between us. It was very gratifying to see that I had the power now.
“You don’t dare touch me with this in my hand,” I said, nodding at the sigil. “You know anyone holding the Baron’s sigil is untouchable on pain of death.”
This was actually true. It wasn’t like the Baron was the law or anything—in fact, if what I had heard was true, he was more like a Mafia Lord than a Police Chief. But he was so rich and powerful and feared that just holding his sigil was proof against almost any kind of physical violence or retribution from anyone you might have offended or harmed.
I hadn’t seen it often—he rarely gave his sigils out—but I knew that much just from the gossip of the other Blood Whores. To them, Baron Vik’tor was kind of like the Royal Family to people who read tabloids or frequent gossip blogs. They loved to talk about every aspect of his life, though of course, none of them knew him personally.
“I don’t know where you got that, but you’ll be sorry!” the would-be rapist exclaimed in a low voice.
“No, you’re the one who’s going to be sorry if you don’t leave me alone!” I snapped. “Don’t you know I’m the Baron’s special Blood Whore? He likes me because he’s half hsh’frux and I’m full hsh’frux —he says my blood is the sweetest and the warmest he’s ever tasted!”
I was making this up as I went along, kind of enjoying myself actually. It felt good to put the fear of God—or in this case, the fear of Baron Vik’tor—into a bastard like this. He probably would have been happy to rape me and drain me dry if he’d gotten a chance—now he wouldn’t dare.
“I don’t understand this—any of it!” he snarled. “But you’ll be sorry, you little hsh’frux bitch—I promise you that!”
His words might have frightened me if I thought that he knew my pimp. But there was no way someone dressed like him was going to know Rx’s. I very much doubted they ran in the same social circles, if you know what I mean.
As for being frightened that the Baron himself might come around, demanding to know why I was using his sigil, I didn’t even give that a second thought. Using his sigil was kind of like shoving a picture of a movie star or a billionaire into someone’s face back on Earth. You don’t figure that Elon Musk or Bill Gates is going to come after you for something like that, because you’re literally beneath their notice—the same way an ant is beneath the notice of an elephant.
Still, after I scared off the rich client, I found I was done for the night. I knew I ought to try and get one more paying customer, but after the adrenaline rush wore off, I felt weak in the knees and trembly all over. I couldn’t even bring myself to go beg at one of the food or drink carts scattered around the Central Hub.
As I said earlier, the merchants at these carts kept little glass collection jars with a sharp needle at the top. Naggian customers were allowed to prick their fingers and pay for goods with drops of their dark blue blood if they didn’t have enough creds on them. Though the merchants and shop keepers wouldn’t allow me to mix my “dirty” blood with the blood they’d collected in their jars during the day from Naggian customers, one or two of them would sometimes have pity on me and give me something to eat that had burned or gone flat or sour or stale or had spoiled in some other way.
But tonight, I couldn’t work up the energy even to beg. I had half a tube of the awful but cheap nutritional paste back in my hole—I would eat a little for supper and save the rest for a meager breakfast, I told myself. As the Warning Gong went off, letting everyone know the Sweepers were only minutes from appearing, I dragged myself back to the tunnel that housed my little hole.
There, I would huddle in the frozen semi-darkness and try to get some sleep so I could dream I was back home on Earth, happy and healthy and working on my dissertation instead of living the miserable life of a Blood Whore on O’nagga Nine.