Darkness Devours (Dark Angels 3)

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.”