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Trinity woke to the sound of the door to the cell swinging open. She jumped to her feet in a single motion, forgetting that she had to blend in with the untrained serfs. Rachel got up more slowly, shrinking behind Trinity as if she knew her cell mate was capable of much more than her ordinary appearance indicated.
In the doorway stood a Freeblood, white haired and pale skinned, no soldier but some kind of functionary in plain black robes. He gestured to Trinity and Rachel.
“You are to be prepared,” he said in a voice that told Trinity that he had little interest in the proceedings. “Come with me.”
She assumed her role as a subjugated human and walked out of the cell, Rachel on her heels. The other female prisoners were huddled in the corridor under the supervision of several black-robed Opiri. The Nightsiders herded the new serfs to the door of a much larger room, fitted with open showers, a row of curtained booths and three female attendants.
As Trinity and the other convicts entered the room, two of the attendants, wearing shapeless white shifts, smiled encouragingly. The third woman, dressed in a white tunic and trousers, was considerably more severe.
“You have to be examined,” she said without preamble.
Trinity stiffened and then forced herself to relax. She’d been thoroughly briefed, after all. The bloodsuckers had to know what they were bidding on.
The new serfs were instructed to undress, shower and then enter the booths. A few minutes later the examiner swept aside the curtain and entered Trinity’s cell. With practiced efficiency, the women examined Trinity’s body, looking for scars, disease or other defects.
She frowned as she finished. “Something different about you,” she said.
Trinity laughed to hide her unease. “I don’t know if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
The examiner sighed. “Are you a virgin?”
“No,” Trinity said, releasing her breath. “Is that important?”
“It doesn’t really matter,” the other woman said. “Not to most of them.” She made a notation on her pad. “You’ll do.”
The examiner instructed Trinity to dress, and then swept out of the booth. Trinity followed, and the attendant waiting outside gestured her to a seat facing a row of mirrors.
“The more attractive you appear,” she said, smoothing her fingers over Trinity’s damp hair, “the greater the chance that you will be claimed by an Opir of high rank and live a life of relative ease.” She selected a brush from among the items on the nearby shelf. “You have lovely hair. I think we’ll leave it loose.”
When the attendant had finished brushing Trinity’s hair to a glossy, chestnut sheen, she produced a shift similar to her own but much shorter and sheerer. It would do little to disguise the body beneath.
That, too, was no surprise.
The other prisoners were put through the same ordeal, and when the attendants were finished even the older women, dressed in more modest shifts, seemed nearly incandescent. Only their grim and frightened faces spoiled the effect.
“Be brave,” the elder attendant advised them. “Remember, your fate is at least partly in your own hands.”
The prisoners were led into the corridor where they met the equally dazed men, who were dressed in longer tunics and groomed to their greatest possible advantage. With the black-robed escorts around them, the humans were ushered into a large elevator, which swiftly ascended several floors.
When they arrived at their destination, the humans stepped into an entirely different world—not dark like the lower levels, but gleaming with saturated color like rich velvet and painted with golden symbols.
Trinity observed carefully as she was shown to a private cell, this one with a transparent front wall and no furnishings at all—the “display case” for the serfs to be claimed. Through the slightly opaque sidewalls she could make out the boy who had panicked earlier, though his face was only a blur.
Outside the clear wall was a semicircular room, a kind of covered amphitheater with rows of richly upholstered seats. Within minutes the first of the Opiri arrived, male and female, some dressed in embroidered robes that reached nearly to the floor, others in thigh-length tunics and loose pants tucked into handmade leather boots. Jewels cascaded from long white hair, at throats and belts; the men were as regally clothed as the women. Each and every one could pass as a king or queen of his or her own realm.
But one stood out from all the others. A silence fell among the murmuring Nightsiders as a tall lord wearing a long tunic, wide embroidered belt and trousers of deep blue entered the room. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but Trinity knew he could be anywhere from one hundred to ten thousand years old.
This man’s age wasn’t what interested her. He had raven-black hair. No Opiri except vassals, who retained their human coloring for some time, had anything but white hair. And this one’s skin, instead of being bone-white, was a very fair gold. His face was lean and handsome, and his eyes...
As if he sensed her stare, he looked directly at Trinity. His eyes were not the deep purple or maroon of a normal Opir’s; they were a pale tint of violet that would have been extraordinary in any human. Trinity could feel that gaze stripping her shift from her body.
Without taking his eyes from her, the Nightsider gestured to the young human male behind him. The attendant held a tall staff capped with what looked like an ancient Corinthian helmet cast of gold. He handed the staff to his master, and the Nightsider held it firmly planted on the floor beside his chair as if he were staking a claim to territory no one dared dispute.
He was powerful. Trinity didn’t need anything but simple observation to make that very clear. The other Bloodlords and Bloodladies kept their distance from him, and several seemed to regard his presence with surprise.
Trinity knew then that he was the one. She couldn’t have explained it rationally, but instinct told her she was right. Dhampir instinct. And she intended to trust what her half-vampire nature told her.
Even if it told her that she was feeling things she had no right or reason to feel. That suddenly she didn’t look upon surrendering her body and blood to a Nightsider as a terrible sacrifice.
And that feeling, unfamiliar and insane as it was, held far more danger than fear. Especially if her instincts were wrong, and this man was the cruelest, most barbaric bloodsucker in the Citadel of Night.
Chapter 2
Ares had expected nothing like the woman in the center cell.
It wasn’t only that she was beautiful. That was clear at first glance. The display at the top of the cell marked her as a healthy female of twenty-nine years, free of disease or obvious defect. Further description indicated that she was well educated in her own Enclave, fluent in the Opir tongue and several ancient human languages. Her hair, a rich coppery-brown, fell just past her shoulders. Her striking eyes were brown rimmed with green.
Those eyes gazed at him unflinchingly, as if she thought nothing of her near nudity and her pitiful situation. That was unusual in a new serf put up for Claiming. They were usually frightened and confused, rarely defiant.
Not this one.
Ares rested his chin on his fist, suddenly aware of all the sounds and scents and small movements in the room. He had come to the Claiming because Lady Roxana had convinced him that it was well past time for him to reinforce his rank as a Bloodmaster. He preferred keeping to himself and appeared in society only as often as maintaining his status made necessary.
But suddenly this ritual seemed far less pointless than he had expected.
He signaled to Daniel, who stood attentively behind his chair. Most of the other Bloodmasters and Bloodlords in the room had brought several servants, some merely as decorative accessories, some to provide fresh blood should their masters develop a thirst during the Claiming. Ares had far better control, and he believed in self-discipline, like the philosophers he admired.
“Wine,” he said. Daniel stepped away and returned with a cabernet bottled at Ares’s own vineyards to the north of the Citadel. The serf poured it into a crystal glass and offered it to his master.
“What do you think of her, Daniel?” Ares asked.
“Beautiful, my lord. Will you bid?”
The other Bloodmasters and high-ranking Bloodlords around Ares studied each serf with varying degrees of calculation, determining which might be an asset to his or her Household. But most Opiri were eager to claim the most attractive humans, and Ares could see that the woman had captured their attention as much as she had his.
Shifting in his seat, he realized his body was responding to the subtle curves of her figure and the warm scent that escaped through the ventilators in her cell. The blood beating just under the surface of her skin smelled of wine and wildflowers, sparking a need that surprised him.
Daniel knew him far too well. Ares was aroused as he had not been for some time, in spite of the excellent services provided by his Favorite. He took Cassandra’s blood and body because his physical needs had to be met. But it was never like this.
For the first time in years, Ares found himself considering making a claim.
That didn’t mean he would do so. It was one thing to admire the female, and quite another to let lust and hunger lead him around by the teeth.
So he waited, observing silently as the first of his prospective rivals rose to examine the serfs more closely.
“Palemon,” Daniel whispered.
Lord Palemon, Bloodmaster, Ares’s equal in wealth and status. Like Ares, he had walked the earth for centuries before the Awakening. He was a vicious killer and one of the leaders of the Expansionists, the Citadel’s war party, allied with equally malicious Opiri who scampered at his heels like hyenas after a lion.
Dripping with jewels and furs, the Opir lord moved casually toward the female’s cell. He paused to look over the serf in the cell next to hers, a boy just entering manhood as humans reckoned such things. The boy trembled and refused to look up from the floor.
Palemon turned his attention to the woman, who met his gaze through the transparent barrier without a hint of submissiveness. Palemon looked her up and down with careless disdain, as if he had no interest in her at all.
No one, least of all Ares, was deceived by his playacting. Palemon’s mouth twisted in a smile of haughty amusement. “This claims you are a scholar of some kind,” he said to the woman, briefly gesturing at the display above her. “A historian, well versed in the arts and sciences of previous eras.” He glanced back at Ares with deliberate mockery. “How extremely dull.” His smile vanished, and he turned to the woman again. “Remove your shift.”
The female heard him well enough, but she didn’t move. Almost immediately one of the black-robed Freeblood attendants entered the cell from the door behind and repeated Palemon’s command. She pulled on the ties at her neck and waist and the shift fell around her shapely ankles.
Several Bloodlords moved up behind Palemon, careful to keep their distance from him. Ares rose, handed his staff to Daniel and made his way through the gathering. There was no need for aggression; the others retreated to either side of his path, unwilling to Challenge one they were unlikely to defeat.
“She is a beauty, is she not?” Palemon remarked without turning. “Full breasts, hips made to fill an Opir’s hands and a neck begging to be bitten. And such a face, such bold eyes...”
“Why should she interest you?” Ares asked with a semblance of indifference. “All Erebus knows you hold more serfs than any other Opir in the Citadel. This one—” he waved a dismissive hand at the female “—if she is some kind of intellectual, she can hardly be your type.”
Palemon chuckled. “You must know how much I enjoy the challenge of a rebellious serf.”
Ares knew, and so did every other lord in the Citadel. Palemon acquired not only the most attractive humans for his Household, but also bid extremely high sums for those who seemed to require the most breaking. And when they were broken and he was weary of them...
“What makes you think she will be rebellious?” Ares asked.
“Look at her,” Palemon said. “She cannot hide it.”
Palemon, Ares thought, was perfectly correct.
As if she had heard his thoughts, the female looked directly into Ares’s eyes. He beckoned to the attendant.
“Let her dress,” he said.
Palemon eyed him with exaggerated surprise. “Is that pity, Ares?” he asked. “But of course every ranking Opir in Erebus knows how you indulge your serfs.”
“I find I receive better service if my humans do not live in constant fear of me,” Ares said.
“Ah, yes. And now, after years without a new serf, you finally found one worth claiming. It seems you have changed since we last had dealings with each other.”
“You have not. Or have you given up campaigning for war?”
“Still against us, I see.”
“I have seen nothing to change my opinion of your politics, Palemon.”
“Your politics are those of fear, Ares.”
“Fear of humans?” Ares smiled. “I merely wish to avoid any disturbance to my preferred way of life. If I were afraid of my serfs, I would treat them as you do. And I still wonder, Palemon, why you bother with Claimings when you can illegally breed humans to behave exactly as you wish.”
He and Palemon locked stares. The attendant in the cell bent to retrieve the female’s shift, but she snatched it out of his hands and held it loosely in front of her body. Her gaze darted from Palemon to Ares with an intensity Ares couldn’t interpret. It almost appeared as if she was pleading with Ares, and that hardly seemed in keeping with her demeanor.
But Ares didn’t doubt her intelligence. It shone in her bright eyes. She had certainly realized that Palemon would be a harsh, even brutal, master. And that Ares would be a far better one.
She was too young to have attained much wisdom, Ares thought. Still, she might provide him with the different perspective he had been seeking....
Oh, yes, he thought with a silent, cynical laugh. He could find many excuses for claiming this female. His blood was running hotter than it had in years, and he found it easy to envision her gratitude for her rescue from Palemon...imagine her in his bed, offering her neck and her body to him.
No act was more exhilarating to an Opir than taking a serf’s blood in the act of sex. Until, as with Cassandra, it became a matter of routine.
Routine that had perfectly satisfied him until today. And that made him wonder, with some bewilderment, how he could move from curiosity to calculation to surging lust in a matter of minutes—uncontrolled thoughts and emotions that tested the rationality and control he valued above all else.
He could think of no better trail of his discipline than taking this female as his serf.
“Where is the staid philosopher now, Ares?” Palemon asked, leading Ares to wonder just how obvious his reaction had been. “Have you discovered that you, too, have weaknesses of the flesh?” He lifted his head slightly, addressing the attendants who waited out of sight, prepared to record the offers. “Ten thousand bloodmarks and three prime serfs.”
Ares stiffened. It was a very high bid. “Twelve thousand,” he said.
Palemon raised a pale brow. “No serfs?”
“I am not required to offer any of my humans as part of my bid.”
“You are sentimental, Ares. A trait I think you will one day have cause to regret.” He waved his hand. “Fifteen thousand and five prime serfs, including two produced from my best breeding stock.”
Now he was openly defiant, advertising his “forbidden” activities. Ares glanced at the woman again. She was still looking at him, her skin pale but her gaze as direct as ever.
“Twenty thousand,” he said.
A deep hush fell over the room. It was an amount only the most wealthy Bloodmasters could afford to offer for a single serf.
“Twenty-five thousand and twenty prime serfs,” Palemon said, looking at Ares inquiringly. The silence pressed down on Ares as if all the weight of the Citadel were driving him deep into the earth from which the Opiri had arisen more than two decades ago.
He knew that if he exceeded Palemon’s final bid, he would be leaving himself dangerously vulnerable. His income was considerable, but he required it to provide for his serfs, maintain several client Freebloods and put on the occasional ostentatious display of wealth and power.
Any failure to uphold appearances put the elite of Erebus in constant danger of Challenge by a fellow Bloodmaster or ambitious Bloodlord, and if he impoverished himself, he would have to fight one foolish duel after another simply to maintain his status.
“She is not worth so much to me,” he said, turning away before he could observe the woman’s face again.
He retrieved his staff and started for the door, but some unfathomable compulsion made him stop and listen, his back to the rows of seats and the Opir lords and ladies awaiting their chance to claim the remaining humans. Daniel, carrying the wine and glass in their case, moved quietly out of his way.
The attendants were opening the woman’s cell. Ares could hear her sharp intake of breath as she fully understood her fate.
“My pretty little serf,” Palemon said. “I believe I shall enjoy you for some time. If you behave.”
Ares heard a scuffle, a gasp and a thump as a body fell heavily to the ground. He swung around. The serf, her shift torn away, was trying to rise from the floor. Her mouth was smeared with blood.
Primitive rage flared in Ares’s gut as Palemon jerked the serf to her feet and seized her mouth with his, licking up the blood as he thrust his tongue between her lips.
Ares strode back to Palemon and grabbed his rival’s shoulder.
“Stop,” he said, his voice sounding ragged to his own ears.
There were shocked exclamations among the observing Opiri. Palemon pushed the female away and jerked free of Ares’s grip.
“You dare?” he asked softly.
