La Commedia Dell'Arte
Chapter 1
There are markets in the dark places. They are secrets, passed by knowing voices in exchange for cash. These places are shunned by most of the civilized world, but it's also where people go when they fall through the cracks.
They must land somewhere, after all.
Most of the Fallen are moved around, captured and shipped away to distant lands where they are more exotic - and less likely to escape. Not knowing the language, they will not know their fate until it happens to them. The Fallen are helpless creatures, and generally beautiful. That is their main asset, and if they're skilled in other ways, then so much the better.
Are humans the only ones on sale at these markets? No, of course not. The world still has untold treasures, hidden and difficult to find. But humans are the most numerous and the easiest to collect. Indeed, for all their sublime claims to "human rights", very few truly care if strangers suffer, go missing, or die. It is their condition. One I share half of, I suppose.
In our world there are many kinds of creatures that blend in. They are adept at it. They have evolved to disappear. My father was one such - a strzyga, a living vampire. A twice-lived. He came from the old country to make a new life here in the United States, and against all odds he found a human woman who loved him. My mother loved us both, but our natures weren't like hers. Father tried to be good, to be godly and righteous, but it couldn't last. He outlived her, as he always knew he would, and right up to the end he, still young and handsome, prayed with her to comfort her. When she was gone, the prayers stopped. He had no reason to pretend anymore.
I suppose I didn't either. When mother passed, I was still young. For a vampire, that is. Fifty years old seems like nothing for the twice lived, and our youthful complexions sometimes fool us, too. For mother's sake I tried to live a human life, to find a job, learn a trade. In the end I did, though mother would turn in her grave if she knew what it was.
I am the head trader of the Fallen on the east coast of the United States. It's not something you can put on your resume, but those who matter already know. To the rest of the world I am nobody, a shiftless guy who used to jump from odd job to odd job and faded away into obscurity.
In the Dark Market, my name is Volto.
To assure my secrecy, I wear a mask - the volto, as the name implies. It's the type of masquerade mask that cover's one's face from chin to forehead, temple to temple. Mine is white and gold, with eye holes that reveal my light blue eyes with startling clarity. Above, my black hair is somewhat shaggy, just long enough to cover my ears, and my skin has always tended towards an olive complexion. Odd for a strzyga, yes, but my mother was Italian. Perhaps she bestowed upon me my love for Venetian masks. Or perhaps she taught me how to wear one before I ever placed the volto upon my face.
Tonight, I can smell the salty funk of the sea air seeping into the lower levels of the Charleston dockside warehouse. These markets always seem to occur near the water - it's less risky to hold the events where the shipping crates have arrived, rather than daring to transport such precious cargo across town. So many questions and problems with that method. So many bribes. So many unexplained disappearances, and recollected bribe money. I'm not one to waste resources, of course.
It's still somewhat early in the evening - 11pm. The stock cages are sturdy creations in steel, scrubbed clean every evening by my precious interns. I call them interns, but let's refer to them as they are - Fallen creatures that aren't pretty enough to make me coin. So I feed them, house them, and tend to their diseases in exchange for their labor. At times, I employ them as little spies. No one pays them attention, and my clientele have such big, flapping mouths. If they discover a secret that's useful, I reward them. They know better than to play double agents, of course. The last one I found being 'clever' was made an example of, then sold to a butcher and fed to the rest. There have been no clever ideas after that episode.
At 11:15, the first of the clients arrive, escorted into the assembled galleries by my masked interns. They wear masks like mine, but there's is a doll's face. Toys. I watch from my throne, a repurposed life-guard's high chair painted in black and strung with crimson and ebon silk ribbons. Above me, the lights are turned off, the remaining illumination at shoulder height. White Christmas lights are strung about the cages, creating a carnival-like atmosphere. Indeed, music plays, and there are entertainers here and there. More of mine, of course.
The cages themselves are draped with black velvet. Write ups of each sale item hang below on placards, and even now my little dolls are leading the growing number of clients around, showing them items that might satisfy them. My prices, of course, cover a range, as does the quality of my stock. Not everyone can afford a stunning pet worthy of a crime lord - some are in the mood for disposable amusements. I suppose a crime lord might be in the mood for either, but, in any case, I try to provide a wide selection. Male, female, human, and decidedly not human.
I watch from my perch as one of my dolls moves aside a curtain to reveal a young woman sitting in the back of her cage. She's naked, of course, just like the rest of my stock, save for the muzzle strapped to her face and locked there. Her arms are cuffed behind her, and her ankles are bound. She's of age - I do not trade in children - and I believe she might be Greek. Or perhaps Sicilian. Who can tell? All I know is that she's beautiful. Better yet, she understands her situation, and is doing a good job selling herself.
The evening carries on without a great deal of intervention on my part. My dolls are well trained, and the only part of the deal they aren't allowed to handle is payment. That's when I descend from my throne, gliding through the crowd like a wraith. I'm not as tall as the typical men of this day and age - I'm only 5'7", and I'm very slight. Still, I wear a black suit well, or, as I've done this muggy summer night, a pair of suit pants, black socks, black dress shoes, a black dress shirt, and black silk vest, fitted just so about my slender midriff.
What the client purchases from me in exchange for such precious money is a single key. Well, a key, and the assurance that when he or she takes their prize from its cage and goes home with it, I won't hunt them down. I don't believe in piracy of course. Some who run their own Dark Markets sometimes sell a stock item several times, but in the end it always gives them a poor reputation. I couldn't abide that, personally. I want my name, or at least my pseudonym, to be trusted. Volto shall never let you down. Volto has just what you need. That is what they say - that is what they will always say.
By the close of the market, I have sold nine keys. It's not bad, but I had been hoping to empty all ten cages. I've been moving the item within cage ten from market to market for three months now, and I can't seem to find a buyer for him. The dolls begin breaking down the displays while I walk down the two rows of cages. The last on the left remains covered, and I brush the black velvet aside to take a look at him. The man's slender without being gaunt. His look is perhaps middle eastern, perhaps Armenian. These days it's getting harder and harder to tell. Still, he's handsome, he's not diseased, and he's not too old. Why he's not selling is becoming a mystery.
I look down and tilt up his placard, studying the information there. Behind my mask I murmur the name printed there. "Seektear." I look at him, and his eyes smirk back at me above the covering of his muzzle. This was the only information we could get out of him when we acquired him. In fact, it was the only thing he ever bothered to say. A quick perusal of my smart phone brings up the truth, and I give him a look. "Ah, so you're Turkish, are you?"
He frowns, turning his face away from me. I would guess he's somewhere in his mid twenties and stands at about my height. I must admit that it amuses me that for so long we've been thinking that had been his name, when it was just the transliteration of his Turkish invective telling us all to fuck off, more or less. No wonder he hasn't been selling, charming lad.
