Family Legacy

Ya know, it's really sad that this city hasn't changed much in a century. Well, sure the landscape's changed-a hurricane'll do that to you-technology's changed-an inevitability with humans-but other than that, not much.
You've seen those Dateline shows talking about those girls from Russia and other places being kidnapped and sold as sex slaves, right? What'd you say then if I told you that that same thing is going on here? That some people are "patriotic" and prefer their things "Made in the USA"? Creeped out yet? Just wait. I'll tell you the story of how I Saved someone from these horrible places, called Houses, if you'd like.
Oh, and the name's Keegan Roarke, with or without the "e", whichever you like.

You see, you can't just walk through this place without someone knowing your name. Nine generations back we owned this port town-well, the port at least. Other people owned different things, and twelve families owned these things called Houses. They used to be good places, giving homeless kids a place to live and learn skills, like being your cook. But then, these families got greedy. They found out they could get more money by giving the "pretty" ones a different form of Training and then either selling time with them, or selling the kids themselves. Not a pretty practice, but very lucrative. Sure, they still trained cooks and butlers, but why not devote most of your time and resources to your big money maker?
A few, maybe six, generations back, my family tried to put a stop to these Houses. Since then, at least one family member a generation has given their life trying to stop this practice. But, at least in this country, we're winning.
But, you ask, how'd this twenty-something good lookin' guy get saddled with this family legacy? Simple. Of my generation, and my side of the family, I'm the only honorable gentleman left. What? You thought the top hat and cane were just for show? Out of my five brothers and my one sister, I'm the only one who hasn't gone chasing money. But enough about me, you want the story. I had to give you some background first. No sense dropping you in clueless. You'd get lost easily.

She was sixteen when I got this cane-not just a simple walking stick, but a concealed weapon. A family tradition to all boys on their eighteenth birthday. Weird, I know, but just go with me here. She was beautiful, she had golden red-brown hair just like my great-great-grandmother, and blue eyes like you wouldn't believe-think the clearest blue sky and turn up the contrast. She was thin, but not skeletal; you could tell she at least ate two big meals a day, but had a metabolism to counter that. But I knew by that neck choker she wore that she Belonged to someone. And not a nice belonging, either. And then, he walked by.
You couldn't mistake him for anyone else if you tried. Dark hair, clay-colored skin, sea-green eyes, and this face you would swear was carved out of stone. In short, he looked like my great-great-grandfather. And, I assure you, my ancestor was not a nice man. He came within a foot of her and she looked like she wanted to run, but knew she couldn't. Not on his account, I assure you. She was what the Houses call a True, one who knows nothing but life in the House. She Serves because she knows nothing else. He grabbed her arm and practically dragged her along with him as they left the park.
You bet I shuddered. And in a very obvious way, too, 'cause the guy sitting behind me chuckled.
"You get that spooky feel from him too, eh?" he said, turning to the next page of the sports section.
I turned to face him. He looked to be late twenties, very early thirties. "I see it comes standard."
He chuckled again. "Lot of people these days do that to me." He folded his paper and leaned an elbow on the back of the bench, his windbreaker making that distinctive swish of the fabric. "Like I'm seeing ghosts."
Buddy, you have no idea. What with my great-grandfather talking about how he sees his father's ghost and that he still has no idea why his spirit doesn't rest, ghosts are normal for me. "Come to think about it, he looks a lot like one of the residents around here around...oh, late 1800's. Max...something or other."
He shook his head. "Nope. Not a Kass. They've left town."
Not quite all. I'm technically a member of that twisted family line, but I let him continue.
"That, there, is Ángel Reyes. Kinda new here, but..."
"Gotcha." Clearly, he knows his way around what's left of this place. "Know who the girl is?" Since that's what she is, a girl.