The Aviary Read online

  The Aviary

  Emily Shore

  Contents

  Content Disclosure

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  The Garden

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discussion/Essay Questions for The Aviary

  Afterword

  Resources

  CTP Email List

  Never Touched

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  * * *

  The Aviary

  Copyright ©2018 Emily Shore

  All rights reserved.

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  Summary: Serenity wakes to find she's be sold into The Aviary—an elite museum where girls are displayed as living art by day and cater to the lascivious whims of the highest bidder by night. In this elaborate and competitive world, girls go by names like Raven and Nightingale, and will stop at nothing to become top Bird. To escape would mean losing her parents, but to stay means losing herself.

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  ISBN: 978-1-63422-328-7 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-63422-329-4 (e-book)

  Cover Design by: Marya Heidel

  Typography by: Courtney Knight

  Editing by: Cynthia Shepp

  * * *

  Cover Art:

  © naypong/fotolia

  © yuriyzhuravov/fotolia

  © millaf/fotolia

  For more information about our content disclosure,

  please click on the picture above or visit us at

  www.CleanTeenPublishing.com.

  Content Note: the goal of The Aviary Trilogy is to raise awareness about the devastating effects of sex-trafficking. The Aviary's major theme is a struggle with identity.

  These books brush on themes of abuse and manipulation, dissociation, pornography, Stockholm Syndrome, drug use in the industry, and various other subjects. Stories were inspired by real-world truths from survivors and rescue workers. A portion of The Aviary's proceeds will always go to benefit Women at Risk, International.

  For Terri,

  Who invited me to the Women At Risk, International seminar that changed my life.

  Author’s Note

  I set out to write The Aviary with one question in mind—what would the world look like if prostitution were legalized?

  After eleven years of involvement and research and volunteering in the anti-trafficking movement, this book has undergone many revisions and much evolution. It is not my intention to glamorize the world of prostitution/sex-trafficking/sexual exploitation in any way. However, I did want this work to target teenagers and to reach them on their level. While much of my book offers realistic glimpses into some of the deep complexities of the sex industry including dissociation, abuses, background of the victims and more, it is fair to offer a disclaimer:

  The role of Luc as a trafficker is not a full portrayal. Traffickers do hire handsome recruiters. One could argue he takes on this recruiter role as well. But while Luc practices psychological manipulation and certain tactics of pimps/traffickers, he does not practice the physical and sexual abuse which saturates the sex industry. This is particularly important to note. While Serenity does undergo an identity struggle as well as issues with Stockholm Syndrome, this work is not meant to show how a good female protagonist can reform the bad boy as the false narrative of Pretty Woman exhibits.

  What is also important to note is that Serenity’s story is not normal trafficking. Trafficking does not normally equal forced abduction. That is extremely rare. Trafficking involves many methods, but the most common is trust and/or a romantic relationship—one reminiscent of a father figure—between trafficker and victim. The breakdown to that place of trust does not take long, which is what I attempt to portray with Serenity through her internal landscape.

  I hope this series will offer some insight into this world, its complexities, and the state of its victims…not to discourage but to empower those who can to make a difference to prevent the sex industry from claiming one more innocent man, woman, or child.

  For every book sold, a personal donation will return to Women At Risk, International, an organization working in fifty-three countries in awareness, prevention, rescue, restoration, and healing. To learn more about them, please visit www.warinternational.org and subscribe to their founder’s newsletter.

  You may choose to look the other way

  But you can never say again that you did not know.

  ~William Wilberforce~

  1

  S e r e N i t y

  I shouldn’t have left the hotel room.

  “Gentlemen, we have a special treat for you today. Feast your eyes on this pure-blooded beauty!”

  I feel colder than some featherless bird in the middle of winter, even after the spotlight scoops me into its glow. As soon as they unveil my cage, I hear murmured ripples of appreciation from the crowd. Though my display is segregated from the main district areas, I can still make out the other girls in their pittances of lingerie behind their own windows. Some kneel prostrate—younger ones, mostly—while others tap on the windows like a never-ending SOS, luring the attention of clients.

  Every Glass District is different. This one is just fancier than most with its cobbled pathways, gothic fourteenth-century architecture, and expensive restaurants. However they dress it up, to me, every district is just a yawning cavern ready to swallow its patrons whole. The districts wear lust on their sleeves. Roll those sleeves up, and one will only discover bruises and brands on silken skin and needle marks confessing the arts of submission and coping.

  Moving skyways crisscross above my head where more digital advertisements beckon tourists to view the district from the second level. Suspended just above my display are a series of viewing boxes where some of the skyways convene. Wealthier clientele—those interested in more than just one night, those with a more driven purpose—rent these. Some scout for theaters, others for private clubs or brothels, and some for museums like the infamous Temple. I shudder to consider that notion.

  Prospective clients already fill the viewing boxes.

  Despite how much I want to, I don’t shrink into myself when the auctioneer presents me. A few hours ago, I had ankle-skimming skirts and sleeves loose as rivers to my name. Now, there’s nothing but panties and a lace camisole white as my own sunlight-starved skin. Ribbons drip from the camisole’s hem onto my taut stomach, while the neckline overemphasizes my already-generous cleavage. />
  My hands yearn to cover my breasts, but I press them to both sides of the glass instead, lending my best icy stare to the encroaching crowd of men, both young and old. I’m grateful for the gated barrier between us.

  “This little beauty was discovered in an old hotel in the center of the city.”

  Doesn’t he mean stolen? After all, I was minding my own business, just enjoying a midnight swim. Who cared if the pool closed at ten? I still took precautions; I’d used the staff stairway instead of the elevator, then scanned the lobby and nearby halls to make sure there were no smugglers before sneaking into the pool. In hindsight, I should’ve waited for Sky, especially since he’s looked out for me since the day I was born. Now, I’ll never erase the feeling of their hands coming down on me even while I was still in the water. It was only happenstance they saw me in the dim lighting of the swimming area. I recognized them by their clothing, their Glass District insignias, but I still put up a good fight, thrashing water all over the place until they drowned my nose in chloroform.

  “One must wonder if she was born right on the terrace of the lofts and raised in that very hotel.”

  It wasn’t one hotel. It was…several. A lake house manor for a time, too.

  “On the screen to your right, you’ll find our medical tests have confirmed her virginity.”

  I want to punch my hand right through the glass. Glass chunks in my skin would be worth the pleasure of grabbing the auctioneer by his meaty throat.

  “Watch out, gents! This hotel ghost may just be rabid,” warns the auctioneer, motioning to my sudden crouch. I can see my green eyes reflected on one of the many viewing screens bearing my image. Not emerald in any way. They are far icier. Like Sky once said—the color of fresh mint held in frost.

  She doesn’t look like me. My reflection on the screen, a petite marionette with her birch-white skin, fairy blonde curls now shimmering in the sunlight, and burlesque body. She’s always worn billowy skirts to soften her curves—curves Sky has always called downright deadly. Never so bare in public. Not since the first day of her existence.

  My chest starts heaving for air, my breath steaming up the glass walls, which the crowd loves. It proves I am warm. But that is wrong; I’m not warm. And I’m nothing like the other girls here―the Breakables—a term coined by the first Glass District owner because of how many girls would break down over time. Cracked as easily as glass. I’m not glass. I am ice and wrath and electricity. Lightning. And I strike.

  A few men step back in surprise when I spring forward, clawing my hands against the glass. Some walk away because I’m not their submissive cup of tea. Curious ones linger, though judging by their working-class or tourist clothes, I can tell they won’t bid today. They might try taking pictures, but security prevents them, a reminder that Glass Districts have their own rules.

  “Shall we start the bidding at one hundred thousand dollars?” the auctioneer commences. Auctioneers must be versatile and quick to deal with not only the crowd bids on the ground level, but also the electronic ones. This stubby, potbellied man doesn’t seem like he can keep up.

  Checking the holographic screen before him, the auctioneer raises his bushy brows. “Well! This is surprising. A first in our state, if not region. Thanks to a special patron, the leading bid is fifty million dollars. Would anyone like to counterbid? Going once? Going twice? Sold!”

  He takes a gander at the screen below him and nods, and I wonder if he’s receiving a message from the victor. If the final bid is meant to usurp all others, only a wealthier and connected client could have made it.

  Fifty million dollars!

  I might have been flattered…if the whole business wasn’t disgusting.

  Scanning the viewing boxes, I notice one man stand and tug at the ends of his smart suit jacket, which he wears with trim white pants and a loose scarf draped around his neck. From here, I can’t make out his expression, but his controlled posture hints that he handles responsibility well. I will know soon enough.

  While the auctioneer paces along the stage, preparing for the next auction, security arrives to remove me from the box.

  They still haven’t smartened up yet.

  One opens the cage on the side. Ducking under his arms, I slide beneath him and around to the stage front where the auctioneer stands, his back facing me. Oh, it’s far too tempting. In any case, it’s not like I’m going to get far with the District meatheads behind me. Might as well have some fun.

  I bring one leg up and kick hard, landing a flawless bull’s-eye into the auctioneer’s pudgy ass. Like uncooked bread dough, I imagine it will cave in, but I don’t expect to see him topple over the stage. He lands belly down on the ground with a pained oomph. Bonus.

  Well worth the security man jamming a sedative patch onto my arm.

  Caught off guard by the tranquilizer, I stumble to my side, my arms feeling heavy, but I smile at my good fortune when I see it—a large fist-sized rock. Before the guards can lift me, I snatch up the rock and smash it as hard as I can at the glass, gratified when it shivers and breaks.

  Murky fog invades my mind, and I gaze up at one of the skyways where my illustrious victor has paused to study my performance. Yes, God help him. I wonder what fate awaits me. Is he some high-ranking politician who wants me for a bride to share his bed? A museum director? An international graphicker with a famed studio?

  Black cotton balls float into my head, collecting together, snuffing out consciousness and memory, and leaving me with one last recollection…

  If he’s from the Temple, then not even God can help him because I will die before I end up like my mother.

  2

  T h e I m m o r T a l T r e a T m e n t

  Despite my skin screaming from the needles boring into my arms, my paralyzed body leaves me no chance to fight. Instead, I crawl through webs of mental fluff and open my eyes to a disinfectant Wonderland.

  I’m aware of several things at once.

  Voices.

  “She’s coming to.”

  They sound suppressed. Like they’re speaking through cotton candy.

  “Not for long.”

  I teeter on the edge of the rabbit hole. Realizing I’m naked, all I can do is observe while nurses in starched outfits hover over me.

  Another needle gives birth to a tear that tumbles down my cheek as the Temple skyscraper flickers in and out of my mind like a candle flame. Then, the machine beneath me hums and the laser lights above me begin to move. With purpose, they flow across my entire body, their warmth rippling across my skin like golden waves.

  It’s then I understand. This is part of the Immortal Treatment. How much have they done to me already? No doubt, they’ve detoxified my body and smoothed all its lines, as well as promoted collagen growth. A glance at my curls shows what they’ve done. Hair implants in my scalp to give it an even lighter hue. Almost white. Any blonde traces are now faint, bowing to a silvery frost. And it will never change.

  So much like my body.

  The Immortal implant is more of a program. I don’t remember what the formal term is called. The trending one is the Immortal treatment. However the technology works—DNA sequencing, gene editing, nanobots—all I know is that it’s age-reversing, or in my case…age-freezing. A chip injected under my skin. It is meant for one purpose: to keep me young forever. From now on, there will be no wrinkles. I will never lose my hair. I will never gain weight because fat will instantly dissolve. Have they strengthened my bones yet? If so, I’ll really be opposite of the Breakables. I’ve heard some recipients can remain at their fixed ages for decades. At least one perk is that I’ll never get sick.

  I wonder how long I’ve been here. If I was kept in a perpetuated sleep stasis, what I think are hours could be days.

  My mother won’t abandon me. Not after everything she and my father went through to get us out of the Temple. They’ll search for me.

  Sky will figure it out. He may need some time, but he won’t abandon me either. I don’t c
are if he’s spent the past three years pulling away from me. I don’t care if he’s not my blood…if he’s Family blood. Whatever organized crime syndicate he belonged to in the past doesn’t matter anymore. He’s part of our family. It’s always been him and me.

  Fuzziness overwhelms me again. Sinking, I become a shipwreck in depth and darkness.

  3

  T a t t O o

  I’m lying in a hospital bed clothed in a white gown so light it feels like ocean foam. I struggle to resurface from whatever they’ve pumped into me. My body feels more sluggish than a drowned dumpling.

  “How are you feeling?” inquires a person to my right. A younger voice. I recognize him as the man who bought me. Though his velvet voice doesn’t tempt me, the midwinter blue steel in his deeply hooded eyes does. They demand my attention. Where I’m headed suddenly hits me. This might be my only chance. I won’t let anyone put me behind glass again. I won’t let any man have me.