“Good evening, everyone,” he purrs. “We have a lovely selection for you tonight. A stunning array of tributes just dying to be chosen.”
His word choice sends a ripple of chuckles through the crowd. Gross. With his microphone still held loosely in his hand, he turns and scans the stage behind him. To my horror, his eyes land on me immediately. A grin spreads across his face, and he walks over, stalking toward me like the predator he is.
“Hello, my succulent little friend. Let’s tell our audience about you, shall we? What’s your name?”
“Darcy,” I say, putting a flirty lilt into my voice. There’s no fucking way I’m telling him my real name. I knew a girl in high school named Darcy, and I never really liked her. I think she ended up working as a stripper at a club on the outskirts of Baltimore, actually.
“Darcy.” He rolls the word around on his tongue like he’s tasting it, and goose bumps prickle over my skin. “That’s a lovely name. Tell me, Darcy, what’s your favorite food?”
Refusing to think too hard about how a lot of the occupants of this room would answer that question, I pretend to consider my answer.
“Well, I love fruit,” I say with a little purr. “And red wine.”
“Fruit and wine. We have ourselves a fine dessert here, gentlemen.” He turns to grin at the crowd as if they’re sharing an inside joke, then refocuses his attention on me. “You have a lovely physique, if you don’t mind me saying so. How do you stay so fit and trim, Darcy?”
“Gymnastics.” I give what I hope is a mysterious, sultry smile, drawing in a deep enough breath to make my breasts strain a little against the semi-transparent fabric of my top. “And I dance a lot.”
“A dancer and a gymnast.” His eyebrows rise a little, and now he’s looking at me with real interest, not just the type meant to hype up the crowd. That’s a good thing, but it still makes my skin crawl. “My, my, my, you’re two dessert courses in one,” he purrs. “Tell us a bit about why you’re here, little one. Why do you want to become a blood tribute?”
Even though I’ve been expecting the question and have prepared a lie in advance, my jaw momentarily locks up, refusing to let me answer. I bite my lip, dragging it through my teeth and hoping that will be enough to cover up my internal struggle. Then I arch my back just a bit more, give him a sultry look up and down, and let my anger flutter like excitement in my pulse.
“I’ve dreamed of being a consort to a vampire for years,” I say breathlessly. “You’re all so strong and powerful. My greatest wish and desire is to be penetrated by your magnificent fangs and give myself to you. Any of you… all of you… I’m strong enough to take it.”
A few murmurs and appreciative whistles break out in the crowd, turning my stomach. They’re clearly buying it, which was the point. So why do I hate myself so much right now? I feel dirty, and the excited nods of agreement from a few of the girls onstage is making it so much worse. The fact that anyone honestly feels that way disturbs me.
The vampire in the red tux gives me one last slow perusal with his gaze, as if he’s considering claiming me for himself. Then affixes the dazzling, charming smile to his face again and turns to address the crowd.
“Well, there you have it, ladies and gents. Darcy, the most willing little morsel you’ll ever trifle with.” He steps toward the woman on my right, sweeping an arm out in a gesture that encompasses her full form. “Next, a very curvaceous blonde beauty. What’s your name, girl?”
She opens her mouth to answer his question, but I tune out the words, everything disappearing under the rush of blood in my ears.
I did it. I kept up the charade and managed to keep from blurting something I shouldn’t.
Now I just have to hope I’m chosen.
Chapter Four
My heart doesn’t stop racing as the auctioneer makes the rounds to the rest of the human women stationed on pedestals around me. Some of them gush and flirt with him, some seem too awed to do more than stare, and one or two are crying too hard to really answer any of his questions. Not that it matters. Their obvious fear and discomfort is in no way disqualifying—in fact, it’s probably considered a plus for some of the vamps in this room.
Once all of the women have been introduced, bids are placed. Since every single vampire here belongs to the Vampire Clan of Baltimore, they’re not bidding on us individually. Any women who are chosen will be considered tributes to the entire clan, brought to live in the palace for the duration of their contracted term.
I don’t know much about how it works beyond that. Every bit of knowledge I have about the process for humans to sell themselves to vampires is from snippets and rumors I’ve picked up on the street, stories about someone who’s friend of a friend traded their freedom and blood for a time in exchange for money.
I have no idea who makes the ultimate decision about how much to bid or who to bid on, but when the auctioneer starts the bidding, several serious looking vampires step forward. They’re much less raucous than the rest of the crowd, probably representatives from the palace, and they point to the women they want and call out numbers as the man in the red suit keeps everything running smoothly.
The first time one of the vamps points at me, my heart leaps. I’m tempted to just accept his offer right away, but I worry about looking too eager and drawing suspicion. Even vampire fangirls probably do it partly for the money, so I hold out until I get a higher offer and then nod to the auctioneer.
The whole thing only takes a few minutes. Once the bidding ends, the girls who weren’t chosen step down from their pedestals, some of them looking relieved and others disappointed. The woman who greeted me when I first walked in ushers them off the stage, and they disappear through the crowd. I lose track of them before they reach the door, dragging my attention back to what’s going on around me.
“Lovely, lovely. Another successful auction. Now I know you’re all ready for a feast, am I right?”
As he speaks, the auctioneer moves to the center of the stage while a red-tinged spotlight follows him. The crowd whoops enthusiastically, as if they don’t do this all the damn time. He drinks in their excitement like it’s lifeblood—ironically—and continues to amp them up. As he’s gesticulating, he moves back behind the pedestals, to the center of the stage. He pulls a rope that I mistakenly assumed was a pull rope for the velvet curtain, and a second later, the whole stage begins rocking and shaking under my feet.
“Escorts, to your tributes,” the auctioneer says.
Just like that, there’s a massive vampire by my side. His chest is bare except for the two straps of leather crossing it, which end in a belt slung low around his hips. He’s wearing combat boots, and his pants are covered in chains. Apocalypse punk seems to be the standard uniform for these “escorts,” though none of them are wearing exactly the same thing. He glances down at me, clearly bored. He must have wanted a flight risk. He keeps glancing eagerly at the tear-streaked woman in front of us, silently daring her to bolt.
She doesn’t. She seems smarter than that, even if she did end up on the auction block along with the rest of us. She must’ve done something stupid at some point to get here.