The man wailed, bemoaning his weakness for gambling, followed by a boisterous account of how much money he’d skimmed from Arnaund’s profits. Several other guards overheard the confession echoing through the cell, and by morning, the embezzler was dead at Arnaund’s own hand.
No one knew Etalon had caused the event. They assumed the henchman had been drunk, which loosened his tongue. Etalon kept the secret, until his cellmates were ready to be auctioned. Several patrons came to the catacombs early, to consider which child they wanted to bid on for cheap labor or sick sadistic pleasures. As they stopped to study Etalon’s friends, he wielded his song like a sword, slashing them all until they moaned and wept.
The patrons stumbled out, one by one, faced with their own depravity. They refused to return, or to buy any other child from the lot. Instead, they spread the word about the avenging angel locked in the catacombs, who sang with such fierce sweetness and critical accuracy, it made a soul beg for the release of eternal damnation.
Furious that Etalon was costing him money, Arnaund bound and gagged him. There was talk of cutting out his tongue, but it would compromise his worth. Patrons wanted their merchandise intact. Besides, it wasn’t the words Etalon sang; it was the quality, richness, and purity of his voice.
So Arnaund and his henchmen force-fed Etalon lye—diluted enough to keep him alive, while caustic enough to blister and damage his vocal cords beyond repair. After hours of strangling on the hot, acidic vomit he was forced to swallow due to Arnaund’s fear of damaging his lips or face, Etalon lost what made him unique, and the ability to defend himself or the other children.
Etalon prayed for death, but instead fell into a deeper level of hell. A week later, a man contacted Arnaund, specifying he wanted the little songbird whose tale had been entertaining and horrifying the dregs of society. Up until then, Etalon’s outrageous price tag had kept him safe.
On the day of the sale, the guards dragged Etalon into a small room with a lone lightbulb strung from the ceiling, casting snatches of light on the dirty, webbed skulls embedded into three of the stone walls. The fourth wall was bare, and they cuffed him there. Once Arnaund arrived, the guards left and shut the door. Etalon stood across from his mother’s murderer. The man had a bucket and sponge in hand. Etalon shivered, his body bared, all but for a pair of pants too short to reach his ankles, bloody and disheveled after fighting the guards.
“What a mess you are,” Arnaund grumbled. “A perfectly calculated mess. Every bit as wily and stubborn as Nadine was. But what did her fire get her, hmmm? Got her snuffed out, it did.” He splashed Etalon with the bucket’s frigid contents. Etalon coughed, inhaling the sudsy water. Soap slime oozed down his nasal passages and clogged his windpipe. He choked for breath.
At the mention of his mother, flames lit inside his heart. His song burned to be born and bring Arnaund to his knees. Colorful notes that would never have the chance to rise from his useless throat.
Arnaund sponged Etalon’s face and chest, making him squirm. “Your efforts were wasted. This particular patron has unusual appetites. No one knows his name, and no one’s ever seen his face. He’s simply known as a phantom of the night. It is said he scuttles in the shadows, like a scorpion.”
Etalon shivered again, terrified of the imagery.
“And believe me . . .” Arnaund chortled, gleefully. “One such as that has developed a taste for dirt and grime. You’re too pretty to pass up. Messy or no. Lovely as a milk bone to a half-starved dog.”
Refusing to look into Arnaund’s beetle-black eyes and harsh round face, Etalon studied his cold, mucky feet—remembering a time when his toes were clean and poked from his socks like playful puppets. It seemed so long ago.
“Can’t tell you what a pleasure it will be to see you carted off, little Ettie,” Arnaund spat. “Nearly leveled my business to dust. I’ve been far too easy on you. Maybe I’ll cut out that tongue of yours after all, and wear it as a necklace. I doubt your new owner would have the presence of mind to notice before—”
“Better you not underestimate my observational prowess, Monsieur.” Neither Arnaund or Etalon realized they had company until the man’s baritone swelled inside the room—poised over them, above them, around them—as magnificent and threatening as a tidal wave. Had Etalon not been pinned to the wall by his aching wrists, his knees would’ve buckled under the weight of the dulcet, hypnotic sound.
“Being as I’m a scorpion”—the melodious voice swelled higher, louder—“who scuttles in the shadows undetected, I’m inclined to see and hear everything.”