Blood Legacy (8 page)

I glanced nervously around the bar, though no one was directly in earshot of us. “Something like that, yes.”

“To an extent, you’re right. There are plenty who think that way. But, believe it or not, quite a lot of us are sympathetic to your race’s condition. We see no need to make this arrangement any more unpleasant than it absolutely must be.” She flashed a smile at the bartender as he set a drink before her—a metal container fresh out of the heating drawer. I knew exactly what it would contain. Half a pint of Donated blood. “This is necessity to me, nothing more,” Nastasya said, bringing the container to her lips. “No sense gorging on it. I’d rather hold out for a good steak.” She winked.

I raised one eyebrow. “Does Lord Bressov know you feel that way?”

She swallowed and licked the trail of blood from her lips. “I know the Stream makes him out to be some sort of cruel tyrant, but he’s a lot more open-minded than you might think.”

Cruel tyrant? I was pretty sure I had some idea of just how cruel he could be, when he wished it. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t love it.

“I’m glad he’s taken a shine to you,” Nastasya continued. “You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. And a good body under your head.”

I nearly choked on my drink. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh.” Natasya covered her mouth with one gloved hand, a move that looked way too coy for someone who was drinking blood. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. There are so few
agonies
in the world, you see, and Lord Bressov thinks it would be terribly selfish of him to keep one all to himself. The decision’s completely yours, naturally, but if you ever find yourself hungry for a woman’s touch, I’d love to show you what I’m capable of.”

I realized my mouth was hanging open, and hurriedly shut it. “I—Thank you, I think, but I—I mean, Lord Bressov and I haven’t really had a chance to discuss our . . .” Situation? Arrangement? Bloody onyx, what kind of madhouse had I signed up for by accepting Bressov’s invitation?

“I completely understand, love. It’s a lot to digest at once. Just think about it, hmm?” She leaned forward and patted my knee. “But if you’re interested in some
real
entertainment while you wait on His Lordship, I suggest you pay a visit to the exhibition hall. I think you’ll find it to your liking.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Nastasya drifted off, clutching her stein of blood, leaving me alone with my now-empty tumbler. I tried squeezing a few more drops from it, but only got ice cubes to the face for my troubles. I twisted the fluffy skirt of my gown between my hands; a quick glance to the balcony showed the Bressovs and Violetta still busy rubbing elbows and kissing asses with the other Coven Families. I had a good idea what Nastasya’s ‘exhibition hall’ might entail, but maybe it would be more entertaining than drinking alone . . .

My skin buzzed as I wove away from the grand hall, a mixture of adrenaline, alcohol, and cold air coursing through my veins. As I stepped into a side promenade, shrouded by arches and dotted with clumps of couples embracing in its alcoves, I imagined myself as a loping predator, combing through the forest. Was this how it felt every day to be a Vampyr?
To see the night before you as your own, and no one else’s, with no taskmaster waiting for you once the morning haze descended?

A sharp, pleasured moan caught my attention as I passed by a grand arch. Startled, I stared through the archway, and the thick velvet curtains that had been gathered to either side of it. The carved lettering over the doorway read “Exhibition Hall.” So I was right about Nastasya’s suggestion.
The room beyond the arch was even darker than the grand ballroom, but I could make out what looked like rows of stadium seats sweeping down to a line of illuminated glass cubes. As I stepped through the archway, the glass cubes’ purpose became quickly apparent: there were people inside each of the cubes, like the cleanest, classiest peep show I’d ever stumbled upon.

Living in Undertown, you stumble on more than a few tasteless ones. They don’t have a Vampyr audience seated politely in velvet, gilded chairs. They don’t have such carefully maintained humans, Vampyrs, and Donors on display. And they
certainly
don’t feature applause.

Wide-eyed, I walked down the side aisle of the seating to get a better look at the first compartment on display. A dark-skinned naked woman—a Vampyr, I quickly ascertained—stood pressed against the front of the glass, her hot, pink mouth wide open in shameless gasps of delight. The scowling Vampyr male behind her was probing her folds with what looked like a carved ivory rod. Each jab of the rod pushed her closer to the brink; her heavy breasts smashed against the glass, and she pawed at it fervently, trying to find purchase with her nails. As her wails grew and grew, fangs emerged from her teeth. Her face collided with the glass, leaving a trail of
gleaming venom on it.

She shuddered, her whole body rippling with visible pleasure, then slowly, carefully, the man withdrew the rod from her, slick with her juices.
The crowd of Vampyrs applauded softly, though there were a few murmurs and gasps that left me with little doubt as to what
some
of the audience members were themselves doing.

But I couldn’t blame them. The way the woman’s fangs emerged as she surrendered to complete and total delirium . . . I envied it. I tried to think if there had ever been a moment in my entire life when I’d surrendered such control, or when I’d bared myself so utterly to even one person, let alone a room full of onlookers. The life of a human in the Sanguine Republic meant forever watching your back, and your front, besides; it meant always being observed, not for pleasure, but to see how hard you could be pushed until you broke. And in my dealin
gs with Finch and the Resistance, that pressure was double—I felt it welling inside me now, thinking of the absurd contortions that constituted my every day as I stole information and kept tabs on the Vampyr families and assisted in their small, symbolic, and ultimately meaningless acts of rebellion that often as not got innocent humans killed . . .

How would it feel, for just a few hours, not to care about anything beyond the four walls around yourself? Even if they were made of glass, at least the darkness could let you pretend the world wasn’t watching and holding its breath. (Among other things it might be holding.) How would it feel to let myself go, to ride that wave with no fear of what might happen when it pulled me under?

“Enjoying the show?” a man asked, his breath hot and metallic on my neck. I knew the smell that laced his words, and it wasn’t just alcohol he’d been drinking. I took a step to the side, only to back into a second man.

“We hear you might be able to put on quite a show yourself, if it’s true what they say.” The second man ran a finger down my bare arm. “A real, proper
agonie
.”

“Where did you hear that?” I asked, turning to face the first man. He was an olive-skinned Vampyr with too-perfect black hair
that hung straight around his face. There was something familiar in his haughty look, though I couldn’t place it exactly.

“Our darling ‘sister’ told us,” cooed the man behind me. He grabbed a fistful of my curls and breathed in loudly. “You certainly smell like one.”

“Maybe you can give us a private show,” the first man said. “I promise we won’t tell His Lordship.”

“Not that it’s his business anyway. I reckon you’re our sister’s property as much as his anyhow.” And at that, the second Vampyr cupped his hand around my breast, the one wrapped in the shimmering gauze, and gave it a crude tweak.

I twisted away from him, trying to duck under his arm, but his Vampyr reflexes were too quick. They both pressed against me, pinning me against a curtained alcove, one man’s forearm against my throat, nearly crushing my windpipe, as the other jammed his knee between my thighs. The pain was nothing like what I’d felt under Victor’s cruel hand that morning—this was hollow pain, without the sweet barbs of pleasure to alleviate it. And the terror pounding through me was all too real, with no promise of relief.

“Oh, look, Bernard, she’s scared of us. I can smell it on her blood.”

“Blood always tastes sweeter with a dose of fear.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to pry myself free of the two men. They were too strong, and I was outnumbered.

“Now, now, you know he wouldn’t like us making a Donor of her.”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

I couldn’t move, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t feel anything except the hot breath against my exposed neck as one Vampyr’s mouth moved toward my throbbing carotid artery. Even if they only drew the legally allowed amount that could be taken from a Donor at any one time—one pint—it would be too late for me. The first strain of the Vampyr toxin would enter my blood stream, weakening my muscles and organs, feasting on my brain cells, and sapping away my life. Each subsequent feeding would strengthen the toxin’s effects, but just one dose was enough to start the deterioration. I’d lose my appetite, my cognizance, my energy, my will to live. Like all the other Donors on their leashes and their velvet thrones, I’d be nothing but a hollowed-out shell. A warm holding vessel for blood. And then, in time, I’d be nothing at all.

“Bernard. Samson. Might I ask just what you think you’re doing?”
The voice, acidic and harsh, came from the darkness. “Because I’m quite certain no member of the Stregazzi Family would disobey my direct orders.”

Bernard and Samson Stregazzi eased their grips on me and I slumped to the base of the wall. Fear had sapped all my strength. My fingers darted along my neck, but I could find no puncture wound, no trace of any kind of breach. I could have sworn they’d had me pressed there for minutes, but it must have been only seconds.

“We were just getting your
agonie
nice and tender for you and our sister, Vic. No need to get your trousers in a twist.”

“If I wish for your assistance,” Victor said, “I’ll ask for it.” His tone left no doubt he wouldn’t be calling on their assistance anytime soon.

“Fine, take all the fun out of it for us grunts.” The other man sighed. “You want me to go get Violetta? The least you can do is let us watch—”

“You will not fetch Violetta. And you will certainly not stay in my sight for a second longer, if you care to hold your posts at the Stream offices.” Victor’s upper lip curled back in a snarl. “I’m sure the Stream would be better off without you two clotting it up anyway—”

“Okay, whatever, you’ve made your point.”

“She’s too skinny for our tastes, anyway.”

The second man agreed, making some sort of lewd groping gesture. “I like a drink with a bit of meat on it, you know? More padding for the drinking.”

The first man clapped his coconspirator on the shoulder. “C’mon, Sam, the next show’s about to start.”

The audience inside the exhibition hall gasped as the lights focused on a new glass box, but I was busy staring at Victor Bressov’s shoes, shined to a mirror-like finish. He’d just spared me from the Vampyr toxin, to be sure, but what of the other things those Stregazzi creeps said? About Violetta knowing all about me, and her plans for me . . .

Victor held a hand out for me. “I’m terribly sorry for that. Rest assured, it won’t happen again.”

I had my doubts about that—being a human amongst Vampyrs in this kind of setting, I was quickly learning, was like being a rabbit amongst wolves—but I took his hand. His skin was surprisingly soft, and as he pulled me to my feet, we came face to face, noses nearly touching thanks to my high heels. I sucked in my breath at the sight of him. His dark, wavy hair was combed back, but not so much that it couldn’t make a gentle curl around his temples; his cool eyes glinted with the dim lighting. And as soon as our eyes met, a smile danced along those beautiful lips.

“You’re not hurt?” he asked. His fingers stayed curled around mine, and I was in no hurry to let go.

“I’ll be all right.” I swallowed hard, then finally released his hand to tug awkwardly at the skirt of my dress. “Thank you for the invitation, and this lovely gown.”

“Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” Victor asked.

I chuckled and forced myself to break eye contact. God, it was hard to talk to him when he was looking at me that way. Not like a meal, but like a person—a real person, one who fascinated him. “But . . .” I smiled sadly. “But I don’t think this was a good idea. I really don’t belong here, and I—”

“Nonsense. You have just as much a right to be here as any of these sycophants, these hangers-on . . . More of a right. Because I asked you here, and you are under my protection.” His face coiled into a snarl once more, a fleeting reminder of the predatory instincts that lay under that handsome face, but he quickly smoothed it away. “Though some are hasty to forget it, you couldn’t be safer than here. With me.”

Safe.
An odd choice of words, coming from him. But as I rubbed at the soft, uninjured stretch of my neck, I had to admit there was some truth to it.

Victor cleared his throat. “As for why I asked you here . . . Well . . .” Our eyes met once more, but he laughed, half-smiling, and glanced away as an outburst of delight sounded from the exhibition hall. “Perhaps we could speak in private?”

I nodded dumbly, and, my hand enclosed in his, Victor Bressov led me from the exhibition hall and up a darkened staircase.