Enslaved By the Others (An H&W Investigations Novel)

by Jess Haines

  The guy pulled me along with him, past a couple more guards keeping an eye on the door who watched with dull curiosity as we passed. He took me into Max’s room, pulling me to one of the upholstered benches. Rather than let me sit on it, he put a foot on the back of one of my calves, sending me to my knees on the carpet, then sat down on the bench himself.

  Rude, inconsiderate bastard.

  I resettled myself as comfortably as I could under the circumstances, muttering under my breath the whole time. Scar-face didn’t say anything, though he did look a bit too pleased with himself for me to think that whatever Max had in store for me was over yet.

  A little while later, the other two guards brought the chairs and stools from the pool room into Max’s room, leaving them next to the door. The flunkies glanced at me curiously once or twice, but for the most part concentrated on their task.

  Once it looked like all of the chairs were out, the lot of them shuffled into Max’s room. Two of them stayed on their feet while the rest sat in the chairs, playing with cell phones or staring with obvious boredom into space.

  One of them called out to Scar-face. “How much longer?”

  “Dunno. Top floor is done, but they’ve still got a lot of ground to cover before they’ll ’ave searched the whole grounds. Pull out a pack of cards or something. We’re going to be here for a while.”

  The other guardsmen grumbled a bit, but didn’t argue. The one who had asked how much longer went back into my gilded prison only to return a couple of minutes later with a book in hand. Catch-22. Of course.

  Time passed. It got dark outside. The men took turns grabbing dinner from inside. Though I got pretty hungry and thirsty during the wait, I didn’t bother asking for anything and nobody offered to get me anything.

  A crackle of static from a radio I hadn’t seen was followed by a voice I didn’t recognize. “We’re clear. Move the chairs to the basement, then report in. Stokes, stay with the girl.”

  Everyone but Scar-face got up and cleared out, each of them carrying a couple of chairs. There were three chairs left behind, but I doubted any of them would come back to finish the job. Scar-face—Stokes—had eaten and resumed his seat on the bench, though he didn’t seem very pleased to be left with babysitting detail. To be fair, I wasn’t too pleased about it, either.

  We waited in uncompanionable silence for what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes. Max stalked in, moving with the liquid grace of a hunter on the prowl. His eyes gleamed with predatory intent, the tension in his shoulders and the thin lines around his mouth making his agitation obvious. One sharp gesture was all it took for Stokes to get up and hightail it out of the room.

  I might have laughed at how nervous the guy got and the wide berth he gave Max as he nearly ran from us, but now I was alone with an angry, probably hungry, vampire.

  Once the door shut behind Stokes, Max closed the distance between us. He didn’t say a word, but the weight of his displeasure was palpable. The subtle gleam in his eyes turned into a fierce, red glow and the pressure of him digging into my mind to take control was so sudden and painful that I could barely breathe.

  I was in such deep shit.

  Chapter Ten

  Max didn’t have to touch me to make me hurt. I couldn’t move as he used our locked gazes as a channel to bring memories to the surface. One, of his progeny pinning me to a bed in a cold, damp room, making sure it hurt as he sucked the life out of me. Another, of being held in Max’s arms, of the disgust and revulsion that had wracked me once I realized how much I wanted him to keep biting me. And another, of just how good it felt to be bound, to bend to his will, the warm glow of basking in his praise—and the pain in my heart when he was disappointed with me, the aching burn of loss when Royce and his minions wouldn’t let me go so I could return to his side.

  It was like living it again. Re-experiencing those memories in all their Technicolor glory. Feeling it all over again.

  And all the while I knew he was there, seeing and feeling it, too. Somehow I knew he was that deep inside, taking all my secret shame and making it his.

  He let out an audible hiss before he turned away from me, breaking the mental connection between us. The loss of him was nearly as painful as the claws he’d hooked into my brain, leaving me gasping with shock. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, I stared up at him from my knees, pulling back as much as I could.

  The vampire turned his gaze heavenward in a gesture that looked more like something my parents did when they were annoyed with me than I cared to think about. He then hooked a chair with his foot, pulling it closer so he could take a seat across from me. This time I thought better of meeting his eyes and ducked my head, bracing for whatever he might do to me. Yell at me, send me to bed without dinner, take away my TV privileges ... The facetious thoughts were the only thing I could cling to in an effort not to go mad with terror that Max might dig into my thoughts again.

  “Shiarra,” he said, drawing my name out like a paper cut—so sharp and quick that you don’t feel the pain until you realize you’re bleeding. “I’ve done my best to be temperate with you, but your reticence is wearing on my patience. I don’t have the time to deal with you or your insolence. Wresting control of cities from other vampires to place my progeny in key locations is far more important to me than wasting my time trying to use your connection to your pack when we are still weeks off from the full moon. Why do you insist on acting out in ways that interrupt my work and draw my ire? Are you deliberately setting out to anger me?”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to answer him. Did he think I was acting like some headstrong teenager, lashing out at restrictive house rules? Or did he really not realize just how fucked up his operation was and that anyone with half a brain cell in my situation would be making every effort to escape?

  I was starting to think it might be the latter because he was laying his cards on the table. Telling me he was actively working to take over other cities was a bad sign. Vampires were renowned for playing their cards close to their chest. Admitting what he was doing likely meant he intended me to play a part in it.

  Knowing why he had ignored me for days at a time didn’t improve my outlook on my situation one bit, either. The werewolf responsible for my infection was dead, and most of his pack hated me with a passion. Whatever Max thought of my connection to the pack of Sunstrikers, their pack leader—my ex-boyfriend Chaz—wouldn’t let them do a thing for me anymore. Volunteering that information might lead Max to decide to cut his losses and kill me. If I kept it to myself, I would live longer and there was still a chance at escape or rescue.

  Max shook his head when it became clear I wasn’t going to respond. “This lack of acceptance of your new lot could have been the death of you if you were with someone else, but I don’t think you’ve quite grasped what your place here means. You are mine. As I told you when you got here, there is no escape from me unless I choose to let you go.”

  I glared up at him, trying on a little anger to hide the fear raging inside. “I’m a person, you asshole. You don’t own me. You never will. You can lock me up, but I’m not yours and never will be.”

  Max stared down at me, one hand lightly rubbing his chin as little furrows appeared between those gray eyes. He didn’t exactly look angry or frustrated. Considering. Like he thought I was being dense and was trying to decide how to explain the facts of life to me. After a while, he spoke again, this time with a tone of gentle scolding like a parent telling their wayward teenager not to stay out so late and to call next time. What a crock.

  “I do believe your inability to accept your place is why this is so difficult for you. Rhathos was far too lenient with you.”

  “He doesn’t own me, either.”

  He voiced a soft, mocking laugh. “Oh, yes he did. Long before you met him. The moment he acknowledged your existence, you were his. The only difference between us is that I do not lie about your place in my household.” That felt far too uncomfortably like trains of thought I’
d had myself. An unbidden memory of a low, husky voice promising just that made me shiver. “Don’t doubt for a moment that you’re mine, my little hunter. You’ve been mine longer than you know.” Max, who didn’t seem to notice he’d hit a nerve, continued his little lecture. “Do you know what makes me the master here, and you the slave?”

  I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t say something that would land me in further trouble.

  “You let fear rule your actions. You accept that I am stronger than you, and capable of hurting you, so you do as I say when directly ordered to avoid punishment. While not ideal, it is acceptable. I don’t stamp out that fire that makes you continue to hope and search for a way out because it would destroy the spirit that makes you attractive.” He leaned forward, one finger pointed at my face as he growled out his next words. “However, that does not give you license to incite rebellion in the rest of my pets.”

  “Oh, please,” I said, my cup runneth over, “are you even listening to yourself? We are people, Max, not animals. You can’t keep us like ... like pets. Are you honestly surprised we’re trying to get out any way we can?”

  “As I said, I expected it of you. Not from the others, who know their place. Or did, until you put those idiotic notions of rescue into their heads. Do you have any idea how much work you’ve undone?”

  That made me bristle. It rankled to think that he had those girls so cowed that no one had thought to try to get the attention of outsiders before today. “Good! They should be trying to get out! I don’t care what century you’re from—you’re in America. Don’t you know what you’re doing is illegal and wrong? Hasn’t living so much history taught you anything? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Emancipation Proclamation. What you’re doing has been illegal even longer in England. Since . . . since . . .”

  “1102.”

  “1102, right.” I said. Then exploded. “Come on! You know it’s not right, you know the history of it better than I do. Haven’t you ever seen that Liam Neeson movie? This can’t end well for you.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Making something illegal rarely stops it from happening, it only sets guidelines in place to punish those who are caught,” he said, his tone still pedantic and I-know-best-so-just-sit-back-and-shut-up. “Slavery is not a new concept. It was done long before my time, and is still more common today than you think. It’s quite a lucrative business and has paid my dues to country and sire for centuries. You should be thankful you haven’t been sold as a pleasure slave or assigned to menial tasks. Appreciate your value, girl. It’s saved you more pain than you know.”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked, incredulous. “Thankful? For this? There’s nothing right or fair about anything you’re doing here!”

  “Fairness matters in the minds of Americans who see it as a means to their ends. It does not matter here.” He took an unneeded breath, frowning down at me in obvious disapproval. “I am going to tell you a little story. When I am done, I’m going to do something to remind you of your place and ensure you never forget the time you spend with me, however long you may live.”

  My lip curled. “You think I’m ever going to be able to forget what you’ve done to me? To Sara?”

  “If you were to fall into another’s hands, perhaps,” he replied. “What I have in mind will prevent even the most powerful mage or vampire from wiping it from your memories.”

  That chilled me. Whatever he was thinking of doing was undoubtedly going to be unpleasant.

  “You have met Mouse. You know she is my progeny, yes?” At my cautious nod, he smiled in a way that set my skin crawling. “Good. And I am sure you know she is mute. Did she ever relay to you the story of how she was made so?”

  “You tortured her. She didn’t do something you wanted, so you tortured her until she couldn’t talk back to you anymore, you sick bastard.”

  “It is not so simple as you make it sound. Truly, did no one tell you how it really happened? What she did? Or, more specifically, exactly what I did to her?”

  My stomach churned as I thought about it, scrounging for any recollection of Mouse or anyone else in Royce’s apartment building speaking about her past. Most of my time spent there had passed in a fog of pain or fear or some other unpleasant emotion whenever I wasn’t loopy from the mind-mojo Max had worked on me.

  The first few days of my blood bond-induced haze, I had nearly clawed holes in the walls to escape and make my way to Max’s side or clung to Royce as he fought to keep me from answering the call. Then I passed more time, bitter and listless, just wanting to go home. That was followed by some of the most intense pain I’d ever experienced in my life as I went through withdrawal pangs for vampire blood. Every other visit after that had been too brief to get to know anyone in Royce’s home beyond a passing acquaintance.

  No, I had no idea how Max had stolen Mouse’s voice. He clearly gathered as much by my expression, because he leaned forward to tip my chin up to make sure I was looking into his cold, gray eyes as he told me.

  “She had the voice of an angel, once. My angel. Her voice was why I made her mine. My little bird sang for me and did my bidding—until Rome, where she attempted to disobey me.”

  The blood on his breath as he leaned even closer made my eyes water, but I didn’t dare blink or look away. “She grew a conscience. The opera she was performing called for the death of the male lead, but she refused to kill the boy. Not even for her art, she told me. Not even for me.

  “When we returned to the Americas, I took my time with her. I’m sure you realize what a busy man I am, so you can imagine what dedication it took for me to set aside at least an hour every day to personally oversee her punishment and reprogramming. Sharp objects. Blunt ones. Silver. Cold iron. Blessed objects. Unholy relics. So many methods, so few that worked the way I desired. It took decades for me to discover a way to make the damage to her vocal chords permanent, seeing as she was already turned, but it’s a technique I perfected on her.”

  Oh, God. I’d known Mouse was mute, and that Max had a hand in it, but I had no idea his sadistic streak went so deep. The guy had exhibited some unbelievably psychotic behavior when trying to wrest control of New York from Royce’s hands back when I first met him, and I had seen some horrific things since I arrived in this Motel Hell, but I had no idea he had been so cruel to mute, gentle Mouse. No wonder she always got a look like she wished she could hate him to death whenever he was mentioned.

  Max was looking at me expectantly, one brow raised, like he was waiting for a reply. My throat was so constricted and dry, I had a hard time speaking. After a couple of attempts, I choked out a few words. “How could you do that to her?”

  “I told you why,” he responded, voice cold as a winter night. “She is mine and she will never forget it. Not if she lives until the sun this forsaken rock circles burns out. Even when her voice returns—oh, yes, it may take another century or two, but it will come back in time—she will remember what comes of disobeying me. You’re about to learn the same lesson, my little red-headed vixen. The question is, will you do as I wish without further motivation, or will you hold out to see what else I can strip from you? Or just how much pain you can endure?”

  My voice was trapped in my throat, fluttering like a wounded bird. If it escaped, I had the feeling the screams might never stop.

  The hard look on his face melted away, leaving a congenial smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that might have been attractive on someone less insane.

  “Very well. Shall we begin?”

  I shook my head, twisting away, pain shooting up my arms as I fought the bindings. Max snapped his fingers, and a pair of men sauntered in, both of them wearing slick plastic aprons over their jeans and T-shirts. A sick little voice in the back of my head reminded me it was the sort of thing a butcher might wear to keep the gore of the slaughter off their clothes.

  They each took one of my arms and hefted me up between them, the tips of my toes dragging on the cold marble as Max led the way out
of the room. Though I’d seen enough of the huge mansion that I was starting to get a feel for the twists and turns of the place, I didn’t recognize the route we were taking. We went down a few flights of stairs until the unmistakable damp chill of a basement crept over my skin, the taste of wet earth and burning wood crawling over my tongue as I took a shaky breath.

  This wasn’t the same place as the rooms where he had initially kept me and entertained those other vampires during that auction. This felt more unfinished, like a subterranean cave. The ceiling was rough wooden beams mostly hidden in shadow high over our heads. Somewhere above us, a heavy door slammed and the darkness became a tangible thing.

  There was light ahead. Flickering. A fireplace? The brick fixture was deep, but the warmth and light from the fire had a minimal impact on the grave-like chill of the underground space.

  I did my best to dig my heels in when I spotted the table covered with an array of shining tools: knives, needles, saws, scissors, and every other instrument of torture you might expect in some psycho doctor wannabe’s collection. There was a second stainless steel table next to it covered with Velcro straps. My breath was knocked out of me as I was picked up and bodily shoved facedown onto it, the cold biting into my skin through the thin robe and against my cheek.

  “You know,” Max said, strolling over to the fireplace as the two men strapped me down to the table, “I do enjoy reading science fiction. There are a number of authors who come up with the most outrageous ideas. For example, have you heard of a fellow by the name of John Norman?”

  I grunted, out of breath and otherwise unable to reply. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the guys who had dragged me down here make a face behind Max’s back. The same guy who came over to shove a piece of leather between my teeth and strap it around my head.

  It didn’t take long to immobilize me. The short robe I was wearing was tugged up on the left side, a swipe of something cold and wet against my hip making me twitch. Judging by the sharp scent, it was rubbing alcohol. I was probably going to get a shot of some kind. Something to dull pain while he used those instruments of torture on me? Not that I wouldn’t want it if that’s what he planned, but what would be the point?