vampires in america 7 - Aden (11 page)

It was a short walk to the corner, and she felt Aden’s stare against her back every step of the way. She kept waiting for his crooning voice to drift over her shoulder, for his big hand to wrap around her waist. But it never did. He let her go. And she told herself it didn’t matter. That the disappointed ache she was feeling was only because she was losing a powerful ally in her efforts to close down Klemens’s old network.

And she nearly believed it.

ADEN WATCHED Sidonie storm away down the street, as if she were in control. As if she could escape him. He let her go
 . . .
for tonight. There were only a few hours before sunrise, and he had a lot to do before then. He’d pretty much drained Dresner of any useful information, but he wanted to pursue Sidonie’s claims regarding Klemens. His vampire sources had hinted at the existence of a slave ring here in Chicago, something he found deeply troubling. He wasn’t a total innocent. He knew many vampires indulged their darker natures and ignored human laws. Aden himself frequently bypassed the human legal system, considering it irrelevant to most vampire affairs.

But slavery was one thing he would never permit in his territory. He knew the emotional toll of being owned, of having one’s very existence dependent on the whim of another. Sidonie thought he’d enslaved Dresner by capturing her mind and compelling her to tell him what she knew. But what he’d done to Dresner was temporary and harmless. He hadn’t altered her memories, though he could have, and he hadn’t stripped her mind bare, although he could have done that, too. Once he’d dealt with Silas permanently, Dresner could go back to her sad devotion to the dead Klemens, and Aden would have nothing more to do with her.

That wasn’t slavery.

Sidonie Reid had no idea what it truly meant to be a slave.

Morocco, 1763

ADEN OPENED HIS eyes and shivered in the cold morning. It was raining. His master Hafiz would be in a foul mood again today. Hafiz hated the rain. He claimed it lowered his profits, and Aden supposed that must be true, since he doubted people would want to stand in the rain and bid on shivering, wet slaves. But what Aden knew for certain was that if business was slow, his master would take out his unhappiness on his own slaves, and that included Aden. Especially Aden. It was as if Hafiz derived particular pleasure in beating the bastard son of one of the wealthiest merchants in the city. More than once, Aden had wondered if his father had known the kind of treatment he’d receive at Hafiz’s hand, and if he’d chosen the slave master for that very reason. Had his father wanted to punish him for being born? For taking even a small part of his mother’s love? Though that love had obviously meant nothing to her. She’d sent him away willingly enough.

He poured freezing water from the cracked pitcher on the wooden table next to his bed, filling the crude pottery bowl. He no longer even thought about the elegant furnishings he’d left behind in his father’s home, things like smooth pottery and fresh-smelling soaps. As the bastard son, Aden had made do with the lowest quality available in his father’s palace, and yet they were still a thousand times better than what he had now. He splashed water on his face and washed his hands with the harsh soap. It hurt his skin, but he did it anyway, knowing it would earn him lashes if he failed to present a neat appearance. Not that he wouldn’t be whipped anyway, but he’d discovered there were degrees of pain.

There was no need to change clothes. He had only the one set, and it had been too cold last night to sleep naked. The shirt was ragged and unhemmed, the pants torn and too short for his long legs, but they were the only ones he possessed. And even these were owned by his master. Aden owned nothing. He was nothing. He was a thing, a possession, easily discarded and of very little value.

“Aden!”

He heard his master’s bellow and rushed from his room, drying his hands on his pants as he went.

Dropping to his knees at the open door to his master’s morning room, he bent nearly in half, face to the floor, and shouted, “How may this useless one serve you, master?”

His master’s laugh greeted his query. “Didn’t I tell you?” Hafiz chortled. “Perfectly biddable.”

“So you said,” a woman’s husky voice responded.

Aden didn’t move from his prostrate position, but he was intrigued. His master didn’t entertain many women. Boys were far more his style, and only the smallest, weakest ones at that. It was one thing Aden had to be grateful for, that his Scottish blood had made him too big to suit Hafiz’s perverted taste in sexual amusement. Even at the age of five, when Hafiz had first purchased him from his father, Aden had been too strong, his attitude too arrogant. The arrogance had been beaten out of him quickly enough, but his size and strength were there to stay.

“Get in here, worm,” Hafiz’s hated voice called.

Aden lifted himself from the floor, and, keeping his head lowered, eyes downcast, he shuffled into his master’s audience chamber, where he promptly prostrated himself once again.

“Master.”

He felt the sharp end of Hafiz’s cane dig into his shoulder and tensed, but then the woman intervened.

“No,” she said sharply, and amazingly, Hafiz stopped his poking. “Stand up, boy,” she commanded. “Let me see you.”

Aden froze uncertainly. The woman had given him an order, but Hafiz had not. If he stood without his master’s permission, he would be beaten. But if he ignored the command of his master’s guest, he might very well be beaten, too. Though perhaps not as severely. So he remained prostrate.

“Do it, imbecile.”

Aden stifled a sigh of relief, jumping to his feet at his master’s order.

“Raise your head,” the woman said. His mind told him the words were a command, but his gut felt it was a request. He chose not to obey either his brain or his gut, because the words didn’t come in his master’s voice.

Hafiz sighed deeply. “This is becoming tiresome. Do whatever she says, worm.”

Aden lifted his head and tried not to stare. He barely managed not to meet the woman’s eyes, which would have earned him far more than a lashing in punishment.

“You’re right. He’s very big for his age,” the woman observed, standing suddenly and coming close to Aden. He fought the shiver that tried to race along his nerves at her nearness. No female had been this close to him since he’d bid his mother good-bye. Hafiz didn’t own female slaves, didn’t have a wife or a mistress. His entire staff was male.

“Take off your clothes,” she said quietly, leaning close enough that he caught the flowery scent of her perfume. It confused him for a moment, because it reminded him again of the last time he’d seen his mother.

“Take off your clothes, boy.”

Hafiz’s harsh command broke through his confusion, and he jumped to obey. Slaves had no souls, but Aden had gained enough religion before being sold to know that it was unseemly for this woman to see him naked. But that didn’t stop him. Modesty of any kind was something he’d lost long ago. He loosened the tie on his pants and let them fall to the floor as he tugged the rough garment that was his shirt over his head. Stepping out of the pants, he folded both pieces neatly and set them aside before standing straight once more, eyes cast downward.

The woman’s delicate laugh tightened his gut with fear. Did she find his nakedness amusing? Was there some flaw that proved him unacceptable and would result in his punishment for embarrassing Hafiz?

“He’s certainly tidy,” she said over her laugh. “And very pretty, too.”

Aden surrendered to the shudder that rolled through him as her soft hand stroked over his skin, starting at his back and caressing his buttocks, the trail of her fingers following her slow steps around to his chest. He fought against his body’s instinctive reaction, but he was a twelve-year-old boy who’d never been touched by a woman like this. His abdomen clenched with an entirely different kind of fear as her slender fingers glided down to his belly and lower, finally grasping his erect cock with a boldness that shocked him. And terrified him.

“Lovely,” she commented. “Though you’ve marked him more than once, Hafiz.”

“Boys require discipline,” Hafiz said casually, as if the beatings he subjected his slaves to were for their own good and nothing to remark upon.

“Fortunately,” the woman said, “the marks will fade with proper treatment. It’s a shame you don’t appreciate true male beauty. Still, your loss is my gain. I’ll take him.”

“And the price?” Hafiz inquired in his oily voice.

“I’ll meet your price,” she said negligently. “But he goes with me this morning. I know you and your
discipline
. I’ll not have you marking him out of spite. The last boy I bought from you couldn’t work for nearly two weeks.”

Aden listened to this exchange and wondered what it meant. Clearly, his master had sold him to this woman, and that was a good thing. Or so he hoped. Aden was untutored, but not stupid. As much as he despised Hafiz, he knew there were far worse fates that could be his. It seemed unlikely, however, that this woman ran a slave ship, or any of the other detestable positions he could find himself in, especially given her admonishment to Hafiz about not marking him. He took that as a good sign, but, in truth, he had no idea what it meant.

His head still lowered, Aden watched from the corner of his eye as the woman picked up his clothes and fingered them with distaste.

“Put these back on for now. The matron will clothe you more suitably later.” She turned away dismissively as he began to dress. “Our business is complete, Hafiz. Come, boy.”

And that easily, Aden’s entire existence changed once more.