“A friend . . .” Dresner repeated hesitantly.

“He lives here in Chicago. We work together.”

“Oh.” She hesitated, and Sid thought maybe she’d overplayed it, but then Dresner continued. “I suppose that’s all right. Don’t ring the bell, though, just knock. The neighbors complain about my late-night visitors.” She hung up without saying good-bye.

Aden took the phone from Sid’s nerveless fingers and pressed the button to disconnect before saying, “Very good, Sidonie. Is lying one of the skills you learned as a journalist?”

“I didn’t lie.”

He didn’t say anything to that, just raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you still determined to go along?”

“Yes.”

“Then get your coat. We don’t want to keep the good professor waiting.”

IT TOOK EVEN less time than Sid had expected to get to Dresner’s house. Aden’s driver seemed to know where he was going, and this late at night—it was after midnight in the middle of the work week—there were few traffic tie-ups. Having a driver at one’s disposal helped, too. No public transpo for Aden. Sid didn’t worry about money, but she didn’t have a private driver at her beck and call, either.

“Are all vampires rich?” she asked, sitting next to Aden and trying not to think about what was going to happen when they confronted Professor Dresner.

Her question seemed to amuse him. He stretched a powerful arm over the back of the seat behind her, dropping one finger down to toy with a lock of her hair. “An interesting question,” he said. “Are all humans rich?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why would all vampires be?”

“I don’t know,” she said irritably. “But you’ve got this big truck—”

“A Chevy Suburban, hardly exotic.”

“—and a private driver,” she persisted, determined to make her point. “And your supposedly temporary office occupies two entire floors of some of the most expensive square footage in Chicago.”

“One must make an impression.”

“Only if one can afford it.”

His smile widened into something almost genuine, but Sid found herself irked all the same. She didn’t want him to be amused. She needed him to take her seriously if he was going to help her destroy Klemens’s network.

“Just answer the question. Are all vamps rich?”

His smile vanished, replaced by a haughty stare. That wasn’t a word she thought of often, but Aden did haughty really well. Maybe he’d been born to money back when he’d been human. Maybe he’d always been rich.

“Were you like a prince or something back in the day?” she asked and knew right away that she’d made a mistake. His fingers stopped toying with her hair, and his expression went cold and distant, the look in his eyes so far away that it was as if she was suddenly all alone in the back seat.

Morocco, 1756

ADEN RACED through the halls of the palace, bare feet slapping the cool marble floor as he dodged silk-clad ladies and ignored the frowns of overfed gentlemen. The former only tittered in annoyance, but the latter would have swatted him to the ground if they’d dared. His father 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 endearment. She never asked him if he loved her. It was assumed. Of course he loved her. She was his world.

“You’re young,” she continued in her soft voice. “Probably too young to understand what I have to tell you, but I need you to understand.”

Aden nodded, more alarmed than ever when he saw the tears blurring his mother’s blue eyes.

“Your father . . .” She looked away, then down at their joined hands, brown against white. “He’s given me a command. You’re big for your age, much bigger than the other boys. Someday you’ll be a big man, like my father and brothers, and I hope the fates are kinder to you than they were to them. But, Aden . . .” She sighed, still refusing to look at him directly. “I must choose. I can take you and leave the harem—”

Aden’s heart swelled with excitement.

“—to become a common slave in some other household, or I can stay here as your father’s favorite for as long as my beauty lasts—which is many years yet—and then perhaps become matron to the harem and serve him that way.”

Aden frowned in confusion. Surely it would be better for them to remain here? Why should there be any question?

“But if I remain, then you must go.” She lifted her head at last, and Aden saw her decision in the sadness of her eyes. “You will leave tonight to begin serving your new master.”

Aden stared, not quite understanding what she was telling him. A new master? But… “When will I see you, Mama?”

“You won’t,” she said, firming her lips. “It is not unlike the fostering that my people used to do. Children were often sent to live with families far away, never seeing their parents again until they were grown.”

“Will I see you when I am grown?”

“Perhaps.”

Aden was no longer a baby. He knew what perhaps meant. He swallowed the knot in his throat and stood, pulling his fingers from his mother’s soft grasp. Apparently, he’d gotten more than size from his Scotsman grandfather. He had his pride. She had chosen her master over her own flesh and blood. So be it.

“Insha’Allah, we will meet again,” he said simply.

His mother glanced up at him in surprise. But whether it was due to the casting of his fate to Allah rather than the Christian god of her youth, or his quiet acceptance of her decision, he didn’t know. He didn’t care. All that mattered now was that he’d been sold, that he’d wake up tomorrow in a new household. He would no longer be the bastard son of anyone, whether rich or poor. He would be only a boy, a slave with no friends in the world.

Aden turned and left the way he’d come, taking the slaves’ hallways, which was only appropriate, since that’s all he was now. A slave.

Chicago, IL, present day

“SHALL I COME with you, my lord?”

Bastien’s question brought Aden back to the present with a jolt. He’d never seen his mother again after that day. He hadn’t even thought about her in a very long time, and it didn’t please him that he was thinking about her now.