Chapter 177 - Zenzele, My Captor part 4

In one night, I had met more of my fellow blood drinkers than I had in the entirety of my immortal existence, and I hated them.

While the storm raged outside and their captives huddled in the cold, the blood drinkers relaxed in warmth and luxury. Zenzele sat apart from the male members of the vampire raiding party. She did not partake of their revels, though she did not act as if she took offense at their behavior either.

After their domestic slaves had attended to the T'sukuru raiders, they made the two little men battle, and placed wagers on who would be the victor. Zenzele watched without expression as the two slaves wrestled, pummeling one another with their fists until both were bloody and one lay on the ground unconscious.

The men roared their approval (or dismay) at the outcome of the contest and then snatched up the little mortal who had won, biting him on the wrists and drinking his blood. He yelped as their teeth sliced through his flesh, but he did not try to escape them. He squeezed his eyes shut as they jerked him back and forth. Finally, bled nearly white, the servant's eyes rolled back in his skull and he went limp. They passed him back and forth a while longer, slurping and grunting as they sucked at his dripping wounds, then they discarded him near the fire beside his battered fellow.

Zenzele glanced at me, noting the strained look on my face. The smell of the blood was tormenting me. "Do you wish to feed?" she asked, and I shook my head no. But it was an effort.

The flap of the tent flew open then, letting in a swirl of icy snow. Zenzele's wolf trotted in, tongue lolling, followed by the final member of the group I was to meet that night.

"Goro!" the others shouted as the blood drinker strode inside.

He was a short, stout man, dressed in furs, with a large nose, a prominent brow and a receding chin. I recognized the newcomer's race immediately. The blood drinker was a Fat Hand-- a Neanderthal vampire!

A mortal female hung limp in his arms.

The Neanderthal placed the woman on the ground, then stood upright and shook the snow from his parka, grinning at his companions. He said something—probably some remark about the weather—and the other men laughed.

Intrigued, I examined the blood drinker more closely.

Like all vampires, the Neanderthal blood drinker had glossy stone-like flesh. There were tribal scars on his face, designs typical of his race: concentric circles on his cheeks, dots running across his forehead, just above his eyebrows. The tribal scars must have been cut into his flesh when he was a mortal, during some sort of manhood rite, because vampires do not scar visibly when injured. He had large, glimmering brown eyes, a great mane of shaggy red hair and freckles. In all ways but one, he looked like any other human blood drinker. The only thing that set him apart was his fangs. He had prominent lower fangs. You could almost call them tusks.

Zenzele paid little attention to the Neanderthal. Her pet wolf had leapt into her lap, and she hugged him, laughing without reservation as he lapped at her face. The canine's thick pelt was wet and dusted with ice. His tail swooped back and forth in excitement, spattering us with flecks of melting snow.

"Down, Vehnfear!" she gasped. "Down!"

I could see it took an effort for the animal to restrain himself, and I smiled, remembering the dogs I'd played with as a boy. You have not truly known unconditional love until you are loved by a canine.

The wolf settled beside her, hind legs crooked to one side. He looked around the tent with a human-like expression of happiness, tongue hanging out, tail thumping the mat beneath him. These blood drinkers are his pack, I thought, and I realized something else: this creature was highly intelligent. I could see it in his eyes. The glimmer of self-awareness. The living blood had amplified the animal's intellect.

Once the Neanderthal had gotten settled in, he conferred with Zenzele. They talked for several minutes, and then he retired to the other side of the tent with the others. They roused the female he had captured, who immediately began to scream, then ripped off her garments and had their way with her-- all but Hettut, who had gone to sleep. Her desperate struggling only incensed the vampires. They broke her bones in their enthusiasm. They bled her as they fucked her. When it was his turn, Palifver leered at my mistress, cock in hand, but Zenzele would not meet his gaze. He frowned, glanced toward me, then shoved himself brutally inside the woman, making her shriek.

It was only during the woman's rape that Zenzele betrayed her revulsion for their cruelty. As the male blood drinkers took turns assaulting the woman, Zenzele's lips curled back in disgust, and Vehnfear, sensing his mistress's mood, snarled softly.

I sat, staring down at my hands as the woman cried out. Would that I could have saved her, but I could not. For love of my son, for love of my people, I could not intercede.

And then it was over. They tired of their sport and began to bite into her flesh in earnest, and within moments of that she was dead.

Naked, his chest and groin smeared with mortal blood, Bhorg dragged the corpse to the tent flap and tossed it outside in the snow.

Seeing the swirling gray light outside, Zenzele said, "It is dawn. Time to sleep, beautiful one."

I lay back where she indicated, then tucked some rolled up furs beneath my head and covered my body. The furs smelled like wet dog, but the odor was not wholly unpleasant. My beautiful captor watched me for a little while, hands on her knees, her expression inscrutable, and then she lay down nearby. She stared up at the roof of the tent for several minutes, listening to the snow hiss against the leather canopy, then she turned on her side away from me.

Vehnfear whined, and she reached back to caress him. She curled her fingers in the wolf's plush fur, scratching the back of his neck. He lapped her hand, then laid his head down between his paws.

On the other side of the tent, Palifver laughed cruelly.

I closed my eyes.