Nightmaster. Susan Krinard
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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,