Chapter 11. Author's note - Google "The Modern Prometheus" if you're unsure about this title. It will make itself evident why I chose it. Anyway, votes and comments are much appreciated!

"What the hell is she doing?"

That was what Nightingale heard as she was making sure her corset was straight. She looked up to see Peppermint eyeing Rose warily.

Nightingale smiled wanly, seeing Rose's lips mutter with the mantra of the Inamortas' names.

"She's reciting all our names. It's a coping strategy. Like the one I taught you," added Nightingale.

Peppermint nodded.

"After tonight, go introduce yourself to her, Pepper," instructed Nightingale. "She hasn't met you yet. She was astounded to know that there are sixteen of us in total."

Peppermint smiled equally as wanly. However, even that unhappy expression say prettily on her gorgeous face, with its olive-toned skin, its dark brown eyes, framed by masses of black hair. Like all Inamoratas, Peppermint was breathtaking.

"Ready, Rose?" asked Peppermint, approaching her.

The girl eyed her nervously.

"I'm Peppermint," she said kindly. "We've never met."

"Hi," squeaked Rose.

"Hi," she chided gently. Nightingale had to smile at the endearing, cooing tone that Peppermint used. "Now, are you ready for the auction?"

"No," said Rose, pure terror making her eyes wide and her breast heave.

"Recite," said Nightingale, sounding for all the world like a strict schoolmistress. "Recite, and think only of that."

And so Rose did, her eyes closed, lips moving silently. Her breathing soon calmed and she opened her eyes to look at Peppermint and Nightingale.

"Where is she?" boomed a voice from behind them.

The three of them all looked around to see Bobby stride in, rubbing his hands together.

"Here, Bobby," said Rose, her voice quavering.

He gave her a little slap to the face. She gave a soft cry. He gave her another. This time, she got the idea and simply regarded him, her eyes huge with unhappiness.

"No crying," snarled Bobby. "Surely Nightingale taught you better than that."

"She's only five days old. How the fuck is she supposed to know any better?" muttered Peppermint, so softly that only her sister Inamoratas, with their sharp hearing, could have heard her.

Rose shot her a thankful look as Bobby grabbed her by the arm and, without so much as a goodbye for Nightingale or any of the others, dragged her out into the Club. Through the thick door that separated them from the clientele, they could all hear Bobby roar out Rose's name, her status as only five days old, and her starting price.

All at once there was a commotion of shouting as clients attempted to outbid each other for the right to deflower poor Rose.

"I can't listen to this," said Sparkle, covering her ears. Most of the other Inamoratas followed suit, shuddering as they tried to block out a sound that reminded all of them of their first clients. The only Inamoratas who remained passive were the older ones; Magenta and Mermaid remained utterly impassive, though anger sparkled in their eyes, and Ruby and Cocoa listened with sadness.

Nightingale, however, moved close to the door and pressed her ear to it until she could make out exact words.

"We should join the clients the moment the bidding hits fifteen thousand marks," she said. "Before then, and we'll distract them. After, and Bobby will be pissy that we're late."

"How high is it now?" asked Mermaid, approaching her.

Nightingale eyed her warily. Mermaid rarely spoke, preferring to use only her languid beauty to communicate with clients and her expressions to speak with her sisters.

"Five thousand," Nightingale replied.

The other Inamoratas, with their hands over their ears, could not help but hear that figure.

"Ten thousand? Why is it so low?" asked Aphrodite, a full-figured blonde, approaching Nightingale.

"That's not low," replied Glitter. "That's what most of us fetch in the early stages of the auction. You were just lucky because you're shaped the way you are."

Aphrodite rolled her eyes. "Hardly. You do realize that we're all equally attractive, don't you?"

"But some of us do have more natural charm than others," interjected Emerald. Lace, who was standing next to her, nodded. "You've got almost as much raw magnetism as Nightingale."

"I'll take that as a compliment," said Nightingale, too nervous for Rose to respond with anything wittier.

All the Inamoratas began to mutter before Nightingale held up her hand. Then they all fell silent. She could feel twenty-eight sets of eyes on her back as she listened at the door. It took only two words for her to spur them all into action:

"That's fifteen thousand. Let's go," she said.

So Nightingale, with fourteen Inamoratas in tow, strutted out into the Club, her hips swaying from side to side. Most likely, Michael would be there and she would be in for another night of easy work. Spotting him sitting at his usual table in the back, she gave him a broad smile and began to saunter up to him, when another man caught her by the waist.

"Oh, I don't think so," he said, kissing her shoulder. His mouth moved lower and lower, his kisses getting rougher and rougher until he, without any other warning, bit down on the exposed skin of her back.

Nightingale looked down at him. She recognized him as Mr. Foster, a man of forty, and one of her regulars. Now, his breath was heavy with alcohol, and he looked angry. Hence the not-so-loving bite.

"Mr. Foster," she purred, though she was sure she would have teeth marks bruising her spine. Simpering, she his groin a little slap. She felt him stiffen and knew he was aroused. Well, a little roughness, a little pain with his pleasure, happened to be Mr. Foster's thing. And it disgusted Nightingale.

"You've been avoiding me," he said, rubbing his face against her neck.

She laughed lightly and pressed herself up against him. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Bobby and Rose. The poor girl was covering up her terror very well, batting her eyelashes and pouting for the clientele who were frantically bidding on her.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Foster," she said. "But if you perhaps paid a little more, you would be able to enjoy the pleasu-"

"Fuck paying a little more," he snarled, and his grip became tight. "I was - still am - one of your regulars. My payment should be good enough."

"Oh, Mr. Foster," she simpered, giving him a quick kiss. "It did used to be. But as you can see, it isn't any more."

He used to like her cheekiness, but apparently he was fed up with it. For he slapped her very hard across the face. Nightingale felt her head snap to the side, pain blossoming in her cheek.

"Bitch," he hissed. "Shut your mouth."

She held her face and looked at him, trying to keep the defiance that was roaring for release in her brain from showing on her face. She usually knew what to do when clients hit her - to beg for their forgiveness. Yet she hated the idea of begging the pardon of the man who'd just struck her.

And so she ended up just standing there, looking dazed. She knew she was acting like a green, inexperienced Inamorata. So much so that she saw Lace, sitting on the lap of a client, give her an astonished look.

"Nothing to say to that?" he growled. With the back of his hand, he administered an equally painful slap to the other side of her face.

"Of course I've nothing to say to that. You told me to shut my mouth," she fired back, gobsmacked by the sheer, foolish audacity her own backtalk.

Mr. Foster's eyes bluged nearly out of their sockets with rage, but every other client watching the scene unfold laughed loudly and appreciatively.

"Good old Nightingale!" cried one voice. "Fiery as ever!"

One man slapped her ass admiringly - if such a thing were possible - before whispering in her ear: "You can talk to me like that any time you like, Nightingale."

Mr. Foster didn't seem to share in their adulation of Nightingale. As he took a step forward, looking ready to throttle Nightingale for her mouthiness and his humiliation before his fellow clients, someone stepped between them.

"It's me," declared the shy, brown-eyed man. Michael. "I'm the reason why she hasn't been seeing you. It's my fault, not hers."

"Then you haven't been disciplinging her like you should," spat Mr. Foster.

 "I'm sure he hasn't," added a new voice.

Nightingale whirled around to see David watching her, a well-mimed look of lecherous admiration on his face. The expression, however repugnant it might have been, accentuated the strong lines of his jaw and his cheekbones.

"Mr. Beckett," she said, making him a pretty curtsey.

"Screw that shit, Nightingale," he said, and grabbed her by the waist. Their mouths collided with hard, but not painfully. The moment their lips touched, David encircled Nightingale with his arms.

Suddenly, Nightingale felt shut off from the rest of the world as David's presence and his embrace seemed to shield her from everything else. There, standing curled close to him, lips pressed fiercely together, she felt safe.

Never before had she felt safe with a man, nor had she ever wanted to. She'd always curled her lip in disdain at Inamoratas who were foolish enough to hope that they would someday meet a man who, like a fairytale knight in shining armour, would sweep them off their feet and bear them away from the bordello.

And there she stood, feeling utterly secure in his arms. The very safety she felt made her feel in a way vulnerable, and made her loathe herself in another. She felt weak and exposed to the sudden desire for that protection, and hated herself for needing it from a man. She had always thought it would be her sister Inamoratas that would give her security, not some good-for-nothing man.

When they drew back, Nightingale's eyelashes batted of their own accord as she smiled up into David's face.

"Mr. Beckett," she purred again, real pleasure making her tone alluring.

He smiled back at her, and the warmth of it seemed to touch even his cold eyes.

"Fuck it," snapped Mr. Foster. His words burst the happy - could she really be happy, standing there with David? - bubble surrounding Nightingale. The bubble exploded, sending her bliss into oblivion like the rainbow skin of a soap blister. "This is bullshit. I'm talking to Bobby about this."

"No need," said Bobby. He'd appeared in the crowd. Now, it was comprised not only of the bordello's pimp, but also most of his whores - with the exception of Fox and Diamond, who were entertaining a few clients in a corner - and most of the clientele. "It's all sorted out. Nightingale's spoken for, tonight, Peter. But you like a bit of a punishing mistress, don't you?"

Mr. Foster grunted angrily but nodded. As he shot Nightingale a resentful look, David drew her closer, holding her head to his cheek in a possesive, protective way. She closed her eyes, but not before she saw Sparkle's and Mermaid's jaws drop with utter shock.

"Then Magenta's your girl. She's like Nightingale, but more of a bitch," said Bobby. With a flick of his hand, Magenta appeared before Mr. Foster.

"Come on, you," growled Magenta, pulling Mr. Foster towards her by his tie towards her. The moment his hips bumped against hers, she reached around and gave him a bit of a spank.

Nightingale turned away in disgust as the crowd dispersed, the other Inamoratas falling upon the clients like vultures on rotting flesh.

"You too," said David to Nightingale. "Let's go now." He took her by the wrist and was about to tow her away when Michael caught her by the other.

"Michael," she hissed at him. "Let go!"

"Nightingale," he moaned, brown eyes widening with unhappiness. "Please don't!"

"I have to," she replied. "He's-"

She was quickly interrupted by David. In a flash, he had reached out and, not letting go of Nightingale, twisted Michael's wrist back so far that the poor man's face whitened with pain and he whimpered.

"She's mine tonight," he growled. "Go stick your cock in some other whore."

Nightingale wasn't sure whether Michael's face constricted in agony because of the injury David had done him, or the idea of sleeping with a different whore. She hoped it was the former, as she knew all too well that an emotional pain was far worse than a physical one.

As David tugged her away, she leaned forward and kissed Michael. There was the swooping feeling in her chest again as their lips touched. It was not as powerful as the feeling David gave her, but it was certainly pleasant.

"Come back tomorrow," she whispered before David tugged her away.

He kept up the facade of an impatient client until they were safely secured behind Nightingale's bedroom doors. Then, he let go of her and backed up.

"How appalling," he muttered, brushing off his suit jacket as though he feared that contact with Nightingale had given him some awful, contagious disease. "Behaving like a client. Ugh."

"Why did you hurt Michael?" she demanded peevishly, crossing her arms. As much as she was irked, she felt a delicious satisfaction at being able to tell a man off.

He looked up at her as he sat down at the vanity and kicked off his shoes. "It was necessary, Nightingale. Surely you understand that I have appearances to keep up?"

Nightingale sighed. "I suppose. And thank you for...rescuing me from that," she added grudgingly. As much as she found herself liking the icy Detective Beckett, she was barely willing to acknowledge that a man had helped her in some way.

He gave a curt nod. Then, with a little smile, he reached into his breast pocket.

"I have another present for you," he said.

"Oh?" she asked.

"Don't you want to know what it is?" he asked, arching one eyebrow.

"I suppose," she said, feigning boredom, though she was really itching in desire to know what he had brought her.

With an acid smile, he pulled out a small, black rectangle from his pocket. Nightingale raised her eyebrows, unimpressed by the small piece of plastic.

"Charming," she drawled, glaring at him.

He rolled his eyes. "I thought you'd be more grateful, Nightingale. Don't you know what this is?" His tone was mocking and derisive and made Nightingale's proverbial hackles rise.

"Haven't the foggiest fucking idea," she snapped.

"Give me your foot," he said.

Nightingale, confused, approached him. Sitting down on the rug before him, she lifted her right foot and placed it in his lap.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "The other one."

Even more mystified, she placed her right foot into his waiting hands. Then, she watched in growing amazement as he reached for where her identity anklet - that black, awful manacle - jangled around her ankle. Then, inserting what must have been an electronic key into the anklet, it gave a beep and popped off her leg, opening on a hinge on the side.

"A gift of good faith," he said, his warm, smooth hands cupping her leg. "Some freedom for the caged songbird."

Nightingale's jaw dropped. "I - I don't know what to say," she whispered, blinking back tears. She regarded with disbelief the smooth, white skin of her ankle, unblemished by the ugly black anklet for the first time in five years. As she gaped in astonishment, she felt David's hand come to rest on her now-freed ankle.

"Thank you always works," he said, without a smile except the small one in his voice.

"Thank you," she murmured, so overcome that she could not manage anything else.

"I'm afraid you'll have to put it back on before Bobby sees you without it, but you can enjoy not wearing it now. Besides, you'll need to remove it for this weekend," he said.

Nightingale was so absorbed in examining her ankle that she wasn't listening to David. Lifting her foot off his lap, she held it straight out in front of her, hungry with pleasure at the sight of her perfect leg. Never before had her beauty excited her, but now she was quite thrilled with it.

Springing up, she whirled about, kicking up her feet in a giddy jig, all the while staring at her now matching ankles. Without the anklet, she felt lighter, freer.

Happier.

She was enjoying herself so much that she grew clumsy and, catching her toe in the rug, slipped from her impeccable grace and tripped. She landed with a thud on the floor.

Nightingale, dazed, looked up to see an odd expression on David's face. His lip was curled with disdain but his eyes glowed with warmth.

"You're a child," he accused her.

"Of course I am," she volleyed back. "I'm only five years old. Natural-born five-year-olds are still playing in sandboxes."

She did not even see a trace of pain of David's stoic visage that might have given away any pity for her. She sighed a little. She might have been able to make Michael cry with a comment like that, and yet there David sat, impassive as a stone.

"If you will not even grace me with a grimace for my sorrow, Detective Beckett, won't you at least help me up?" she asked, feigning a dignified, aloof air.

He went over to her and she held out her arm imperiously. Rolling his eyes, David hauled her to her feet. She went careening up faster than she had thought she would, and ended up slamming into David's chest.

"Thank you," she said, nudging his nose with hers.

"Much obliged," he replied, and stepped back.

Nightingale was astounded. She could make any man drool and whimper with desire in such a close proximitiy to her, and yet David seemed to pay her no more attention than he did the vanity sitting behind them.

It was both liberating and frustrating and it confused Nightingale.

"Here you are," he said. He took her hand and opened it slowly, gently drawing back her fingers as though he were pulling the petals off a daisy. "Take it. Remember, show no one that you have it. Hide it. Oh, and it works only on your anklet. You will not be able to free any other Inamoratas with it."

And with that he placed the key in her palm.

"You trust me with this?" she asked, staring down at it. When she looked up, he nodded, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "You don't think I'll wait until Sunday, my only day off, then while everyone's asleep I take off my anklet and sneak out? I'm clever, David, I could make my way to the East Continent, where no one would ever find me. Start a new life, be a real woman, with a real job and no men to rape me. Why wouldn't I do that?"

By the end, her voice had risen and she could hear the desperation in it. She curled her lip, disgusted to hear her sounding so helpless and forlorn.

"Nightingale," said David softly.

"No, don't say my name like that! Tell me, why on earth should you trust me?" she demanded. Angry, she tried to tug her hand away from his, but he quickly closed her fist around the key and held it to him.

"I trust you with that because I know you're too...good too do anything else," he said. As Nightingale opened her mouth to protest, he put one finger to her lips to hush her. "You're a highly moral creature, Nightingale. You know right from wrong, you're too intelligent to know otherwise. And yet, miraculously, with that intelligence - which can often cause immorality - comes equal gentleness, but also equal fire. You're defiant, fierce, proud, gentle, loving, brilliant. And that's why I trust you."

Nightingale, once he had removed his finger, spat at him. Reaching into his pocket, David removed a white handkerchief and delicately, calmly, wiped his face.

Meanwhile, Nightingale hissed at him like a cat. "Bullshit," she snapped. "You've known me three days, Detective. How could you possibly know all that? You couldn't. You're lying, and I hate liars!"

David glared at her. "I know that because of what my source - who knows you very well, incidentally - told me. They told me of your moral qualities. I did not make that assumption."

 Nightingale's jaw dropped and she suddenly felt ashamed for her treatment of David. "Oh," she said.

For the first time, David chuckled. "First she spits like a she-cat, then she's tame as a mouse. You're astounding, Nightingale. No wonder everyone likes you."

Nightingale glared at him, but the expression was not to last because of what he said next.

"Though, I have to say, from what I've seen of you, I agree with your source," he murmured, voice softy and tender. "You truly are the best and brightest of Inamoratas. Hell, you're one of the best and brightest of all of humanity."

Nightingale's throat nearly closed as her heart seemed leap into it, thudding frantically and blocking her air. For a little while, her eyelashes simply batted and she could think of nothing to say.

"Then you must not have experience with the good side of humanity," she managed to say. Her attempt at self-derision fell flat as she stared at David's once-again-calm face.

"You've no idea," he said. Then, shaking his head as though the subject were painful, he asked: "Now, where are you going to hide that key?"

Proudly, Nightingale motioned for him to kneel next to the bed. Reaching under it, she pulled out her cache of books. She was just putting the key between two pages of her new copy of Songs of Innocence and Experience when she noticed David examining another of her books.

"Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus," he read. He looked up at her, eyes alight with interest. "What a fascinating book for you to have, Nightingale. How very apropos."

"I'm Frankenstein's monster, you mean?" she asked.

"I certainly implied that, didn't I?" he returned.

"I suppose. Though I've got it better than the monster," Nightingale mused, leaning back.

"Oh? How so?" challenged David.

"For one thing, I've got a name. And, though I hate my beauty for the lechery it encourages, at least it means that the shallow humans - including my sisters - are able not to despise me. And I, unlike that poor man, have human companionship," she said.

David nodded. After a moment, the two of them sitting there in companionable silence, he said:

"But at least this is similar." He gestured to one page.

"What is?" asked Nightingale.

David looked up, a grim little smile spreading over his face. "Like Frankenstein, the man who created a creature as powerful as you was playing with fire."