vampires in america 7 - Aden (18 page)

The last slaver made a dash for the hallway where the captives were being kept, intent either on escape or mayhem. Aden was across the room and on top of the coward before he’d gone five feet down the hallway. Grabbing the vampire by the throat, he lifted him off his feet, watching dispassionately as his face first flushed with blood, then began to purple with a lack of air.

“Mercy, my lord,” he managed to gasp.

Aden bared his fangs. “Shall I show you the same mercy you gave these women? I know masters who will pay to own a gelded vampire. One whose will has been burned out, but who still walks and talks. Is that the mercy you’d have of me?”

The vampire’s eyes went wide in shock and fear, and he struggled to shake his head in denial. “Please,” he ground out.

Aden studied the vampire, not bothering to conceal his disgust. “I think not.” With a quick twist, he broke the vampire’s neck and dropped him to the floor, then, wielding his power with a fine control, he carved into the vamp’s chest and destroyed his heart.

“Aden, what—” Sidonie’s voice cut off mid-sentence. He could feel her behind him, but the violence storming through his veins was so great that he didn’t dare turn to face her.

“I told you to wait,” he growled.

“I did wait,” she retorted, or at least she tried to. Her bluster failed her on the last word, betraying the fear he could sense making her heart pound, a fear that he drew in like the sweetest air. It made his fangs emerge; it made his dick hard. He wanted to take her right there, to put her up against a wall and pound into her with the blood and ash of his enemies still fresh around him.

“Aden?” she asked, her voice still a little shaky.

It was too much. He spun around and snagged her by the waist, slamming her against the wall and holding her there with the full length and weight of his body. His cock was a hard bulge against her belly, and he saw her pupils flare the moment she felt it.

“I told you to wait,” he murmured, his lips right against her ear. Cupping her ass in one hand, he lifted her high enough that his cock fit neatly where it belonged.

“Is this what”—she swallowed before continuing—“is this what happens when you fight someone?”

He grinned, letting her see the length of his fangs. “Only when I kill them,
habibi
. Only when I drain their blood.”

“Oh.” Her tongue darted out nervously, and Aden caught it, covering her mouth with his, sucking on her tongue and closing his teeth over her tender lower lip.

“Sire, there are sirens.”

Aden kept his gaze on Sidonie’s flushed face. “Tell the others to load the women into the van. I want everyone gone in five minutes.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Let me help,” Sidonie said, her voice steady as she met his gaze. “Please. At least let me talk to the women and tell them what’s going to happen next. They probably don’t speak English, but I know Spanish.”

Aden regarded her silently, then nodded his head once, letting her slide down the wall until she was standing on her own. “You have the same five minutes, and then you’re coming with me.”

Rising up onto her toes with a little smile, she lifted her mouth to his and kissed him. “Thank you,” she whispered, then slipped away down the hall. She went directly to the second bedroom and opened the door. A chorus of hysterical cries greeted her, and he heard her soothing the women in Spanish, telling them it was all right, that they were safe. Freddy and Kage hurried past, and Sidonie reassured the women again, embracing a very young girl, telling her not to be afraid, gripping the hand of another woman as she repeated that these men were here to help, that they’d take them to a safe place.

Aden stared at her, feeling something in that moment that he hadn’t felt for a woman in
 . . .
He struggled to remember how long it had been. Centuries. Not since his mother had chosen her luxuries over the life of her only child. Not even when he’d met his vampire Mistress, the woman who’d changed his life forever.

Aden didn’t need Zaahira’s files to tell him who the women were, or even why they came to his bed. Half their time with him was spent complaining about their husbands’ many infidelities with both women and men.

Zaahira had never offered Aden to her male customers. It was mostly because he was too big, his looks too masculine, even when he was younger. Customers who came seeking that particular entertainment generally preferred pretty, delicate boys, ones who couldn’t fight back. But it was also true that Zaahira had a woman’s appreciation of Aden’s beauty—or so she’d always told him—and wouldn’t see him ruined by the kind of brutality those men favored.

Besides, from the very beginning, he’d been more than busy enough with his rich ladies
 . . .
like the lovely Lady Na’ima. Soft-skinned and doe-eyed, she’d been married at fourteen, and now, barely nineteen years old, she had already been dismissed from her husband’s bed.

Na’ima finished dressing, pulling a heavy veil over her face before turning to him with a smile in her eyes, the only part of her face he could see. It seemed a ridiculous conceit, since he’d been buried between her tender thighs only a short time earlier, but if his ladies wanted to believe this candlelit room was too dark for him to distinguish their faces, who was he to deprive them of that?

For his part, Aden made no effort to cover his nakedness or to conceal his arousal. Lady Na’ima ducked her head in embarrassment, which only made him harder. He loved the power he had over his women, loved that he, a lowly slave, could reduce such fine ladies to begging for his touch.

He gave Lady Na’ima a wide, inviting smile, and he could almost feel the heat of her blush from across the room. She was the youngest of his customers, sweet and eager, and so very compliant. Tearing her gaze away from his body, she pulled her veil even higher and opened the door slowly, checking the hallway before hurrying out and leaving his door open.

Aden took his time getting up, unbothered by the open door. Living in a brothel made one very casual about nudity. He pulled on a pair of linen pants, tying them loosely and letting them hang down on his hips. Na’ima was his last client for the day. Afternoons were his busy time, his evenings almost always free. The female whores—and that’s what they all were, what
he
was, a slave and a whore—saw most of their business in the evening, when the fine gentlemen had finished with work and family. They came to the brothel seeking to entertain themselves with women who couldn’t say no, especially if their desire was to explore the more perverse practices. Zaahira gave her clients a wide berth when it came to such perversions. As long as the whore wasn’t left too scarred or too damaged to work, it was allowed… for a suitable fee, of course.

Aden changed his mind abruptly and stripped off the linen pants. He needed to get out of the brothel for a few hours, needed to feel like a man instead of a whore. By law, he was required to keep his arms bare, his slave bands in view at all times. But he was the son of a free man, the grandson of two free men. And on occasion, he chose to live as a free man. If only for a few hours.

He pulled on his finest clothing, which was very fine, indeed. On top of whatever they paid Zaahira, his ladies always left him a generous gift, and that money was his to do with as he chose. It was the only money that was his, since he received no compensation at all from Zaahira. She owned him; his labor belonged to her.

Dressed for the evening, Aden closed the door to his room and headed toward the stairs. He was almost to the door, had in fact lifted his foot to take the last downward step, when he heard the scream. He would often think of that moment later in his long life, would contemplate what might have happened if he’d left a few minutes sooner. But as it was, he heard a woman’s terrified scream and knew instantly who it was.

He spun on his heel and raced back up the stairs and down the hallway, passing the startled faces of both whores and customers peering curiously from half-open doors. The door to the small room at the very end remained closed, however. Sana’s room. Sana had been sold to Zaahira as a small child and had practically grown up in the brothel. She’d been a pleasing little girl and everyone’s pet, but there was no room for sentiment in Zaahira’s world. When the child had become a woman, she’d become a commodity. Thirteen years old and not even a month past her first bleeding, her virginity had been a rare prize and brought a high price for Zaahira. But Aden knew Sana’s fee remained high. She was very pretty and small and delicate in build. She appealed to men who were looking for someone weaker, someone to dominate and sometimes to destroy.

Aden threw the door open. He found Sana quickly enough. She was curled in a corner, sobbing and naked, her back bruised and welted, small drops of blood visible in the welts.

“You,” a man’s voice bellowed. “Get out of here. She’s taken.”

Aden’s head turned slowly. A fat man stood on the other side of the bed. He was completely naked, and in his hand was a thin-tailed whip, stained dark with blood.

Aden saw that whip, and a haze as red as Sana’s blood obscured his vision. He leapt over the bed and grabbed the fat man, wrenching the whip out of his hand before shoving him to the floor. Lifting the whip, he brought it down with brutal intention, intending to do to this monster far worse than what he’d dared do to Sana. The fat man screamed, but it wasn’t his cry that stopped Aden. It was Zaahira’s voice, her command carrying every ounce of her authority as the mistress of the brothel, as his lover and friend
 . . .
as his owner.

“Stop!”

Aden managed to halt his downward swing before it landed on the useless bundle of flesh cringing on the floor before him. One thin lash touched the man’s pudgy thigh, making him scream as if he’d lost the leg instead.

“Out,” Zaahira snapped. Aden met her angry gaze with one of his own, and for a few brief seconds, he wasn’t sure he was going to obey. But then Sana whimpered, and he rushed to pick her up instead, dragging the sheet from the bed and covering her before taking her out into the hallway where all those prying eyes waited. He took her down the stairs to Isabel, an older slave who worked as Zaahira’s housekeeper and cook.

That’s where Zaahira found him, helping Isabel apply a soothing balm to Sana’s poor back, holding the girl’s hand against the pain.

“Aden.” Zaahira spoke from the doorway, as if afraid she’d catch something if she came too close. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. He’d thought if the brothel owner had feelings for anyone, it would be Sana, a child reared in her own house. But instead, she gazed at the scene with distaste, as if calculating how much money she was going to lose while Sana healed.

“Leave that,” his mistress said sharply when he continued to help Isabel. “Come.”

His anger was so great it threatened to burn him alive. Isabel must have sensed his rebellion, because she reached out and laid her hand over his, drawing his eyes up to meet hers.

“Go,” she said, her gaze filled with warning. “I’ll take care of her.”

His jaw clenched, but he gave her a short nod and stood to his considerable full height, drawing a small measure of satisfaction from the quick flash of fear on Zaahira’s face.