Excerpt: The Dream Merchant

The little girl stood on tiptoe, fingers curled over the rim of the tiny grate on the door. Her eyebrows knit in intense focus as she began to pull herself up in a practiced gesture, feet scrabbling against the door, now worn smooth from countless past attempts. Tiny fists managed to grab first one, then the other of the rough iron bars, and she was able to raise her head high enough to see through the small opening.
Despite the size of the window, she could see the familiar glow of the lamp, causing the dank corridor to turn red and orange and yellow with fire light. The shadow cast by the bearer of the lamp was a familiar one to her, though years alone in the dark had somewhat dulled her fear of it.
But only somewhat.
Her hands trembled and shook as her grip began to weaken.
Odd.
The thought floated briefly across her mind, despite the churning of her gut at the sight of the shadow. She had long since lost track of time, but years at least of practice with nothing to do but hang from these bars had given her the ability to hold herself up as long as necessary and then some.
Her hand slipped, and with a startled cry, she hit the ground hard. Wincing, she curled in a ball and choked back a sob. Her hands slid down to her knee, where she could feel the painful throbbing of some hurt, and her fingers came back warm and sticky.
Uh oh.
The door creaked and groaned in protest of the damp as it opened, allowing light to stream into the tiny cell. A small cot and rickety and table and chair set were suddenly visible, but there was nothing else to be seen in the room aside from the girl lying on the floor. She attempted to clamber to her feet quickly, trying to push down her smock far enough to cover the bloody knee before he could see it.
It didn't matter. Armand had already smelled the blood.
“What have you been doing?” His voice was low and gravelly, but at the moment, more or less controlled and even.
“N-nothing,” she kept her eyes low, watching only his feet as he shut the door, then crossed the room to set down the lamp, all in fluid, controlled movements.
“You must have done something,” He stopped moving. The feet were pointed at her.
“I fell,” she whispered.
“Fell.” Armand echoed her stiffly. “And what did I tell you before?”
“I must sit quietly and reflect.”She recited, still staring at the stone and straw by her toes. She added, “Sir.”
He sighed. “You are very stupid.”
“Yes, sir.”
His feet moved closer, and she could now audibly hear the obvious displeasure in his voice.“I don't like being dependant on a stupid girl. Be thankful you are so strong.”
“I am.”
Neither of them was happy with the arrangement. She wanted to see the sun, he didn't want to rely on a whispy little girl to maintain his power. Or his life.
Neither of them had had a choice in the matter.
Claw like nails dug into her arm, while his other hand gripped her chin roughly and squeezed, forcing her mouth open. She gagged and choked, fighting back her urge to struggle, even as the tears streamed unbidden from her eyes. She wanted to run and scream, but she endured.
A whispy, ghost like shape emerged from her open mouth and floated upward, curling lazily upwards like smoke. Armand inhaled, and drawing the thing into his own mouth and letting out a contented sigh. For a moment, his eyes closed and he almost seemed to smile. The girl tottered in his grip, looking dazed and on the verge of collapse.
The moment did not last. His smile faded abruptly and looked down at her, searching her face carefully.
“My dear,” he said slowly, his voice betraying no emotion. “After ten years, I think you're dying.”