A Blood Seduction (Vamp City #1)(30)

The woman beside her glanced at her, then away. "What is this place?" she whispered.

Quinn hesitated, not wishing to draw the vampire's fury, yet feeling incredible sympathy for the woman. "Washington, V.C. Vamp City. Some kind of otherworld for vampires."

"Hell on Earth for humans," the woman muttered.

"Silence!" The lash burned across Quinn's shoulder. A second snap, and the woman beside her groaned. Quinn had to hand it to her, and to their other two companions. Only Wingtip had yelled at the sting of the whip and only the last time or two. The vampire had chosen her slaves well.

At the corner of K and Third, the vampire called for them to stop, and the black man rode back to his mistress.

"Bring me the smaller woman," the vampire commanded. "I don't want the fighter."

The woman beside Quinn gasped. One of the men muttered a low, "Fuck."

Quinn grasped the other woman's hand. "She won't kill you. She paid too much money for you." She prayed she was right.

As the big black guard unlatched her collar, the woman fought, kicking out, clearly done with acting strong and stoic, and Quinn couldn't blame her. The guard slung her over one broad, bare shoulder, carrying her to his mistress as if she weighed nothing.

Quinn glanced over her shoulder, watching as the female vamp took the struggling woman from him and grabbed her against her with the ease of an adult cradling a small child. The vampire's fangs dropped, her pupils turning white as she struck, sinking her fangs deep into the throat of her victim.

Quinn turned away, sickened, terrified the vamp would drain her dry and toss her aside like so much trash.

The sucking, hungry sound of the vampire's feeding had the rest of them edgy and tense. Quinn was certain she wasn't the only one wondering if she'd be next.

Now that they were still, the chains no longer clanking, the sounds from the auction began to drop like pebbles in a pond around them - the clip-clop of retreating horses, the rattle of horse tackle, the low keening of sharp misery punctuated by the occasional shout or scream. And underneath it all, the sound of a vehicle engine. One of the two she'd seen parked across from the auction?

Moments later, a familiar yellow Jeep turned the corner, kicking up a small cloud of dust, Arturo in the driver's seat. Quinn's knees nearly buckled in relief. Then again, did he even know she was here? Would he care? And if he was looking for her, it might be only to track her down and torture her for hurting . . . killing? . . . Ernesta with the water pitcher.

Her stomach twisted sickeningly at the thought. But she'd still choose him over the pain-feeder who'd just bought her.

With wary eyes, she watched as he slowed the Jeep to a crawl, then pulled to a stop a short distance in front of them, climbing out with a smile she could hardly credit. A bright, boyish, charmer's smile that did strange things to her insides and seemed so out of place on such a dangerous male. And it was firmly directed at her new mistress.

He was dressed, as before, all in black, the sheath of a long knife hanging from his waist. Dangerous and armed. His dark hair ruffled by the wind, Arturo was the epitome of rugged handsomeness as he strolled past Quinn, sparing her no glance.

"I see you've been shopping, Francesca." Clearly, they were old friends. "Stopping for lunch on your way home?"

"Arturo Mazza." The female vamp lifted her face from her meal with a look of faint annoyance.

Okay, so maybe they weren't such good friends.

"You look radiant, Francesca. But then you always do."

The female vamp snorted. "And you have a silver tongue, Arturo. And always have."

He glanced at Quinn, only a moment's look, but enough to tell her he was definitely there for her . . . whatever his motives.

"And how fares your kovena?" he asked Francesca.

Do as I tell you if you want to survive the week, cara. Arturo's voice. Quinn jumped. Arturo hadn't moved. He was still facing Francesca. Pretend you do not hear me!

My God, he was talking in her head. She struggled to relax, to look away.

Francesca goes through a slave every couple of days. We must get you away from her.

Was he really going to help her?

"My kovena fares well enough," the woman replied. "I'll not share my food with you, Arturo, you old charmer. Though my bed is another matter."

Arturo's laugh, warm and appreciative, was a sound that should have pleased and didn't . . . quite. The tone was off. Forced.

"Just a nip, my dear? From one of the others?"

"Absolutely not. I'm saving them for dinner."

Arturo strolled leisurely toward the remaining chained slaves, studying each in turn, revealing no recognition as he looked Quinn over. "You have a good eye for human flesh, Franny."

"Truly, I have a good ear. I can't stand the screamers."

He looked up, that wicked grin all the more dangerous for the sharp incisors it revealed. "I rather enjoy the screamers."

Francesca groaned. "You should have come to the auction, then. Such wailing. Henri has taken to slaughtering two of every bunch, one in front of the other captives for the fear-feeders. The other in torment for those of us who prefer the pain. Such screaming."

Arturo smiled absently, still looking Quinn over. "Perhaps I'll attend next week." He ran his finger down her cheek. "How much do you want for this one?"