Susan Krinard - Nightmaster

“Twenty thousand,” he said.

A deep hush fell over the room. It was an amount only the most wealthy Bloodmasters could afford to offer for a single serf.

“Twenty-five thousand and twenty prime serfs,” Palemon said, looking at Ares inquiringly. The silence pressed down on Ares as if all the weight of the Citadel were driving him deep into the earth from which the Opiri had arisen more than two decades ago.

He knew that if he exceeded Palemon’s final bid, he would be leaving himself dangerously vulnerable. His income was considerable, but he required it to provide for his serfs, maintain several client Freebloods and put on the occasional ostentatious display of wealth and power.

Any failure to uphold appearances put the elite of Erebus in constant danger of Challenge by a fellow Bloodmaster or ambitious Bloodlord, and if he impoverished himself, he would have to fight one foolish duel after another simply to maintain his status.

“She is not worth so much to me,” he said, turning away before he could observe the woman’s face again.

He retrieved his staff and started for the door, but some unfathomable compulsion made him stop and listen, his back to the rows of seats and the Opir lords and ladies awaiting their chance to claim the remaining humans. Daniel, carrying the wine and glass in their case, moved quietly out of his way.

The attendants were opening the woman’s cell. Ares could hear her sharp intake of breath as she fully understood her fate.

“My pretty little serf,” Palemon said. “I believe I shall enjoy you for some time. If you behave.”

Ares heard a scuffle, a gasp and a thump as a body fell heavily to the ground. He swung around. The serf, her shift torn away, was trying to rise from the floor. Her mouth was smeared with blood.

Primitive rage flared in Ares’s gut as Palemon jerked the serf to her feet and seized her mouth with his, licking up the blood as he thrust his tongue between her lips.

Ares strode back to Palemon and grabbed his rival’s shoulder.

“Stop,” he said, his voice sounding ragged to his own ears.

There were shocked exclamations among the observing Opiri. Palemon pushed the female away and jerked free of Ares’s grip.

“You dare?” he asked softly.

Ares held the other Bloodmaster’s stare, taking dangerous pleasure in Palemon’s astonishment. No Opir ever touched another without risking a violent reaction. It was considered one of the gravest insults one Bloodlord or Bloodmaster could give an Opir who was not demonstrably his inferior.

Ares glanced at the woman, who was wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in an obvious gesture of disgust. He knew then that Palemon would have to kill her in order to break her. She showed little emotion, but Ares could almost feel the banked fire inside her, just waiting to be released.

“Are you offering Challenge?” Palemon demanded.

If Ares had been thinking clearly, he would have realized that Palemon would be compelled to call for an accounting. If he failed to do so, he would lose status, inevitably leading to a catastrophic decline in fortune and, ultimately, death. Palemon himself hadn’t lost a Challenge since the founding of the Citadel, but he knew that Ares hadn’t lost one in centuries.

Even a victory would bring unwelcome disruptions to Ares’s life. But if he didn’t respond appropriately, it would be even worse.

Palemon had calculated very well indeed.

“I offer Challenge for the serf,” Ares said, “to disability.”

Palemon looked Ares up and down as if he were a human up for claiming. “You are badly out of practice, Ares,” he said, more confident now that he knew his life was not at risk. “I confess I am at a loss to understand why there have not been many more Challenges called against you. You are a freak of nature, an affront to our species. You should have been eliminated long ago.”

It was not the first time Ares had heard such threats. To the contrary, he had become accustomed to them more than two thousand years ago, after the most ancient and powerful Opiri had gathered to arrange the details of the Long Sleep.

“Do you intend to hurl insults,” he said, “or accept the Challenge?”

Palemon’s pale face turned grim. “I accept. And I will accept nothing less than my personal choice of half your serfs when I win.”

Ares was almost driven to laughter. But Palemon was still a deadly fighter, and it was conceivable that he might fulfill his boast.

“You will have nothing of mine,” Ares said.

Fury flared in Palemon’s eyes, though his expression remained unchanged. “We shall see,” he spat.

In the tense silence that followed, the attendants pulled the female away and gestured for the other Opiri and their serfs to clear the open area at the front of the theater. The unclaimed serfs huddled in their cells, as far from the observation windows as they could get.

The Bloodlords and Bloodmasters watching from the sidelines made no sound, but Ares felt the other Opiri’s poorly concealed eagerness, their bloodlust, their hunger to be entertained by the spectacle of two Bloodmasters locked in combat.

For the female it was no game. When Ares glanced at her one last time, he knew from the rigidity in her naked body and the way her fists clenched that she understood what was at stake.

Daniel came up beside Ares. “My lord,” he said, his voice strained with worry as he offered the staff to his master. “Is there anything you require?”

Blood, he meant. Palemon was already availing himself of one of his serfs, sloppily feeding with no regard to the comfort of the female he abused.

Ares shook his head. He shed his overtunic and shirt, tossed them to Daniel and ordered the human to the side of the room.

Wiping his mouth, Palemon allowed his other attendant to remove his tunic and strutted to his side of the area allotted for the fight. He banged the head of his staff against the floor, sending an echoing crack around the room. Ares did the same with his own staff and passed it to one of the attendants.

Then he abandoned the last vestiges of detachment and let the thrill of battle rise from within, his muscles tightening, his heart speeding. Palemon grinned, his teeth still stained with blood, and flexed his fingers. His nails, kept long as most Opiri preferred, were almost as deadly as claws.

The fight was swift and vicious. The only weapons permitted were strength, swiftness and the tearing bite of long, razor-sharp incisors. Twice Ares pinned Palemon to the ground, his teeth inches from the other Bloodmaster’s throat. But each time Palemon threw him off, and soon both of them were panting and dripping blood from numerous small wounds on their arms and chests. Three times Ares heard the female human gasp, once more giving the lie to her formerly dispassionate demeanor.

The thought of her naked body under his distracted him for one vital moment. Palemon lunged and drove Ares down, sinking his teeth into his enemy’s neck.

“No!”

The female ran toward them, as fearless as a hummingbird protecting its egg from a hungry crow. She struck Palemon on the shoulder. He reared back, lashing out at her, and she danced out of range.

Ares didn’t hesitate. He flung himself on Palemon, banged his head against the floor several times and bit down hard on the other Opir’s jugular. Blood gurgled in Palemon’s throat, and he gave up the struggle.

Rising to his feet, Ares stared down at his enemy and caught his breath. Palemon would recover from the bite; all Opiri healed as quickly in an hour as a human might over many days, or even weeks.

But Palemon was in no condition to move now, and Ares had no desire to gloat over his victory. He looked around the room at the other Opiri. None would meet his gaze.