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Anger, Azriel said, and the woman’s past has not been erased. It simply does not exist.
I raised my eyebrows. How can her past not have been erased if she has no memory of it?
That I do not know. He rose and held out a hand. But you will get no answers from her, because she has none.
I placed my hand in his and let him pull me upright. He didn’t release me immediately and I can’t say I was upset about that. Something strange goes on here.
Which was definitely an understatement. Do you think it’s worth attempting to talk to any of the others?
He shrugged. We could try. I suspect the result would be the same.
So did I. Still, we had to try, if only to tell Hunter that we had. I pulled my hand from his, but curled my fingers to retain the heat of his touch a little bit longer as I walked across to the door and knocked on it. It opened immediately.
“So,” Marshall said, “find out anything useful?”
“You knew we wouldn’t.” I paused. “How long have you been erasing their memories? And why are you doing it?”
Again that oddly familiar darkness stirred in his eyes. “It is not common practice.” He hesitated. “Although most of our current stock have experienced it at one time or another. I’m afraid it is easier to treat physical wounds than mental ones.”
“So you simply erase the memory of the physical trauma and push them back into the feeding pen?” I kept the anger out of my voice, but only barely.
Azriel rested his hand in the middle of my back. Energy flowed from it, somehow calming me.
“These people are junkies. They will do anything—agree to anything—in order to get their next fix. What we do, we do with consent.”
I wasn’t believing that. Not after what I’d seen in the room behind us. How could anyone who had no real idea what was going on from one hour to the next consent to anything? I glanced down the hall. “Can we talk to the person in the room second from the end?”
“If you want,” Marshall said.
Meaning we wouldn’t find anything different. And we didn’t. Like Amanda, the thickset man in room eighteen—who, oddly, possessed the same green-gray eyes as Amanda but otherwise looked nothing like her—had no immediate or past memories. Although he did have a games console rather than books.
Marshall glanced at his watch as we came back out. “The feeding rooms will be available if you’d like to view them now.”
I nodded, although I seriously doubted we’d find anything of interest there, either. We headed back to the elevators and up two levels. As the doors opened, the scent of antiseptic hit and my stomach began to churn again.
“God,” I said, blocking my nostrils with my hand but not really succeeding in blocking the smell. It clung to the back of my throat and burned into my lungs. “How bad do things get here that you have to wash the rooms down so completely?”
“It is not that bad,” Marshall said. “You just have an overly sensitive nose.”
That might be true, but it didn’t change the fact that the smell was hideously strong. He stepped out of the elevator and motioned to the long corridor before us. It was basically the same size and length as the one below, although the red and black color scheme had been replaced by basic metal walls, ceiling, and floors. Easier to wash down, I guessed.
“All the rooms are the same size and shape,” he said. “Do you want to inspect them all, or would you rather have a random viewing?”
I studied the closed metal doors ahead. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was hoping to find, and I was more than a little convinced that I’d actually find nothing. But my sense of trepidation was increasing, and I knew from long experience that generally meant my psychic radar had picked something up. Whether there actually was something here that would help our quest, or what I sensed was nothing more than extreme distaste over what happened here, I wasn’t exactly sure. Yet.
I glanced at Marshall. “Right now, I just need to walk down the corridor and get a feel for the place.”
He raised an eyebrow, but waved a hand to indicate I should go right ahead. With Azriel as my shadow, I walked slowly down the center of the hall, my footsteps echoing across the silence as I studied the rooms on either side. My senses—psychic and not—were on high alert, trying to find something—anything—out of the ordinary. Or rather, out of the ordinary for a place that catered to whore-addicted vampires.
There is much pain and sorrow in this place, Azriel commented as we passed the third set of doors. And much anger.
I can’t imagine that being so addicted to pleasure that you’d allow yourself to be treated like cattle would be a happy situation to find yourself in, I replied.
The whores have no memories, past or present, he said softly. What I sense does not come from the living who serve in these rooms.
We walked by the fourth set of doors, and something teased the edges of my awareness. It was a sensation of something not quite right. Something that existed in this world and yet not.
I frowned, my gaze searching the doorways ahead before settling on one that was set slightly apart from the others. Whatever it was, it was coming from there.
