Read Online vampires in america 7 - Aden by D.B. Reynolds - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: D.B. Reynolds
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owned this particular palace, although Aden was a bastard and would never inherit a single copper falus . Still, his mother was the favorite among his father’s concubines, and one could never be certain what standing young Aden had on any given day.
That same uncertainty made Aden wary, however, and he made a point of avoiding the better-traveled corridors whenever possible. On this particular day, however, he’d been summoned to see his mother, which was unusual enough that he hadn’t wanted to waste any time getting to her. Not that he didn’t see his mother often. After all, he was still very much a child and so lived in the harem. But his time with her was heavily dependent on his father’s presence in the palace and his taste for female companionship on a given day. Not to mention the considerable amount of time his mother spent on efforts to maintain her beauty and fitness in order to maintain a pleasing appearance.
Aden’s mother was a rare flower in the harem. He’d heard her described that way by the harem’s matron, and not without a certain amount of bitterness either. Which made him think it was true.
His father called his mother Aini, which meant flower in Arabic, but her real name was Aileen, and she was a slave. A pampered one to be sure, but a slave nonetheless. She’d told Aden the story of how she came to be living in this palace, how she ended up in a land where five-year-old Aden spoke the native tongue far better than she ever would.
Her father, Aden’s grandfather, whose name was also Aden, had been a sea trader in a place called Scotland, which was far away from this palace in Morocco. But it wasn’t so far that pirates couldn’t raid there, and they did so regularly, looking mostly for slaves—sailors like his uncles and grandfather, and women like his mother. She’d been lucky, she’d told Aden—although he didn’t see much luck in being stolen from her life and made a slave. But her pale skin and blond hair, not to mention her intact virginity, had caught the eye of the slave master who’d known his own master’s tastes very well. He’d made a private bid, thus sparing her the indignity of being auctioned on the block.
Aileen had been sold into the harem of the wealthy merchant who called her Aini, and some months later Aden had been the result. She’d learned after that to use herbs to prevent pregnancy, which ensured her continued favor with her master.
As for his father, Aden never saw him at all, unless by accident, and had never spoken two words with the man. Bastards were frowned upon by wealthy men and their families. They complicated lines of succession and made wives—particularly wives who’d been unable to produce male heirs—unhappy.
Aden scooted past the harem guards. They were used to his comings and goings and barely registered his passage. Once inside, he slid along back hallways until he reached his mother’s rooms. He ducked through the curtained doorway.
“Mama,” he whispered excitedly and raced over to her. She held him off when he would have embraced her, and he swallowed the small pang of hurt. Sometimes she was already dressed and perfumed and couldn’t risk his dirty little boy hands messing her up. She always kissed him on the cheek after telling him such things, so he knew she loved him.
“Sit, Aden,” she said, touching his cheek and leaving behind her flowery scent.
He plopped down obediently at her feet and was surprised when she took one of his brown hands in her own pale fingers. He had his Scottish grandfather’s name, but his Moroccan father’s coloring. There seemed to be little of his mother’s Scottish blood in him, except for his size, which already made him bigger than any other boy his age, and several of the older ones, too.
“Aden, mah sweit son, you love your mama, don’t you?”
“More than anything, Mama,” Aden said quickly, ignoring the little pang of unease that tightened his chest, despite her use of the
That same uncertainty made Aden wary, however, and he made a point of avoiding the better-traveled corridors whenever possible. On this particular day, however, he’d been summoned to see his mother, which was unusual enough that he hadn’t wanted to waste any time getting to her. Not that he didn’t see his mother often. After all, he was still very much a child and so lived in the harem. But his time with her was heavily dependent on his father’s presence in the palace and his taste for female companionship on a given day. Not to mention the considerable amount of time his mother spent on efforts to maintain her beauty and fitness in order to maintain a pleasing appearance.
Aden’s mother was a rare flower in the harem. He’d heard her described that way by the harem’s matron, and not without a certain amount of bitterness either. Which made him think it was true.
His father called his mother Aini, which meant flower in Arabic, but her real name was Aileen, and she was a slave. A pampered one to be sure, but a slave nonetheless. She’d told Aden the story of how she came to be living in this palace, how she ended up in a land where five-year-old Aden spoke the native tongue far better than she ever would.
Her father, Aden’s grandfather, whose name was also Aden, had been a sea trader in a place called Scotland, which was far away from this palace in Morocco. But it wasn’t so far that pirates couldn’t raid there, and they did so regularly, looking mostly for slaves—sailors like his uncles and grandfather, and women like his mother. She’d been lucky, she’d told Aden—although he didn’t see much luck in being stolen from her life and made a slave. But her pale skin and blond hair, not to mention her intact virginity, had caught the eye of the slave master who’d known his own master’s tastes very well. He’d made a private bid, thus sparing her the indignity of being auctioned on the block.
Aileen had been sold into the harem of the wealthy merchant who called her Aini, and some months later Aden had been the result. She’d learned after that to use herbs to prevent pregnancy, which ensured her continued favor with her master.
As for his father, Aden never saw him at all, unless by accident, and had never spoken two words with the man. Bastards were frowned upon by wealthy men and their families. They complicated lines of succession and made wives—particularly wives who’d been unable to produce male heirs—unhappy.
Aden scooted past the harem guards. They were used to his comings and goings and barely registered his passage. Once inside, he slid along back hallways until he reached his mother’s rooms. He ducked through the curtained doorway.
“Mama,” he whispered excitedly and raced over to her. She held him off when he would have embraced her, and he swallowed the small pang of hurt. Sometimes she was already dressed and perfumed and couldn’t risk his dirty little boy hands messing her up. She always kissed him on the cheek after telling him such things, so he knew she loved him.
“Sit, Aden,” she said, touching his cheek and leaving behind her flowery scent.
He plopped down obediently at her feet and was surprised when she took one of his brown hands in her own pale fingers. He had his Scottish grandfather’s name, but his Moroccan father’s coloring. There seemed to be little of his mother’s Scottish blood in him, except for his size, which already made him bigger than any other boy his age, and several of the older ones, too.
“Aden, mah sweit son, you love your mama, don’t you?”
“More than anything, Mama,” Aden said quickly, ignoring the little pang of unease that tightened his chest, despite her use of the
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