Dark Wolf Running (Bloodrunners) Page 26

  “Sergeant!” one of the other soldiers said. “Ferry’s ready to board.”

  The sergeant stepped back and nodded brusquely, gesturing with his rifle. The convicts walked onto the boat and moved to the center of the deck, heads down and shoulders slumped. The soldiers instructed them to sit on the hard benches under the canvas canopy and then clipped the prisoner’s ankles to rings fixed to the deck at their feet.

  Trinity watched the soldiers patrolling the deck, far more than were needed to escort a dozen petty offenders. Did any of them have relatives or friends who’d been deported? She knew that the kin of politicians and higher-ups in the government were usually spared this punishment, including the board of directors of Aegis itself.

  It wasn’t fair. But neither was the fact that the bloodsuckers had devastated the earth before the attrition of their own numbers had forced them into a truce. These men and women were soldiers, and sometimes soldiers did what they didn’t want to do.

  You can never forget you’re only a slave from now on, she told herself. You have to make sure you’re chosen by the right Bloodmaster or Bloodlord. And then you have to make yourself indispensable to him.

  That meant playing the part of a proper serf—and, if necessary, revealing her dhampir nature. Because, in spite of the supposed rarity of half-breed captives among the Nightsiders, it was believed that the leeches found nothing more delectable than dhampir blood.

  Or more addictive. Some Nightsiders were highly prone to physical dependence on that same blood. And that was Trinity’s most powerful secret weapon. A dependent Nightsider was one she could manipulate.

  But she intended to keep her true nature hidden as long as possible. In addition to the contacts, she wore caps over her front teeth to conceal her longer incisors, and no Nightsider she encountered would immediately be able to detect the difference in the smell and unique taste of her blood.

  The experimental drugs she’d been given—drugs whose antidote had been inserted into one of her molars—would mask those differences until she didn’t need to hide them. They would also counter the addictive qualities of her blood until she required them. But just as important were the injections that were supposed to lessen the risk of Conversion or pregnancy.

  Of course, no one was completely sure what happened when a dhampir was converted, in spite of the many times Aegis operatives had come into contact with Opir agents in the field. If any dhampir had become a Nightsider, he or she had never returned to the Enclave. And no one had ever seen the child of a dhampir and a Nightsider.

  The engine of the ferry rumbled beneath Trinity’s feet, drawing her out of her thoughts, and soon the vessel was pulling away from the pier. No one spoke until they reached the Terminal in the old county of Marin. One boy of about eighteen let out a yell of sheer terror and then went silent when one of the soldiers turned his way.

  After that, there was only more silence as the soldiers herded the prisoners to the truck.

  The ride was jolting and uncomfortable, the truck carrying its unwilling passengers over roads left to weeds and weather, across fallow and overgrown fields, past empty towns and small cities that seemed to echo with ghostly voices.

  Trinity stared straight ahead as the truck cut north toward the transfer point in the abandoned city of Santa Rosa. It was dusk when the truck reached its destination. The soldiers helped the exhausted prisoners climb down from the vehicle, unfastened the cuffs and offered them dinner rations and water. Some ate as if they were starving; others ignored the food completely.

  Trinity ate. She needed all her strength, and because she was one of the sixty percent of dhampires who didn’t require drugs to digest solid food, she was free to eat whatever she wanted. Once she was finished, she listened to the hoot of an owl and the nearly silent footfalls of a coyote in the hills—sounds none of the humans could detect.

  By sunset, as the human soldiers watched with guns raised and night visors glowing, the Nightsiders, anonymous behind their own visors, emerged from the fringe of oak woods at the base of the hills to the west.

  In minutes the formal exchange had been made. The Enclave soldiers stepped back, and the Nightsiders closed in around the exiles.

  No one put up a struggle. The Nightsiders spoke no more than was strictly necessary. The prisoners climbed into the hills and walked along narrow roads that wound through the Mayacamas mountains, wreathed in darkness lit only by the sweeping beams of the Opir soldiers’ headlamps. Halfway up to the pass, the Nightsiders made camp and allowed their charges to eat and sleep.

  Trinity remained awake, listening and observing as the bloodsuckers spoke among themselves in their ancient language, hoping that one of them would be careless enough to reveal something that might be of use to her.

  But none said anything she didn’t already know. After a while, the soldiers and their prisoners continued up the mountain, making camp again with the rising of the sun. The Nightsiders set up a shelter of heavy canvas, and two rested while the other two kept watch.

  Near the end of the second night, they saw Erebus.

  The vampire city was all black crystal spires and obsidian facets, a vast hive surrounded by pastures and fields of grain that produced food to keep the serfs alive and healthy. Trinity knew that Erebus housed some five thousand Opiri—and three times as many humans. Below the Citadel’s foundations lay countless chambers occupied by the lowest-ranked free Opiri and public serfs who served the city as a whole.

  In the spires, the Towers, lived those of highest rank: the Bloodmasters and Bloodlords with their Households of vassals, serfs and client Freebloods. In their feudal society, rank and power were everything.

  One of the prisoners began to weep and collapsed to her knees. A wiry man in his twenties helped her up with quiet words of comfort. Then they were moving again at a faster pace as the Opir raced the sunrise, descending out of the hills.

  When the exiles were within a quarter mile of their new “home,” three of the soldiers picked up the slowest prisoners and flung the humans over their shoulders like sacks of grain. The rest, including Trinity, crept closer and closer to the Citadel until they were at its foot, gathering under the stares of the Freeblood guards along the sheltered battlements.

  Trinity gazed up at the tall, heavy gates, obsidian black like the rest of the Citadel, and watched them swing inward. More Opir soldiers waited inside to take charge of the prisoners.

  The humans stood inside a wide, enclosed area between the curtain wall and the Citadel proper. Heavy material that seemed to be a combination of canvas and plastic stretched across the open space several yards above Trinity’s head, protecting the Opiri within. Bright lights, harmless to the Nightsiders, shone from niches in the walls, obviously installed for the benefit of the human serfs, who were hard at work performing various tasks. The towers, visible through a slight gap in the canopy, pierced the lightening sky and the scudding, orange clouds.

  The second set of soldiers uncuffed the prisoners’ wrists and gestured with their rifles toward a second gate on the other side of the courtyard. Moments later they entered a wide, dimly lit corridor, elaborately etched and painted with baroque designs and stylized figures in different hues. The corridor led to another and yet another, a maze humans might negotiate only with the aid of the changing colors and designs on each wall. Trinity could feel the passages descending into the bowels of the city, smelling of dampness and a taint of old blood.

  The final corridor ended in a row of holding cells. Two by two the new serfs were ushered into the cells, and Trinity found herself housed with Rachel. The cell itself contained only two narrow cots, a toilet and a sink with towels.

  “Are we supposed to clean up in here?” Rachel asked in a dull voice.

  “I don’t know,” Trinity said, examining the sink. “There’s some kind of soap dispenser, but I can’t believe they expect us to do much with it.”

  Nevertheless, she wet one of the towels, squirted a little soap on it and washed th
e grime off her face. She undid her hair from its rough ponytail and shook it out.

  “You’ve got pretty hair,” Rachel said.

  “Thanks,” Trinity muttered, hardly knowing how to react to the compliment. She wasn’t good at that even under the best of circumstances.

  As Rachel washed her own face and sat on the edge of one of the cots, slumping in exhaustion. Trinity lay face up on hers, pillowing her head on her arms, and tried to clear her mind.

  She knew what was coming: the Claiming, where the highest-ranked Opiri were given a chance to bid on the new serfs. Considering the process from an entirely intellectual perspective, Trinity knew the experience was going to be unpleasant. But her only goal was to catch herself a Bloodlord or Bloodmaster who would unwittingly help her achieve her goals. The higher the rank of her owner, the more freedom she was likely to have within the Citadel. And such freedom was what she needed to carry out her mission.

  *

  Trinity woke to the sound of the door to the cell swinging open. She jumped to her feet in a single motion, forgetting that she had to blend in with the untrained serfs. Rachel got up more slowly, shrinking behind Trinity as if she knew her cell mate was capable of much more than her ordinary appearance indicated.

  In the doorway stood a Freeblood, white haired and pale skinned, no soldier but some kind of functionary in plain black robes. He gestured to Trinity and Rachel.

  “You are to be prepared,” he said in a voice that told Trinity that he had little interest in the proceedings. “Come with me.”

  She assumed her role as a subjugated human and walked out of the cell, Rachel on her heels. The other female prisoners were huddled in the corridor under the supervision of several black-robed Opiri. The Nightsiders herded the new serfs to the door of a much larger room, fitted with open showers, a row of curtained booths and three female attendants.

  As Trinity and the other convicts entered the room, two of the attendants, wearing shapeless white shifts, smiled encouragingly. The third woman, dressed in a white tunic and trousers, was considerably more severe.

  “You have to be examined,” she said without preamble.

  Trinity stiffened and then forced herself to relax. She’d been thoroughly briefed, after all. The bloodsuckers had to know what they were bidding on.

  The new serfs were instructed to undress, shower and then enter the booths. A few minutes later the examiner swept aside the curtain and entered Trinity’s cell. With practiced efficiency, the women examined Trinity’s body, looking for scars, disease or other defects.

  She frowned as she finished. “Something different about you,” she said.

  Trinity laughed to hide her unease. “I don’t know if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

  The examiner sighed. “Are you a virgin?”

  “No,” Trinity said, releasing her breath. “Is that important?”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” the other woman said. “Not to most of them.” She made a notation on her pad. “You’ll do.”

  The examiner instructed Trinity to dress, and then swept out of the booth. Trinity followed, and the attendant waiting outside gestured her to a seat facing a row of mirrors.

  “The more attractive you appear,” she said, smoothing her fingers over Trinity’s damp hair, “the greater the chance that you will be claimed by an Opir of high rank and live a life of relative ease.” She selected a brush from among the items on the nearby shelf. “You have lovely hair. I think we’ll leave it loose.”

  When the attendant had finished brushing Trinity’s hair to a glossy, chestnut sheen, she produced a shift similar to her own but much shorter and sheerer. It would do little to disguise the body beneath.

  That, too, was no surprise.

  The other prisoners were put through the same ordeal, and when the attendants were finished even the older women, dressed in more modest shifts, seemed nearly incandescent. Only their grim and frightened faces spoiled the effect.

  “Be brave,” the elder attendant advised them. “Remember, your fate is at least partly in your own hands.”

  The prisoners were led into the corridor where they met the equally dazed men, who were dressed in longer tunics and groomed to their greatest possible advantage. With the black-robed escorts around them, the humans were ushered into a large elevator, which swiftly ascended several floors.

  When they arrived at their destination, the humans stepped into an entirely different world—not dark like the lower levels, but gleaming with saturated color like rich velvet and painted with golden symbols.

  Trinity observed carefully as she was shown to a private cell, this one with a transparent front wall and no furnishings at all—the “display case” for the serfs to be claimed. Through the slightly opaque sidewalls she could make out the boy who had panicked earlier, though his face was only a blur.

  Outside the clear wall was a semicircular room, a kind of covered amphitheater with rows of richly upholstered seats. Within minutes the first of the Opiri arrived, male and female, some dressed in embroidered robes that reached nearly to the floor, others in thigh-length tunics and loose pants tucked into handmade leather boots. Jewels cascaded from long white hair, at throats and belts; the men were as regally clothed as the women. Each and every one could pass as a king or queen of his or her own realm.

  But one stood out from all the others. A silence fell among the murmuring Nightsiders as a tall lord wearing a long tunic, wide embroidered belt and trousers of deep blue entered the room. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but Trinity knew he could be anywhere from one hundred to ten thousand years old.

  This man’s age wasn’t what interested her. He had raven-black hair. No Opiri except vassals, who retained their human coloring for some time, had anything but white hair. And this one’s skin, instead of being bone-white, was a very fair gold. His face was lean and handsome, and his eyes...

  As if he sensed her stare, he looked directly at Trinity. His eyes were not the deep purple or maroon of a normal Opir’s; they were a pale tint of violet that would have been extraordinary in any human. Trinity could feel that gaze stripping her shift from her body.

  Without taking his eyes from her, the Nightsider gestured to the young human male behind him. The attendant held a tall staff capped with what looked like an ancient Corinthian helmet cast of gold. He handed the staff to his master, and the Nightsider held it firmly planted on the floor beside his chair as if he were staking a claim to territory no one dared dispute.

  He was powerful. Trinity didn’t need anything but simple observation to make that very clear. The other Bloodlords and Bloodladies kept their distance from him, and several seemed to regard his presence with surprise.

  Trinity knew then that he was the one. She couldn’t have explained it rationally, but instinct told her she was right. Dhampir instinct. And she intended to trust what her half-vampire nature told her.

  Even if it told her that she was feeling things she had no right or reason to feel. That suddenly she didn’t look upon surrendering her body and blood to a Nightsider as a terrible sacrifice.

  And that feeling, unfamiliar and insane as it was, held far more danger than fear. Especially if her instincts were wrong, and this man was the cruelest, most barbaric bloodsucker in the Citadel of Night.

  Copyright © 2013 by Susan Krinard

  ISBN-13: 9781460323038

  DARK WOLF RUNNING

  Copyright © 2013 by Tabitha Bird

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3
B 3K9.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  www.Harlequin.com