Chapter 14: Blood Moon Bargains

Outside, the blood moon had begun its slow rise, casting a ruby glow across the estate. The air was thick with something ancient, pulsing through the trees that bordered the land. Viktor stood on the veranda for a moment before returning inside, his fingers still stained from uncorking a crystal decanter of blood wine—pressed from the fruit of a rare crimson tree that only bloomed under moonlight. Its taste, bittersweet and heady, deepened under the lunar gaze.

Ayoka waited in the room, dressed in something soft and unexpected: a sheer pink chemise edged in green, like spring tangled in dusk. The fabric caught the moonlight and shimmered as if spun from rose petals. Under the glow of the blood moon, her skin revealed something deeper—snake-like patterns glistened across her arms and collarbone, shifting faintly with every breath. Her snake heritage shimmered proud and unhidden in that light. She glanced at her hand, watching the scales catch the red hue, then exhaled slowly and willed them away, her skin returning to its human tone. But the moon had already seen her truth.

Viktor exhaled a ribbon of smoke, the faint scent curling like incense in the air. With a sharp snap of his fingers, the room flooded with light. He tilted his head and asked, amused, "Why are you sitting in the dark, sladkaya?"

Ayoka offered a white lie, her voice smooth. "Didn’t want to waste the energy."

He laughed—deep, amused, with a flash of fang. "These lights run on gifted current. Energy from those who have too much and need somewhere to place it. It’s a trade, not a cost. Founders like old Beginmain Franklin built it for balance—those with overflow, sharing light." He strolled past her, still grinning. "So no need to dim your shine for my sake."

They eased into their usual rhythm, Viktor trailing his fingers along the softness of her thighs—his favorite feature. He poured himself a glass of blood wine, its deep crimson swirling like a spell. Ayoka reached out and took a sip from the same glass, and for a moment, everything slowed.

It was a small gesture—but not a meaningless one. In many circles, especially among those of Viktor’s lineage and skin tone, sharing a cup was once thought to be a curse, an omen, an opening of the soul to another’s fate. For Ayoka to drink after him, and for him to allow it—it wasn't just bold. It was intimate, unsettling, electric.

The air was growing thick when a loud noise echoed through the estate—a clash, perhaps metal or fury, too sudden to be mistaken for anything else.

Viktor straightened at once. He told Ayoka to return to her room, though his tone was calm, his eyes burned bright with tension.

Sabine looked startled to see her back so early. Ayoka murmured something vague—“Just noise in the dark.” She didn’t explain. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Three hours later, while Ayoka was brushing out her hair by candlelight, Sabine humming softly, and Malki dozing with a half-suckled thumb in his mouth, a knock echoed at the door. Slow. Heavy. Not urgent—but definitely not casual.

Sabine opened it to find several nervous slaves outside, their eyes wide with fear and shame. Dust clung to their clothes. One still smelled of smoke.

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Among them were not just humans—but other bound creatures Viktor kept under contract. A girl with slit pupils and a shimmering mane of dark scales blinked slowly at Ayoka. Another boy with bark growing along his jawline, a dryad kin, held the edge of the door with trembling fingers. A third—small and hunched—had elongated arms and eyes too wide for his face. He bore the mark of the impundulu, a lightning bird child cursed to remain grounded.

These beings, pulled from African folklore and wrapped in servitude, carried stories in their bloodlines and bruises. Ayoka’s eyes lingered on each, knowing well that no one came to this door lightly. They were more than fellow prisoners—they were a network of quiet resistance.

Even in bondage, the enslaved looked out for one another. It was a legacy passed down from whispered histories—like those in the American South, where women and sometimes even men were asked to distract the master or mistress to protect others from punishment. Some bore the weight of manipulation with grace, using charm, wit, or seduction to draw attention away, to buy precious moments of mercy. Whether through flirtation, storytelling, or performance, it was a dance of danger and survival. Ayoka had done it herself more than once. Sometimes, dignity was the cost of protection—and sometimes, sacrifice wore silk gloves and a tight-lipped smile.

She could see that same understanding in the dryad boy’s wary gaze and the lightning child’s twitching wings. They didn’t trust easily—but they had hope enough to knock. Something had gone very wrong.

They were panicked, explaining they had nearly burned down the supply house over a simple mistake. Viktor was furious, and they feared a tenfold punishment—beatings so brutal they'd never walk clean again.

One of the older girls, her eyes sunken but fire still burning beneath them, whispered, “He’s got that mood on him—the kind where words don’t work.”

Another, younger and fidgeting with fear, asked in a breathless rush, “Miss Ayoka, please... we don’t want to die in that room. Just... buy us a moment. We’ll fix it.”

Sabine was ready to send them away, but Ayoka stepped forward.

This wasn’t pity. It wasn’t some saintly gesture. It was calculation—survival. Maybe even lust. The blood moon was still high, her blood still warm, and she didn’t trust her own heart to tell the difference. "Clear the halls," she said, her voice cool, decisive. "Make sure no one touches them."

She rummaged through Sabine’s wardrobe and pulled out a costume—a belly dancer’s outfit, barely more than shimmering threads stitched together by daring. Holding it up against her frame, she glanced at her reflection with a breathless chuckle. “Might as well go for broke,” she muttered.

Then she turned to Sabine. “Use the magic this time. Draw trees on me. Let a whole forest bloom down my legs. Let him think he’s wandering through it alone.”

Sabine crossed her arms, jaw tight. “You know this might change everything, right? Once you step in there like that, he won’t see you the same. And neither will they.”

Ayoka whipped around, her breath sharp. “I know, Sabine. I know.”

Sabine hesitated for a beat longer, then sighed and reached for the glow-ink. “Fine. But don’t pretend I didn’t warn you.”

She dipped her fingers and began painting—spirals of vines, roots winding down Ayoka’s thighs, tiny blossoms at her hip bones. Each symbol pulsed gently, casting shadows that danced like breath. Ayoka stood still as a statue, hands clasped before her, trying not to let her trembling knees give her away.

“You sure this ain’t pity?” Sabine murmured. “Not some ghost of what we used to be?”

Ayoka didn’t answer right away. She didn’t have to. Sabine brought her a vial of pink liquid, thick like syrup and glittering faintly in the candlelight.

"It’ll loosen the air between you," Sabine said, voice quieter now. "You’re walking into something... that don’t give you many exits."

Ayoka took it. Her hands shook—not from fear, but from the weight of the moment. This wasn’t about pity. It was power. A gamble. A dare. Was she doing this out of survival—or lust, stirred by the blood moon’s strange pull? Maybe both. Maybe neither.

But when she walked out that door, she’d do it on her own terms—even if her knees were trembling.