The Great Below

The Two Voices

Victor didn't ask what they'd done with his fiance. It would have betrayed weakness; it would have shown them how valuable she was to him. The one thing he couldn't hide was his anger: Dominic's betrayal had grabbed Victor's mind like a fever. He'd made a mistake.

The contract was for one year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Fifty-two weeks, or twelve months. It didn't seem bad when he looked at it that way. Alternately, it would be eight thousand, seven hundred and sixty hours – math being the one subject Victor had excelled at in high school.

People always told him that being good at math would open doors, that not many people were good with numbers. He was lulled into the false idea that his life might be easy. In reality, math was just another deadbeat parent: math didn't put food on the table, and it didn't fill the perpetual holes in the bottom of his shoes. It hadn't promised him a job, once school was long over and he had to fend for himself.

Here's what had: Dominic, puffed up and smug in his thick, fall coat outside the boxing club. Victor had wondered even then if Dominic wore Kevlar underneath. The tip of his nose, red from one too many nips on the sterling flask he held as they stood on the sidewalk. Victor, on the other hand, was drunk on his new winning streak. It had been the end of September, and he'd just won his 20th bout in a row.

"You're a pretty good fighter," Dominic had said, a hint of the booze in his tone. He jerked his chin like he hoped to catch the attention of a waiter. "How much do you make, when you win?"

The question had scorched him. "Amateurs don't get paid," Victor told him. He had a collection of hairnets and restaurant aprons to prove it. Sure, he could pick up underground fights and gamble, but it was never enough. It wasn't professional boxing money. His curiosity prevented Victor from shaking Dominic down right there, on the street – ripping off that stupid coat and turning out the pockets. His opinion of Dominic hadn't changed much since then.

So while Victor never asked, begged or even demanded to know where Octavia was, he was confident that she lived. He wouldn't act until he knew for sure. He did his training and played along, waiting until he'd earned some small freedom of movement. Then, all of his free time was spent looking.

His first assignment was scheduled for Friday, which meant that his patience ran thin Thursday night. He hadn't had any luck for several nights in a row, and he was locked in his room during the day. When dinner wrapped up in the cafeteria, some men left on assignments and others went to their rooms. One small group darkened the cafeteria to wheel out an entertainment system and watch a movie. Victor paced every square foot he was allowed, inspecting each door on the lowest level and wondering where she stayed.

Where Dominic kept her.

He had no right. It was one thing, signing away a year of his freedom, but Victor thought he'd be sharing the experience. Living how they had at the apartment, but better – knowing that he was earning money for their future. Octavia was his comfort when the stress of working and fighting became too much. She was soft and malleable; she would learn anything, endure anything to please him. He had trained her to be his alone, and Dominic did not deserve her.

He ran out of places to look. Victor went to the empty gym to lift weights, wondering how close she might be. He never saw her in the cafeteria, but he knew the men ate in shifts. It was possible to hide her.

She had to sleep somewhere. Victor huffed against the weight of his bicep curls and stared through the tiny windows at the entrance to the gym, to Dominic's private quarters. An argument brewed out in the stairwell. Well, it didn't brew, exactly – it sounded like it had gone full swing and came closer, volume rising – and one of the two voices was distinctly female.