Darkness Devours (9 page)

He glanced over his shoulder. His expression was curious. Wary. “And how can you tell that?”

“Werewolves tend to have sensitive noses.”

He said “Ah” in a way that suggested he hadn’t known I was part wolf. Which was unusual, because vamps usually had no trouble differentiating between a human and a were. But then, I was only half were, so maybe that was screwing with his internal radar. Especially if he didn’t have a great deal to do with werewolves in the first place.

He went through another door—one that led into a small foyer containing two elevators—before he answered the actual question. “The feeding rooms are flushed out after every session. The vampires within return to the bar when this happens.”

“Flushed out?”

He punched the
DOWN
button. “Cleaned and fumigated. If you are a wolf, you would have smelled the state of some of our customers. We may cater to the less fortunate among the vampire ranks, but that does not mean we can let our standards slip.”

And I was betting that the flushing had little to do
with disease and pest control, and more to do with literal flushing. As in, the feedings often got a little more messy than what he was admitting.

The elevator doors opened with a soft
ping
, revealing a dark wood interior and minimal light. It was only thanks to the fact that Azriel remained steadfastly at my back that I walked inside it.

“I’ll take you down to the whores’ quarters first. By the time you’ve finished there, the cleanup will be done and you can look through the feeding rooms.”

I nodded, although I wasn’t looking forward to either prospect. The doors closed and the elevator ground into action. As I watched the numbers tick slowly down, I asked, “How many whores are there currently living here?”

“We keep a stock of about twenty in the rooms at all times.”

Stock
. It was a word that suggested the whores were little more than cattle to these vampires. My anger swirled. No wonder Hunter wanted this kept hushed up. “I wouldn’t have thought that would be a sufficient number for a club this size.”

“It’s not. We rotate them every couple of days. We have about one hundred whores in all.”

That was a hell of a lot of whores, especially when this was not the only club catering to addicted vampires. Surely it wasn’t possible for that many whores to go missing and absolutely no one notice? “So where do you send them once they’ve finished their shifts here?”

He shrugged as the elevator came to a bouncing stop on level six and the doors opened. The smell of humanity
and hopelessness was so strong, my stomach began to churn.

“They’re taken to the recovery wards.”

The color scheme in the hall was back to the black and red of the entrance, although the matting underfoot was thicker, and oddly spongy. I half expected water to come oozing out of it every time I took a step. Or something worse.

I crossed my arms and shoved my imagination back into its box. “I take it the recovery rooms are not in this building?”

Marshall glanced over his shoulder again. “What makes you say that?”

“The fact that I can’t smell a great mass of humans.” And the fact that Azriel had sensed only twenty of them.

“Ah,” Marshall said. Obviously I was guessing a whole lot more than he’d wanted me to. “No, they are not. But they can be accessed from various levels here.”

“Accessed how?”

He stopped at a gated doorway and punched in a code. “Via tunnels. As I said earlier, we have no wish for humanity at large to know about the existence of these clubs.”

The doorway opened, revealing another long corridor. Doors lined either side, the spacing between each suggesting the rooms weren’t all that large. Maybe prison-cell size, if that. And I wouldn’t have called that well-maintained, generous accommodations.

He stopped at the first doorway and said, “How about we start here.”

“How about we don’t,” I said, not trusting that Marshall
hadn’t prepared the whore within to be questioned before we’d arrived. I pointed to one of the doors farther down on the opposite side. “Let’s try that one instead.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Annoyance, or something darker. Either way, it again reminded me of Hunter. I half wondered if there was more of a connection between them than just being friends. “It does not matter which—”

“Then it won’t matter if I prefer the person behind door number seven.”

He studied me for several seconds, his face impassive even though the air suddenly seemed filled with tension. Enough so that Valdis’s fire began casting fiery blue shadows across the dark walls again. Then he shrugged and walked over to the indicated door, punching in several numbers.

As the door swished open, he turned to face me again. “I suppose you’d like me to remain outside, also?”

“Yes, actually, I would.” I hesitated, nostrils flaring, smelling soap, woman, and need. “What’s her name?”

“Amanda.”

No last name. But then, that was to be expected given that these people were being treated as little more than cattle. I guess they had to be thankful that they got a name rather than just a number.

I stepped into the room. The walls, floor, and bedding were all a soft green—a color that was renowned for enhancing the feeling of tranquillity and calm. The only splashes of color came in the form of a white bedside table and a bookcase filled with old books. There was no TV, no radio—in fact, nothing that would give
this woman access to what was happening in the world beyond her cell.

As the door swished shut behind us, my gaze met Amanda’s. She was a generously built woman with thick brown hair, ruddy cheeks, and several chins. Marshall might not be giving his whores access to the outside world, but he obviously provided a bountiful table—which I guess made sense, considering how often the whores were fed from.

She was clothed in a checked cotton dress and lying on the bed, a book in one hand and a Coke sitting on the bedside table. Her eyes—which were an odd shade of green-gray—showed little in the way of interest.

“Amanda?” I spoke softly, though I wasn’t sure why. Marshall might not be able to hear me, but I had no doubt he was monitoring our every move, even if I couldn’t see any cameras. “I’m Risa Jones. I need to ask you a few questions.”

She didn’t respond, just returned her attention to her book. Obviously it was more interesting than I was. I glanced at it briefly. A romance—one I’d read and enjoyed.

I walked across the room—it took only three steps—and squatted beside the bed. “How long have you been here, Amanda?”

She shrugged and continued reading.

“Have you ever experienced any problems when you feed the vampires? Or witnessed such events?”

This time she didn’t even bother shrugging. Maybe I should have questioned the whore Marshall had been pointing me toward. Maybe he’d simply picked a more talkative one.

I made a frustrated sound and glanced at Azriel as he squatted beside me. “Well, this was a great idea.”

“Let me try,” he said, and lightly touched two fingers to Amanda’s forehead.

Her face went slack. Azriel closed his eyes and, for several minutes, there was little noise other than the sound of both my and Amanda’s breathing.

Then Azriel opened his eyes again.
She cannot answer you,
he said, his mind voice grim.
Because she does not know.

How can she not know the answer to such basic questions?
I asked, confused.
I mean, even if Marshall has placed some sort of restriction on her ability to speak about her experiences here, it’d be right there in her memories, wouldn’t it?

It should be, but it’s not.

My gaze went to Amanda.
So her memories have been cleansed?

Recent memories, yes. The touch is deft, but it was nevertheless there. It has Marshall’s taint.

His use of the word “taint” suggested he had no liking for Marshall, even if he showed no hint of it in any other way.
What about her past? Has that been erased, as well?

He frowned, glancing at her. Valdis flickered with an odd purple-red fire. I wondered if it was anger or distaste.

Anger,
Azriel said,
and the woman’s past has not been erased. It simply does not exist.

I raised my eyebrows.
How can her past not have been erased if she has no memory of it?

That I do not know
. He rose and held out a hand.
But you will get no answers from her, because she has none.

I placed my hand in his and let him pull me upright. He didn’t release me immediately and I can’t say I was upset about that.
Something strange goes on here.

Which was definitely an understatement.
Do you think it’s worth attempting to talk to any of the others?

He shrugged.
We could try. I suspect the result would be the same.

So did I. Still, we had to try, if only to tell Hunter that we had. I pulled my hand from his, but curled my fingers to retain the heat of his touch a little bit longer as I walked across to the door and knocked on it. It opened immediately.

“So,” Marshall said, “find out anything useful?”

“You knew we wouldn’t.” I paused. “How long have you been erasing their memories? And why are you doing it?”

Again that oddly familiar darkness stirred in his eyes. “It is not common practice.” He hesitated. “Although most of our current stock have experienced it at one time or another. I’m afraid it is easier to treat physical wounds than mental ones.”

“So you simply erase the memory of the physical trauma and push them back into the feeding pen?” I kept the anger out of my voice, but only barely.

Azriel rested his hand in the middle of my back. Energy flowed from it, somehow calming me.

“These people are junkies. They will do anything—agree to anything—in order to get their next fix. What we do, we do with consent.”

I wasn’t believing that. Not after what I’d seen in the room behind us. How could anyone who had no real idea what was going on from one hour to the next consent
to anything? I glanced down the hall. “Can we talk to the person in the room second from the end?”

“If you want,” Marshall said.

Meaning we wouldn’t find anything different. And we didn’t. Like Amanda, the thickset man in room eighteen—who, oddly, possessed the same green-gray eyes as Amanda but otherwise looked nothing like her—had no immediate or past memories. Although he did have a games console rather than books.

Marshall glanced at his watch as we came back out. “The feeding rooms will be available if you’d like to view them now.”

I nodded, although I seriously doubted we’d find anything of interest there, either. We headed back to the elevators and up two levels. As the doors opened, the scent of antiseptic hit and my stomach began to churn again.

“God,” I said, blocking my nostrils with my hand but not really succeeding in blocking the smell. It clung to the back of my throat and burned into my lungs. “How bad do things get here that you have to wash the rooms down so completely?”

“It is not that bad,” Marshall said. “You just have an overly sensitive nose.”

That might be true, but it didn’t change the fact that the smell was hideously strong. He stepped out of the elevator and motioned to the long corridor before us. It was basically the same size and length as the one below, although the red and black color scheme had been replaced by basic metal walls, ceiling, and floors. Easier to wash down, I guessed.

“All the rooms are the same size and shape,” he said.
“Do you want to inspect them all, or would you rather have a random viewing?”

I studied the closed metal doors ahead. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was hoping to find, and I was more than a little convinced that I’d actually find nothing. But my sense of trepidation was increasing, and I knew from long experience that generally meant my psychic radar had picked something up. Whether there actually
was
something here that would help our quest, or what I sensed was nothing more than extreme distaste over what happened here, I wasn’t exactly sure. Yet.

I glanced at Marshall. “Right now, I just need to walk down the corridor and get a feel for the place.”

He raised an eyebrow, but waved a hand to indicate I should go right ahead. With Azriel as my shadow, I walked slowly down the center of the hall, my footsteps echoing across the silence as I studied the rooms on either side. My senses—psychic and not—were on high alert, trying to find something—anything—out of the ordinary. Or rather, out of the ordinary for a place that catered to whore-addicted vampires.

There is much pain and sorrow in this place,
Azriel commented as we passed the third set of doors.
And much anger.

I can’t imagine that being so addicted to pleasure that you’d allow yourself to be treated like cattle would be a happy situation to find yourself in,
I replied.

The whores have no memories, past or present,
he said softly.
What I sense does not come from the living who serve in these rooms.

We walked by the fourth set of doors, and something teased the edges of my awareness. It was a sensation
of something not quite right. Something that existed in this world and yet not.

I frowned, my gaze searching the doorways ahead before settling on one that was set slightly apart from the others. Whatever it was, it was coming from there.

I stopped and half turned to look back at Marshall. “What’s that room down at the end? The one that’s separated from the others?”

“Just another feeding room.”

“Why is it not in line with the others?”

“It’s bigger, that’s all.” He shrugged, like it wasn’t important, but I had an odd sense that it was.

“Why is it bigger?”

He hesitated, and I knew that if I’d been closer, I would have seen that flash of darkness in his eyes again. “Sometimes our clients prefer joint feedings.”

I frowned. “I thought you said that vampires watching each other feed can get dangerous.”

“It can.”