A Blood Seduction

by Pamela Palmer

  As they climbed the brick steps, the massive front doors opened, two liveried butlers standing back to let them in.

  “Arturo,” the two said as one, bowing.

  Arturo acknowledged them with a shallow nod. Taking her upper arm in a firm grip, he led her into a massive marble-and-ivory foyer the size of a small ballroom, in the center of which sat a mammoth black lacquer grand piano. There were vampires everywhere, holding drinks, fondling the Slava females who walked among them in what appeared to be a uniform of short skirts and low-cut peasant blouses. Along one of the walls sat a line of velvet benches, where two vampires appeared to be making out. Close by, a silk-robed vamp male grabbed one of the Slavas to him, pulling her back against him, baring and fondling her breasts as he bit her. As Quinn watched in horrified fascination, his lashes swept up, his white-centered eyes spearing her as if imagining his fangs in her neck instead. As if promising her just that.

  Quinn shivered and looked hurriedly away, her face flaming, her body flushed with intense discomfort. This place was like a playground for the depraved.

  “Ax!” One of the male vamps, in blue jeans and a black silk shirt, strode toward them, a drink the color of whiskey in his hand. He had dark circles under his eyes, lines of strain along either side of his mouth. Despite that, he seemed genuinely glad to see Arturo.

  The two vampires greeted one another warmly. “How do you fare, Bram?”

  “Not well. I’m going fucking crazy in this place.” He lowered his voice. “They lie around doing nothing but drinking and fucking as if there’s nothing else to life. If the magic’s going to kill me, I wish it would just do it and get it over with. Take me out of my misery.”

  “I’ve heard a rumor a solution may have been found.”

  Bram’s eyes widened. “Pray you’re right about that.” He turned to Quinn. “Who’s this?”

  “My most recent acquisition,” as if that were all she was.

  She was tempted to thrust out her hand and introduce herself simply to make them acknowledge her as more than a slave. But an instinct for self-preservation warned her against drawing any more attention to herself in this place than she had to.

  “Are you bringing her to Kassius?”

  “No,” Arturo replied slowly. “She’s of Blackstone’s ilk.”

  Bram’s brows shot up, and he turned to stare at her as if she were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room. Quinn turned to Arturo for explanation. But his attention was on the other man.

  “Thank, God,” Bram murmured, then frowned. “I don’t smell it.” Without warning, he leaned close to her, sniffing at her hair.

  Quinn reared back. “What do you mean Blackstone’s ilk?”

  A bloodcurdling scream sliced the air, raising the hair on the back of Quinn’s neck and lifting the heads of several vamps nearby. Bram stiffened, his breath turning suddenly short, and shallow. The screaming continued until Quinn wanted to cover her ears to shut it out. Someone was being tortured mercilessly. Killed. Her breath hitched. Half a dozen vamps disappeared in a blur of silk and velvet, reappearing at the top of the curved stairs.

  Bram’s expression grew pained, his eyes filling with misery. “I have to go.” He shoved his glass into Arturo’s hand, then turned and climbed the stairs, human pace, his shoulders bent as if he fought every step, and lost.

  Arturo took her arm and steered her away from the stairs and out of the huge foyer, into an even larger room, but the change of rooms did little to dampen that horrible, continual scream. Vampires played billiards on one of the two tables, while others played poker at one of three gaming tables. At the far side of the room, an entire wall of glass doors had been opened to the outside and a swimming pool lit by torches.

  None of the vampires appeared to even hear the woman’s screams, let alone care. She glanced at Arturo. “How can you all ignore that?”

  “Calm yourself, cara. Cristoff is a pain-feeder.” He said it so matter-of-factly.

  “And that makes it okay?”

  His dark eyes flashed. “We are vampires, Quinn Lennox. One way or another, we feed off humans or we die. We’re at the top of the food chain.”

  “So all we are to you is food?”

  “To most vampires, yes. I am afraid so.”

  She wanted to ask if he felt the same and couldn’t, afraid she didn’t want to know. She had a feeling she wouldn’t like his answer, not at all. “The vampires who ran for the stairs. They’re pain-feeders, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. As is Bram, as much as he hates it.”

  And she’d seen that, Bram’s misery, his reluctance to climb those stairs and join the others. She thought of Arturo’s words to him. “What did you mean I’m of Blackstone’s ilk?”

  “Quiet, piccola. That was not meant for other ears.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a bare whisper. “There is danger here.”

  With that cryptic warning, he steered her through the game room and out onto the pool deck, where several vampires swam in the nude.

  Her instincts told her to pursue the question, that she needed to know. But she hardly trusted Arturo to tell her the truth. So she held her tongue. For now. “Is there no other way for Bram to feed?”

  “Before the magic began to fail, he worked as a trauma doctor in the emergency room at George Washington Hospital. He has for the past twenty years.”

  She looked at him with disbelief. “A vampire doctor?”

  “Bram is an excellent doctor. He genuinely likes to help humans in pain. He hates that he’s forced to feed on that pain, but it has been a good compromise for him.”

  “And now he can’t get to the hospital.” She was beginning to understand his misery, though. Were there really vampires who were that moral, that altruistic? Maybe there were. “Do you have an outside job?”

  He led her around the pool while she kept her eyes averted from the carnal play going on in the water. “I do not.”

  “Do you have a house in the real world?”

  “No, but a friend of mine does. I have an office in Micah’s house, where I work on the computer a couple of nights a week. When I was able to get there.”

  “Is Micah still in the real world?”

  “He is. But I’ve no way to contact him. He’s as locked out as we are locked in. Would you like a drink?” he asked, steering her to the bar.

  She would, absolutely, if it might dull the piercing screams that went on and on and on. But she had a feeling she’d better keep her wits about her in this place.

  “No, thank you.”

  Slowly, the screams began to die away. As did, undoubtedly, the screamer. She tried not to think of her, of how she was dying, even now, for fear she’d start screaming herself. And she couldn’t. No matter what happened, she had to keep it together. For Zack.

  “Come, piccola.” Arturo steered her back toward the foyer. “We must speak with Cristoff, and this will be a good time, now that he’s fed.”

  She shuddered at the thought of what might happen if they approached a pain-feeder at a bad time. As Arturo led her past the piano, toward the stairs, Quinn was hit with a terrible smell, like something burning. The smell only worsened as they climbed. At the top of the stairs, he ushered her a short way down a wide hallway to a pair of open doors, then inside a huge room. A throne room. There was no other word for it. The ceiling soared, propped up by thick, gilt pillars. The walls were hung with all manner of weapons and tapestries and coats of arms. At the far end, the marble floor rose to a low dais graced by a huge golden chair . . . a throne . . . upholstered in dark red velvet. And upon the throne sat a young man staring with unrestrained pleasure at the naked woman lying in the middle of the room in a shallow puddle of blood, being fed upon by four vampires.

  Around them stood half a dozen vampires, including Bram, who appeared to be coming out of the throes of pleasure. Bram’s mou
th was tight as he raked his fingers through his hair and turned away.

  As Arturo led Quinn into the room, she caught sight of the woman’s arms and legs, the raw, fresh burn marks, and knew she’d found both the source of the screams and the horrific smell. Burning flesh. Her stomach cramped, her head turning hot, then cold as Arturo steered her toward the man sitting upon the dais.

  Cristoff? He looked too young, too strange, to be such a powerful vampire. Then again, vampires didn’t age. He could be very, very old, and he’d still look twenty-five, she suspected. He had good bone structure beneath a shoulder-length fall of bleached white hair, his eyebrows and small King Tut beard jet-black in contrast. His mouth was thin and cruel, his pale blue eyes as cold as a killing frost. A pain-feeder.

  A primal anxiety crawled across Quinn’s flesh. She wanted out of here, out of this room, this house, this world. And she wanted out, now! But she swallowed hard, tamping it down. Fear was an emotion she couldn’t afford to show, let alone feel. Not in this place, where they fed on such things. There would be no hiding it.

  She forced her gaze away from Cristoff, then wished she hadn’t as she met the gaze of the bald guard standing at his right, a vampire whose gaze felt like rancid fingers stroking her flesh as he looked her over. His eyes gleamed as if he had every intention of throwing her down and having his way with her. She sidled closer to Arturo even though he still gripped her arm.

  “Master.” Arturo dipped his head slowly, in a show of deep respect that felt somehow wrong. How could a man with any kind of morals bow to such a monster? “I have found you a sorceress.”

  Arturo pushed her forward.

  Quinn’s jaw dropped, her head suddenly ringing with his words. With his lie. “I’m not!” She whirled on Arturo. “Why would you say such a thing?” What did he think he was doing?

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of movement, then shrieked as Cristoff grabbed her and bit her neck with a razor-sharp stab of pain. Tears burned her eyes as she struggled against his impossible vampiric strength.

  Cristoff lifted his head, a triumphant look on his face as he stared at her, his mouth bloody and smiling. “You’ve done well, my snake.”

  “I’m not a sorceress.” But the weirdness she’d lived with all her life raised its ugly head and laughed at her denial.

  She turned to Arturo for help, saw the apology swimming in his dark eyes, and understanding crashed. This was why he’d brought her here. This. Not, as he’d told her, to search for Zack.

  Arturo turned back to Cristoff. “She has a half brother who was taken by one of Lazzarus’s vamps. I have a contact within the kovena. I can find out if the brother possesses any magic, if it please you.”

  She stared at him, her scalp crawling with his betrayal. He knew exactly where Zack was. He’d known all along.

  “Do it, but say nothing of the sister. She is our secret, for now.”

  Quinn stared at Arturo, willing him to meet her gaze. “Will you bring Zack here?”

  He didn’t turn. “No. He belongs to another.”

  “Please!”

  He whirled on her, all warmth gone from his eyes. “Forget him,” he snapped. “He’s lost to you.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I said what I must to keep you from trying to escape.” And this time she saw only truth in those hard eyes. This had been his intention all along. To bring her to his master.

  Cristoff laughed softly, a sound that formed ice crystals in her veins. “I call Arturo my snake for a reason.”

  On a burst of fury, she tried to get at the vampire who’d betrayed her, but Cristoff held her fast, binding her against him with an iron arm until she could barely breathe. She trembled with outrage and a deep, quaking terror.

  “Go, now,” Cristoff ordered his snake.

  And Arturo did, walking away without a backward glance.

  Arturo’s gut twisted with guilt as he descended the brick steps, leaving behind the suffocating confines of Gonzaga Castle. The sorceress hated him for what he’d done. Rightfully so. But they’d needed a sorcerer badly, and she was the first they’d found in more than two years of searching.

  He’d known what she was the first time he’d tasted her. As Bram said, she carried no scent of magic, but the taste of it in her blood was strong for those who knew what magic tasted like. And Arturo knew.

  Ah, her blood was sweet. But she was Cristoff’s now.

  The guard opened the front gate, nodding as Arturo passed through onto the paved sidewalk, leaving the lit compound behind with long strides. Letting the darkness embrace him.

  Cristoff knew her value. He wouldn’t hurt her. At least, he wouldn’t injure her unduly. He couldn’t risk it. But Arturo knew all too well what Cristoff was capable of, and it chilled him to the bone to leave a fully mortal female in his master’s hands.

  But he’d had no choice. It mattered not if he’d taken a liking to the woman. Or if his blood heated every time he touched her soft, warm flesh, every time he smelled the sunshine in her hair.

  There was far too much at stake for a bit of pleasure to get in the way.

  He crossed the dusty, empty road as he made his way back to the sanctuary of his home, remembering the look on Cristoff’s face as he’d presented his gift, the sorceress. Cristoff had been pleased. Well pleased, and the notion stroked satisfyingly within him. He’d done well this day even as he knew the furious betrayal in those green eyes would haunt him for a long, long time.

  Perhaps an eternity.

  Chapter Eight

  “Delivery! Now!”

  Zack set down his hammer atop the roof of the small brick building he and the other slaves had been working on since his arrival in Vamp City. Swiping the sweat out of his eyes, he scrambled for the ladder, fighting and jostling with his companions until they were all in danger of falling off the roof. No one wanted to be the last one down. The last always took the brunt of their master’s whip.

  He managed to beat two others down the ladder and took off at a run the moment he reached the ground, determined to stay in front. Following the other slaves, he rounded the corner to the wagon that must have pulled up while he’d been hammering, a wagon laden with crates of fruits and vegetables and boxes containing only God knew what. It didn’t matter. He and the other slaves were the ones who would carry it inside even though the vampires could lift a hundred times what the humans could.

  Most of the guys were grabbing two crates at a time, but Zack didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. He grabbed a single crate of vegetables. But he’d only taken two steps from the wagon when the whip sliced down his back. Fire exploded, and it was all he could do not to lose the crate in his hands.

  “More, you ninety-pound weakling!” the vampire yelled.

  Gritting his teeth against the mortification as much as the pain of the lash, Zack set down his crate, returned to the wagon for a second, then dropped it on top of the first and struggled to lift them both. Motherfucker. His back bowed, his muscles shaking with strain, he made his way after the other slaves, knowing that if the fucking vampire whipped him again, he’d lose both crates. Then he and Mr. Whip would get to know one another way too well.

  Sweat rolled down his temples, his face red with strain. He wasn’t weak. Not weak. He’d just never seen much sense in spending hours in the gym like the meatheads. Programmers didn’t need muscles. Unfortunately, slaves did. But he wouldn’t be a slave forever. He’d find a way to escape—when he was stronger, when he’d solved the puzzle of this place. Then he’d rescue Lily and Quinn. He wouldn’t let himself even think about whether or not his sister was still alive.

  Struggling to move one foot in front of the other, to keep going, he eyed the door the
others were entering, held open by a female slave. He’d never been in this part of the house before and was mildly curious. If he made it that far without dumping his crates.

  Twenty more feet. Fifteen. Ten.

  Finally, he reached the steps to the back door and stumbled inside without losing hold of his load, miracle of miracles.

  A woman grabbed the top crate, swinging it away as if it weighed nothing, heating his face even more. She was probably a vampire. Except she was dressed like a slave.

  He set down the second crate beside the others, his muscles burning. He turned to go back outside, and that was when he saw her, walking past the doorway, a mop in one hand, a heavy bucket in the other.

  “Lily.”

  At his call, she slowed and turned. Their gazes met, and she paled, her eyes dark with exhaustion, filling with tears. But she didn’t stop, and, a moment later, she was past the door and gone again.

  “Lily!”

  A hand clamped his shoulder. “Shut up, you moron.” Reggie, one of the other slaves, leaned in close to his ear. “You have no idea the sadistic games they’ll play if they discover two slaves care for one another. Ignore her. Forget her.”

  Zack paled, his breathing ragged, his emotions soaring and crashing all at once as he looked around the kitchen. No vampires had witnessed his outburst. Not that he knew of.

  But Lily was here, just like he’d thought. And she was okay . . . maybe. Kind of.

  God help him if the vampires came after them both.

  Cristoff gripped Quinn’s arm hard enough to cause bruises as he led her past the dais, through a doorway at the back of the throne room, and into a narrow passage lined with manacles chained to the walls. Walls badly stained with . . . blood?

  She was shaking with fury, gritting her teeth to hide it. Damn Arturo. Damn him! She’d believed him. She’d liked him. Worse, far worse, she’d begun to almost trust him. Not that she’d had a lot of choice. But she knew better! People couldn’t be trusted and, clearly, definitely not vampires.