Masks

Chapter Two

“Been in the city about a year,” the condottiere said, consulting a small notebook. He was a large man, with florid features and a belly that ensured that he didn’t have to pad his tunic to get the popular rounded front. “Lives with some old man over by the Bridge of Tits. Gambler, mostly small-time stuff, tries to keep his head down.”

“Crime?” the woman asked.

“Thought he’d make some money cheating at cards. My boys tried to have a talk with him and he attacked them.”

A dozen retorts rose to Mircea’s lips, but he bit them back. He’d attempted that when he was first brought in, and received a face full of fist for his trouble. But it didn’t look like the woman cared how he got here.

“Background?”

“He wasn’t forthcoming,” the man had the effrontery to say. “But he’s educated.”

“He told you this?”

The vampire laughed. “He told us nothing. The boys got a little too enthusiastic when he decided to resist, and he couldn’t talk much by the time they was done.”

“Then how do you know?”

Heavy shoulders raised in a shrug. “He’s been seen reading and writing at least a couple of languages, and he speaks five that we know of.”

“As do I. And I was born in an Athenian slum.”

“Yes, but you learned it after, like me. But look at him. He can’t be more than a few years out of the dirt. And no newborn has the presence of mind for something like that! So he learned it before. And his clothes were good quality, if worn. I’m thinking some noble sprout down on his luck.”

“Perhaps,” the woman said, noncommittal.

The vampire consulted his notes again. “So you said educated, noble or close enough to fake it, and pretty.” The man glanced up and looked Mircea over. He frowned briefly, probably wishing his boys had been less “enthusiastic,” but he decided to make the best of it. “He’ll clean up,” he told her jovially.

“He isn’t the usual type for Venice,” the woman said mildly.

“Type, type!” the man scoffed. “What type? He’s young, he’s well-built—and well endowed,” he added, nodding at one of the soldiers. “Your clients’ll like that.”

The woman didn’t respond. But she also didn’t stop the soldiers, who moved toward Mircea with obvious intent. He’d already been on a low boil, hearing himself being discussed like a horse to be traded. But at that, something in him snapped.

He broke the first arm that reached for him, and then lashed out, kicking the nearest guard in the stomach with enough force to send him staggering back. And into another, who was just standing there, looking bemused. It seemed that prisoners weren’t supposed to try to escape.

Fuck that, Mircea thought viciously, and lunged for the still-open door.

He never knew how close he came, just that the next time he blinked he was on the floor. And the second after that, he was being hauled up and slammed back into the wall, hard enough to have broken a human’s bones. It didn’t feel like it had done his any good, either, but worse was the sensation of shackles being clicked shut around his wrists and ankles.

Mircea thrashed against the bonds, which the triple damned guards jerked vengefully tight. But they weren’t normal metal. He could bend solid steel, one of the few perks of his new condition, but these didn’t budge. But he kept struggling anyway, jerking on the chains and cursing and panting in hopeless fury.

Which did nothing to keep his last remaining garment from being stripped down his thighs.

He was left naked and wild-eyed, and splayed against the wall like an animal up for inspection. Or gutting, for all he knew. It was not a nice thought to have as the woman stepped forward and put a hand on his chest.

The leather of her glove was strangely textured, almost reptilian. And cold, as if it still carried the chill of the streets outside. Mircea shivered as she began to trace the muscles in his torso, the vulnerable skin of his stomach, the deep V of muscle below his navel.

And then followed it down the crease of his leg, to the inevitable conclusion.

He was soft, of course, never having felt less aroused in his life. But the woman was a vampire, too, and she didn’t need his cooperation. A single finger ran down his length, calling his blood as easily as he could summon it from a human’s veins. He watched helplessly as his flesh swelled and lifted, rising eagerly up to meet her touch.

But she didn’t appear impressed. She glanced at the condottiere. “Too big.”

“First time I ever heard a woman say that!” he laughed.

“Then you must not have bedded many women in Venice.”

“I’ve bedded plenty!”

“Then you should know: women or men, they all want the same thing here. Slender boys with pink cheeks, a languid manner, and faces as pretty as a girl’s. Not muscles and body hair and a stallion’s girth.”

She looked amused as she explored the extent of the latter, pulling more blood into his already engorged heat, testing Mircea to his limit and then pushing beyond. Until he jutted out thick and aching, larger than he’d ever been, his skin stretched tight around a truly desperate need.

A small smile began to play around her lips.

“He’s pretty enough—” the condottiere insisted.

“For a commoner, perhaps. I need courtiers.”

“But he’s noble—”

“So you say.”

“He was trained as a knight! I know the kind of muscle hefting a sword builds!”

She shrugged. “Keep him for your watch, then.”

“I’ve better things to do than nurse an infant.”

“As do I,” she murmured, and began to stroke.

Mircea stared at her in disbelief, even as his body cried out for release. Did she actually expect him to perform for her, to spill himself like a whore for the amusement of her friends? It seemed impossible, ludicrous. But her actions were unmistakable, as was her power. It thrummed through him, tightening his body, escalating his need.

But there were other needs, and outrage lent them strength. In his own land, he had been a prince. Death had robbed much from him, almost everything, but it hadn’t taken that. It could never take that. And he did not perform like a trained monkey in a square!

And it seemed that in this, at least, she could not force him, because she abruptly let go.

But only to strip off her glove.

“He doesn’t need strength to roll around in the sheets,” the condottiere said contemptuously.

“But he does need refinement—a great deal of it.”

“Trimming those eyebrows alone might take a week,” a blond murmured. He was male, Mircea realized with a shock. He hadn’t noticed before, since the peacock had been dressed every bit as sumptuously as the women, with a ridiculous red velvet cape that fell in costly excess to the floor.

“And the more I have to do to make him useful, the more it costs me.”

“Damn it, Martina!” The condottiere exploded. “You told me to find you something different—”

“And you interpreted that to mean an over muscled oaf?” One delicate eyebrow went up.

“Then what do you want?”

The blond cleared his throat, and made an exaggerated bow. The condottiere cursed. And the vampire Martina grasped Mircea again, this time skin to skin.

And he’d been wrong, he realized in creeping horror. It wasn’t the glove that was scaly-smooth. It was the hand underneath.

His body shuddered as she met his eyes, revulsion battling with desperate need. And fury and shame and more than a little fear. But greater than any of those was confusion.

Why was she doing this? If she wasn’t interested, why didn’t she leave him be? Go find herself some other poor bastard who better fit her demanding specifications?

“I have other buyers—” the condottiere threatened, apparently wondering the same thing.

“Then sell him to them.”

“But I acquired him with you in mind. I wanted to give you first choice—”

They kept haggling, but Mircea was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate. Perhaps because she had turned her attention to the globes between his thighs. The horror of her touch caused them to try to retreat into his flesh, but her power forced them to drop heavily into her grasp, like two ripe fruits.

“Forty?” the condottiere was outraged. “That’s the price of a nag of a horse! I couldn’t take less than two hundred.”

“And I can’t offer more than fifty.”

“Now I know you’re joking. I could get more for a human slave than that!”

Martina said something else, but Mircea didn’t hear. She had started rolling him across her palm, as expertly as a gambler manipulating a pair of dice. And the slow, deliberate, over gentle pressure was maddening.

Until she suddenly squeezed and twisted, and he let out a gasp that froze in the chilly air between them. His fists knotted, his thighs corded, his buttocks clenched and jerked, his whole body begging for release no matter the cost. He snarled and denied it.

“Oh, this should be fun,” the blond sighed, walking off to examine one of the others.

“That has yet to be determined,” his mistress said softly, her dark eyes still holding Mircea’s.

And finally, he understood. Half of this demonstration was theatre, designed to lower the price. But not all of it. She wanted him to understand that she expected obedience. That spirit was one thing, but defiance would not be tolerated. She wanted him to prove that he would defer to her wishes, however unpleasant.

She wanted him to submit.

And if he didn’t, she would leave him here, to wither and suffer and, eventually, to die.

Mircea was a gambler; he knew a losing hand when he saw it. But he’d never wanted to play one more in his life. She recognized his reluctance, and for some reason, it seemed to please her.

But the novelty wouldn’t last, and unlike that fool of a condottiere, he knew how to close a deal.

He licked his lips. “The others . . .” His voice broke, but his eyes slid to the three castoffs beside him.

They didn’t react, probably not realizing what he was asking. The older one’s head had even slumped again, as if this was all too uninteresting to bother with. But Martina understood.

“Done.” It was immediate. It was too fast. There was something wrong here.

“What do you intend to do with me?” It came out more forcefully than he’d intended, nerves and abuse making his voice rough.

But she only smiled. “Whatever I please, vampire.”

Yes, Mircea had no doubts of that. But it wasn’t likely that he would get a better offer elsewhere. Or possibly any offer. He knew that.

But his body stayed rigid another moment nonetheless, intellect warring with abhorrence, and self-preservation with self-respect. Where there is life, there is hope, he reminded himself harshly. Even the bastardized version of life that was all that he had left.

Martina smiled, a hint of fang against carmine lips, as she felt the globes in her hand draw up again. Mircea refused to look away, refused to give her that satisfaction, even when her grip moved back up to curl around him. Even when she made it clear that she intended to feel his surrender as well as see it.

But the way her eyes darkened as his skin prickled and his buttocks clenched soon had him wishing he’d chosen differently. And the expression on her face as his body began to shudder made him want to swallow his pride. But it was her terrible smile when the moment of no return came, when he panicked at the last second and vainly tried to stop the now inevitable process, which proved too much.

Humiliated and beaten, he looked away. Only to meet the gaze of the women she’d brought with her. Somehow, he’d managed to forget about them, but they were still standing by the door, fans fluttering languidly, watching him with curious eyes.

Mircea could only stare back, utterly mortified, as the first pulse of his release surged through the cage of their mistress’s fist.

Surged and stopped, for it seemed even that humiliation was not enough.

Martina’s grip abruptly tightened, making clear that he did nothing without her permission. She would control how hard, how fast, and how much relief he was permitted. And she prolonged the lesson, augmenting his need with her power, and then denying it, again and again, until he was shivering and gasping, aching and desperate. Until he was writhing against the wall, begging for the chance he’d previously disdained. Until she had stripped him of his pride, his defiance, and almost his reason.

And then she finally released him, allowing him to spill the last vestiges of his self-respect onto the cold stones at her feet.

He stood there quietly afterwards, stunned and shaking. And stared blankly into space as she and the condottiere concluded their business. He only came out of his reverie when her fist abruptly tightened again, the golden nails biting possessively into his abused flesh.

No, he realized dully, a moment later. Her flesh. For she hoarsely threw over her shoulder: “One hundred ducats then.”

The condottiere sighed, but nodded, agreeing to accept the price of a good mule for Mircea’s mind and body, life and sex.

And just like that, the prince became the slave.