And it was only made worse by the ultimatum dropped by my mother.
I knew it was only a matter of time before she finally kicked me out of our little apartment above the brothel. I turned eighteen last week, and the birthday felt like a noose around myneck, slowly cinching tighter every day. While not young enough to be legally Awakened, seventeen was the minimum age to work in the numerous pleasure houses in Vespera, and I knew the owner of Le Petite Mort had her eyes on me for years.
My mother was a Pleasure Mage, and a rather powerful one, especially for a no-name orphan from the streets of Vespera. The likelihood that I emerged with the same power was high, so it made sense that the owner wanted to sink her talons into me as early as possible. I’d be profitable for her and, if I decided to pursue a career in pleasure but with another establishment, I’d create unwanted competition.
But I’d never wanted to follow in my mother’s footsteps.
I’d seen the life this career offered—the uncertainty, the lack of autonomy, the emptiness—and I wanted none of it for myself. I should have left months ago when Lord d’Refan posted an open call for his army, but I felt obligated to stay; to look after my sisters and make sure they weren’t drawn into the life our mother provided.
But even with my constant guidance, it seemed that at least my oldest sister—Lena—would willingly sign her body away to be used once she turned fifteen. Our mother had us close together, so her birthday was not long after mine. Despite my best efforts, our mother smuggled Lena out of our apartment while I was distracted with my younger siblings and brought her into the brothel itself. Lena assured me she never had sex, never did anything that would be classified as illegal, but I had my doubts.
That, more than anything, drove a wedge between my mother and me, forcing me even further from the career she desired for me.
Now it seemed her patience was at an end, and I was forced to make a decision.
Stay here and work in the pleasure house so I could look after my sisters? Or leave, start a new life elsewhere.
With what skills?
“Stop daydreaming, boy.” My mother snapped her fingers in front of my face as she took a drag from the rolled tobacco propped between two long fingers that ended in pointed red nails.
Objectively, my mother was once pretty. Or at least that’s what the girls downstairs said.
But time, drug use, and ten pregnancies over nearly as many years caused her beauty to be a shadow of what it was. There were certain men who wanted a body like my mother’s to fuck, but the clientele was far and few in between lately. I looked at her now, cataloging every wrinkle on her forehead, the worry lines etched in her face that told the story of a hard life. The slight sag of her breasts from so many babies feeding. The paunch of her stomach that never went away after birthing her children.
My mother was thirty-two, but she looked closer to fifty.
My heart hurt for her, and I fought the urge to rub my sternum.
She rolled her eyes at me—eyes that were so like mine—before waving her hand in front of my face.
“My gods, boy. Are you even in there? The Madame isn’t even going towantyou if there’s nothing going on upstairs. Though, sometimes those types make the better employees. The less there is rattling around, the more you’ll do for a coin.” She scoffed.
“Like you?” I couldn’t help the question that popped unbidden from my lips.
My mother stilled in the ratty armchair that was reserved for her and her alone. We didn’t have much furniture in our one-bedroom apartment, and we often ended up sleeping togetherin piles or sitting two or three to the few chairs we had in the space. But this one ratty piece of furniture was reserved for the proverbial “queen” of the house, as was the only bed.
In my mother’s words, she brought in the coin, however little it was, and she deserved the luxuries that position brought.
Even if the luxury was a torn chair so worn that the original color was indecipherable.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, boy. Those coins you look your haughty nose down on paid for this.” She gestured around the dilapidated space with her lit roll of tobacco, wafting the smell in my face. “It’d do you good to show a bit of gratitude and respect.”
“Respect?” I could feel the anger simmering just below the surface of my skin, bubbling in my gut, and creeping up the sides of my neck and into my face. “Respect?”
“You heard me the first time,” my mother said, unbothered, before taking another long drag.
“How can I respect someone who would rather fuck a man she doesn’t know than take care of her own children?” I gritted from between my teeth, the anger almost at a boiling point.
Her cold, brown eyes bored straight into my own before she adjusted herself in the armchair, pulling her shoulders back and lengthening her spine. The dress she wore was the same as every morning—loose and thread-worn—and it gaped obscenely at the top from such prolonged use.
“Now listen here, you little shit.” She jabbed a painted finger into my chest. “You’re only here because of who Ifucked. This house is because of who I fuck. The food on the table for you and your ungrateful siblings is because of who. I. Fuck. Lena at least has enough sense to want to contribute. You don’t love your family enough to even dothat.”
Spittle flew from her mouth during her tirade, a few drops landing on my chest and face. I flinched before wiping themaway, hating that my body still reacted this way to her. My mother was never kind, never present during my childhood.
Sometimes I pretended that this woman wasn’t my mother. That the other girls downstairs who looked after me were, and I just had dozens of mothers.
“I do love my family,” my voice quaked with the effort of holding my ire and anger inside, “but you are not my family.”
