Vienna's stomach fluttered as they neared the hall. The last time Vienna and Damien had dined with them, the queen had insisted that she and the king would feed on the blood slaves in front of Vienna and Damien. It had been disturbing, to say the least. The queen had sort of gotten primal with her slave, holding her neck, writhing, and moaning in enjoyment as the poor slave sat there terrified. In comparison, the king had been more disciplined, politely drinking from his slave's wrist. Still, Vienna had not enjoyed watching her fellow human being used as a walking blood bank.
"They will have blood slaves at dinner. My mother insists that she need not have to hide what she does at her own home," Damien told her.
"And she should not." Vienna believed that in theory, if not in practice. "I
