He shrugged again. "They are not slaves, because slaves, by definition, are owned, and have no right to freedom or property."
But they were slaves to their addiction—an addiction that the vampires were readily fueling in order to cater to their own addicted. It was an almost incestuous relationship, one addiction feeding the other, a wheel in constant motion that no one could escape.
You are not here to judge, Azriel reminded me softly. And the sooner you question him about the dead, the sooner we can be gone from this place.
Good point. "Could one of the blood whores be a connection point between the men who died?"
"No. We thought of that possibility—that perhaps someone close to a whore might be taking a bit of retaliatory action—but the five men had different tastes when it came to their preferred source."
I frowned. "And there was no obvious connection between the men themselves?"
He shook his head. "None that we could uncover."
Which meant I was totally out of ideas. Some investigator I was. I hesitated, then asked, "Where do the feeds happen? Out in the main bar?"
"No. Watching another vampire feed can be an erotic experience, especially for one of the addicted. We keep the feedings in one-on-one soundproofed rooms. There is less chance of a frenzy being created that way."
And that, I thought with a chill, was his first real lie. There was too much desperation—and the scent of blood was too strong—in this place for the feedings to be entirely separated.
"Where are these rooms?" I asked.
"Downstairs."
"And the whores' living quarters?"
"Also downstairs, but on a separate level."
Living underground, never to see the light of day or breathe fresh air. It was a hell of a high price to pay for ecstasy.