Page 3 of Bought By the Revenant (Monsters’ Bride Market #1)

Chapter Three

Amity

The market comes alive in the morning light as vendors arrange their goods on wooden tables, and early shoppers move between the stalls searching for the freshest produce and best prices.

I keep my head low and my eyes moving constantly from face to face, watching for danger while I walk through the growing crowds.

Old habits from weeks of running don’t disappear after one night of relative safety in a cheap inn.

My coins clink pathetically in my small pouch as I purchase a wedge of hard cheese and half a loaf of yesterday’s bread.

The apple I add is an expense I can’t really afford, but my body craves fresh food after surviving on scraps.

I’ll need energy and strength if I’m going to convince anyone to hire me today.

“Excuse me,” I approach an apothecary’s stall where bundles of dried herbs hang from wooden poles, filling the air with familiar scents. “I’m new to town and looking for work. I’m knowledgeable about medicinal herbs and…”

“Don’t need help,” the older woman interrupts without lifting her gaze from the roots she’s grinding with a stone pestle. “Town’s full of healers already.”

I thank her anyway and move to the next stall, pushing down the sour taste of disappointment.

Three other merchants give me the same cold response when I inquire about employment.

No one needs extra hands, especially not from a stranger who’s just arrived in their town and has no one to vouch for her character or skills.

I should have expected this, but hope is a persistent weed.

The market square fills with more people as the morning progresses, and the noise of haggling voices and clattering goods grows louder around me.

I find a quiet corner near a cooper’s shop to eat my meager breakfast, positioning myself with my back against the rough wooden wall so no one can approach without my knowledge.

As I chew the dry bread and hard cheese, I calculate how long my remaining coins will last. Two more nights at the inn if I’m careful, perhaps three if I skip meals. After that, I’ll have nothing left.

A flash of movement at the market’s entrance freezes the bread halfway to my mouth. My blood turns cold and my stomach clenches, the food I’ve just eaten making me sick.

Thorne.

His gaunt face appears among the shoppers, his eyes scanning the crowd. Behind him towers Elgar, his exceptional height making him visible above everyone else. Brone follows them, his muscular frame unmistakable despite the limp and the white bandage wrapped around his thigh.

I shrink back, pressing myself flat against the wall.

They shouldn’t be here in Crosshold. It’s impossible.

I took a train to a random destination and left no trail for them to follow.

How could they have tracked me to this particular town among dozens of other possibilities?

But the question of how they found me doesn’t matter now.

They’re here, in the same market square, searching for me with the patient determination of hunters who believe their god demands my blood.

I watch as Thorne stops at a vegetable seller’s stall and speaks to the merchant, who listens and then points vaguely toward the eastern section of the market, far too close to where I’m currently hiding.

I need to move.

Slipping my remaining food into my cloth bag, I begin edging along the wall, keeping my face angled away from their line of sight.

A narrow alley runs behind the butcher’s stall twenty yards away.

If I can reach it without being spotted, I might escape into the maze of back streets that web through Crosshold.

“Make way for the bride market setup!” a loud voice bellows across the square, and several burly men push through the crowd carrying long wooden planks and support poles.

The disruption they create provides perfect cover.

I duck low behind a large cart loaded with cabbage and follow in the wake of the construction crew as they haul their supplies to an open area at the edge of the market square.

They begin assembling what appears to be a raised platform, while a man in a gaudy purple vest decorated with rows of brass buttons waves his arms and shouts directions.

“Higher on that side! We need the ladies visible to all bidders!”

Bidders? I watch as several women of various ages gather near the half-constructed stage.

They range from girls who look barely past their youth, to women well into their middle years, all dressed in their finest clothes, though I can tell from the worn fabrics and careful repairs that none possess real wealth.

Their faces show a mixture of nervousness and grim determination.

“First time at a bride market?” A woman approximately my age sidles up beside me, her brown hair twisted into a neat braid.

“I… yes,” I stammer, still keeping watch for my hunters through the crowd.

“It’s not so bad,” she says, smoothing down her patched skirt. “Better than starving. My family’s farm failed last season. The fee to enter is steep, but if you’re chosen, your buyer pays you a sum. Most monsters aren’t cruel, just lonely.”

“Monsters?” I repeat the word carefully.

She gives me a peculiar look. “That’s what the bride market is for. Humans don’t need to pay for brides. It’s for creatures, aliens, non-humans. You know, monsters.” She gestures vaguely. “They come from their territories to find companionship. Or whatever else they want.”

A desperate plan begins to form in my mind as I listen to her explanation.

If I were purchased by one of these creatures – claimed as legal property according to market law – would that protect me from Witherglen’s hunters?

Would Thorne and his companions dare to challenge a monster’s rightful ownership?

The man in the purple vest – clearly the auctioneer – now moves among the waiting women with a wooden clipboard, taking down their information. He records names, ages, and useful skills in a bored voice that suggests this is routine business for him.

“Stand straight, smile, highlight your skills. Remember, you have final say on who purchases you but be realistic. The prettier and younger you are, the more choices you’ll have. The rest of you...” He shrugs meaningfully.

I glance back toward the main market. Thorne and the others continue their search through the stalls, moving steadily in this direction. They’ll reach the bride market area soon.

My throat tight with fear, I approach the auctioneer.

“Sir? I’d like to join the auction.”

He looks me up and down, assessing my potential value. “Entry fee is ten silver coins. Payable now.”

My heart plummets. “I have three silver and seven copper.”

“Not enough.” He starts to turn away.

“Please,” I catch his sleeve. “I’ll pay the rest from whatever I get when I’m purchased. I promise.”

He frowns and examines me more carefully. “Why the rush? Most women think about this for weeks before deciding.”

I cast another nervous glance toward the market. Thorne has stopped at a fabric merchant’s stall and is showing her something, probably a rough sketch of my face.

“I need to leave town quickly,” I say, holding out my meager pouch. “Please.”

The auctioneer heaves a dramatic sigh but takes my coins. “Name and age?”

“Amity. Twenty-seven.”

“Skills?”

“I’m a midwife. I know herbs, how to patch wounds, make healing teas…”

He writes this information with elaborate pen strokes. “You’ll be last. Stay behind the stage until called. Don’t wander off, or you forfeit your fee.”

Relief washes through me as I hurry behind the now-completed platform.

A large canvas tarp hanging from the back creates a makeshift waiting area where the other women sit on rough benches or pace nervously.

Through small gaps in the fabric, I can observe the crowd gathering for the auction.

The audience contains a mixture of curious humans and various non-human creatures – hulking, gray-skinned trolls, elegant fae with delicate pointed ears, a being that must be a lycan, with his wolf-like features.

The auction begins with formal announcements.

One by one, women are called to the stage.

Some return quickly, faces flushed with either relief or disappointment.

Others don’t return at all, having departed with their new owners.

A plump woman in her forties comes back with tears streaming down her cheeks.

“He offered so much,” she whispers to no one in particular. “But those teeth... I couldn’t.”

I look through the tear in the canvas. My hunters haven’t appeared in my limited field of vision yet, but that means little. They could be approaching from any direction.

“Final bride of the day!” the auctioneer calls at last.

My legs feel stiff and uncooperative as I climb the wooden steps to the stage. The afternoon sun hits my face with blinding intensity after the dimness behind the tarp. I blink rapidly, trying to see the faces staring up at me.

“This is Amity, twenty-seven years of age,” the auctioneer announces. “A skilled midwife who knows herbs and how to patch up wounds and make healing teas.”

The crowd stirs with interest at the mention of medical skills. I focus on a point above their heads, afraid to make direct eye contact with anyone, though I keep scanning the edges of my vision for any sign of Thorne and his companions.

“Opening bid?” the auctioneer calls.

A deep voice from the back of the crowd names a sum that causes audible gasps throughout the square. Even the auctioneer’s eyebrows shoot upward in surprise.

“We have an extraordinary opening bid,” he says, excitement breaking through his professional demeanor. “Any other bidders?”

An unnatural silence falls over the crowd, and I notice people shifting away from someone – a tall figure wrapped in a hooded cloak who stands in a circle of empty space.

Everyone maintains their distance from him, even the other monsters who, by their nature, shouldn’t be afraid of anyone.

As I try to make out this mysterious bidder’s features, movement in the crowd draws my attention.

My stomach drops. Thorne stands at the fringe of the gathering, his eyes locked directly on mine.

His thin lips pull back in a smile of triumph and anticipation as he nudges Elgar and points toward the stage where I stand exposed.

Panic rises in my throat. They’ve found me.

“Going once,” the auctioneer continues. “Going twice...”

Thorne and the others begin pushing through the crowd toward the stage, shoving people aside. They’ll reach me before I can flee the platform.

“The bid goes to the gentleman in the back,” the auctioneer declares. “Miss, you may approach your bidder and make your choice.”

The hooded figure steps forward into a shaft of bright sunlight.

The crowd draws back even further, and several people gasp aloud.

The hood falls away from his face, revealing features that belong in a nightmare.

White hair frames a face that has been stitched together from different pieces of skin, some sections paler than others, all connected by thick black threads that crisscross his flesh in irregular patterns.

His eyes emit an eerie white glow, completely lacking pupils or irises.

The stitching continues down his neck and disappears beneath the collar of what I now see is an extremely expensive coat.

Despite his fine clothing, people recoil from him in obvious horror.

In any other circumstances, I would be paralyzed with fear.

But as I look from this monstrous figure to Thorne, who has now reached the platform’s edge, I make a desperate calculation.

This creature terrifies everyone present, including the other monsters who carefully avoid looking at him.

He possesses enough power and wealth to offer a fortune for a bride without hesitation.

Most importantly, his appearance is so horrifying that perhaps even Thorne would think twice before confronting him.

“Sold,” I shout, pointing at the stitched monster. “I choose him. Sold!”

The crowd erupts in shocked whispers and exclamations. The auctioneer’s mouth falls open. Several women in the crowd shake their heads at my apparent madness, while others simply stare in disbelief.

Thorne has reached the platform’s edge. His eyes burn with the fever of a man who believes he does holy work. Elgar and Brone flank him, ready to grab me if I try to run.

I meet the glowing white gaze of the monster who has just purchased me.

For a moment, our eyes lock across the distance separating us.

I expect to see triumph or lustful anticipation in those strange, pupilless orbs.

Instead, I glimpse raw surprise mixed with uncertainty and what almost looks like pain.

But there’s no time to analyze any of it.

I leap from the stage in a desperate jump that sends my skirts flying, my feet hitting the packed earth hard enough to jar my teeth.

Then I run straight toward the stitched creature who is now my only chance of survival, pushing through the crowd that parts before me.

Behind me, I hear Thorne shout my name. I don’t look back. I run toward the monster who bought me, telling myself a life with him must be better than certain death.