“Yes,” I say wryly. “As a blood slave in the back of a wagon.”
Adara gives a bark of surprised laughter, before going back into a whisper. “Did you just make a joke?”
“Don’t count on it happening again,” I say, going back to being even and unflappable.
Adara opens her mouth to make a sassy comeback, I’m sure, when we suddenly stop, the wagons stilling as a “Halt!” is called from outside. I can see nothing from beyond the canvas covers of the wagon, but I hear a great deal of movement and orders being shouted, the sounds of a camp being erected. Adara and I exchange uneasy glances, not saying anything more. After we’ve been stopped for the space of an hour, the back flaps of the canvas are thrown back, revealing an unfamiliar vampire guard in armor, the symbol of Grazrath on his chest.
“Magistrate is calling for you, bloodbag,” the guard sneers at me, climbing into the back of the wagon and undoing the lock and chain at my feet. “It’s dinner time.”
I say nothing as he unthreads the chains from my ankle cuff. In another circumstance, one where I was trying to escape, this would be the perfect opportunity. I’d be able to quickly break his neck, even with my hands chained in front of me and steal his keys. But that would not serve me now, so I am quiet while he frees me from the chains that connect me to Adara. He seems almost careless, getting so close to me, but maybe he doesn’t consider me a threat, since he is, presumably, filled with the blood of sentients.
Adara's face is shuttered, but her scent is nervous and worried again.
“You should sleep, Adara,” I say. “I’ll be back soon.” She nods while looking warily at the guard, who laughs at my words.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says, before grabbing the chain between my wrists to drag me forward. “Let’s get a move on, bloodbag. I can’t feed myself until I’ve delivered you, so you best not give me any trouble.”
Again, I think of how easy it would be to kill this vampire. He’s arrogant and stupid, a combination that is easy to take advantage of. But I’m not trying to escape; I want them to deliver us where we are going, so I’m obedient as he tugs on my chains and forces me to climb out of the back of the wagon.
The sky is a dark gray as he leads me through the encampment, the stars faded and the moon low. It’ll be sunrise soon. The guard guides me to an opulent tent, reminiscent of a king or ruler’s, the self-importance of the occupant apparent. The guard stops respectfully at the entrance and calls, “I have the slave for you, magistrate.”
“Enter,” comes the quiet reply.
The guard pushes me through the tent flaps with force and I stumble a bit as I enter the tent interior. The vampire magistrate lounges on a long sofa, a goblet of wine carelessly in his fingers. The decadence of transporting such a piece of furniture isn’t lost on me, a show of wealth and power. Off to the side though is where my attention is arrested. A brazier is lit, with a variety of iron poles sticking out of it, something heating in the coals. So it is to be torture.
Magistrate Zadicus looks at me with hooded, unreadable eyes, before taking a sip of his wine.
“Put him on his knees,” Zadicus orders.
The guard immediately obeys, driving me to the ground with a strong grip. When I am situated to the magistrate’s apparent liking, he takes another sip of his drink, regarding me with calculated interest. Then he places the goblet on a golden side table and rises from the sofa, walking over to the brazier and delicately running his fingers over the handles of the iron poles sticking out of the fire, as if considering which one to choose.
“Remove his shirt,” comes the next order. The guard moves to obey, ripping the fabric of my Terrian shirt so that it’s in rags, leaving my chest bare. The magistrate glances over at me and nods approvingly.
“Tell me, Vargan,” Zadicus says, “you’ve sold Barakrin many blood slaves in the past. Have you ever experienced a vampire’s bite yourself?”
“No,” I answer honestly, playing his game. He’s trying to make me afraid, torment my mind before harming my body, but it will not work on me. His attempts are blatant and crude, his technique transparent. He’s trying to play with his food. Still, silence will gain me nothing, so I tell him the truth.
“Vampire bites have a side effect, to counter the initial pain,” Zadicus says, pulling a red hot brand out of the brazier and inspecting it before returning it to the coals. “We call it the afterglow. A hazy pleasure that dulls the mind and lessens the pain of the feeding. I am told some slaves even become addicted to the euphoria. Can’t live without it.”
I have heard of this before, been briefed on it in my intelligence hearings on Barakrin. I don’t know why he’s bringing it up now, but perhaps it is to build some sort of anticipation.
He continues, “The problem with that is that a vampire can taste the emotions of the one on whom they feed. It seasons the blood. And Ihatethe taste of pleasure. Pain is a much more delicious spice.”
He pulls out another brand, this one in the shape of a rune that I don’t recognize. Then he turns toward me and advances, brand in hand. “This brand is special,” he explains quietly. “It will suppress your ability to feel the afterglow as long as the wound is fresh and even intensify the pain you feel. But where to put your first application? That is the question.”
The magistrate stops right in front of me, his eyes considering as they run over my body. Then his eyes snag on the Honorless brand on my forehead. “Such a shame,” he says, eerily soft, “that you have experienced the pain of a brand before. I would prefer it to be a fresh experience. Oh well. I would imagine you never truly get used to the pain of blistering flesh.”
I don’t say anything to his musings. What is there to say? There would be no dissuading him, begging would probably only feed his sadism, and truth be told, I’m relieved. No twisting or breaking bones, at least not yet, and I can handle pain. Pain and fear are in the mind. The master of my mind is me. I will disconnect my mind from my body by entering into my inner mental sanctuary, where no pain can touch me. The vampire can do what he wants to my body, but he’ll never touch my mind.
The magistrate looks at me intently, trying to read whether his words have landed, but I give away nothing on my face. Finally, he smiles. “I love taking a strong, stoic male and breaking him down to his rawest, truest self,” he says. “You think that this will not be too bad, that you’ll be able to withstand it, but you’re wrong. So very wrong. It will be a pleasure to teach you.”
The brand gets closer and I can feel the heat of the metal as it hovers directly over my heart. I suppose he’s chosen his target. I ready myself to enter my sanctuary and wait.
“Well,” the magistrate says, still smiling. “Shall we begin?”
Then the brand plunges down and all that’s left is pain.
Chapter 15
