Читать книгу Nightmaster - Susan Krinard - Страница 8

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.

Ares held the other Bloodmaster’s stare, taking dangerous pleasure in Palemon’s astonishment. No Opir ever touched another without risking a violent reaction. It was considered one of the gravest insults one Bloodlord or Bloodmaster could give an Opir who was not demonstrably his inferior.

Ares glanced at the woman, who was wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in an obvious gesture of disgust. He knew then that Palemon would have to kill her in order to break her. She showed little emotion, but Ares could almost feel the banked fire inside her, just waiting to be released.

“Are you offering Challenge?” Palemon demanded.

If Ares had been thinking clearly, he would have realized that Palemon would be compelled to call for an accounting. If he failed to do so, he would lose status, inevitably leading to a catastrophic decline in fortune and, ultimately, death. Palemon himself hadn’t lost a Challenge since the founding of the Citadel, but he knew that Ares hadn’t lost one in centuries.

Even a victory would bring unwelcome disruptions to Ares’s life. But if he didn’t respond appropriately, it would be even worse.

Palemon had calculated very well indeed.

“I offer Challenge for the serf,” Ares said, “to disability.”

Palemon looked Ares up and down as if he were a human up for claiming. “You are badly out of practice, Ares,” he said, more confident now that he knew his life was not at risk. “I confess I am at a loss to understand why there have not been many more Challenges called against you. You are a freak of nature, an affront to our species. You should have been eliminated long ago.”

It was not the first time Ares had heard such threats. To the contrary, he had become accustomed to them more than two thousand years ago, after the most ancient and powerful Opiri had gathered to arrange the details of the Long Sleep.

“Do you intend to hurl insults,” he said, “or accept the Challenge?”

Palemon’s pale face turned grim. “I accept. And I will accept nothing less than my personal choice of half your serfs when I win.”

Ares was almost driven to laughter. But Palemon was still a deadly fighter, and it was conceivable that he might fulfill his boast.

“You will have nothing of mine,” Ares said.

Fury flared in Palemon’s eyes, though his expression remained unchanged. “We shall see,” he spat.

In the tense silence that followed, the attendants pulled the female away and gestured for the other Opiri and their serfs to clear the open area at the front of the theater. The unclaimed serfs huddled in their cells, as far from the observation windows as they could get.

The Bloodlords and Bloodmasters watching from the sidelines made no sound, but Ares felt the other Opiri’s poorly concealed eagerness, their bloodlust, their hunger to be entertained by the spectacle of two Bloodmasters locked in combat.

For the female it was no game. When Ares glanced at her one last time, he knew from the rigidity in her naked body and the way her fists clenched that she understood what was at stake.

Daniel came up beside Ares. “My lord,” he said, his voice strained with worry as he offered the staff to his master. “Is there anything you require?”

Blood, he meant. Palemon was already availing himself of one of his serfs, sloppily feeding with no regard to the comfort of the female he abused.

Ares shook his head. He shed his overtunic and shirt, tossed them to Daniel and ordered the human to the side of the room.

Wiping his mouth, Palemon allowed his other attendant to remove his tunic and strutted to his side of the area allotted for the fight. He banged the head of his staff against the floor, sending an echoing crack around the room. Ares did the same with his own staff and passed it to one of the attendants.

Then he abandoned the last vestiges of detachment and let the thrill of battle rise from within, his muscles tightening, his heart speeding. Palemon grinned, his teeth still stained with blood, and flexed his fingers. His nails, kept long as most Opiri preferred, were almost as deadly as claws.

The fight was swift and vicious. The only weapons permitted were strength, swiftness and the tearing bite of long, razor-sharp incisors. Twice Ares pinned Palemon to the ground, his teeth inches from the other Bloodmaster’s throat. But each time Palemon threw him off, and soon both of them were panting and dripping blood from numerous small wounds on their arms and chests. Three times Ares heard the female human gasp, once more giving the lie to her formerly dispassionate demeanor.

The thought of her naked body under his distracted him for one vital moment. Palemon lunged and drove Ares down, sinking his teeth into his enemy’s neck.

“No!”

The female ran toward them, as fearless as a hummingbird protecting its egg from a hungry crow. She struck Palemon on the shoulder. He reared back, lashing out at her, and she danced out of range.

Ares didn’t hesitate. He flung himself on Palemon, banged his head against the floor several times and bit down hard on the other Opir’s jugular. Blood gurgled in Palemon’s throat, and he gave up the struggle.

Rising to his feet, Ares stared down at his enemy and caught his breath. Palemon would recover from the bite; all Opiri healed as quickly in an hour as a human might over many days, or even weeks.

But Palemon was in no condition to move now, and Ares had no desire to gloat over his victory. He looked around the room at the other Opiri. None would meet his gaze.

That was as it should be. Ares had gone far to reinforce his status, and without seriously maiming his opponent as he could have done. Palemon was within his rights to demand a rematch because of the female’s unprecedented interference, but he would look the fool for seeming to suggest a serf had made a difference in the outcome.

No, Ares thought. When next Palemon Challenged him, it would be to the death.

As Daniel cautiously approached to return Ares’s clothes, the female stood with her arms wrapped around her chest and stared at Palemon with obvious shock at what she had done. It seemed incredible that she had put herself between two Opiri who could have torn her apart in an instant. But had her actions been born of ignorance, desperation...or almost unimaginable courage?

Now that she was unquestionably his, such questions would be answered in due time.

“Find another shift for the female,” Ares said to the nearest attendant. The Freeblood hurried off to fulfill his task and returned quickly with a slightly longer shift, less transparent than the first.

“Dress yourself,” Ares ordered the woman. Moving slowly, she held his gaze as she slipped the shift over her head and tied the belt around her waist. It was the most unattractive garment in all Erebus, one assigned to City serfs, yet she was still beautiful, her hair falling about her shoulders and the curves of her body very much in evidence.

“Would you have her bound, my lord?” the attendant asked.

“Should I bind you?” Ares asked the woman harshly in the Opir language, his blood still thick with the dregs of violence. “Or will you come with me of your own will?”