
New Concepts Publishing www.newconceptspublishing.com
Copyright ©2008 by Vitta Anne Hoffman
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
© copyright by Vita Hoffman, April 2008
Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, April 2008
ISBN 978-1-60394-164-8
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www. newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
"Do you, Avna Marie Soulsmith, take this vampire as your lawfully wedded husband?" Judge Oscar Hyacinth, a tiny, bespectacled man, balding and kindly, was officiating at a very unlawful wedding, doing so under the powerful mind control of the groom. From over top of his old fashioned spectacles, Judge Hyacinth grinned at me expectantly, wearing a loopy, drugged up expression, rather than the horrified one of a mortal ringed by a pack of the undead.
There were seven of them. Three males, if you were charitable and counted Snitch in that category---he and I had some bad history, so I can't exactly be impartial about the one-eyed pipsqueak. The other four were female. The worst of the lot being Donata, the ultimate vampire bitch, her voluptuous form encased in a skintight black unitard, while her long matte black hair hung shroud-like about her face and body. She's the one who had slashed open my back, from shoulder to hip, trying her best to rip me into shreds, by way of welcoming me into the clan, no doubt. But these unpalatable seven were just the minions.
Rasputin was the Master. The boss. The groom.
He was a brutish seven feet tall. Huge. Blubbery. Strong. A leprous, scabrous, diseased thing. And he had my arm gripped in his rusty-colored talon-tipped hand like a vise, because his most unwilling bride, moi, couldn't be allowed to escape, now could I? This was the ultimate marriage of convenience.
Since the early 1990's, when a bushel full of federal statutes had created the Federal Bureau of Interspecies Coexistence, the FBIC, a bureaucracy to protect and further the rights of vampires while also ascertaining and maintaining the growth of their population, marriage was the fastest 'legal' way to bring a human into a vampire family. The other less used means was to petition the courts for a change of status, from living to undead. Each-to-his-own, I guess. But there were supposed to be safeguards---like six human witnesses and the accompanying sworn affidavits filed with the FBIC to insure all parties were willing and under no hypnotic compulsions---to prevent an unwanted union. And this one was definitely unwanted.
Vampires were not my favorite species.
Judge Hyacinth tugged at his collar then cleared his throat of non-existent phlegm, prompting me for an answer. These nervous gestures indicated for the first time that he had any awareness about the unusual ceremony, being held in an unusual location, an eerily lit hangar-sized abandoned furniture warehouse. Most brides, I'd bet, did not need to be asked twice.
"Miss Soulsmith?" The poor little man's cherubic grin faltered. He blinked, anxiously shifted his eyes behind those bottle-thick lenses from me but-not-quite-to the hideous groom, then back again. Judge Hyacinth, clutching hard at both his bible and a semblance of reality, waited for the bride to speak.
Not that it really mattered what I answered. The Judge would 'hear' whatever Rasputin 'told' his mind. And, as for any objections from me, once the ceremony ended with 'you may now kiss the bride' that was all she wrote. Rasputin, a powerful centuries old progenitor, would suck me dry, of both blood and free will, and possibly accomplish my transformation into a vampire, right then and there. The commonly held belief was that it takes three successive bites from a vampire to do this. However, with a progenitor involved, some sources (whose reliability was questionable) maintained that one all-consuming bite was sufficient. I tended to believe in the progenitor-one-bite-theory. Lucky me.
As for coerced marriages, there had only been one federal case where a newly made vampire sued a sire for unlawful conversion, and it, needless to say, remained in a limbo of appeals. Most vampires, depending on the strength and spirit of their original human personality, were for all intents and purposes subjugated to the will of their master.
"You will answer in the affirmative." Rasputin's voice was a guttural croak. His breath-like exhalation washed over me like a truckload of rancid garbage.
"Like hell I will." How's that for independence? If I couldn't escape, I at least aimed to thwart his complete control of me in my next incarnation. If I maintained enough identity, I would be my own mistress. At least theoretically!
So, hell, no, I wouldn't say yes to my own demise, to meekly accept eternal bondage to a horrific demon, to accept domination from a master vampire like Rasputin. I wouldn't, couldn't, accept such a fate with any vampire. Save, perhaps, one. And he was dead. I mean really DEAD. By fire, no less, when he, ancient progenitor Constantine, The Great, an all around arrogant SOB and recent pain-in-my posterior, had once CLAIMED TO BE INVULNERABLE to it. Instead, not more than twenty minutes ago, Constantine had been fried by Snitch's gasoline fueled Molotov cocktail. So much for his self-proclaimed invulnerability to fire. Although, now that I thought about it, he had, contrary to all anecdotal vampire mythology, remained relatively intact!
Constantine had flared torch-like for one incendiary instant, engulfed in a flash of heat that had instantaneously plumed up his body then just as quickly snuffed out with such force that he had fallen flat to the ground. Oddly, his clothes had seemed to disappear rather than disintegrate. Stranger still, while the unmistakable acrid pungency of singed hair had fouled the air, Constantine's longish coal-black waves hadn't actually burned away! Nor, as he had lain there a smoking, peeling ruin, had his hypnotic ice-blue eyes been damaged. Unblinking, sightlessly trained upon the starry sky, they had glittered like bits of bright blue glass from out of his blistered and sooty mask-like face. The final indignity had been Snitch, after a cowardly fearful hesitation, grabbing, no ripping, the heavy, golden signet ring from off of Constantine's smoldering hand.
If I didn't hate vampires so much, I just might have admitted to a tear, or two, as I had knelt on the pavement to view the remains, seeing how patches of Constantine's skin nearly sloughed off like a snake shedding, revealing deceptively healthy, vibrant pink flesh underneath. The sight had given me the forlorn hope that Constantine, The Great, might, indeed, arise phoenix-like from his own ashes as he had once boasted to me. But ... he hadn't done so. Thus, here I stood at the proverbial altar with vile bloodthirsty Rasputin for a groom.
Even now, many city blocks away, in the middle of my 'marriage' vows, I couldn't shake those vivid images of Constantine's demise, nor that sickening, gut-wrenching smell of burnt flesh mingled with singed hair. All this sensory recall, distressing and raw, overwhelmed me. Nauseated, emotionally and physically overloaded, I swayed. Rasputin shook me like a rag doll, snarling, baring his immense, lethal canines. A sudden crazed gleam filled his rheumy black eyes. He shook me harder and harder, nearly tearing my arm from its socket.
"Pronounce us united! Pronounce us united!" He shrieked at the Judge, who seemed abruptly released from his hypnotic state. Judge Hyacinth trembled, visibly, dropping the holy bible to the ground. His eyes, magnified by his glasses, went ridiculously wide as saucers and his mouth dangled open with fear. He backed away several steps to escape the monster before him.
"You shall be mine. Mine." Rasputin's clawed fingernails, nearly as sharp and long as daggers, punctured through my right arm. I tried to concentrate on the sound of bone crunching, rather than the unendurable pain. Maybe my strategy worked. I began to black out, carrying with me the grotesque sound of my cracking forearm, the awful smell of burned flesh, and the instantaneous remembrance of the events leading me to this awful point in my life ... even as I was most assuredly about to die.
"De Facto Self Defense, this is Avna Soulsmith speaking. How may I help you?" I answered the phone in a breathless rush, having heard its insistent ringing from the sidewalk outside my building. I had crammed the key into the weathered brass lock, set the old fashioned bell-pull cord to swinging with my whirlwind entrance, then dove for the receiver of my old style rotary. What can I say, business times are hard. And I like antiques.
The only answer was heavy breathing.
"Detective Traeger?" I asked, strenuously pretending that I hadn't received a sixth-sense-like flush of recognition before I had picked up the line. I secretly, affectionately, dubbed the father of four Pater Traeger because he had filled that role for me over the past ten years, being as strict and stern and sympathetic to me as I imagined him with his own kids. Over that period, there had been many overtures and invitations from the Traegers, always trying adopt me. But my history, my personality, my pain, kept me away from healthy normal relationships. Instead, I subsisted with them as my vicarious family.
"That's right, Soulsmith." Suspicion, as to how I knew it was him, since caller ID was another technological advance I couldn't afford, colored his husky voice. As usual, he scoffed at the idea of precognition while simultaneously suspicious that I might have it! Which, of course, I absolutely, categorically DO NOT.
Detective Ian Traeger, a fantastic twenty-five year veteran with the Charleston Police Department, but without the generally requisite extra twenty pounds around the middle, was burly, muscular, possessed of the hearty stature and disciplined posture of a drill sergeant. He kept his silvered-red hair in a military flat top. No one could deny how extremely effective Pater Traeger was on his capital city beat, which now-a-days included a lot of activity with the Federal Bureau of Interspecies Coexistence. After all, he constantly reminded me, vampires and other incarnates have constitutional rights to be protected, too. Even in the Mountain State of West Virginia. I just didn't appreciate the fact that Traeger and the Bureau had tangled me up in this battle. A vampire lover, I ain't.
I had, for all intents and purposes, been gently blackmailed with veiled references to possible City B&O infractions into the voluntary position of community liaison for vampire-human rights, an offshoot of the community crime watch program, because I had a growing reputation as a reliable consultant for most things paranormal. Unfortunately, notoriety was good for business but bad for my health. Unnatural things tended to be attracted bug-like to the bright light of publicity, such as my involvement as a prosecution witness in the recent Lantaglia voodoo murder case when I had actually, formally been certified as a U.S. Court designated 'spiritualist' in order to legally channel a ghost---that of Salvator Lantaglia, murder victim---to testify in the judge's chambers. If it had been anything less than a capital crime I would have refused such an accreditation. No way did I want to be any kind of paranormal authority. I just wanted to be normal!
"How did you know it was me?" Traeger prompted for an answer. Being inquisitive was his nature, especially if it touched upon me or the paranormal. He trusted that I could take care of myself, yet he still worried about the supernatural aspects of my business. Vampires, on the one hand, presumably because they, to Pater Traeger's way of thinking, 'retained' their humanity, didn't bother him, but ghosts and ghouls and things that bumped in the night were a whole different story. Most people, including Ian Traeger, acknowledged---but ignored---the otherworldly within the worldly realm. Out of sight is, after all, out of mind. Safer. Saner. Sorry to say, I knew better, so I couldn't pretend that unnatural things didn't lurk in the dark. And, sometimes, in the light.
When I answered him, I tried to sound casual. "Just a lucky guess." And that's all, I convinced myself, that it was, a guess. I knew a few real psychics, the kind with detailed, all-knowing all-seeing premonitions, and I flatly rejected that label. I just sometimes guessed really, really well.
With a sigh, I plunked myself down into the rolling office chair and propped my legs up onto the scratched-up, second-hand desk. Before me, through a huge plate glass window, stretched an unobstructed view of the quiet downtown street. I liked to see trouble coming, that's part of the De Facto Self Defense Credo. Behind me were floor-to-ceiling glass-fronted cases full of my stockin-trade, vials of holy water, amulets with semiprecious stones, dream catchers, any number of silver tipped or plated items---from the traditional bullets to the less so collection of pagan or Christian crosses, stilettos, scissors, or most anything with a sharp point---and a variety of crystals, herbs, and folk remedies, an ever growing catalogue of paraphernalia, that, depending on any given circumstance, might have the property to protect or heal. That seemed to be my instinctual power, to glean the best defense to a supernatural force. I scorned the title of expert, however, because, inpoint-of-fact, I was not an expert in any field. I simply ran an Army-Navy Surplus Shop for the paranormal.
"I suppose this is an official call, Traeger?" I gently rocked back and forth on the chair's wheels, ignoring my copycatting reflection in the plate glass, a reverse image of a woman of medium build with a thick mop of dirty blonde, short, almost ill-cut hair, ordinary green eyes, but nice lips, hips and curves. I tried to waste little time in viewing life as a beauty contest. Still, if not a runner-up, I might have made the top twenty. Or not.
"Yeah, kid, I'm afraid it is." He exhaled a long breath. "This one's bad. A body, female, Caucasian, in her mid-to-late twenties, was reported floating in the Kanawha by a passing barge early this morning, right before daybreak. She was tangled near the bank about a hundred yards upriver of the South Side Bridge. So far, we haven't ID'd the body."
"Do I get three guesses as to the cause of death?" Anger sifted into my poor attempt at humor.
"Nobody hates this more than I do, Avna. It was a vampire kill, all right. With multiple bite wounds and no attempt to hide or disguise the fact. There's a rogue on the loose. But it is the first such murder in this city in over fifty years. ''
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've heard this story before. Killers come in all shapes, sizes, sexes, AND species. But you've never given me a good answer for all those unsolved missing person cases still on the books." Whenever this argument came up and my prejudice started showing, I never reminded him just how close I had come to being a part of that invisible statistic while a sophomore at the State College of West Virginia, SCWV some ten years earlier. Surviving that attack had been the end of my collegiate career as an English major and begun my personal crusade with De Facto Self Defense. It had also brought Ian Traeger, the lead investigator of that unprecedented attack, into my grim nineteen-year-old life where he had remained to one degree or another ever since.
"Just because I've been pressured into being the 'supernatural' eyes and ears of the Charleston police force doesn't mean I necessarily have to like it, or them." I practically spat out the word. "Remember, my interest is in saving MY kind. I can't seem to be as fair-minded as you. Nor do I necessarily want to try." Statistics be damned! Vampires, as far as I was concerned, were nothing more than predators.
"So, we have differing opinions on this subject. That's old news, Avna. We agree to respectfully disagree, regardless of the fact that when it comes to vampires you're paranoid and biased. Nevertheless, the Department has always considered you an indispensable and dependable resource."
"Thanks for the flattery, I think." I whuffled out a sarcastic chuckle, smiling against my will at how easily my mentor and moral compass had lectured to me yet again on this personal bias, this sore spot, of mine. Boy, could he zing ya! "You know you can count on me. I'll keep my ears open. If I hear of anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, you'll be the first to know."
Traeger cleared his throat.
"What is it, Traeger?"
"The higher ups are looking for more depth than street chatter. This type of aberrant homicide could rattle the public, could incite vigilantes. They want specifics. So do I."
"Such as...?" A chill ran up my scalp. My reflection in the storefront's window was definitely tense, suddenly sitting up ramrod straight. I nervously toyed with my favorite silver plated ink pen, which I, then, soothingly, familiarly tucked behind my ear.
To distract myself, I took inventory of the neat desktop, smack-dab in the middle of which lay a pristine business card with intricate black-traced red lettering. Ginny Bahr, my business manager and best friend ever since I had rid her house (not once but twice) of a very recalcitrant and difficult-to-banish poltergeist, had left this very same card on my desk for the past two weeks, insisting that I follow up on a potential client. I did not want business that bad. And even now, listening to Traeger's husky voice, I picked up the delicate card with all the relish of touching, barehanded, a black widow spider.
"Some reliable sources claim that there's a possible turf war about to flare up. This 'floater' in the river might be the beginnings of something ugly. I don't have enough manpower for sufficient undercover work. Then, too, the quieter this is kept the better. That requires someone outside the force. We need an informant to unofficially infiltrate the favorite vampire environs, to try and get a lead on any renegades. To verify, one way or another, if this is one vampire gone bad..." he paused, then added grimly, "or an entire family."
Traeger's words seemed to electrify the card. Instantly, I knew the identity of this reliable source and that I was being manipulated into this unofficial operation, but what really terrified me was I did not know why. My fertile imagination could easily contrive a million reasons, none of them pleasant.
My voice went harder edged than steel. "Constantine is behind this. He's your source. Don't deny it." Everyone in the city of Charleston knew that name. Knew what he was. A vampire. How powerful. Extremely. And how wealthy. Disgustingly. Nor was he a simple run-of-the-mill vampire. Constantine's legal status was that of a progenitor. He was old, perhaps of the first of his kind. His real history was a blank. If anybody had a clue, they weren't talking.
There were real benefits to being recognized by the FBIC as a progenitor. Tax breaks for one thing. That explained why Constantine was so heavy into real estate. But more importantly, where other, younger vampires, those under one hundred years, could only legally sire a family, or clan, of ten members, Constantine fell under a grandfather clause that virtually placed no restrictions on the number of undead he could personally create, so long as he followed the legal FBIC mandated and sanctioned procedures, i.e. through marriage or court-granted change-of-status. This generous part of the law had been enacted because the United States government thought there were less than a hundred true progenitors in the world, and only a quarter of those 'residing' in the states. (I personally think the numbers are much, much higher.) Furthermore, because of his extraordinary powers, when each of Constantine's 'issue' sired their allotment of ten---which if he partook of and shared blood with---he effectively extended and controlled all those bearing his lineage. This type of power, over those of your bloodline and not strictly of your creation, was a mark of an ancient and powerful vampire. There seemed no way to regulate that.
He was one scary son-of-a-bitch.
It was his business card that I had ignored for over two weeks.
I don't fraternize with his kind. Much. And, then, only as a member of the local FBIC-Citizens Review Board which infrequently met to hear preliminary complaints filed by vampires over unfair housing violations---some humans refused to sell or rent or renovate, as per the Reanimate Fair Housing laws, to the undead. And, once again, I had Pater Traeger to thank for my involvement on this Board. He liked to call it my civic duty. Oi! Sometimes at the beginning of these Board Hearings I would have the uncanny, and unwanted, ability to spot which were the complainants. In other words, I could often spot the vampires amidst the humans, although I had gotten pretty good at denying, at disregarding, at disbelieving this knack, rather than honing it.
My real job, the purpose of De Facto Self Defense, was to help humans protect themselves from dark things. Of necessity, I had become a paranormal jack-of-all-trades but a master of none. I offered advice, dug up information, sought out experts, sold mystical charms, lectured, held an occasional séance, all to help PEOPLE, real, live, warm bodied people. Vampires were most definitely of the dark, and thus to be avoided. Therefore, over Ginny's objections, I had refused all overtures from Constantine, The Great, specifically the business card that so vividly in black-traced scarlet lettering, reminiscent of blood, proclaimed him proprietor of The Bete Noir Club and Escort Service.
"Traeger." I squinted my eyes shut tight and tried to block out the niggling mix of anger and fear my next question elicited. "Are you asking me to voluntarily go undercover at a vampire owned and operated brothel? Because, as far as I'm concerned, that's exactly what the Hotel Constantinople is, no matter how upscale and ritzy."
"Don't necessarily focus on the Constantinople. Charleston has several nocturnal watering holes that could offer some good intelligence. Ask a few questions. Be nosy, but be careful. There's Pastiche, The Merry-Go-Round, Belay's Eternal Nite Club. Just steer clear of the seedier dives."
I grinned, humorlessly. "Yeah, I know the ones. I wouldn't be caught dead, so-to-speak, in any of those places, especially the Smorgasbord on Route 60. But, Traeger, since this warning of a possible vampire war came from Constantine, it makes sense to start digging around his place, his people, first. Right? And however luxuriously you dress it up, the Constantinople is renowned for its excess, including a glorified escort service."
"Look, Avna, for over two years now we have unsuccessfully tried to prove Bete Noir hired prostitutes. It's run by the books as an escort dating service. Every raid has failed. Either it's legitimate, or somebody tips them off."
"All criminals can smell a cop, Traeger, not just the fanged ones." Although, I inwardly admitted, vampires were well documented as having superior sight, smell, hearing, and strength. There was, however, a lot of debate between the so-called 'experts' on the degree of this superiority. Most, i.e. the Von Heslings and their stupid clinical trials, espoused the old truism that older vampires displayed greater physical senses and paranormal abilities. Duh!
"What about trying to shut it down due to Health Department regulations?" How obviously was my vampire phobia showing?
"The FBIC is still trying to go this route. Agent Zellden is persistent." Traeger's phrasing forcefully revealed his distaste for these tactics. Using mandates for public health to try and close a minority owned business made him, I knew from our many debates, feel like a Nazi. The law specifically allowed that any business associated with the sale of food and drink, and the Bete Noir Club had a liquor license, and employed 'reanimates' of any kind could expect regular and/or spontaneous Health Department inspections. It was a valid safeguard to ensure that infectious pathogens were not being spread between the two populations, living and undead.
"The monitors go in every week, sometimes twice a week, take the blood samples, check the premises." In his evenhanded manner, Traeger added, "Constantine's people are always cooperative."
"Weekly, huh?" I mused out loud, for that fact starkly revealed a truth of which I was already aware. The small metropolitan city of Charleston, capital of the state of West Virginia, had more than its fair share of true, dyed-in-the-wool Vampyraphobe zealots, plus many respected organizations that supported them, such as the Congregation for Integrity and Morality in Education, a fact to which I could personally attest. And, disappointingly but not surprisingly, Traeger's comment revealed that some of these vampyraphobe crusaders even struck at their undead enemies from within the FBIC, the very Bureau meant to protect and further vampire rights. For a while now, I had even suspected that the Senior West Virginia FBIC Agent, one Ezekiel Zellden, a single-browed Neanderthal who had somehow managed to earn a Bachelors degree in Occult Studies, numbered amongst them. Now I knew for sure. I detested the man. Therefore that old adage that the enemy of my enemy is my friend was bullshit.
"It's a necessary evil, Traeger." Then I hesitantly laughed. "How come you almost make me feel sorry for," and I deepened my voice to mimic his, "trampling the basic Constitutional Rights of vampires?"
His answer was totally serious, totally heartfelt. "Deep down you know I'm right, Avna."
I did not have a glib answer for that, so, instead, I went back to the real issue at hand. "I do not want to walk into that viper pit." Because it was full of vampires!
"Who better than you, Avna? You're level-headed, observant, knowledgeable, and you have great instincts. You should have been a cop." His voice had dropped to a disappointed mutter. None of his kids had followed in his footsteps, not even the conscripted one. "Just blend in at the club, attend a few of the Bete Noir private parties. Snoop around. You're not attached to the force. No one is likely to recognize you. Civilians tend to respond better to questions asked without a badge."
"What if, heaven forbid, I get into some kind of trouble?"
The telephone seemed to transmit the warmth of his smile, which he very seldom gave, and usually only when he had gotten something over on me. Pater Traeger had won this argument, and he knew it. "Nobody can handle that kinda trouble better than you, not even Zellden out of the Bureau. He has some pretty diplomas, but that's it. You've got the real stuff, Avna. I wouldn't send you if I felt it was too dangerous. Stick to the legitimate clubs that toe-the-line. Listen and look sharp."
"Promise not to ever mention Agent Zellden to me again and I'll do it." Zellden, with his expensive sheepskin, considered me a credential-less charlatan. I considered him a complete and utter jerk. Why? Mainly just on instinct. But, also, Zellden believed himself superior to EVERYBODY. I designated him a WASP plus M&M, which basically meant if you weren't a white Anglo-Saxon protestant mortal male, he despised you.
"Besides, Detective, when you have that much faith in me, what's the worst thing that could happen?" But I wanted to retrieve those fatalistic words the minute they left my mouth. Instead, I had to settle with knocking on the wood of my desk. Oh, and, I crossed my fingers, too. Superstitions had their raison d'etre, and that was another De Facto Self Defense credo---never scoff at the supernatural. Because, nine times out of ten, it would turn around and bite you on the butt. With needle sharp teeth.
Sundown had passed away a few hours ago. Now, it was ten thirty on a desultory May evening. Radiant heat seeped off of the hotel Constantinople's wide concrete sidewalk. I halted in a shadowed spot and watched the intriguing moonlit night still full of whizzing traffic on the one-way, three-laned, tree-lined street. Each passing car fanned unwary pedestrians, a group of carousing frat-boys, several clusters of bar-hopping friends, two or three rendezvousing couples, some shop-talking businessmen, a two-man City crew, replanting and mulching the massive trough-like planters of the small suburban garden on the opposite side of the street from where I hid in the shadows. Amidst this hustle and bustle of couples and groups, I was alone, solitary, isolated. The only other loner was a poor vagrant who squatted beside a hotel dumpster just barely within my sightline at the side of the building. And just like the vagrant, I began muttering to myself.
"There's safety in numbers." So, why, then, did I never take my own advice?
In this case, time was the cause. Ginny had not shown up when I expected. She didn't know about this whole mess. And that, actually, made me glad. Why should I drag her into this investigation? Why endanger her as my backup? Not that she was totally defenseless. She had learned a clever thing or two from the best. Me. But she was an accountant, for pete's sake!
I inhaled once more, very deeply, catching the scent of rich dirt and the sweeter one of honeysuckle, and strolled down the last few blocks fronting the magnificent hotel. Five-star, I believe. The entire thirteen stories gleamed and shone, an ultra-modern structure of glass and chrome. The aboveground floors comprised the hotel proper, an opulent, expensive place that, notwithstanding its ownership---pssst, the Constantinople is owned by a vampire progenitor, pass it on---came highly recommended by Charleston's tourist and convention consortium.
There were also two underground floors, the first being occupied by the Bete Noir Club and the office of the Bete Noir Escort Service, the second being ostensibly reserved for Constantine's personal quarters as per the chapter on Dwellings and Habitations in the weighty, 25th edition of the authoritative Von Hesling Institute's Vampire Compendium. This resource categorically stated that all of the undead, and I hereby very closely paraphrase the work, 'dwelt in crypts, graves, or other subterranean chambers due to their inherent nature and the added protection from the deadly rays of the sun'. God-only-knew-what protected Constantine's lair from intrusion. Vampires were notoriously ingenious about such things. In his case, if I had to hazard a guess, I'd have said that he probably cast dark warding spells. Or worse.
And how, one might wonder, did a paranoid Vampyraphobe knowingly walk into a vampire's lair? Take it from me, on very shaky legs.
I moved, nevertheless, without apparent hesitation through the automatic doors, leaving the heated night for the artificial cool of the Constantinople's plush lobby. Muted tawny shades dominated the airy Cathedral-like space. Octagonal tiles of beige and pink patterned the floor. Guests were offered a comfortable waiting area strategically situated just several feet from the sign-in desk, a refuge defined by massive camel-colored leather couches, a few coordinating plump wing chairs in earthy brown, plus small round oak accent tables. And, for good measure, dead center of the immense lobby, a gorgeous waterfall gently cascaded down into a basin filled with polished, rounded stones in matching hues of brown, tan, and salmon. An open-air balcony on the second floor overlooked the sumptuous lobby.
Wow! Someone sure had good taste.
I ceased gawking and aimed for the hotel's bank of elevators, all-the-while scanning any activity in the main lobby. Other than a few latecomers at the registration desk conversing with the manager on duty, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The elevator silently opened. I stepped in and immediately about-faced towards the front. My finger barely wavered over the buttons as I jabbed sub-floor one and descended into an unknown netherworld. I studiedly ignored the sub-sub-floor, the true basement of the hotel and the presumed underground sanctuary of a vampire progenitor. That level was most definitely off limits, or so maintained the Von Hesling Institute for Vampiric Studies, the world's oldest, most renowned authority in the field. And who was I to argue with the experts?
The gleaming polished insides of the elevator shown bright as mirrors, somehow, magically, without a single smudge or fingerprint to mar the life-capturing reflections. For a single heartbeat, I was confronted by myself, yet someone I did not recognize. Then, after a quick motionless descent, the door slid back and I automatically stepped out, revealing to those few in the long corridor the same unsettling image that I had just been confronted with: a slim but curvy woman in a sleeveless midnight blue cocktail dress, carrying a dainty matching clutch, short dirty-blonde hair in stylish disarray, face glowing with the lightest hint of makeup. What they saw, what I had glimpsed with stunned disbelief, was a sexy prowler! I paused for an instant to get my bearings---and my composure---then began to move. One end of the corridor housed the Bete Noir Escort Service, while the Bete Noir Night Club was situated at the opposite end. It, the hottest, chicest vampire club in town, was my destination.
Whereas the hotel lobby had been elegantly conservative, the long hallway which led to the Bete Noir was anything but. Sensuous thick black carpet rimmed on each side by blood-like red spatters contrasted with the stark white plaster walls. A few oil paintings of half-naked women, leering satyrs, and even more naked women decorated the lengthy corridor. Interestingly, at intervals down the hall were several closed doors, begging the question of exactly what was going on behind each? Other than this tiny bit of idle curiosity, I ignored these forbidden passageways, striding toward the far end, soon nearing enough to read a thin cloth banner hung over the portals to the Bete Noir Club. All Revelers Welcome. I smiled at the apparent undead in-joke. Vampires could not pass the threshold of a private residence, could not invade the sanctity of a home, without an invitation. But public places had no such limits, nor did other vampire dwellings. The banner poked fun at this.
A few club patrons, sipping out of high-ball glasses, congregated at the entrance. I disregarded them but took extra stock of the two bullish musclemen, hulk-like bouncers, who flanked either side of the closed double doors. They returned the favor, especially the bald six footer on the left. His beady, close set eyes roved over me, practically groping me.
As I approached, those grouped at the door went inside, leaving me with the two no-necks. Mr. Baldy stepped directly in front of me, forcing me to halt while he continued his inspection, up-close-and-personal. He seemed particularly intrigued with my earrings, which were, of course, silver, a crescent moon in one ear, and an elongated, pointy star in the other. My stockings kept this same motif, dark blue hosiery with silver moon and stars sparkling over my legs. This whole outfit, including the uncomfortable spiked heels, hastily purchased from the mall only scant blocks away from the Constantinople, was going to be a business deduction, and I dared the Internal Revenue Service to dispute it as such!
Judging from Mr. Baldy's reaction, I not only met, but exceeded, the Bete Noir requirements for sexiness. He reached out and stroked the star dangling from my ear lobe. Although my stomach churned, I stayed immobile, deceptively docile.
His partner's eyes shimmied nervously before he spoke up. "You the new girl they been expecting?"
"That's right." It was as good an entrée as any. And as a cover story, it might prove useful, if distasteful.
"Well, well, well," Mr. Baldy drawled, unable to keep his fat mouth shut. "I can break you in, honey. It'd be my pleasure." The hand with which he had fingered my jewelry slid down to my hip.
"Just keep pawing me, and I'll break something all right."
Mr. Baldy smacked his lips. "You like it rough. I can deliver."
His cohort grew more visibly agitated. His bulging-eyed gaze darted everywhere. Perspiration dappled his upper lip. "Lewis, stop. The boss don't like us messing with his girls."
"You frightened piss ant. Do 'ya think he has eyes in the back of his head?"
"He'll know. He knew about Tony. Now Tony's not around anymore."
Mr. Baldy sulked, considered the other man's words, then decided to act smarter than he looked. "Go on in.... "Or, maybe, he was even dumber than he looked? "...you sweet piece of tail."
Normally, I avoided trouble, at least this early in the evening, but I couldn't resist a bit of revenge right before I swept through the entrance. "I'll be sure to tell Constantine about your warm welcome, Lewis." I added his name for good spiteful measure. No point in telling the big goon that I did not, nor had the slightest inclination, to know Constantine, The Great. But, I'm ashamed to admit, that I got a sadistic kick out of seeing Mr. Baldy nearly swallow his tongue with fear.
However, as the heavy doors swung to behind me with a powerful whoosh of air, removing the poor grunt from my sight, I experienced my own tremor of profound dread. It swarmed every atom of my being. I had, after all, crossed the portal from light into dark, entered a carnal, precarious, unfamiliar territory. I stopped, swayed slightly, then concentrated on diminishing the darkened interior's strange impact upon me. Physical sensation, from the jarring textured noises, the talking, the laughter, the brash undercurrent of music, to the heady scents, stale air-conditioning, primal musk, excited sweat, excessive perfumes, overburdened me like dead weight. I grappled with this metaphysical load and managed to more comfortably balance it.
The Bete Noir Night Club, I asserted to myself on a long calming inhale, was nothing more and nothing less than any other den of iniquity. Like most such places, it was poorly lit, crowded, reeked of bodies and alcohol, and buzzed with countless bits of conversation. The potency of the Bete Noir had nothing whatsoever to do with the supernatural! With this affirmation, my eyes adjusted immediately, distinguishing the Club's layout within the murkiness. The center of the large room offered patrons a dozen or so round pedestal tables and the best view of a short stage. Right then a girl of incredible proportions was entertaining the boisterous crowd. She wore gold body paint and a matching string bikini. Her long hair was also dyed the same golden color. If being limber qualified as an Olympic sport, she was a surefire gold medalist. I blushed at her nearly naked athletics and continued to scan the place.
Recessed alcoves were built into the perimeter of the Club, affording a deceptive measure of privacy. Nothing obscured the occupants, except distance and the poor lighting. Still, it would be easy to get close to any one of those fascinating cubbyholes and get an eye or ear full to learn what those intriguing intimate shadows were actually doing, a voyeur's ultimate wet dream.
I catalogued all this activity then zoned in on the bar at the back corner. I definitely needed a drink. Too bad I was a teetotaler. A spot there, I decided, afforded the best and safest place to watch the room. I threaded my way through several groups of dancers, some merely swaying in a stoned stupor, others more energetically humping and bumping at each other. One man with salt-n-pepper hair, his arms twined around a very limp partner, caught my eye. I smiled rather vaguely at him but kept on moving. Someone else reached out and stroked my bare arm. Another, a man in nauseatingly tight pleather pants, dropped to his knees and managed to lick the back of my hand. I felt like I was running a gauntlet through an orgy in progress. And, why, I fretted, did they seem so determined to include me?
Relatively unmolested, I finally reached the bar, a huge black lacquered affair, accented with the ubiquitous blood red trim. Not being a barfly, or strip club habitué, hence the earlier blush at the well endowed entertainment, I studied the array of liquor, the endless bottles colored in amber, green, brown, in unusual shapes and sizes that whispered of exotic places, Greece, France, Bora-Bora. Blenders whirred and whined, concocting strange drink-after-drink. Manhattans, Long Island Iced Teas, Harvey Wall Bangers, and, yes, even Pina Coladas. I most definitely caught a disconcerting, incongruous whiff of cocoanuts. Vampires and fruity liqueurs are not the most obvious of combinations. No, indeedy.
The action behind the bar equally fascinated me. All six bartenders, two of whom were women, wore identical, snazzy black tuxes. Their ruffled shirts were scarlet, their cufflinks giant ruby studs. And, as I negligently plunked my dark blue clutch on the bar and appropriated one of the few empty barstools, working excessively hard to do so in a ladylike fashion because of my unaccustomed heels, I could not help but watch them and wonder ... which were undead? Which were forever tied to Constantine, their master, creator, and employer? I analyzed their efficient movements for any telltale signs, noted their interaction with each person at the bar, yet I didn't, as I had done once or twice in the past, experience a single buzz, didn't feel the least tremor or shiver or tingle over who was alive and who was not. That sense of mystery and of danger probably increased the Club's business. It offered a big rush. Some people just liked to play with fire. Not me. I didn't like getting burned.
Suddenly, I noticed a waitress beside me, a Marilyn look-a-like, accepting a tray of margaritas and daiquiris from the nearest bartender. I scanned further down the bar and saw another impersonator picking up a similar tray. The Madonna look-a-like, I assumed, just had to be around somewhere, and I spotted her (him) taking orders amid the crowded tables in the center of the room.
Before Marilyn pushed away from the bar, she winked at me. She, then, nodded toward the closest bartender, whose broad back was to us. "Dearie, you do have flawless taste. Enjoy." The bartender, as if summoned, politely turned to me. My quick once over turned into a prolonged stare. What a specimen! His exceptional good looks included shoulder length brown hair, hazel eyes, and a dimpled killer smile. He casually leaned over the counter. "Name your poison." He seemed very amused with himself.
I smiled back, feeling slightly giddy. I couldn't help thinking that his corny come-on was amusing, too. "Ginger ale, please."
"Haven't you heard the requisite drink around here, especially for employees, is a Bloody Mary?" He spoke as flirtatiously as before, but his euphemistic phrasing innocuously inquired as to my status, living or undead? I guess it wasn't polite to outright ask someone, are you a vampire? Improper etiquette and all. Emily Post would know.
"Not my drink." I wrinkled my nose, declaring myself a mere mortal.
He seemed to smile the wider. His dimples slashed sharply at the corners of his mouth. "I'm Josh Warner." He offered his name by way of introduction. "Glad to know you." There was, or so I believed, obvious relief in Josh to have heard me deny being of the vampire persuasion. That's the real disadvantage in fighting vampires. They did not look like vampires. Although, sometimes, according to some of the literature I had read and the few personal encounters I had actually had, you could feel one, if they were too weak to hide their hunger or too powerful to block out their incredibly strong auras. Then, again, someone, I forget who, probably Pater Traeger just to get my goat, had suggested that I was unusually sensitive to that kind of emanation, whereas most mortals were not. Naturally, I had scoffed at the idea. Me, read the vibes off a vampire? Ridiculous.
Josh, however, 'felt' okay so I took a chance and told him my real name, rather than a fake one. "I'm Avna Soulsmith." Offering a vampire leave to use your full name, both your surname, your family's last name, and your given or Christian name, posed a danger. It gave a bloodsucker a bit of control over his prey. A name offered up was like handing over a piece of yourself. At least, that was a tiny, little known part of the poorly documented vampire mythos. Who knew if it was fact or fiction? Certainly not I, having gone to great lengths to ward off their kind. That was my profession and my preference.
"One ginger ale, coming right up." Josh set about getting my drink. I tried not to gawk at him. He presented me a heavy crystal glass, allowing his fingers to brush mine. He again flashed that beautiful, dimpled smile, a hundred watts if not more! Something deep down inside of me trembled.
"By-the-way, exactly how did you know I was a new employee? I could just be another patron." Keeping up the charade, I masked the humiliation I felt at admitting to being one of the new Bete Noir call girls, even though Traeger had said that such had never been proven.
"I wasn't a hundred percent sure. But I have explicit instructions to be on the lookout for a woman, a non-vamp, fitting your description. Your own words confirmed you were not one of us. Avna." Josh purred my name with relish. His gorgeous smile now gleamed that much more with inch long fangs.
A golf ball sized lump stuck in my throat. I could hardly speak. "I didn't have a clue about you." I felt lousy.
"Naturally you wouldn't. The boss is shielding me."
I felt relieved, yet not. I didn't want to possess a built-in vampire detection system, but if I did, indeed, have one, it was good to know it wasn't broken, merely faulty. On the other hand, I had just gotten majorly screwed. And hormones were to blame.
"They should make you guys were name tags, or something." I stared unhappily at him.
"Such as, 'Hello, My Name is Alucard'." Josh expected a laugh from me. After all, as every classic horror movie fan knows, Alucard spelled Dracula backwards. He was back to being friendly and flirtatious.
I was being pissy and refused to oblige. I actually glowered at him.
"We are not that different. And we don't bite unless invited, Miss Soulsmith." He tried to make amends by addressing me formally, by using my last name.
Of course, I wouldn't have any of it. "Speak for yourself," I muttered. It's difficult to overcome a decade old prejudice, brought into being by an assault on a college campus when a vampire jumps you from behind with the intention of ripping out your throat.
I slid off of the high stool, tucking the small clutch under my arm. "Where can I find Constantine? He must be nearby if he's shielding you." I wiped all emotion off my face, but anger, and disappointment, seeped out of me. Josh's trick seemed spiteful and mean, both contrary to my first impression of him.
"On the far side, in the Blue Room." Josh pointed across the distance at one of the semi-private alcoves, the only one I had failed to notice earlier, screened by a bead curtain. "It was nice to meet you, Avna. Really. I'm just sorry about the circumstances. And the deception. Your paranoid attitude, about vampires, I mean, annoyed me. So I thought I'd yank your chain a bit. Don't worry about the name thing too much."
"Then names don't add to your power of compulsion?" I couldn't believe my own ears. Here I stood, an apparently fearless and independent woman, or else why enter the notorious Bete Noir Club dressed-to-kill, begging eagerly for reassurance from a vampire, a reanimate, a thing I loathed.
Josh's smile returned, wider and brighter than before, and without a trace of malice or fangs. "Not exactly. Most of the legends about us are bullshit. Others have a shred of truth. Like this one. A very powerful vampire, say like a progenitor," and Josh looked across the crowded room to the place where Constantine, The Great, awaited me, "might very well use that piece of your identity against you. But, in your case, Avna, I doubt anyone could make you do anything against your will."
So far tonight, my instincts had failed miserably. Why, then, was I buying every single word Josh was selling? Because of the hormone thing, again? He was sharp all right, with his incredible smile, warm hazel eyes, and other positive attributes well accentuated beneath his tux and best not dwelled on too closely.
"Apology accepted?" Joshed held out his large hand.
My own palm itched. I ignored it, reached out and clasped his hand, and sighed at the feel of that unexpected contact. His skin was warm, not clammy, not cold, not life-like clay.
"See 'ya 'round, Avna."
"Yeah." I gave him a sheepish, self-conscious smile, adding just under my breath, "I hope so." Then I headed for my unlooked for meeting with the vampire Constantine. I steered in and around the tables, glad that here, at least, all attention was focused on the golden gymnast, who continued to perform her backbend walkovers, splits, and cartwheels with gusto but without her bikini top. I thankfully reached the curtained area before the bottoms came off, as well.
As if on cue, an arm pulled back the noisy beads, ushering me in to the blue room, so named, of course, because of the pastel sky blue paint on the walls and ceiling, and because of the many glowing blue lava lamps displayed on wooden pedestals around the circumference of the room, eerily illuminating those gathered therein---a small ring of vampires. And their master.
Constantine.
He was everything I had conjured, and much, much more. Totally devastating. The epitome of a GQ cover.
After one sharp instant of awareness about the room and those in it, seeing but not registering the two beautiful women lounging at his feet, and the identical twins, young attractive men, seated not far from them on big cushions, everything---EVERYTHING---receded to one focal point. Him. Constantine.
He was dark-headed and deadly, negligently sprawled on a Papasan chair, seductively clothed in an expensive tailor-made suit of steel gray, the complementary pearlescent shirt underneath, collar unbuttoned and open, of dove gray. Not a single wrinkle showed. Nothing detracted from his perfect proportions. He literally had a body to die for and a face to match. Whereas Josh Warner could melt a woman's insides, Constantine, undoubtedly, could vaporize them.
His magnificent features, very male and very arrogant, were seared into my mind. His face was chiseled, as if by Michelangelo, attractive and irresistible, strong jaw, planed cheekbones, sensuous mouth, all framed by a thick, wavy mass of hair, so black as to resemble a seam of coal. But most memorable of all were the eyes. Extraordinarily pale. His irises were very near the color of the room, only an even lighter, brighter shade of blue. Luminescent, able to see in the dark. And hypnotic, able to see into your mind. And once there to control it. His eyes held me prisoner, never once blinking, never wavering. Suddenly, the pulse in my carotid artery beat, hard, fast, insistent. Unconsciously my hand went to that throbbing place and rubbed, trying to soothe that awful tension.
As if suddenly bored with this unchallenging little game, Constantine returned his attention to the more ardent of the two women at his feet, the one practically wrapped around his leg, while the other just sat in a blissful, drooling daze. He had been absentmindedly stroking her hair during that whole 'I have you under my spell routine', and it angered me. The least the chauvinistic son-of-a-bitch could do was give me his undivided attention. The woman responded to his caresses by rubbing her face up-and-down his muscular thigh, resembling a dog humping someone's leg. Talk about cheap.
He continued to massage her scalp, and I watched with repulsed fascination as his fingers pulled and tugged both playfully and painfully at her long brown hair, nearly bringing her to orgasm by the simple act of stroking her hair. It was then, as I witnessed this erotic demonstration and suppressed my own twinge of envy, that I first noticed the burnished signet ring of heavy gold upon his right hand, embossed with the letter 'C' for Constantine. He seemed so entirely engrossed with his hands working in her hair, that I wondered if centuries old vampires were prone to ADD? Had he dismissed me from his mind? Did he even know that I was there? I nearly jumped when he spoke, gripping a little tighter at my clutch.
"Come in, Miss Soulsmith." Constantine's rich silky voice surrounded me, commanding and demanding obedience, which, of course, did not sit well with me. His lazily dismissive attitude had infuriated me, negating any aftereffects of his hypnotic stare. What was I anyway, standing there in my head turning outfit of midnight blue and silver, chopped liver?
I rebelled. "No, thank you. I'm fine right here."
Those bright blue eyes instantly retargeted me. And if I only imagined a crease of annoyance above his brow, there was no denying the look of disbelief that passed between the twins. They shared a sly grin, then waited for a bit more entertainment.
Constantine, who had not once shifted from his reclined position in the depths of the cushy Papasan, slowly raised upward, a leisurely but threatening movement. "You will surely be more comfortable seated." His elegant hand gestured to a nearby stool, which, being spindly and backless, looked anything but comfortable. "With some refreshment." He snapped a finger at the little sex-pot, and she immediately jumped up to obey.
"Don't bother. I had a drink at the bar. The service here, I must say, is more than adequate." I offered the slightest, most insincere of smiles to Constantine's eager servant, now returned to her spot at the foot of her master. "Josh took good care of me."
This time there was no doubt that Constantine was irked. "None of my people were to approach you. Just direct you to me."
I backtracked, not wanting to get Josh in trouble. "That's all he did. Besides serve me a ginger ale."
The twins exchanged another of their glances, simultaneously mouthing the words "Ginger ale?" Apparently not a popular beverage at the Bete Noir Club.
"Have no fear. Josh will not be punished." But Constantine's tight smile said otherwise.
"I have your word on that?" I could hear the proverbial pin drop, even over the erratic thumping of my heart.
"So have I said, so it will be." Constantine relaxed back into the depths of his padded, scoop-like chair, but the room felt stifled and close. His icy blue eyes bored into me. "Before we get down to business, allow me to introduce Maximillian and Marcus."
"I prefer Max," said the first brother.
"I prefer Marc," said the other, identical in every respect, right down to the inflection of their voices. Marc and Max, lean, tall, and attractive, were in their late twenties, sporting shaggy platinum blonde haircuts, sport jackets over casual jeans, and tongue piercings. Ouch!
And, if I wasn't mistaken, I would have sworn that they smelled of pot, which meant the Von Heslings had gotten another bit of vampire mythology wrong. Again. Apparently, some vampires liked a good buzz. If they partook of marijuana, then, one would presume, vampires could ingest other food and drink? Did that mean they got the munchies, too?
I spoke directly to them, slightly turning away from their master. "I'm Avna, Avna Soulsmith. It's a pleasure to meet you both." Next I glanced at Constantine and his two HUMAN bimbos. Not immediately noticing the reddened bite marks on the women's throats was my second big mistake for the evening. The first had been not recognizing Josh as a vampire. They were midnight snacks, rather than a part of Constantine's family. "I guess groupies don't rate introductions."
Constantine shrugged. "With women such as these, I don't need to bother with names. Or coercion. They are more than willing." He paused for one heartbeat, while his fever bright eyes suddenly dilated, trying to immerse me in the flood of his will.
"May I, also, call you Avna?" A betraying twinge of pain marred his exquisite face when he spoke my given name without permission. Good.
"Sorry, Constantine. To you, I remain Miss Soulsmith." Besting him, actually denying him, exhilarated me, for he was not your ordinary garden variety vampire, but a progenitor. Unfortunately, I did not have long to gloat.
The confines of the room suddenly compressed even further underneath the weight of his fury. The air, what little there was, became charged like during a thunderstorm, making the hair on my entire body stand straight up. The full force of his shiny light blue eyes sucked at my being, bleeding away all traces of identity, of self, of me. My fingers became so nerveless I dropped my hand bag, not caring about its contents, money, driver's license, car keys.
Constantine, now the center of my universe, imperiously motioned me to him. His golden signet ring flashed, part of the allure, beckoning with promises of power and pleasure. He whispered to me oh-so softly, or, perhaps, he spoke only in my mind. "Come to me." His irresistible compulsion drew me like a moth to flame, with similar consequences, no doubt. His will inundated mine. I wanted to go to him. Didn't I? I haltingly took one step towards him. Then another.
Chopped liver was most definitely now on the menu.
I shuffled another two steps. Constantine lounged there smugly. He was the master. I was the thrall. I fought his force. Ineffectually. My unwilling feet and legs were heavy as lead, but I still dragged one foot, then the other forward. With every labored step, I soundlessly cursed him. An angry litany repeated in my head. "You son-of-a-bitch. You son-of-a-bitch." The closer I came to him, the stronger that internal voice became. As did my anger.
A buzz started in my head. And a sudden black haze clouded my vision. Both a manifestation of my anger. This was a battle of wills which I could ill afford to lose.
But I was already standing in front of him. The son-of-a-bitch.
"Down---on---your---knees." Constantine was obviously enjoying himself. It showed when he silently laughed, exposing his semi-extended canines, long, gleaming, expectant.
Like a marionette suddenly cut lose of its strings, I gangly went to my knees, barely saving my balance by grabbing the tops of his thighs, assuming 'the' position. None could deny what obviously came next. I wanted, to the very bottom of my soul, to dig my nails into him, but if it was not a thought or action dictated by him, there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell. I couldn't even shout at Marc and Max to put their pierced tongues back inside their leering heads. Much as I wanted to, much as I tried to, I could not speak, nor move unless by Constantine's whim.
The only other person in the room who enjoyed my performance even less than myself was the brown headed slut. She kept tugging at Constantine's pant leg. Her barely whispered pleas were nevertheless high pitched, whiny, and annoying. Even to me. Constantine swiveled his head just enough to stare down at her. She shut up.
"Now, Miss Soulsmith, prove how multi-talented a businesswoman you are. Not everyone can infiltrate the Bete Noir Escort Service like a real professional."
The son-of-a-bitch. I had an eye level view of his crotch. Right then and there I decided that if Constantine made me do what I thought he was about to, I'd prove a great deal to him---for instance, that vampires were not the only ones with a nasty propensity to bite. But that was an idle thought. Unless something changed, and changed very quickly, I would not be able to retaliate.
"Down, further, Miss Soulsmith.... "His voice was low and throaty and irresistible.
The son-of-a-bitch! Every muscle in my body clenched.
He frowned ever so slightly. "Do as I command."
No. It was too degrading. To perform such an act because a vampire ordered it? And with an audience, no less. Not my style. No way. Uh-unh. 'Snot happening.
Constantine reached out to place a hand to the back of my head. Even through the thickness of my hair, I could feel pressure from his gold signet ring, warmth on the back of my skull. He began to push me downwards and I resisted, now only seeing black before me eyes and hearing a buzz of anger within my ears. The signet ring pulsed against my scalp, as if it were aiding him.
Still I did not budge.
"You---will," he spoke with clipped precision, while still trying to guide my head down "lick---my...."
That ugly word, lick, triggered the black buzzing anger to explode. The explosion freed me.
"---shoes." Constantine had released me, physically and psychically, at the exact same instant that I regained my own will ... or so I persuaded myself. Marc and Max howled, practically rolling on the floor. It was hard to ignore their laughter. But I did, trying to understand this test of Constantine's. Had I won or lost? I stared directly, defiantly into his icy blue eyes, wondering whether I had really freed myself. Was I still susceptible to his control? I hoped I never had to find out. Then, for one breathless moment, something shown in his eyes, a strange hard-to-fathom mixture, amusement, respect, disdain, and hunger. I blinked, once, and all those emotions vanished behind pale blue irises.
Using his iron muscled thighs to propel myself upright, I only had one thing to say to him. "And you can kiss my...."
"Avna!"
I whirled toward that familiar voice. It was Ginny, pretty, petite, and deceptively helpless-looking, entering through the beaded curtain with Gerard Lamphere, Constantine's legal representative, and the man who had hand delivered the Bete Noir business card. The same card, and its offered commission, which I had ignored for two weeks. The same card that Ginny had repeatedly insisted that I reply to. Here she stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, with the enemy, an attractive upscale enemy, dressed in casual but expensive tan khakis and green polo shirt.
"What are you doing here?" More than a hint of accusation, of suspicion, tinged my voice.
"Gerard told me you were expected," Ginny calmly explained. Her bland answer helped check her own temper, not easy given that she was copper haired, of Irish ancestry, and never prone to taking any guff. I, on the other hand, couldn't let well enough alone.
"Since when did you start cozying up to the ex-D.A. Wonderboy?" And why, I experienced a pang of injured loyalty, was I the last to know? I disliked how much a couple the pair seemed. It reminded me of that old adage of 'two's company and three's a crowd'. I scowled at Ginny's, how-should-I-categorize-him, escort, date, boyfriend? And I worried if he would take away my best friend in the whole wide world.
Gerard Lamphere had given up on a promising, highly-visible law career four years ago, when, upon the completion of the Constantinople, Constantine had come to the capital city to establish a permanent residence. Just exactly where he had arrived from was the big secret. There had always been a 'family' presence in West Virginia, folklore put it at hundreds of years, well before the Civil War when a small, rebellious, distinctly panhandled portion of Virginia broke away to gain statehood. Regardless of when its presence was established, more than enough of a power base existed for Constantine to comfortably and safely reside here. Gerard Lamphere had sacrificed a lot to join Constantine. His status, wealth, political career. Oh, and, of course, his humanity.
"He came to us for help." Ginny's green eyes flashed. "What was I supposed to do, ignore him, like you did?"
"Yeah."
But Ginny turned the tables on me real quick. "Just why are you here? Dressed like that? And what's with the take-me-home-and-fuck-me pumps?" Naturally, she, herself, was dressed in a conservatively cut, but snug, black pant suit. She looked amazing, sexy without showing any skin. Not even a hint of throat behind her high collar.
At her words, my entire body blushed. Every pair of eyes stared at me, setting my skin on fire with embarrassment. The twins, in sync as ever, were mentally disrobing me. Worse yet, I could swear Constantine's hot gaze blazed from my shoulders down to my rear, as if he had actually trailed a hand down my body. I wanted to swat him, but there was nothing real to hit.
He answered before I could. "Miss Soulsmith had good reason to compromise her values and come to this place of decadence. Detective Traeger asked for her assistance in the investigation of the woman discovered in the river. She came appropriately dressed for the job at hand." Like his reclined pose, Constantine's voice remained lazy, but he found sufficient energy to give me another appreciative, lustful once over from beneath his seductively hooded eyes.
I soooo TOTALLY ignored him, except for a tiny, traitorous shiver." Traeger wanted corroboration about a turf war. If something is going on, the Interspecies Task Force needs to know about it to protect the public. That's where I came in, being on the vampire-human crime watch." I threw an accusing look at Constantine, as if he were personally responsible for the necessity of such an organization. Then I took a cheap shot." As for the getup, I thought I'd be less conspicuous this way. The Bete Noir is such a classy place."
"You disapprove." Constantine's beautiful lips had curled just at the tips, a not-quite-smile. "Humankind likes its depravities, my dear Miss Soulsmith. I did not create them. But they are, as you can see, extremely lucrative."
"So, you can justify pandering, prostitution, gambling, and other sorts of vice," I swept a contemptuous glance over the two women seated at his feet like slaves out of a harem, existing solely for his pleasure, and concluded my castigation, "because it's profitable. And you have no problem using your own kind to do it."
Max jumped to his feet. All his earlier juvenile humor had left him. His boyishness had transformed into rage. "Like you care about us. Vampyraphobe." He hurled that word at me like a hammer. My first inclination was to deny it. It was an ugly word. But it fit me. And hearing it directed at me shamed me. "We don't need her, Constantine. She is weak. She is human. She is merely mortal, Soulsmith or not!"
My body clenched. From his hate, from his repudiation, from his strange words. What did my being a Soulsmith---in fact, the last living family member of that name---have to do with anything? I was bereft of all kith or kin. Should I have any questions, none now had any answers. Except, of course, if I should belatedly accept the several repeated solicitations begun around my twenty-first birthday from a genealogy association, The Royal-Blue Bloodlines Society, that offered to trace my family lineage ... for an unspecified cost.
Forget that route. My family tree was dead, denuded, a lightening-struck shell on the brink of toppling to the ground. Never mind that I had once heard that names oftentimes had their origins in a family's occupation, such as Miller, or Farmer, or Baker, Tanner, Weaver, and so-on and so-forth. I always, including this instance, stopped that line of thinking before I had to ask. If that held true, what the hell was a Soulsmith? Obviously, some names didn't convey anything, weren't descriptive of an occupation, skill, or trade. Some were nonsensical. As was mine. It meant nothing. End of story.
So I allowed Max's strange pronouncement to go unchallenged, mostly because apprehension constricted my throat.
Marc tried to calm his brother. "Sit back down, Maxamillian."
"No." Max stalked about the confined space, his hands fisting, flexing, working in anger until that emotion again erupted from him. "I want to find Rasputin and tear his heart out!" The entire room seemed to freeze at his raw shout of anger, at the speaking aloud of that particular name.
I glanced around at the occupants of the blue room, at each deeply shadowed grim face. Even Ginny, a recent peripheral part of this clan, seemed affected. She clung that much closer to Gerard Lamphere, who wrapped a supportive, comforting arm about her waist.
"So," I drawled, reading a lot into the reaction to that name, "this Rasputin wants Constantine's territory?"
"Rasputin wants only bloodshed and pain." Constantine's luminous blue eyes closed to slits, but I still felt their keen regard, measuring me against the horror he was revealing. "He is vile and cruel and must be stopped. Or there will be many more bodies in the river. More friends, more kin, more clan will surely suffer."
"It sounds like you know the victim?"
Constantine very tellingly looked to Max, who had taken to pacing. However, his master's gaze subdued his agitation.
Max faltered. "I ... I think.... "Some deep emotion choked off his words.
Marc, his face mirroring his twin's distress, answered for Max. "Tanya, my brother's first fledgling, has been missing for two weeks. She was last seen in the Bete Noir business office. She fits the description of the woman recovered from the river."
"Traeger said it was a vampire kill with multiple bite wounds?" I voiced my confusion. "Besides, if Tanya was just recently turned, she wouldn't be termed a Jane Doe. She would be in the FBIC's registry...?" My words slowed, then trailed off. Max's unapologetic expression spoke volumes. Tanya had been made illegally, without the mandated court appeal to change status from living to undead, or, failing that, a euphemistic 'mixed marriage'.
"Oh." I made the blunt sound to indicate my understanding of the situation.
Constantine gave a humorless smile, nothing inordinately toothy, just a mirthless grin. "Consider the condition of a vampire, any of the Nocturnal Kindred, and not simply one newly made, as Tanya, slowly drained of all blood. Such would not kill but merely render one of our kind helpless, near-to-death but not, conscious, incapacitated, and locked in a state similar to rigor mortis, so long as the head and heart remain intact. Why would the police then not believe the body to be a human victim? Without any cause, a DNA sampling would not likely be done to prove otherwise. The authorities are trying to identify a human, who is really a vampire."
"Damnation." I breathed out shallowly. No wonder Max was so close to berserk. One of his own making had been done the ultimate torture. "And this Rasputin is responsible?"
"Yes." Constantine's face went rigid. "Rasputin is a blight from my past." The ancient vampire's eyes shifted from me almost as if to focus upon long gone memories. "He is an enemy that I had believed to be still interred in the deepest catacombs underneath Paris. Unfortunately, as I much more quickly escaped that fate, so, too, seemingly has he ... only to follow me here."
Constantine returned his full gaze to me. "He left his first calling card on my doorstep weeks ago when he captured and carved up two of mine. They bore his initials scored into their flesh." Constantine seemed to will me to accept this assertion, capturing me within the bright glow of his hypnotic, ice-blue gaze. He did not need to exert himself. I believed him. Mostly.
"He won't be easy to stop, will he?"
"No. He, too, is a progenitor."
"Just what I wanted to hear." I nodded toward Gerard Lamphere, the legal expert in the room. "Make arrangements to identify Tanya and collect her from the morgue, PDQ." Then I once more turned back to Constantine and posed a ghoulish rhetorical question. "She can be reanimated, can't she?" I did not even want to ask how much blood would be required, or where the donor would come from. Constantine, surely, could manage a substantial blood bank withdrawal. No live, warm bodies need apply. At least, they had better not need to!
"Only if she does not stay suspended in-between for too long. Otherwise, she will go mad." He paused, judging his words carefully. "Perhaps too much time has already elapsed. She is barely made, inexperienced, powerless. This will traumatize her."
"Unlike you?" My bitter sarcasm dripped everywhere. "Having every drop of blood drained from your body wouldn't phase Constantine, The Great, the slightest bit. No matter how long you remained dead-but-not."
Max clenched his fists. "Insolent human," he said through gritted fangs. He took a threatening step towards me, but Constantine made a quick gesture, accentuated by the flash of his gold signet ring, which stopped the other vampire in his tracks.
"Very little can harm one such as I." Constantine's words, his smug superiority, proved himself as much a macho jerk as any living, breathing male. His attitude really rankled me. I was pissed.
"Not even silver? Or sunlight? A stake? Holy water?" I belligerently cocked one hip and ticked off all things anathema to the undead, and enjoyed doing it, too. All-the-while, anger radiated off of Constantine like waves of heat from pavement, which, naturally, reminded me of another weapon of choice. "How about fire?" All the so-called experts from the Von Heslings' on down claimed that fire was fatal to a vampire. It was purifying and deadly.
Constantine's full lips minutely compressed. His eyes infinitesimally narrowed, yet he didn't fidget or squirm in his comfy padded scoop-of-a chair. "A progenitor has amazing regenerative powers. Each of us has strengths peculiar to himself. Unlike most of my brethren, I am nigh invulnerable to fire."
But, to me, listening, measuring, gauging, his assertion rang hollow. It rang false. Oh, deceitful creature! I unsuccessfully smothered a grin. He was as susceptible to the flames as any of his kind. I allowed my smile to widen and filed away this bit of useful knowledge, even while I refused to let the subject drop.
"Anyone got a match?" I hopefully scanned the others within the Blue Room. "We can check out just how flame retardant Constantine is? Or ... isn't."
The object of my ultra-black, derisive humor slouched more comfortably in his cushioned papasan, resting his elbows on the scoop-chair's curved frame, contemplatively steepling his fingers before his face, staring at me over their tips with an intensity that was two parts attraction, one part consternation, and a smidgen of repulsion.
"Pretty and witty," he said in a poetic, modulated fashion before he added in far harsher tones, "make for a deadly combination, Miss Soulsmith. Those are sharp barbs. Careful that you don't get yourself a bad prick."
His insinuation, his not-so-veiled and rather sexually-oriented threat, draped over me like a weighty substantial pall. I nearly cried uncle! But my vocal cords had glued together. I fought not to hyperventilate.
Gerard, at his lawyerly best, intervened. He cleared his throat by way of preamble. "We will go to the police station right now." He placed a hand to Ginny's back, readying to guide her from the room. "Once there has been proper identification, Tanya can be released into our custody. From there, we'll go straight to East Side General ... for the, uh, procedure. The Red Cross distributes blood components from that facility."
Max had listened intently to this discussion, even having halted his pacing. "I am coming, too."
"Of course." This came from Ginny. She instinctively reached out to touch his arm, a gesture of comfort and compassion. Offered, no less, to a distraught vampire. I tried not to cringe, averting my eyes elsewhere.
It was then, amid the movement and murmurs as the group began to break up and exit the confines of the blue room, that I noticed another bit of motion. Constantine's second groupie, the one who had remained in an immobilized state of bliss, came alert in one swift, savage instant. Hate contorted her face into something grotesque. Her lips twisted back in a cobra-like hiss. She had, indeed, become a venomous thing.
I shouted a warning, just as she ripped an object from inside her blouse, striking with the speed of a viper.
Constantine moved faster. Gone was his feigned indolence, the relaxed pose, the seeming laziness. In a blur of motion almost invisible to the human eye, he caught her wrist as she tried to plunge a silver tipped nail file into his heart. An ingenious weapon, that. Note-to-self: stock them at De Facto Self Defense.
He roared an echoing awful bellow and rose to his feet, lifting the assassin up off the ground by her fragile wrist. I plainly heard a snap of bone. And, still, somehow, she dangled in his grasp, suspended well above the floor by the pulpy remains of her wrist. Constantine's beauty, the glossy black waves of hair, the perfect athletic body, the piercing bright ice-blue eyes, was not diminished by the sudden revelation of this monstrous physical power, but was rather, extraordinarily, enhanced by it. An inner fire, a white-hot inferno, suffused him, blazing from out of his very skin, creating a faint halo around him that coruscated against the blue of the walls. And, even though there was this sudden demonic cast to his features, they were still compelling, still stunning, still mesmerizing.
I shuddered at admiring such unholy beauty.
Then I saw him raise his other hand and read his intent. He meant to rip out her throat.
"Don't!" The ragged croak tore from my throat. This was my second shouted warning to Constantine. He had acted on the first in less than a nano second, deflecting a blow delivered with silver that could have killed him. This time he hesitated, rather than immediately react.
In a grotesque tableau, he continued to hold the woman off of the floor by the stretching skin and pulverized bone of her wrist and fore arm. From off to one side of me, I heard Ginny retch. My own gullet hitched in sympathy. Bile tried to rise in my throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ginny turn away and begin to heave. I fought not to be sick, too, because the only thing keeping Constantine from destroying the woman was me, the implied threat of my order for him to stop, and the intensity of my gaze staring him down.
"She's human, isn't she? It's obvious she did not do this of her own volition." I drew a deep breath and prepared to further defy him, although how I could back up such bravado was beyond me. I was unarmed, except for my silver-plated moon and star earrings. A fat lot of good they'd do me! It had just seemed impolite to bring a cross, holy water, and garlic into a night club full of, as Pater Traeger insisted, innocent law-abiding vampires. I marshaled the last ounce of my righteous indignation and confronted Constantine. Yet again. "I refuse to be a witness to murder. I can't let you take her life."
My mouth went bone dry as I waited for an answer.
Constantine, with a much-put-upon expression, let the woman fall to the floor. She curled in a fetal position, unmoving, not even aware of the mashed remains of her wrist. She was most definitely under a vampiric compulsion, a very strong one. She did not even know she was in this world. And, if one believed in this evil Rasputin, of whom I had never heard until this very night, he had sent this poor weak-willed soul as a weapon against a powerful adversary, another progenitor.
Constantine contemptuously stared at his would-be assassin. Then he shifted his gaze to me, flicking that same disdainful regard up and down my entire blue and silver clad length. He looked towards Gerard. "Don't call an ambulance. That would be far too disruptive. Have a bouncer deliver her to the hospital." He next turned his attention on the brown haired slut who cowered next to the floorboards of the wall, trying to shrink into nothingness. She had crammed a fist into her mouth, choking off the screams and sobs that made her body spasm. I did not have an ounce of sympathy for Ms. Hot-to-Trot.
"This one I intend to question." Constantine glanced at me. He arched one brow questioningly, mockingly.
"Knock yourself out." I passed a saucer-eyed Ginny as I bee-lined for the door. Gerard, however, kept a poker face. Assassinations and pulverized body parts, I assumed, must be commonplace for a lawyer, especially one representing a progenitor.
Behind me, as I purposefully strode toward the beaded curtain, scooping up my small purse without breaking my stride, I heard two intermixed sounds---Constantine's soft amused laughter and the little slut's whimpers. I finally did feel a fleeting moment of pity for her but not enough to intervene. Not even when Constantine called after me.
"Why not stay, Miss Soulsmith? And join me ... in the interrogation?" His pleasured thrill at such a notion, of us two engaged in some doubtlessly raunchy form of torture, tried to infect me! It streaked down my retreating back with almost a tangible force.
I shook off the tiny compulsion and kept right on trucking. I began to push through the curtain of blue plastic beads. Their loud clacking signaled that I had nearly made a clean getaway. I had stood toe-to-toe with a vampire progenitor and faced him down! However, one thing marred my exuberance. I hadn't gotten in the last word. So, as I passed through the jangling strands of the beaded curtain, I muttered a final jibe just under my breath, a sassy smart mouth comment too low for anyone to hear but me.
"Torture's not my thing. So I'll pass. You'll have to get your jollies without me." Even as those barely-spoken, entirely ill-advised words left my mouth, I could've kicked myself. He, ancient powerful vampire progenitor, HAD heard them with his damn bionic hearing! Nor was he going to ignore them. Constantine's indignant fury, like amplified sound waves, spewed out and about me.
Frightened, I rushed into the night club proper and watched as bodies, the dancers, the partiers, the club-habitués, seemed to cluster nearer to hem me in from an easy escape, while Constantine, his aura hot as a blast furnace, now loomed at my back. I, a barely closeted Vampyraphobe, shuddered from our nearness, but it wasn't from disgust! Or fear. It was a jolt of attraction.
He gripped tight to my right arm and leant---full-length---against my shoulder, side, and hip. The fabric of his immaculate steel gray suit slicked suggestively against my body when he pushed even harder into me. The fringe of his coal colored waves brushed my neck. The sharp edge of his partially extended fangs glinted, just barely visible in my peripheral vision. He spoke with an intense whisper that couldn't be misheard even by my frail human ears.
"How extremely remiss of me to allow a guest to depart without a small sampling of what the Bete Noir---and I---can offer." He scanned the writhing ill-lit crowd, quickly considered several from amongst it, as quickly rejected them, then finally selected two from within that frantic dancing mass. He squeezed my arm and very threateningly returned his full attention to me.
"Come, accompany me Miss Soulsmith, delay a little while and we'll get our jollies together. I promise."
A protest stuck in my throat like a thick, dry bread crust. I cringed as he stared back into that crowd. His bright sky blue gaze again lit upon, actually beckoned a particular man, handsome, lean-bodied, dark-haired, and then Constantine's eyes shifted to the opposite side of the revelers to snare the chosen woman, pretty, medium-statured, a dirty-headed blonde. Just like me! The pair, vaguely, faintly, but unmistakably, resembled us!
Under Constantine's steady, mesmeric gaze, they moved toward us, slowed by the push-and-pull of those around them, but they did not appear to come at all unwillingly, as I had done earlier under a similar spell of summoning. No, their expressions were almost eager, bemused but smiling. And, as they wound in and around the crowd, advancing toward us, they began to undress. The man started unbuttoning the nickel-plated studs of his olive drab shirt. The woman shrugged out of a tight denim jacket which she dropped and abandoned to the floor. And, still smiling, still working at their clothes, the two approached us.
The single bread crust in my throat had become a whole loaf! I tried to speak, twice, before my rough voice managed a rasp. "Constantine, don't do this." I turned my head to meet his gaze, to plead with him.
"But, my dear Miss Soulsmith, I don't plan to do anything." The progenitor's eyes narrowed to slits, flashed down to my cleavage, then looked lower still. "Unless, of course, you ask me nicely."
The pair of unfortunates drew abreast of us and, at an elegant gesture from Constantine, kept moving to an oddly shaped doorway, a strange inverted U-shaped slit reminiscent of those on a submarine, next to that of the Blue Room. The couple preceded us. Both entered in various stages of undress. He was bare-chested, and fast on his way to shucking his pants. She was down to her pink silk shell top and white thong panties.
"Right this way, Miss Soulsmith." Constantine, his fang tips flashing through a tight predatory smile, spoke with gentlemanly pleasance while his unbreakable grip propelled me toward that unknown place and his equally unknown purpose. Whatever he had planned would not, I suspected, be your average fun-n-games.
Cripes! Why had I made that snotty remark? Why hadn't I kept my big mouth shut? Why couldn't I ever leave well enough alone? And, more importantly, why couldn't Constantine?
That question burst from me. I suspected the answer, but needed to hear it from him. "Why, Constantine? Why are you doing this?"
In a perfect deadpan, he replied. "Maybe I'm smitten. And I cannot bear to part with you." His oh-so serious tone had to be mocking me. Didn't it?
"Yeah, right, and I'm the Queen of.... "I wrestled for something equally outrageous. "...of ... of the Damned."
He paused for the span of one of my heartbeats, pressed my arm within his strong fingers, and offered a sardonic one word answer that nearly made my hair stand on end.
"Potentially." And, dumbstruck as I was, he very easily manhandled me toward that strangely crafted doorway. Oh, goody.
I balked upon the threshold of that narrow, inverted U, that peculiar slit-for-a-door. Constantine momentarily indulged this final mutinous hesitation, although his hold on me remained firm, dominant, unwavering. In his estimation, I had obviously courted this reprisal with my disdain and my insults. Perhaps I had, but more so for my pride in thinking that I had bested a vampire progenitor in any way, shape, or form. Talk about delusional.
I froze there, wide-eyed, sweaty-palmed, erratically-pulsed, and wondered what awaited me.
Constantine ended my suspense with an imperious shove to the small of my back. "Enter, Miss Soulsmith. Into the Rendezvous Room. Our entertainment," his vampiric emphasis of that word elicited a dirty thrill in me, "awaits." He forced me inside, then stepped in behind me to bar the freakish entrance, now exit, with his gorgeous self.
With a gasp of shocked naiveté, I surveyed the appropriately named Rendezvous Room, its squared interior seemingly cut from live rock, painted in a glistening enamel red, with four small spot lights, one in each corner, focused on the center of that obscenely titillating place. The axis of the room was a rather low Formica table made with rounded rather than straight, sharp edged sides in the same gleaming, bright red as the wet-looking floor and walls. Its height and width and construction was suited to various activities, and styles, and positions ... of intercourse.
Ashamed of such thoughts, I glanced up and away from that disturbing sight---and the naked man and barely clothed woman before it. I then noticed that each of the three walls offered either a pair of handcuffs, a silk-tasseled flogger, or a strap-on dildo, held on pegs attached to the cool, rock surface. This discovery brought another strangled noise of shock from me.
"A rather exotic design, no? It is newly built, a paradise waiting to be discovered by a select few. Perhaps I shall keep its exclusive use. For myself." Constantine, still at my back, blocking that small exit, brushed my backside with his front.
I jerked away from him and stumbled sideways. Not only did those few steps reposition me to more fully view the show of the lewd couple, so like us in their physicality, who were even now beginning to get thoroughly acquainted, but it perfectly aligned me to rake an angry glance across Constantine. He remained on the verge of entering, his scrumptious body lounging, leaning against the strange, tight entry. And his wicked features, especially the tilt of his head, the sudden calculating shift of his eyes about that small, gleaming, red vault carved from living rock, gave me a sick epiphany about the construction of this room. It was like a woman's body, tight, slick, glistening, with an intriguing slit for an entrance, and once penetrated offered pleasure beyond measure. And Constantine, damn him, had thrust me inside its sexually charged interior!
The master vampire's lips quirked as if he had read my mind. "Do you like it? Are you impressed? It even has special lighting and music effects." Constantine swept a hand across an electronic panel beside the door and for one disorienting moment the four spot lights pulsed to heavy thrumming porn music until, at another quick touch of his hand, Constantine switched back to silence and simple lighting. "Tell me, is it all that you expected of the Bete Noir?"
"Yes, and I detest it. Everything about it. It's degenerate and depraved. Just like its owner." My words lashed towards him, but my gaze went to the couple, pulled to them by appalled curiosity, by shameful awareness, by voyeuristic need. While I had been focused on Constantine, the sounds of their advancing intimacy---ragged rough breathing, small sighs, murmured profanities---had subtly enticed me. Almost against my will, I watched them with lurid fascination, spellbound.
He, a mortal male of similar height and coloring to Constantine, was entirely naked, revealing well-toned muscles, a perfectly carved but overly hairy chest, a long vine-and-rose tattoo across the top of his back, an exceptional ass ... and an enormous erection that he clasped in both hands as he rocked teasingly toward the attractive blonde woman, who still, amazingly wore her thong and sexy spaghetti-strapped shell top which showed the sharp prominent nubs of her nipples.
With each flex of his hard-muscled ass, he tapped the bulbous, purplish head of his big cock against her shaven pubic mound, and she, proving herself an equally perverse hedonist, widened her legs and shimmied loose of her thong. She then licked her fingers, used them to splay open her shaved lips, and quickly rubbed her own folds, once, twice, before again lewdly exposing her moistened, puffed up sex to her rapt partner. Her vaginal flesh was a shade of berry, like a fleshy, juicy piece of fruit. The man continued to grip his shaft, pre-cum gleaming on the head, pointing it at her, offering it to her.
From directly behind the pair, still within the doorway, Constantine's voice, low and husky, all but inaudible, issued a command to the ash-blonde who appeared so similar to me. "Kiss him ... there."
Immediately, eagerly, she bent down to the man and kissed his hot, blood engorged penis. Her lips rubbed over his sensitive head several times, and I clearly saw his shudder down the back of his neck to the ridges of his spine and onward to his clenching toes. Without any such further order, she swallowed his fat crown until she bumped his knuckles where he repeatedly squeezed his shaft. He grunted. She hummed. I nearly suffocated! It was hard to breathe. She pulled back and began to rapidly lick and tongue the end of his dick, perhaps in preparation for fully engaging in fellatio.
Again Constantine gave a smoldering command, this time to the man. "Finish undressing her." Disturbingly, his tone, his suggestion, or perhaps the deed he demanded, rippled through me. This perverse exhibition was totally beyond my prudish experience. I shouldn't have watched. I shouldn't have reacted. I shouldn't have anticipated! Even so I continued to stare in fascination, and I embarrassingly did much more, like breathing with aroused irregularity, trembling with suppressed excitement, dampening and plumping way down low.
The man, Constantine's amorous standin, speedily raised the hem of her thin, pink shell top, slid it up and over her head, and tossed it away like a useless trifle. Her nakedness was exquisite, and, for me, broke the illusion of our hazy resemblance. Never would my skin be so perfect or unblemished, nor would my breasts be that heavy or large. The man laughed, salaciously.
While I gawked, ashamed but unable to look away, he greedily grasped each creamy vanilla, cherry topped mound. He played with them roughly, their overabundance, their excited areola, then suckled between them with an animalistic tenacity. The woman, blonde like me, big chested unlike me, rubbed at the back of his long, oily black hair, pressing him firmly into her fleshy bosom. Her eyes fluttered in ecstasy, her pelvis twitched, her full breasts jiggled.
I saw each and every touch and taste, rub or rock, that passed between them as he continued to arousingly mouth at one dusky cherry-red nipple then reached a hand to her shaved genitals. He dipped into her distended lips to toy with her slick lubricated insides. I watched the flex of his hand as he wriggled his fingers against every sensitized nerve of her swollen cleft, while he skimmed his thumb around her clit. She groaned, then pushed and pumped her hips to better facilitate his rummaging hand. His cock jerked now-and-again in an accompanying rhythm. Soon, I judged, very soon, indeed, more than his hand would seek out her enflamed depths.
Her legs quivered and she panted with exertion, nearing completion but not quite there. As an unwilling voyeur, my body, that same spot between my legs, ached with sympathetic need. I also wanted to be touched there, forcefully, unmercifully, until I reached a blissful climax. My labia bloomed full and swollen at that thought. I creamed thickly.
To stifle a gasp, I pressed the heel of my hand to my mouth, but the ache of desire could not be denied. A strained sound, something between a sigh and a whimper, escaped me. Desperation gave me the strength to beg the one being who could end this sex act between two strangers ... and one unwilling voyeur. I dragged my gaze to where he stood, cool and untouched and entirely focused on me!
Constantine's head was angled in my direction so that most of his face was shadowed, sinister, yet his eyes, a shimmering brilliant blue, obviously riveted on me. The minute curl of his lips revealed a perverse delight in what he had observed of me. I had been affected, nearly dragged into, the intimacy on display before me.
"End this. Don't punish them because you're angry with me." My dry voice grated out the plea.
Constantine slightly moved his head to consider the pair, whose noises, particularly the slurp and slap of fingers thrusting into a wet pussy and the accompanying gasps and grunts of pleasure, nearly tempted me to return to watching them.
"Punishment?" He repeated my accusation in a drawl. "Of a sort. Only nothing so harsh as they deserve. Besides which," he directed his gaze once more to me, a calculation of all he had witnessed of my shame, "this was actually a test for you."
"A test that I obviously failed. I'm as susceptible to shameless sex as the next depraved soul." A sob welled behind that admission, not quite smothering it. Hadn't I done enough to humiliate myself already by being caught up in the frenzy of such a degrading encounter? They were under a compulsion. What was my excuse?
"On the contrary, my dear Miss Soulsmith," Constantine's sharp but human teeth flashed in an exultant smile, "you passed, rather magnificently. I had feared that your kind was entirely incorruptible, that you were well and truly above the sins of the flesh."
"My kind? Incorruptible?" I doubted that I would have been so suspicious of his phrasing except for the way Max had earlier made that strange allusion to my surname, Soulsmith. I still felt really touchy about it. "What are you implying, anyway? You make it sound like I couldn't ever be physically stimulated. That I'm above it all. As if I don't have human needs," I snapped, almost aggravated enough to not notice the newest position of the man on his knees before the woman, to not realize that he ground his entire face into her hairless mound, to not feel the increasing pull of arousal in my own puffed up pussy.
The progenitor's mouth drew into a hard line. His eyes squinted, possibly, I assumed, with an equal annoyance to mine. What was it about my question that had so irritated him? Had I struck a nerve?
Before he responded, Constantine seemed to choose his words very carefully. "I had a preconceived notion about you. You are, after all, this city's upstanding, law-abiding Soulsmith, a rising entrepreneur with a reputation for being honest and aboveboard, notwithstanding your having a rather unorthodox specialty in the occult. Yours is such an exemplary character that you even have ties to the police force." He suddenly flicked his gaze up-and-down my seductive midnight blue and silver starred ensemble, anything but a prim and proper, Sunday-go-to-meetin' type outfit. He hid his reaction, whatever it was, behind lowered lids. "I assumed, Miss Soulsmith, that you were, as they say, one of the pure of heart."
I snorted. "And now you know different. I'm just human. So, let them go. They are pawns. Stop using them. Stop degrading them. You've more than demonstrated your ability to captivate." I scowled at him, then added honestly but testily. "I'm impressed. I'm also ready to beg you to free me, as well. I don't want to watch this display which, as you've just admitted, is entirely for my benefit."
"But I'm not done yet," he said very quietly, very dismissively. "These two are known to me. Their morals don't warrant your empathy. I chose them for more reasons than the obvious. Neal Argent is a sexual sadist, part of the abhorred Red Fallacies, a sex club for the most unholy. Jennifer Caron is a meth dealer and has been warned, repeatedly, to never set foot on these premises. This is no real degradation for them. It never even required a true deep mind-submission to ensnare them, just a minimal, superficial suggestion. You saw how easily, how eagerly they came when called. This amoral behavior is their nature. They came here to engage in just such promiscuity."
I judged his words and suspected truth beneath his assertions. But I still argued. "Okay, granted, neither of them sounds like a saint. One's a sadistic bastard and the other a drug dealer. Yes, their sickening. And that's your excuse for using them? Because it allows you to pretend to some moral code all your own? Justice gets meted out by the law, not by us. Who am I to condemn them in this specific moment? You're the one who has acted unconscionably. Like a monster who can make puppets of weaker beings. And in doing so you are involving me. To hurt me. To teach me a lesson. I want it to stop. End this now."
Constantine's piercing icy blue gaze sharpened in its intensity. "I could be persuaded to release them, if, that is, we replace them?" He followed that statement, and my obvious rejection of it, with another even less appealing one. "Or we could join them?"
I figuratively bristled, my body sprouting invisible but intense quills, lethal and long and repudiating, and he laughed at me, at how easily he could rile me.
At that exact moment, the woman whined out a high, keening moan from the man's frantic lapping at her. She was primed. So was he.
"Ready for some cock meat, Skank?" He rose to his feet, pushed her back upon the table, grasped his dark-veined shaft in one hand, and used the other to spread her legs painfully wide. He advanced. He was about to fuck her, and I was about to witness it. Only, with a moment of clarity, all the risks of unprotected sex hit me like a brick in the face.
"They need protection, Constantine! Give them that, at the very least. Or is that part of your game? Do you think to play Russian Roulette with their passion by possibly exposing them to AIDs?"
He shot me a strange glance, but spoke to the man. "CURB YOUR RUT." Instantly, he was obeyed. Neal Argent halted, cock-in-hand, chest heaving, his frame shuddering from delayed gratification. The woman, Jennifer Caron, splayed uncomfortably wide and ready upon the bright red table, made an unhappy mewl and promptly began to rub, to ease, her own self. Constantine turned to a long, continuous roll of condoms that hung from a hook beside the Rendezvous Room's electronic control panel. He tore one loose and moved forward ... to me, not to them. He came, ruffling the purple foil-wrapped condom between his fingers like a baton, and offered it to me with a chic flick of his wrist, and a smirk upon his handsome face.
"If you want him to wear it, you will have to put it on him."
I gaped, struck deaf and dumb. The edges of my vision blurred, but Constantine's sculpted beauty, his aristocratic nose, expressive mouth, perceptive eyes, remained sharp and clear, framed against the glistening enamel red of the rock walls, framed by the unmistakable color of sex. Muttering an unintelligible string of obscenities, I reached out a trembling hand and snatched the offensive packet from him. I was extremely clumsy from a heady cocktail of fear, titillation, and inexperience. I knew the basics of a prophylactic, but I'd never rolled one on a man! My former partners---all two of them!---had done the honors, at my insistence, with a minimum of muss and fuss.
"How hard can it be?" My mental quip was somehow spoken aloud just as I tore open the gaudy purple foil. My uncooperative fingers stretched out the condom, and I realized how up-close-and-personal I was, had actually BEEN, to the couple the entire time. We formed a triangle with lascivious points. I could easily reach out and touch---or, in this case, wrap---the naked, quaking Neal Argent. His muscular frame quivered with all the pent energy of a libido contained. His shaft, big and ugly with gnarled veins and an angry dusk shade, twitched within the circle of his fist. It seemed eager for my touch. Neal Argent's feral face turned to me, watched me, anticipated me.
Constantine spoke from close at my side, making the sexual triangle a misshapen rectangle. "Hurry, Miss Soulsmith. He'll not restrain himself much longer, nor shall I compel him to."
Sweat dotted my lip. I forced myself to close the small gap between us, and aimed the rubber for the flared head of Argent's rampant penis. I didn't want to touch him, but I had to. Very gingerly, very awkwardly, I pulled it onto his tip. He exhaled a groan of unadulterated pleasure. The demeaning sound infuriated me, but I continued, trying to roll it further without contacting his shaft. Which was impossible. I gritted my teeth and began to industriously stroke and smooth it down his hot, hard length. Argent growled and pumped into my grip. I swallowed my humiliation---and my excited response---and edged the condom down, closer to where Argent grasped his own root.
I watched myself rubbing at the thick, throbbing cock, and my previous thrilled jolt skyrocketed when Constantine's elegant hand joined mine in the lewd chore. His fingers, placed before mine, were rougher, firmer, more stimulating, as they jacked downward and forced Argent to let go his hold upon his own dick. Argent, his arms dropped to his sides, his back arched into our combined touch, his pelvis jutted to the fullest, tilted his head back to groan low and long. The sight of our combined efforts, of our palms and fingers crowded together on another man's hardness, also gave me a sick buzz. How could I like anything about such perversion? To save my self-respect, I pretended that I was unaffected.
My hands continued their nasty course down Argent's phallus, bumping into Constantine's fingers, working the condom closer to the base. At that unexpected brush of our fingers, I could have swore that Constantine made a similar moan to Argent's, only a more metaphysical, more visceral noise of unfulfilled longing.
I spoke to Constantine, but didn't look towards him. "Your mission's accomplished. You not only made me a voyeur but you made me a participant." I pulled my hand away, as did Constantine rather more reluctantly, and I pinched the end of the condom to check that there was room to capture Neal Argent's ejaculate. "It's done." My ardor had chilled. I returned to my stance of disinterested audience. And the show continued.
Argent moved between Jennifer's quivering legs and he rammed home with as much brutal force as possible. She made a weak bleat, let her mouth go slack in a blissful stupor, bent her knees even higher, then settled back upon her elbows to let him pound away. He grabbed her hipbones to keep her anchored for each of his powerful, violent thrusts. Repeatedly, in a furious non-stop rhythm, he'd slam in, and quickly ripped out, beating into her insides like he wanted to penetrate beyond her womb. His harsh unrelenting plunges were eventually accompanied by his hoggish grunts of enjoyment. I clearly heard other slobbery sounds as he got more and more caught up in the friction and feel of his cock cramming into her slippery, spasming pussy. She was nearing a climax. Her eyelids flickered nearly shut. She cried out, again and again, the pitch rising with her nearing orgasm. Her entire lower body seemed to clench, and he groaned as she must have gripped hard on his cock.
He grimaced, showing his teeth. "Such a fucking good pussy. I'm going to explode!" His howl was triumphant. He lowered his chin for half a second, controlled his release for that one fraction, swiveled his head toward me, and proved that he was terrifyingly lucid. "When I'm done, you're next." And with that, his eyes rolled back in his head, he sputtered a drawn out breath, and gave over to the automatic humps of his body, spilling seed, ejaculating all his evil semen, spewing and spewing ... until, that is, Constantine grasped his skull, claw-like, a carnivore subduing his prey.
Was he going to crush his skull, I fretted?
Argent's eyeballs bulged within that clasp, and popped even more when Constantine pressed his mouth to the side of Argent's head to murmur directly into his brain a message that I couldn't distinguish. When Constantine broke their contact, Argent was glassy-eyed, stiff-limbed with fear. His once enormous penis slid from Jennifer Caron limp and deflated like a balloon. And not, I knew, from having been sated. He had been scared witless by the vampire progenitor. His cock appeared that it would never recover. Thankfully, the condom, barely managing to do its job, skimmed down the shriveled appendage, leaving a slimy trail.
"What did you do to him?" Not that I cared. I was just curious.
Constantine shrugged, the gesture rifling the longish waves of his coal black hair against the tops of his shoulders. "Nothing as severe as he deserved. I simply warned him what the consequences would be if he ever dared so much as threaten another innocent."
I considered Argent's limp package and realized that Constantine had insured that Argent, being a brutal fetishist, one of the Red Fallacies, probably wouldn't ever be able to get it up again. Not if he absolutely required threats and pain to get off, anyway. Constantine had used me to psychically castrate, to effectively emasculate, Argent, a sexual predator. I could live with that. I smiled tightly at Constantine. It was the closest to a 'bravo!' that he would get from me.
"Am I free to go?" I came off surly. Because I was.
"Since I cannot persuade you to avail yourself of any of my establishment's amenities, certainly you are free to leave."
I nodded, went to the strange, narrow door, then paused. I couldn't help a final backward glance, especially at poor Jennifer Caron, who, curled in upon herself on the table in an attempt to hide her nudity, looked like she had awoken into a nightmare.
"What about her?"
"She will get a similar reminder of her fate should she ever sell drugs in or around the city of Charleston. After which, they will both be allowed to go on their merry ways, never fear."
"Okay." I nodded that same acquiescent bob of my head. "Okay." And I readied to duck through the doorway.
"And Miss Soulsmith.... "Constantine's voice, silky and inviting, caught at me, but I didn't turn to face him. "I look forward to seeing you again. Soon."
I fled with his words pursuing me. The crowd had dispersed, returned to the natural ebb and flow of a raunchy dance club. I scrambled away, having by now mastered my spiked heels well enough to sprint, if need be, but I did not break into a full out run. Just like his final parting words, Constantine's presence somehow dogged me, followed me. If I ran away, he would recognize and relish the fear inside of me. So, instead, I shakily weaved a path through the ill-lit noisy club, past the stage, now occupied by a cowgirl dressed in nothing more than a ten-gallon hat and silver-heeled boots as she jumped back and forth through her lariat, past a very curious 'Marilyn', who waved at me, past the drunken weaving bodies on the makeshift dance floor, where, once more, hands reached out to stroke and entreat, until, finally, my heart fit to burst, I reached the exit. I bumped headlong through the club's heavy doors and fled as if from Hades itself, still feeling trailed by Constantine's essence.
I hustled down the plush black-carpeted hallway, jammed the elevator up button, and waited anxiously. After agonizingly long seconds, it arrived. I rushed inside, punching for the ground floor, resting my forehead against the cold steel doors as I ascended. I charged like a linebacker out into the lobby and across the extraordinary pink and beige octagonal tiles. Once outside, I stumbled onward a few more paces then gulped down deep breaths of warm night air to steady my nerves and dispel the last remnants of Constantine from my mind.
Somewhat fortified, I retraced my way down the quiet street to where I had parked my little car two blocks over. At the time, I had wanted to reconnoiter the hotel before entering. But right now I simply wanted a quick getaway. I walked cautiously, because my encounter with Constantine had left me uneasy. The evening's earlier traffic was gone. I now traveled a deserted, darkened thoroughfare. The street lamps made irregular, misshapen pools of light. I didn't know which I disliked more---feeling targeted in their poor glare or swallowed in the surrounding darkness.
When my car came into view, I fumbled through the contents of my impractical little clutch purse and dug out my keys with the attached mace. But a light scuff and scratch from somewhere up ahead, as of a footfall on a rough patch of sidewalk, alerted me to danger, to the presence of some ... thing. My car appeared to be miles away. Running seemed the wrong thing to do, as if the very act would make my stalker give chase, like a slavering enormous hound after a teeny tiny rabbit. Somehow I managed to keep a steady gait. Until I heard a second soft footfall from behind. I was trapped in both directions. The car was still several feet away. It might as well have been a million miles distant!
"Oh, what the hell." I gripped the mace tightly in my fist and made a run for it. I didn't get very far.
A lanky, scarecrow-like figure materialized before me, stooped, unkempt, in a rumpled gray-and-white pinstriped suit, greasy-haired and pockmark-faced. The sight of his eye patch stopped me dead in my tracks.
It was him. My assailant from all those years ago when a student at SCWV. There was no mistaking him, especially the telltale eye patch that I had bequeathed him. Confronted by my own private nightmare, inundated by the malevolence that seeped from him, I had a vivid sickening flashback---of skeletal yet strong hands grabbing me from behind on a vacant late night parking lot, of something tearing and ripping at the shoulder of my leather jacket, of being flung down to the ground, of twisting to face the crazed fiend that had attacked me, of scrambling backwards crab-like to escape. Of course, there had been no chance for escape.
He had flashed his long yellowed fangs, gurgled a laugh, and flew at me. I had known I was a goner, and at the hands of the most pathetic excuse for a vampire ever. But even as he had gripped me by the jacket's sturdy collar, jerking me to him for the fatal bite, my hands had flailed about for a weapon. Luck, or perhaps instinct, had guided me to the only object near at hand. My own ink pen, a high school graduation gift, which I had constantly kept tucked behind my ear, had shaken loose during the attack, clattering to the pavement. I had grabbed it up and had automatically, unerringly jammed it into his eye. The pen, I had realized with a surge of relief, had been silver plated, because it had bubbled and hissed and burned inside the vampire's eye socket. He had shrieked and cursed, finally tearing the pen from out of an empty, burned out hole. Then, weakened and blinded, he had staggered away into the night.
And just where, exactly, had the aftermath of that attack left me? Without a scholarship! SCWV had, in a low-key, quiet fashion, aided authorities in the investigation, but the unprecedented assault had been sensational news, both local and national. So much so that the private, non-profit Congregation for Morality and Integrity in Education, the sponsoring organization for my college stipend, had re-evaluated the terms of my quarterly awarded fees and expenses. According to the goodly, upright Congregation, I had been deemed an unsuitable recipient for their scholarly largesse which was based on meeting and maintaining a 3.5 or better grade point average, financial need, and, this was the one that had gotten me, a morality clause. An attack by a vampire, a vile ungodly creature, had proved to the august Congregation that I must have had an inherent evil taint, or else why would a thing of darkness be drawn to me? Why, indeed? That remained a question that I rarely dared consider.
As for losing my financial support, sadly, there had been little legal recourse since the funding had come from a private source not affiliated with the College. The Congregation for Morality and Integrity in Education had taken some flack in the press and on campus for their revocation of my scholarship, but, with my new aversion to vampires, I hadn't wanted to capitalize on that backlash. How could I have, in good conscience, pretended that I didn't on some level agree with, didn't, in fact, share, the Congregation's bigoted attitudes against vampires? Without the scholarship, my college career had ended. I had had too many responsibilities at home at the time to work and go to school and to take care of my failing, frail grandmother. And my attacker, well, he had vanished, while Detective Ian Traeger had remained, a pushy friend, associate, and father-figure.
And so, De Facto Self Defense, which, to my mind meant you were responsible for your own security, by any means necessary, had been born. And born of necessity.
And, now, the reanimate responsible for it all had resurfaced, looking as pathetic and two-bit as before.
"I got a score to settle with you." His voice rasped, like a lifelong chain smoker. The crater-like surface of his face added to his sinister aura. He didn't much resemble anyone who had ever been human.
"So do I," I snarled, remembering all that he had cost me, an education, the collegiate experience, peace of mind.
He flew at me with the lightning speed of his kind. I barely had time to react. I sprayed mace into his face.
"Here's some holy water to finish what I started!"
The stupid jerk believed me. He pulled back, howling, covering his face.
I ran for the car, which I kept locked. I didn't even get the key in the door before he was on top of me. Mace will only bluff a vampire so far, even a dimwitted one. But even as he tore my hands loose from the car door, something propelled him back from me.
I whipped myself around. My heart thumped hard when I saw Josh Warner. He, too, had obviously been following me. Thank goodness.
"Stay away from her, Snitch." Josh slammed him so hard to the pavement that it cracked in a series of writhing, spoke-like splits.
Snitch cowered there, slumping his head between his shoulders like a turtle. He still managed to lisp out a threat. "You'll be sorry when Rasputin hears about this."
Josh kicked him, a humiliating foot right in the face, shoving Snitch further to the ground. "Go on. Get out of here. And don't let me catch you at this again."
Snitch saw the flash of Josh's hazel eyes. He awkwardly bolted to his feet then skittered away, disappearing cockroach fast into the shadows of a nearby building.
Josh immediately came to me, looking me up-and-down with his exceptional nocturnal vision. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." I managed a shaky smile then glanced in the direction of my assailant. "So, Snitch belongs to Rasputin. Why doesn't that surprise me?"
"Snitch technically belongs to him, but he wasn't made by him. No other enclave would have such a weasel. Rasputin takes over families by killing the sire. Most are not powerful enough to deny his usurpation."
"And Rasputin wants Constantine's family?"
"It's extensive." Josh's stoic face and terse words belied that this was an understatement. "He has strongholds all across Europe, a few in Canada, and even more in the States."
"I see." My mouth felt like cotton, making it exceedingly difficult to ask a touchy question. "Why, then, exactly, did Constantine come here? I love West Virginia. It's my home state, but it doesn't logically seem the best location for a progenitor to run an empire."
"If you really want an answer to that, ask him."
"I just might."
Josh laughed. "Let's get you home."
"Okay." I tried to ignore how ironic it was for the owner of De Facto Self Defense to put her life and trust in the hands of a vampire. But I did, without so much as batting an eyelash. In fact, I let Josh drive me home. He parked my non-descript little blue car in the back alley, then escorted me between the bakery and De Facto Self Defense to the front entrance of the shop. Once arrived there, I went stark raving mad and invited him to my upstairs apartment. Me, Avna Marie Soulsmith, vampire hater, was asking him to come upstairs and look at my etchings? How surreal was that!
Josh stood in the doorway of my paranormal business, framed by the large 'Sorry, We're Closed' sign, very handsome and chivalrous, as he declined the invitation. "I want to ... very much ... but I'd better not."
Bummer. "Because Constantine wouldn't like it." I struggled with the eerie, half-formed sensation that the progenitor had already staked a claim on me.
"Constantine wouldn't like it," Josh agreed. "But he wouldn't like this either." And Josh leaned in to kiss me softly on the mouth, a gentle brushing of lips that seemed to last forever, until the gentleness roughened ever so slightly, urging a deeper, hungrier kiss. The open-mouthed kind.
Surprise, surprise! It was more than enjoyable. It was incredible. I responded in kind, my hands clasping at his hips. But, then, his hands moved, rather innocuously, one to my waist, one to the side of my neck. It jolted me, revving up my carotid pulse, reminding of the dangers if his mouth should trail there, as well. I intellectually KNEW that a vampire didn't have to kill to feed, in fact, statistically, it was a rarity, and that it took three encounters, plus a final exchange of blood with a vampire, to create another vampire. But even one such kiss was an intimacy that exceeded all others, and the act did leave the mortal more vulnerable to vampiric suggestion. Josh's mouth slanted aggressively against mine. Memories of Neal Argent and Jennifer Caron bombarded me, and I suddenly grew afraid. I pulled away from him, self-preservation in the jerky movement.
"Good night, Josh." After that one intoxicating kiss, I was extremely glad he had refused to come up, else I could easily get further carried away and engage in some heavy duty necking. Pun intended.
"Good night, Avna." He definitely looked regretful of his own refusal.
I shut and locked the door. The phone on my second-hand beat-up desk rang. I heard its shrill tones with foreboding, and I forced myself to answer. Good news never comes by phone at two o'clock in the morning. Especially when you have spent most of the evening in the company of an ancient vampire progenitor.
"Avna, here."
It was Ginny. "I have bad news." Had I expected anything less?
I closed my eyes, mustering my courage. "Hit me with it."
"Tanya's body has been stolen from the morgue."
I took another steadying breath, striving for clear-headed calm while an unruly herd of questions jostled for attention within my head. One stampeded to the fore. "If the body was stolen before it was identified, why are you so sure it was Tanya?" I hated to play devil's advocate, but, hey, somebody had to.
Ginny paused. She didn't seem to want to answer. The gap of hesitation grew strained, obvious. Was the reason for her silence that bad? Ginny had a weak stomach, and so did I, actually having passed out once at a blood drive, and not necessarily from the loss of blood volume. No, I had made the mistake of glancing at the sloshing plastic bag full of warm dark liquid which had just been siphoned out of me. That was all it had taken for me to nearly collapse! If Traeger---or heaven forbid, if Constantine---ever heard about this particular phobia, I'd never be able to live it down. The reason I had donated was something I fought not to dwell on, although it was constantly in my subconscious. I had done so in memory of my own grievous losses, my mother, taken in a fatal hit and run, and my grandmother, eroded by strokes and cancer. Their passing had left me alone in the world.
Ginny eventually overcame her squeamishness. "Aside from the physical description, right down to the clothes she was last seen in," Ginny halted, audibly swallowed, then courageously, but hurriedly, forged ahead, "Max recognized her scent in the morgue drawer."
"Ohhhhh, I see." I mentally chalked one up for the vaunted senses of vampires, although the idea was dumbfounding.
"I know exactly how you feel, Avna. But Gerard told me that although vampires have heightened senses to odors, they also have lowered sensibilities."
I grimaced. "That's a fancy way of saying they don't get offended by bad smells, from live bodies to dead cadavers or anything in between."
"Exactly." Hanging unspoken between us was the strong suspicion that, most likely, to a vampire bodily odors could be a strong aphrodisiac, like pheromones in animals.
"Okay, so, we know for a certainty that it was Tanya." I verbally worked out this strange puzzle. "She was snatched, tortured, then dumped in the river. She was discovered, taken to the morgue, then snatched again." My head pounded. Still cradling the phone between my head and shoulder, I rubbed my thumbs against my temples.
"But why, Avna?"
"Because Rasputin is taunting Constantine. Tanya was thrown into the Kanawha so that she would be found. By the time Constantine's people became aware of what had happened to her---but before they could recover her---she was swiped from the morgue." I shivered. "And, if we don't get her back very soon, she'll have to be destroyed, because there's no way you could safely resurrect an insane vampire. She would be a killing machine."
My tactless assessment earned another awkward silence from the other end of the line. When it occurred to my why, I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and asked the sixty four thousand dollar question. "Is Max standing nearby?"
"Yes." Ginny's voice trailed off.
"Surely he couldn't over hear me?" But hadn't I already experienced, much to my regret, how exceptionally well vampires could hear? Hadn't Constantine caught and been offended by an insult that I had barely breathed out? Too late, I hushed my voice, and vainly prayed that Max hadn't heard my callous statement. He already disliked me, and dislike could become despise real easy. Since Max remained within hearing of Ginny's side of the call, if not necessarily of mine, I did not expect her to make any further reply. So I continued, "I don't want it to come to that, Ginny. I really don't." Surprisingly, it was true.
"None of us do. We'll just have to find her."
Yeah, it was that simple---find her, save her, deal with the bad guys. Real simple, all right.
Ginny ended the call. "I have to go, Avna. The time ... it's getting close to dawn. And Gerard...."
"Needs to go beddy-bye. See you tomorrow." I had a perverse, scary image of her crawling into bed, or the ubiquitous coffin, with him, with Gerard, with the lawyerly vampire. I hung up the phone and listlessly went to the rear of De Facto Self Defense where a circular staircase underneath a perpetually burning weak night light ascended to my second floor apartment. Several feet behind the stairs, in a dark nook beside the fire exit, was the store's rather neglected computer. Above stairs, there were three rather small rooms, kitchenette, bedroom/living room and bath. I tiredly dragged myself up the familiar wrought iron spiral. At the top landing of the stairs, I flipped the light switch of the main living area, my bedroom, painted in a calming rose, dominated by a king size bed.
"Home sweet home." I breathed out the truthful words, while acknowledging the sparse furnishings, a twenty inch television on a well worn metal stand, a recliner in one corner, a set of book shelves in another, a cheap particle-board bedside table cluttered with a reading lamp, telephone, alarm clock, and portable CD player. However, not one sentimental item adorned the place, particularly no family pictures. These were hidden away in albums, which were packed in totes, which were stored in the miniscule closet. I never brought them out or revisited the past. Loss was a strange thing. Some of us poor souls never recovered from it.
The place was economical, no frills---I leased the building fairly cheaply from a slumlord---thus I lived comfortably enough. Except that it was cold in winter and hot in summer. Crossing the length of the living room cum bedroom, removing my ear rings and dropping them into a small jewelry box on the bedside table as I went, I aimed for the shower. I needed, desperately, to wash away all the grime and sweat, the tension and stress, from tonight's strangeness. My pores felt saturated, suffocated by all my recent proximity to vampires, particularly Constantine, who had left me feeling dirty, grimy, smutty, inside and out.
After a refreshing shower, I took great care in hanging my newly purchased blue-and-silver (and IRS approved!) seductress outfit to the very back of the closet, along with everything else I had ever wanted to forget. I decided against my usual comfortable flannel jammies, because an early May heat wave had already several times earned a concession from my modesty. I had taken to sleeping in an oversize cotton t-shirt and, once or twice, in nothing but my bra and panties.
I directed my cheap three-year-old box fan at my bed, selected high speed, and flopped onto the cool rose-colored comforter, not bothering to set the alarm clock since tomorrow was Saturday, and De Facto Self Defense was closed on the weekends. Actually, being the owner and only fulltime employee of the business, I kept shop hours that would make a banker envious, Monday through Friday, twelve to five, and, also, by appointment. Ginny constantly urged me to expand business hours, saying it would increase profitability. I always replied that I would keep it under consideration.
With the fan circulating over me, I stretched out on my back and quieted my tumultuous thoughts. Strangely, I could sense the day dawning, although from across the room no daylight yet crept through the thin white drapes of my large French-style windows. I yawned hugely, drowsy from the moment my head hit the pillow. I didn't have any time to rehash that night's events, for sleep seemed to overtake me with a vengeance, descending over my mind like black velvet. Or like a shroud.
Being a professed night owl, I never usually had trouble sleeping through the day. Nor did I often dream, or have restless sleep. This time I had both, except that I had no conscious recollection of the dreams. But something definitely nightmarish had woken me, my body thrashing, my heart pounding, and my mouth tasting coppery. Bleary eyed, I headed straight for the bathroom and the mouth wash. Being half awake, I hadn't noticed the time nor that it was dark outside.
I gargled vigorously, trying to be rid of my strange road-kill aftertaste, then spat the stuff into the sink basin, suddenly thinking of Constantine. Yet, it was much, much more than simply thinking of him. I knew, I experienced, I shared, the exact instant that he had risen. I KNEW that he had awoke with total acuity and alertness, no befuddled blinded awakening for him, not for Constantine, The Great, vampire progenitor.
This vivid meshing of us, of our consciousnesses, overwhelmed me. I staggered against the tiny porcelain sink. "What the hell?" I blinked into the mirror of the medicine cabinet. My hair was still sleep tousled but I was now wide awake, warring with the terror that such an unnatural connection naturally brought with it---principally a jumble of sights and sounds and feelings that weren't mine! I focused all my might on blocking out any further 'awareness' of Constantine. Heaven only knew what, or rather who, he might dine on to break his fast. And, through this disorienting assault of another being's heightened perceptions, I sensed that he was ravenous.
Ick! That was too revolting to even think about. "That's all I need, my own psychic hotline to a master vampire." I anchored myself to the cool porcelain sink bowl.
I breathed slowly, steadily, deeply, in and out, once, twice, thrice. Each successive meditative exhalation peeled away another layer of Constantine from me. And upon the third and last deep breath I was positive that I had indeed disconnected from him. I idiotically grinned my satisfaction into the mirror. I was woozy, but free! And, since my efforts had been successful, I was spared, mostly, Constantine's reaction. He was furious, bellowing with rage, ripping a door from its hinges, cursing me in strange tongues, in languages unknown to mankind. I grimaced away the last residue of his long distance tantrum, glad that the psychic reverberations had ceased.
Because of our bizarre connection, however, I had managed to sleep through the entire day. I had arisen in near unison with Constantine! My first instinct was to go and confront him, but I squelched that pronto. If proximity to him had created this psychic bond, then I could not, must not, be near him again.
Nor was I going to abandon Tanya, but I did not need contact with Constantine to find and rescue her. There were go-betweens, Ginny and Gerard, should any communication with him be necessary. No, I most definitely would not be seeing Constantine again.
With that resolve firmly made, I tackled more important matters, specifically, stuffing my face with sausage, toast, and eggs. I then quickly freshened up as per my usual sparse routine. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, combed my hair, and finally dressed. As for clothes, I selected comfy faded jeans and a light-weight, long-sleeved, lime-green cotton shirt. I stepped into a pair of old loafers and was almost set to go. My last minute preparations would be the most critical.
Downstairs in the shop proper, I judiciously took stock of the inventory, for once sorry that I sold silver bullets but no firearms. I often berated myself for rather hypocritically carrying ammunition, since I was semi-anti-gun-control. So, unable to load-up-for-supernatural-bear, I hung a Celtic cross around my neck, oftentimes preferring it to the regulation movie crucifix. One offered as much protection as the other, this according to the Von Hesling Manual Of Vympiric Legend and Lore. Faith was what made either of any use. For some odd reason, I favored the Celtic cross. So far, I had never had a real encounter, apart from my ambush by Snitch those ten years ago, to test the faith issue. The irony of this fact was lost on me, the owner and operator of a shop specializing in anti-vampire paraphernalia. Next, I grabbed up a pocket knife with silver embedded in the blade, of course, and a small vial of holy water. And, for more practical reasons, I dredged up a small penlight. These I stuffed into my pockets, as well as the door keys, and away I went.
My exact destination---the spot on the river where Tanya's body had been discovered by the passing barge. I was going to the scene of the crime, not out of morbid curiosity, nor to get a psychometric reading of the place. I simply didn't know where else to start my search. For good or ill, it gave me my best immediate connection to poor Tanya.
The nearly full moon was beautiful, a white-yellow ball that glowed low in the sky, its frail luminescence mingling with the city lights reflected on the dark water of the Kanawha, the red and green of traffic signals, the dim gold fluorescents of businesses, the soft white of homes along the Boulevard which gently followed the bank of the river. Charleston, WV, population fifty thousand and shrinking, was lovely, and fragrant, and quiet on this late May night.
Yet, just days ago, an atrocity had happened here. Tanya, unregistered fledging vampire, had been dumped into the water at the river's edge, timed perfectly so that a passing barge had reported the body to the authorities. I said timed to perfection, because, if she had not been discovered and retrieved before dawn, she would have been rendered to nothing more than a pile of ash, born away on a wispy summer breeze, leaving Max with grief, and loss, and doubts about her ultimate fate. Still, wouldn't that horrific but abrupt end have been more merciful to Tanya than to be semi-alive, consciousness trapped in a body that was unable to move, to be driven insane by an eternity of starvation and suffering?
I shut down such ghastly thoughts and concentrated on the picturesque riverfront, constructed and maintained for the pleasure of the citizenry. A sidewalk bordered the Boulevard for its entire length down the Kanawha Valley, while a second tier-like sidewalk, paralleling the street, placed halfway down the riverbank, offered an even closer view of the water for joggers, cyclists, sight-seers, couples, or, in my case, singles. At distant intervals, stone staircases descended from the upper walkway to the lower. Shade trees were planted here and there in sporadic rows at street level, while the steep embankments were sewn with well tended grass.
Constructed in the early 1940's, the Kanawha Boulevard was reminiscent of an even further bygone time, in the days of the sternwheelers and horse drawn carriages, when strolling on a Sunday afternoon would have been entertainment, and deservedly so. For the deep, dark watered Kanawha was beautiful, especially on this shadowy late summer evening.
I had walked the relatively short distance from my shop to the river, having casually meandered the streets of downtown Charleston past lots of legal firms, a few boutiques, the huge Kanawha County Public library, and a couple of busy nightspots. On the way, I had encountered few other passersby---a group of noisy teens heading to the Cineplex, and a lone street person who squatted in a dim doorway, resembling a huge ragged discarded bundle---and now, I stood on the lower, bottommost sidewalk of the Boulevard near the watery shoreline. I hunkered down, watching and waiting. This was a lonely stretch of the river being above the South Side Bridge and further still from the actual levy, which had been developed only a few years ago to include an outdoor amphitheatre, the Haddad Riverfront Park.
Occasionally, a fish jumped, plopping against the surface. Water lapped now-and-again against the shore. The splashing and rippling sounds reminded me of nebulous rumors about things in the river, perhaps, mutated things because of illegally dumped chemicals. After all, South Charleston, WV, used to be known as the chemical capital of the world. Strange thing to be proud of, but I was, even if that legacy had left some kind of Loch Ness monster in the river. I didn't really believe it anyway. Still I kept very vigilant with both eyes and ears as I staked out a portion of the water's bank---on a river, the Kanawha, named with an Indian word that reputedly meant 'valley of death'. In these circumstances, how very apropos.
I stayed rooted there for over an hour, long enough to see several massive and majestic coal barges thunder by me, while, on the opposite side of the river, a ghostly freight train had come-and-gone, rumbling by the old railway station at the foot of the South Side Bridge, which, in turn, stood at the foot hills of the mini-mountains surrounding and forming the Kanawha Valley. Bridge Road, with its tight kiss-your-ass-curves, wound up that mountainside to the swank South Hills district. There was also a recently restored nineteenth century carriage trail that made a great hike or bike trip up that big mountain to the beautiful MacCorkle mansion at the top.
While I had stood watch on my uneventful vigil, the dusky evening had deepened into velvety night. All about me was quaint, quiet solitude. What had I expected anyway ... to catch the criminal returned to the scene of his crime to enjoy the view?
About ready to head back to my apartment, I straightened up, stretching, unkinking my muscles and joints, casting one final glance out over the water before I left. I had climbed up several of the stone steps when the beam of a flashlight bobbed over me. I squinted up the bank, shielding my eyes with a raised hand to try and make out the person above me on the upper walkway.
"Miss Soulsmith?" A vaguely familiar voice called out to me. I instantly recognized the crisp, uniformed silhouette with its very prominent gun butt at the hip. "It's patrolman Donovan. Is everything ok?"
I released my pent breath. "Everything's fine, Officer. I was just taking a look around." I had met Richard Donovan in passing many times while doing business at the police department, city hall, and occasionally at the Federal Courthouse. He was an earnest, freckled red-head in his mid thirties, a good cop, and a friendly person.
Donovan's flashlight swung away from me and down toward the edge of the water. Nothing but a few twigs floated there. "Yeah, this was the spot where that Jane Doe was found the other day. I heard she was literally covered with bite marks. So, Traeger's involved you?"
His last question held no resentment, unlike others on the force who did not like my input on anything. After all, I was merely an ordinary citizen. It just so happens I own the city's only paranormal Army-Navy surplus, which bestowed some sort of weird cachet, and made me seem to be an expert. Which, of course, I denied. Emphatically. I wanted people, real live men and women, to have the weapons to protect themselves from things not exactly of flesh-and-blood. Hence my business was named De Facto Self Defense.
"He seems to think I can help. Whereas, Agent Zellden thinks I'm a total waste."
"Zellden's nose is out of joint because your testimony convicted Lantaglia's voodoo princess of murder. Too bad we don't have the death penalty in this state."
"Don't remind me. I only recently stopped wearing a charm to ward off her hexes, for whatever good it would have done me." It was true. I had finally persuaded myself that Hetti Chambogo had lost the freedom to practice her black arts, the ones she had used against her former lover when he had traded state's evidence against her on several murders in return for immunity. Best not to dwell on what had befallen Salvatore Lantaglia after that betrayal. Hetti had been sent to prison for life, hadn't she? Besides, in lock up she shouldn't be able to get her hands on any of the ingredients needed for her type of evil gris-gris magic. At least that's what I hoped, cross my fingers. All ten of them.
Donavan, still above me on the upper walkway of the Boulevard, switched off his flashlight and returned it to his belt, signaling his intent to continue his predetermined beat. The street lights, plus the faint moon glow, were sufficient. We could both distinguish the other in the soft night. "I would be more than happy to escort you home, Miss Soulsmith."
"Thanks, but it's not necessary. I'm not going directly home."
He paused, not wanting to accept my refusal. Like I said, he was a good cop and a good guy. But he realized there was no point arguing. He gave a muffled laugh. "All right. Good night, Miss Soulsmith. Be careful."
"Night, Officer Donovan." He had already moved out of my sight, about-facing to cross the four lanes of the Boulevard and continue into the city proper, away from the residential blocks directly across the road.
With a lazy sigh, I eyed the steep climb ahead of me and prepared to haul myself up the remaining stairs. I hadn't even taken a single step when I heard Donovan cry out. The sound, a horrified, startled scream, ended abruptly. My heart heaved almost forcefully enough to burst through my chest. I sprinted upward, terrified. And with good reason.
My knees nearly buckled. I gagged, but, mercifully, did not throw up or pass out.
Donovan lay struck down on the pavement amidst the wet, widening pool of his own blood. In one instant, he had been decapitated, his throat torn away. His crumpled body lay contorted, legs bent strangely to the right, his head tossed off to the left. His right hand was close to his holster, as if he had registered the danger one millisecond before the attack. In the end, his only defense had been a scream, a quick, helpless cry that had been stilled far too easily.
Only one thing could have struck with such incredible force and speed and ruthlessness---a vampire. My head swiveled this way and that looking for the killer, whose presence was suddenly undeniable. The hackles rose on the back of my neck. Gooseflesh pebbled my arms. Bile rose in my throat. I could feel him but not discover him in some nearby shadowy spot where he enjoyed my fear, nourished it, in fact, while he fed off it. Then I FELT his laughter. It vibrated in my bones.
His entire aura was evil, encompassing, smothering. And, I knew, without any doubt, this was Rasputin, a powerful progenitor who could mask or unmask his presence at will. My gut wrenched. This was true dread. This was undiluted terror. I automatically reached into my pocket to retrieve the vial of holy water. I clutched it in nerveless fingers, then groaned at this useless gesture, leaving the vial where it was. What possible chance did I have of spritzing a creature that struck almost faster than the eye could see?
I needed saving! There was only one way for me to call help and that was to use Donovan's two-way radio. That realization made me shudder, but I kept my hysteria under control, for the most part, and bent over his cooling body, wishing that I had something with which to cover his poor startled face. Decency demanded that he be covered, and my frazzled nerves concurred. But I had no sweater, or scarf, or jacket, nothing with which to shroud this victimized soul.
My hands fumbled, but finally I grasped the radio two-handed because of my trembling ... and because of my blood soaked palms. Had I but comprehended anything, I would have realized my shirtfront, too, was now bloodied. Again, a sick nausea threatened me, but I held it back, knowing I could not tolerate the stench of vomit on top of everything else. Operating the radio with the inexperience of a kid with his first walky-talky, I called in the murder, reporting my name, the location, and the identity of the victim. Almost immediately I heard the wail of sirens. I then dropped the radio, its short coiled cord snapping it back to its dead owner.
I staggered away several paces and finally threw up the sausage and eggs which I had earlier eaten with such relish, now much to my regret. I had never witnessed such violence, such brutal death, before. This was exactly what I expected when consorting with their kind. One of whom still hovered out in the dark, watching me with avaricious fascination, releasing his covetousness into the very air. He, it, did not want to kill me. He wanted to turn me. Still doubled over from my sickness, I wiped at my mouth and glared into the deep shadows. I was on the verge of daring the monster to show himself.
Thank god for the cavalry. Three police cars, their pulsing red lights streaking the night and Donovan's body, sirens piercing the quiet and my eardrums, skidded in quick, screeching succession into an uneven line across the broad Boulevard. Some few short moments later an ambulance next came on the scene. I knew it was to collect a body. The policemen had known it instantly, too.
I recognized most of the men, particularly Cameron Styles, Hap Chesterfield, Walter Marks, and the sole woman officer on duty, Maxi Penton, who counted towards two minorities being a black female patrolperson. They were all stunned. Donovan was a colleague. A buddy. A brother. And his killer needed to be caught. Professionalism and duty dictated their actions. Officers Penton and Styles began to take my statement, while the rest began the process of evidence collecting, taping off the area, redirecting traffic, waiting for forensics out of the medical examiner's office.
As I detailed the events prior to Officer Donovan's murder, two more vehicles, one an unmarked FBIC-issued sedan, the other a flashy civilian vehicle, further clogged up the Boulevard, depositing the last arrivals.
"Agent Zellden." I barely breathed the name. Of course the report of such a homicide would warrant the presence of the Charleston-Metro area's senior Federal Bureau of Interspecies Coexistence Agent. Or, more likely, he simply came to give me a hard time. Zellden, tall and formidable in a black suit and tie, his jar shaped head, square cut jaw, and single browed eyes reminding me of a semi-literate Neanderthal, had no trouble entering the police-taped area. However, Ginny and Gerard, the arrivals from the second car, were being detained.
My relief at sight of Ginny, if not of Gerard, deflated all the adrenalin from my body, and I nearly collapsed. Officer Penton steadied me, leading me to a concrete bench.
"Just a few more questions, Miss Soulsmith." She had been extremely efficient, writing down my statement, listening to her partner's queries, adding a few of her own.
I nodded agreement, but all I wanted was to join Ginny where she stood outside of the eerie circle of yellow police tape, the entire area now awash in the bloody glow of emergency flares, at the center of which lay the broken, lifeless, chalk-outlined body of Officer Donovan, a corpse on display for Agent Zellden's clinical, dispassionate inspection. In reaction to the gruesome sight, I canted my face toward the river.
A man lay dead. Why? Because he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong person. Me.
I could no longer sense Rasputin, Donovan's murderer. But was he really gone, or not? This not knowing if he yet lurked about, basking in the aftermath of his hellish handiwork, panicked me.
I needed to escape. I needed to go home and wash the caking blood, another's blood, from off of me. To change out of the sticky shirt, which felt coldly plastered to my skin. To pretend that a casual stroll on the riverbank had not ended in grisly murder. To deny that I was being stalked by a vampire.
"I've told you everything that happened." Done with being cooperative, I stood on shaky legs. Ginny saw and tried to push past the officer blocking her way. Gerard made no such move. He simply spoke a word to the man and they were allowed to pass.
Zellden, however, unbending from a crouch at the side of the corpse, beat them to me. "Not so fast, Soulsmith. You haven't told me anything yet. For instance, why were you here in the first place? And, secondly, how come the owner of Self Help, Inc., stood by and let a cop be butchered by a vampire?" Zellden paused at Ginny and Gerard's approach. His entire face registered distaste. "Or maybe you've taken up with the living dead? And you're protecting one of your new friends?" He openly sneered at Gerard Lamphere, one of the State's most prominent, if not the most prominent, vampires, by virtue of his one time high placement within the District Attorney's office. Even Constantine had a lower profile, being less well known outside of Charleston, West Virginia's capital city.
Zellden hated vampires even more than I did. He owed his FBIC position solely to a political appointment, and a BA in Occult History. Little else made him fit for the post, not intellect, personality, or integrity. He had once said within my hearing that you must know the enemy in order to destroy him. I had been on his hit list from the moment we met. Scuttlebutt claimed that he had once, in his young foolish salad days, tried to join---but been rejected by---the same males only vampire fetish club to which Neal Argent belonged, the Red Fallacies, that, among its tamer activities, reputedly arranged homosexual liaisons between its members and the undead. If these rumors were true, Zellden disguised his proclivities and his prejudices for the most part. But, he was, in my opinion, a dangerous loose cannon.
There was palpable hostility floating amongst us. Mine towards Zellden, the cops towards the interfering newcomers, and Zellden's towards everybody. I had to admit, right at that moment, I had few charitable feelings for Gerard Lamphere, myself. Especially having noticed the infinitesimal flare of his finely sculpted nostrils when he drew abreast of me---and the congealed blood on my hands, arms, and shirt. His was a tiny, instinctive reaction that most humans would not catch, but I was at that very instant experiencing my first conscious vampire alert. My teeth were set on edge, as if biting into aluminum foil, and there was a buzzing tingle traveling down my spine. All this physical response came from a novice vampire, one made within the last four years, therefore relatively immature and less capable of disguising his own primal urges, mainly hunger. I got a sudden niggling suspicion that the more direct contact I had with vampires the stronger these 'alarms' would become. Great. Just freaking great.
On the positive side, if I could spot a vampire coming from a mile away, I should certainly be able to avoid him or her. Right?
Ginny stood just to one side and behind Gerard, a very subservient pose, or so it seemed to emancipated me. Her shoulder-length coppery-red silky-smooth hair swung free at her shoulders. Very demure, and very unlike Ginny. Even more disturbing was her lovely over-large turquoise choker. I knew what she was trying to cover. Not just an ordinary hickey. But bite marks. I wanted to slam Gerard's head into the pavement. Damn blood sucker.
Our eyes met in silent communication, and he did not flinch. I gave him points for that, because my furious gaze scalded worse than battery acid.
Zellden, the obtuse moron, was still on a rant to implicate me. He all but got in my face and launched his accusations. "You, in point of fact, more than saw the murder. Didn't you, Soulsmith? And you're not simply an accessory. You not only saw it, you also likely participated. You are covered in Donovan's blood."
I sighed, almost too exhausted to answer. I tried to be reasonable, rational, even though it was pointless. "Penton has my statement. I was in mortal peril so I used Donovan's radio. That's why I have his blood on my clothes. A progenitor killed him, Zellden. A master vampire called Rasputin did this in a matter of seconds. He's also responsible for the Jane Doe found in the river. We need to find him and eliminate him."
Zellden scowled at me. His complexion in the muddy reddish flares went splotchy, a mottling of anger and spleen. He truly wanted to arrest me!
Gerard, in a low-voiced and calm-toned manner, spoke to Officer Penton, not obviously using a vampire whammy on her, but using one nonetheless, as he had done earlier to cross into the police crime scene. "Officer, if you have your statement, then Miss Soulsmith is free to go. There is no further reason to detain her." Gerard might not have his hunger one hundred percent under control, but his hypnotic suggestions were very, very good, and very, very subtle.
Maxi Penton showed none of the usual telltale signs, no glassy eyed stare, no confused expression, nor, more importantly, loss of train of thought. Most weak minds under such control could not offer a coherent, independent thought. She glanced at her notepad, verifying its contents, then flapped it shut. "We have all the pertinent information. Most likely, we will need you down at the station tomorrow at your earliest convenience. Traeger will want an interview." Her partner, even without Gerard's psychic assistance, agreed.
Zellden seethed. His single eyebrow dropped so low it nearly blinded him. He began to berate the two officers. "Don't you think it more than coincidental that Ms. Soulsmith is found at the scene of a homicide where not more than twenty four hours earlier another vampire victim was recovered?"
Zellden's words made apparent that the police still did not know Tanya's identify, or her status. She was a newly made, unregistered vampire, i.e. Max had committed a misdemeanor in her creation. A small part of me wanted to speak up, set the record straight. So how come I kept my mouth shut and let the opportunity pass? Beats me, but I did, or, rather, didn't.
"Sir," Cameron Styles answered patiently, speaking the obvious, "Miss Soulsmith was here because Traeger asked for her help with the first murder. She was just checking out the crime scene."
Zellden, his facial splotches growing more prominent, about ready to foam at the mouth, was losing his chance to bust me. He jutted his square chin out, nearly snarling when he spoke. "The force cannot afford her kind of help." He paused and looked to where Donovan's contorted body rested within an enormous black pool of blood. His voice sounded harsher than gravel. "Get out of here."
I walked away, keeping a distance from both Gerard and Ginny. Zellden, of course, aimed and took a final shot at me. "Watch yourself, Soulsmith. 'Cause you obviously have more trouble than you---or your so called De Facto Self Defense---can handle."
Bulls eye. My shoulders slumped. Zellden's taunt echoed my own self doubts. For the past decade, I had been arming the public with garlic and crosses, holy water and silver and above all else advice. So how come armed with this same stuff, when my turn had come, I had felt more vulnerable than in my whole entire life? Even when being attacked lo those many years ago by Snitch?
There was a simple, straightforward, one word answer---Rasputin. He was on a rampage. And he, for some unfathomable reason, wanted me.
I walked somewhat apart from Ginny and Gerard, although I was very much in need of emotional and physical support. My insides were weak and shaky, but I managed to keep my feet, and my distance. Ginny was now most definitely in the enemy camp. As a loose trio, we threaded a roundabout course through the staggered line of police vehicles, skirted past the ambulance, and bypassed a growing mass of gawkers to finally reach Gerard's gold Cadillac, parked on the fringe of the activity.
He opened the passenger side door, indicating I enter with a curt wave of his hand. I stood stock still, facing the pair, with no intention of getting into that car.
To give myself some moral support, I clasped my arms to my middle, then spoke. "Don't take this the wrong way, I mean I appreciate your timely arrival, but exactly how did you know about Donovan's death? How did you manage to arrive just seconds behind the cops?"
Ginny barely hid her exasperation. "It's not that sinister, Avna. We have people monitoring police radio frequencies, neither uncommon nor illegal."
"Isn't it more accurate to say Constantine has people listening?" I left my real worry unspoken. What if their arrival was not due to something as mundane as a radio transmission, but more of Constantine's attempts to 'link' with me psychically? I didn't think so, because I sensed nothing of him, not one iota of his chauvinistic aura within me or around me. Truthfully, when I had stood on the Boulevard beside poor Donovan's beheaded body, menaced by a supernatural killer mere yards away, I would have welcomed a connection to such power. But not right now, not when that horrific crisis was over. And not ever, if I could help it.
"Gerard was bringing me over to your place when we got word. It took less than five minutes to detour here."
"Sorry." I made a faint, embarrassed apology, but I was still suspicious. No matter how you cut it, Gerard was Constantine's A #1 gopher. Exhaustion, however, won out over suspicion. "If the offer's still open, I'll accept a lift home."
At my words, Gerard's well-favored, patrician face hardened. He gave a tight, negative shake of his head, an imperious, uber vampire gesture, countermanding me. Gerard Lamphere, right-hand-man of a powerful progenitor, very obviously had orders that didn't include conducting me home.
"I am to take you to the hotel. Constantine wants...."
My words cut him off machine gun fast. "I don't care what Constantine wants. I have no intention of going near that bloodsucking son-of-bitch---and his Rendezvous Room---ever again." Semantically speaking this was a truthful statement. I had determined not to go near Constantine again, but I had also resolved to go back to the Constantinople, specifically the business office of the Bete Noir Escort Service where Tanya had last been seen. However, I meant to go during the sunny safety of daylight. Call me crazy, but that just seemed like a good precaution.
"He wants you nearby so he can protect you from Rasputin."
I snorted. "Tell him, thanks but no thanks. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." False bravado. I was terrified of both Constantine and Rasputin.
My answer did not go over well with Gerard, not well at all. His calm, preppy façade deconstructed. He drew himself upward, seeming to expand, growing in that awful dimension-distorting way of strong vampires. Given time, Gerard would most likely be able to rival even Constantine. His greatest present flaw was simple inexperience. As his compulsion strengthened, his brown eyes began to glow, almost rimmed with red.
"YOU WILL COME." Gerard meant to lay hands on me.
"Ginny," I warned her to intervene, "call him off!" A tremor of resistance coursed through my entire being, resisting his autocratic, vampiric demand. When I was able to reach down into my pocket, prepared to throw a vial of holy water into his face, if need be, I realized that I hadn't been swallowed whole into Gerard's mesmerism! Hooray for me!
Ginny tried to defuse the volatile situation by throwing her petite frame between us, seeming more-so-than ever a porcelain doll in the dull reddish flares that accentuated her flawless, bloodless, coppery-headed complexion. She slanted her stance more towards Gerard, and she braced a hand against his chest. "Gerard, don't."
He halted. His sharp, triangular chin tucked down in suppressed anger.
I mocked. "Yeah, Gerard, don't." A jealous, fearful urge made me want to provoke him. He was taking Ginny, my one and only true blue friend, away into a world of perpetual night, a world of the dead sustained by the lifeblood of the living, a world so abhorrent to me that I could never forgive her for joining it. Or, I fleetingly wondered, could I?
I watched how easily Ginny restrained Gerard. She simply fanned her fingers against his breastbone. Her least touch had doused some of his monstrous ire. Those selfish, childish emotions continued to assail me, the sting of rejection, the fear of loss, the pain of abandonment. A vampire had come along to supplant me in her life. That fact, much more so than his status as an immortal, fueled my dislike of Gerard Lamphere.
Ginny, seeing his rising anger, hoping to end our dangerous stalemate, reasoned with him. "Remember, you have to answer to Constantine. Avna doesn't."
He nodded very slowly, and he clasped a hand around hers upon his chest. His tension evaporated and Gerard was no longer uber vampire. He had returned to an attractive, upper class, conservative man. Ha! I knew better. His change was superficial. The residual hyped up buzz in my molars told me so. But he was on his best behavior for Ginny's sake.
I tried not to be so belligerent for her sake, too. I really tried. "On second thought, I'll walk." I felt like an old dishrag, wrung out and falling apart. But nothing on earth would get me into that car. I backed away.
"Let me come with you," Ginny pleaded. She stepped away from Gerard, yet that sense of their bond, their connection, remained. If she were that close to him, how much room could be left for me? Tears gathered in my eyes.
I nearly refused. I couldn't trust myself to speak so I shook my head up-and-down in the affirmative.
She smiled with relief. Ginny knew me all right, knew that I had gone against character to accept her offer. We were still friends. But only, I silently, vindictively added, until she crossed over.
She gave Gerard a quick peck on the cheek. "Don't worry about us. We'll be fine. Pick me up at Avna's place in a couple of hours."
I bit back my own farewell remarks, something to the effect that he could run straight back to Constantine with his tail between his legs and repeat this message to his master: Avna Soulsmith was strictly off limits. So, stay away. Please...?
Ginny moved next to me and wordlessly offered a shoulder to lean on. I took it.
So, arm-in-arm, we escaped from the brutal murder scene and walked the empty streets of downtown Charleston. I tried not to weigh too heavily on her, nor dwell on the prospect of losing her friendship. But I failed at both. Not a single word passed between us until we reached my apartment, when Ginny pointedly asked me if she could come inside.
"Of course." I scowled. She stood in front of the unopened doorway of De Facto Self Defense, outlined by the 'Sorry, We're Closed' sign which seemed to get much more use than its cheerful reverse side of 'Come In, We're Open'.
"Just checking. You might not want my kind in your home."
My heart nearly stopped. I tried to remember the last time I had seen Ginny in the daylight. It had been over a week ago. Surely she hadn't given herself ENTIRELY to Gerard? "Your kind?" I echoed stupidly.
She fingered her turquoise necklace. "The kind that canoodles with vampires."
"No, I don't approve of such intimacies." Talk about an understatement! "You know my prejudices on the subject, irrational or not. They've never bothered you before. So, what else is there to say?" I could beg her to take it back, but how can a person unsay she's sleeping with a vampire? It's not like I didn't subconsciously know. I just did not consciously want to know. Kinda like a don't ask, don't tell policy.
"For starters, Avna, say you understand. That you won't let go of our friendship. That you'll at least try to tolerate Gerard."
"Fine. Screw him all you want. Just don't literally sleep with him. Don't become like him." My tone was harsh, but there were unshed tears in my eyes.
"I ... can't make any promises." Again, her hand wandered to the choker at her lovely swan-like neck. It was a band-aid. Camouflage. But just how many bite marks was it covering up? I tried to console myself with the thought that he could nibble on her indefinitely, so long as he did not take enough blood to harm her health and so long as she did not reciprocate. Reputedly, if she did not taste of him, she was safe, at least as safe as a mortal sleeping with a vampire could be.
"Let's go inside and have pizza?" I suggested as a peace offering. Now that was real sustenance.
The next morning, being Monday, began another work week. Ginny had stayed for a few hours, and then gone home---with Gerard. That gave me a few hours of sleep before the shop needed to open. But, once again, I was sleeping the sleep of the dead, dreaming of some fantastic romantic interlude. Not even the shrill, continuous alarm could wake me. As a matter of fact, Ginny, returning to De Facto Self Defense in her professional capacity of business manager, had literally had to shake me awake.
"Are you okay?" She stared at me closely. I was a notoriously light sleeper. Until recently.
My groggy answer came out a croak. "I'm awake." But I wasn't. Ginny had to lever me upright.
I took a deep breath, rolled onto my feet, and blindly aimed for the bathroom. I couldn't seem to pry my eyes open. The mild light of day seemed to assault my eyeballs if I did. "I'm going to shower. Can you cover the shop today? I've got to meet with Traeger ... and run some errands."
"Sure thing." Her voice held no misgivings, no hesitation.
"Thanks." And, with my eyes more or less open, I showered, dressed, grabbed a pop tart, and headed for police headquarters, leaving De Facto Self Defense in Ginny's care.
I drove to city hall, parking my little car by a cranky meter that didn't want to accept my quarter. I visualized it as Constantine and smashed the change into the slot. The violent action was very cathartic, but, unfortunately, still did not rid me of the impression that Constantine might have been in my dreams.
I then trudged through the growing midday heat toward the squat limestone building. The air was furnace-like, the sun brilliant in a cloudless blue sky. I felt abnormally sensitive to the sunshine. My exposed skin prickled. My eyes smarted. In fact, I had fished an old pair of sunglasses from out of the glove compartment, an untrendy pair, square shaped and dull brown, which I reserved for the swimming pool, beach, or long road trips. None of which were on today's agenda. They topped off my ensemble to perfection. I wore a skintight pair of jeans, the kind that molded every curve, matched with a frilly white blouse. Simple, sleek, and a touch slutty, seeing as I intended later on that day to apply for a position with Charleston's premier Bete Noir Escort Service.
As for jewelry, I wore a cheap pair of star fish earrings. By contrast, I also wore a very expensive cross, hung from a fine silver chain, and tucked inconspicuously into my ruffle-fronted blouse. The cross was one-of-a-kind, designed by me, hand crafted for sale at De Facto Self Defense. However, with a prohibitive selling price of twenty five hundred dollars I had never filled an order for any except the original, which I normally kept in a small box swathed in cotton. My design for the cross was very modern, almost a work of art, yet also utilitarian. It resembled nothing so much as two slender, three inch nails welded together at their T-like intersection. However, it was deceptively heavy with lead at its core, overlaid with silver. Besides offering vampiric protection as a religious icon, it could also be grasped weapon-like to use as a skewer. Neat, huh? The tips were lethally pointy and sharp. But, because of the price tag, there had never been any takers. In view of all my recent unwanted vampire encounters, I had decided to get it out of mothballs and put it to the test.
I was, after all, going to snoop around at the Constantinople after I met with Detective Traeger. However, since it was broad daylight, I would be perfectly safe there, with or without the cross.
Once inside the familiar city hall building, I wound through several sterile corridors, exchanged a few on-the-go 'hellos' to various city personnel, and arrived at Traeger's office. The opaque leaded glass door was closed, but I could still hear voices from within. Zellden's strident tones badgered Traeger. With a grimace, I knocked and was ordered inside.
"Been expecting you all morning, Soulsmith." The heavy worry lines on Traeger's forehead visibly relaxed when I entered. "Last night was a brutal business. I'm glad you're all right." Pater Traeger, my mentor and conscience, spoke from behind his mess of a desk. Zellden stood in a corner. I staked out neutral territory in the middle of the room close to the door for a hasty exit.
Zellden scowled at me. His one eyebrow lowered ominously.
"Take a chair." Traeger, gruff as the drill sergeant he resembled, managed an occasional bit of politeness, although his offer sounded more like an effort to get me on the hot seat. He had brought me into a murder investigation that had escalated into an apparent serial killing spree.
"I don't need a seat, thanks. I shouldn't be here that long. I just wanted to fill you in on the Donovan murder. See if you had any questions. I gave a thorough account to the officers on scene. There's not a lot I can add." I pointedly directed myself to Traeger, ignoring the Neanderthal in the opposing corner.
Zellden, the buffoon, executed a creditable sneer. "You're not even staying long enough to take off your sunglasses?" Granted, Ezekiel Zellden wasn't totally stone age. He had managed very nicely to embarrass me. Celebrities might wear their sunglasses indoors, but not the rest of us nobodies. I hadn't even realized that I still wore them!
I nonchalantly slipped them off, flinching a little under the fluorescents, keeping the glasses clutched in my hand as a security blanket if the light should prove too hurtful. Maybe I wasn't getting enough vitamin B in my diet making me light-sensitive? Nah, if that were the case, I'd have scurvy by now. This was something more sinister, some insidious influence of Constantine's. I promised myself to research this phenomenon. I owned lots of resource material, manuals, trade journals, various university and private organization reports, most prominent among these being a large portion of the Von Hesling catalogue. They dominated the field. Then, too, there was always the internet, if you had the time to dig through most of the worthless trash to find the rare bits of gold.
Traeger grabbed up some papers from off his avalanche of a desk---he somehow always kept a clear corner for a gilt-framed family photo with his wife and five kids! He flapped the stack in my direction. "Here's Officer Penton's report. Read through it. Corroborate the contents. Sign it." He scowled, wiped a beefy hand across his face, then added, "The media's going to be in a feeding frenzy. The FBIC," Traeger's eyes cut sharply toward Zellden, "is trying to keep these murders from being sensationalized."
"That would have been easier had certain unqualified parties not been involved," Zellden grumbled, trying to get a rise out of me. What he failed to realize was that I hadn't the type of ego, sensitive and overdeveloped, to be bruised by the Cro-Magnon Man likes of him.
I accepted the pages and began to check out Penton's written account of my statement. The details were so accurate that I trembled, remembering the horror of seeing Donovan and knowing his killer was only yards away, watching me, toying with me, and, for some reason, coveting me.
Traeger waited while I finished before he asked his first question. "What about this Rasputin? What else did you learn about him?" Traeger barely hesitated before adding a question that put his department in a bad light by touching upon Tanya's theft from the morgue. "The first and second murders, the Jane Doe from the river and now Patrolman Donovan, are definitely connected? It's not some macabre coincidence."
"Yes, they are. As to what I managed to learn at the Bete Noir Club.... Not much, other than Rasputin seems to have followed Constantine to Charleston to take over his territory. One master vampire can effectively dominate another's clan, family, kin, what-have-you, after killing the other. But it's more than just a turf war. Rasputin is mad. He killed Donovan for fun. He has to be stopped, or else he will spawn more of the same."
Zellden, naturally, began to be argumentative. "According to your statement you did not actually witness the killing of Officer Donovan. You claimed to have been on the lower embankment. So, how can you identify the killer, who is supposedly no less than a progenitor? A master vampire, by the way, that no one in the entire occult field has ever so much as heard of or referenced, except for you and Constantine, The Great." Zellden's antipathy nearly bulged his eyes. His fat lips puckered. "I did some thorough checking on the Bureau's registry, plus had a few agents run other less formal queries. No written records exist with the single mention of a Rasputin."
How, I debated, should I defend myself against Zellden's implications that I was lying? I could not bring myself to reveal---not then to Officer Penton, nor now to Detective Traeger---that after the grisly murder I had very deeply sensed, I had actually linked to, Rasputin. He had had a thousand and one perverted reasons for killing Donovan, uppermost being as a calling card, an introduction, specifically to me. How did one speak aloud such a frightening admission? What was it about me that Rasputin so obviously craved? Better for my mental health that I ignore my new classification as vampire bait.
"Put me on a witness stand and I WILL convince a jury that I can psychically identify the killer, Rasputin. My federal designation as a recognized 'spiritualist' makes me a quasi expert in this type of paranormal case. Such psychic evidence has been entered in lots of prosecutions, as you well know. Hopefully, we won't even have to go to trial." Murderous vampires didn't always get a day in court.
"And another thing, Zellden, with your credentials, you know better than most that a progenitor endlessly recreates his identity. They hide their past, shroud every detail of their origins, switch personas at the drop of a hat. The only way the government even recognizes a claim of a progenitor is the new DNA testing that can, for want of a better term, carbon date and corroborate their age. It's far too dangerous for their real selves to be known." I thought about Max and Tanya, how they had flouted the legally mandated FBIC registration of new vampires, and I added, "Even the young ones don't want to be part of a vampire registry. By what right does the government track a minority group as if they were a threat?"
Zellden spluttered. His ruddy complexion splotched. Even Traeger, one reddish eyebrow quirked upward, was surprised that I happened to be on his side of the fence for a change.
Since I was revved up, I kept right on talking. "Speaking of DNA, what exactly was recovered from Donovan's body?" I didn't bat an eyelash, even though I was asking about what forensic evidence had been retrievable from the policeman's decapitating neck wound.
"The lab work, a part of which was shipped out to the Virginia FBIC laboratory, is currently incomplete," Traeger answered, leaning forward, bracing an arm on his paper littered desk, "but there are definite saliva traces. Possibly a hair sample. A single strand was found. And maybe even some skin samples, as if the killer was shedding."
Uugghh. Rasputin most likely had major skin problems. Some older vampires, the ones who liked dark, dank, dingy habitats, often contracted vile skin conditions, the kind where things pussed or oozed or fell off.
Zellden, scowling beneath his beetling unibrow, suddenly got on his favorite soapbox. In his zealotry, he wanted to turn Charleston, WV, into his own little FBIC empire. "We shouldn't have to rely on Virginia. Charleston merits its own facilities. This city, this bureau site, should be the national clearinghouse for FBIC DNA testing."
I ignored his familiar rant and spoke directly to Traeger. "With that much physical evidence, all we need to do now is track Rasputin down. And stake 'im. Behead 'im. And burn 'im."
Traeger glanced from me to Zellden, putting an unspoken request to West Virginia's Senior Agent of the Federal Bureau of Interspecies Coexistence, the only one in the room with the authority to issue a permit for the 'immediate and extremely prejudicial elimination' of a vampire. It circumvented the need to have a trial by jury. It was an unconstitutional power being contested in the courts at that very moment. I didn't like Zellden being the one to have such authority, to allow him to be judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one demented prejudicial package. Except in this case. I wanted Rasputin destroyed.
A muscle in his square jaw jumped. His beady eyes clamped onto my face with detestation. He wanted to refuse just to spite me. However, with more lives at stake, he couldn't. Zellden even managed to sound semi-professional. "I'll get the paper work started and an exterminating team activated. Once the lair is located and the killer positively identified, we'll perform the termination."
I exhaled with relief. The experts, one of whom I was not, were now in charge. That got me off the hook. Or so I thought.
Traeger turned once more to me. He jerked his chin toward the door. "See what else you can come up with on Rasputin's whereabouts, Soulsmith. The sooner the better." Nightfall was several hours away, but the clock seemed to tick faster in a crisis. "The city already knows its under siege. So watch yourself." Our eyes met briefly, his steady and clear, full of confidence in my abilities, mine wavering, much less sure.
I quickly signed the papers and left, offering a gruff goodbye to Traeger and a simple nod to Zellden.
Then, with a growing sense of trepidation, I drove myself to the Constantinople, the last real lead I had in the hope of tracking Rasputin. As on my first visit, I parked a block over from the hotel. My pulse skittered as I neared the building. Feigning confidence, I entered the automatic doors and retraced my path to the Bete Noir Club, crossing the gorgeous calm hotel lobby, admiring the soft splash of the intricate waterfall, and once again taking the shiny chrome-like elevator. I gingerly selected the proper floor, acutely aware of the button for the second basement level which nothing on the face of the earth could get me to depress. It would lead, according to all the scholars, to the daytime resting place of Constantine, The Great. Chills suddenly ran down my spine at the thought of being anywhere near his dwelling, especially since I had vowed to never again be in his presence. But I couldn't allow my apprehension to stop me, for I had also vowed to help save Tanya, Max's kidnapped fledgling.
Before stepping from the elevator, I reflexively clutched at the cross hidden underneath my crisp white blouse. My reflection in the shiny doors aped the gesture. I tried to be reassured by the warm weighted metal resting against my breast bone, the sharpened tip actually lying in the hollow between my breasts. The only true comfort I had was that vampires slept during the day. Plus no alarms rang inside of me, no funny buzzing in my back teeth, no clenching in my stomach, no uncomfortable migraine. All the little---and the big---vampires were fast asleep. Of this, I was absolutely positive. I would only have to deal with mortals. Humans. Non-blood-drinking individuals.
Outwardly calm, I left the elevator under the watchful eyes of a different pair of massive body guards who patrolled between the Bete Noir Club and the Escort Service. I followed the long cool hallway toward the business door flamboyantly designated as the Bete Noir Escort Service. I marshaled my nerves and entered. It wasn't everyday a girl applied for a position with a glorified escort service.
I thought of Tanya, of her interminable suffering should I fail to rescue her, and I determinedly pasted on a brilliant smile. Immediately a wash of cheap, generic perfumes, like some toxic cloud of musk and rose and vanilla, bombarded my nose. A small crew of women, some dressed in proper business attire, a few in elegant evening wear, and still others in considerably less, such as skimpy halters and ultra-miniskirts, the kind that left almost nothing to the imagination, lounged on the room's odd collection of overstuffed settees and futons. This mix revealed a varied clientele, with tastes ranging from class to crass. Yet each woman was striking, statuesque, voluptuous.
The entire room monitored my entrance and approach to the woman in charge, a startling creature mostly hidden behind a computer terminal, her great girth draped in a garish orange, yellow, and green Hawaiian patterned muumuu. In spite of the varying degrees of interest, curiosity, and outright hostility directed at me, I kept the Toothpaste White smile on my lips as I crossed the room to where she sat, a beehive-hairdoed matron with an unlit foreign cigarillo dangling from her scarlet lips, and a hands-free phone headset tangled in the colossal beehive. Her makeup had been applied with a trowel, orangey rouge, thick blue eye shadow, raccoon-like eyeliner. A nameplate on top of her monitor proclaimed her as 'Madam Waken'.
Her fingers clack-clacked quickly over the computer's keyboard, presumably setting appointments for clients. "Helga," she barked at a beautiful Scandinavian-type with milky white skin, amply displayed by a low peasant blouse and a high pushup bra, whose girlish corn-silk braids hinted at a wholesomeness much at odds with the vast amount of exposed cleavage. "You are set for five o'clock. Room sixteen of the Brookside Motel. The address is on the printout." Madam Waken suddenly looked up at me, smiling around the cigarillo, speaking euphemistically for my benefit. "The client wants his customary massage."
Helga beamed. Her teeth gapped rather adorably in the middle. "Ja, Madam Waken. He get good, good massage." She plucked a sheet from the nearby printer and left, still grinning her gap toothed grin, jiggling her amply displayed breasts. Given her obvious attributes, she would most certainly excel at her job as a masseuse. She appeared capable of twisting a man into a pretzel and making him enjoy it.
I felt suddenly inadequate in the Swedish massage department. I was a mere neophyte by comparison. I had to suppress a dejected sigh.
Madam Waken, her brown penciled brows arching wildly, studied me, debating if I were a new recruit or a police plant. Or, possibly, a client?
"What can I do ya for?" Her voice, deep and low and scratchy, resembled a Brooklyn truck driver.
I jumped feet first ... into some very deep water. "I'm Charity." My enthusiastic smile never wavered. "Constantine sent me. He said you were looking for a few additions."
"Maybe." Madam Waken took a further inventory of me. She scrutinized my hair, my height, my hips, and my other vital statistics---my breasts and butt. It felt like being stripped naked, and I hated it. I liked her next words, given in a satisfied knowing chuckle, even less. "The boss knows how to pick'em, right enough." It was a shock to learn that Constantine apparently did recruit for his establishment. Pedaling flesh was bad enough, but that he hand picked his stable was infuriating. How far did he go in his recruitment? Was there some warped quality control? Did he try out the merchandise?
"The Escort Service is hosting a private party this coming Friday. A very discreet gathering in Parlor B, just down the hall. We cater. Food. Drinks. Companions. We can always use an extra hostess, even if you're not on the books. It could be a one shot deal." Madam Waken's heavily penciled brows formed a question mark. "Interested?"
"What's the going rate?" I did not want to appear too eager, or too naïve. Mercenary, however, would do nicely.
"A hundred dollars for the evening, plus whatever gratuities the guests might offer. I imagine that you could triple that, easy."
I gulped. At least Constantine paid well. "I'll be there. With bells on." Except I had no intention of attending this private party. This charade was to get information, not to join a prostitution ring. So, I started pumping for it, as subtly as possible. "I really came as a temporary fill in for a friend, for Tanya. I usually freelance, but maybe you could arrange a few under the table jobs for me, now and then. Just for some extra, fast cash. Tanya always bragged about the escort service." I held my breath, waiting to see how Madam Waken would react.
"Ahhh." Madam Waken purred happily. Her cigarillo danced when she made the cheerful sound. "She was a real trooper. Nothing was too exotic for her. A few of the girls, the living ones," the Madam started to whisper, leaning toward me like a multi-colored haystack, getting caught up in shop talk even though I was a total stranger, "don't necessarily want to deal with our vampire clientele. Not so our little Tanya, and that was before she, herself, was turned. In fact, I believe one of her last dates was with a vampire. He was so pleased with the service he requested another one of our girls for this evening."
She licked her thumb to better flip through the pages on a clipboard. "Yes, he has a hire scheduled for tonight. But, due to his, er, special proclivities, I haven't, as yet, assigned any one of my girls. We do strive for customer satisfaction." She chirped the motto with gusto, then jutted her cigarette directly at me. "Are you interested, Charity? The dead ones can be the most satisfying to handle. Like you said, you could be a free agent for awhile. To see if we suit each other. The only drawback is you have to give Constantine twenty percent of whatever you negotiate with your client. If you were actually with the Bete Noir Service, a legit employee, you would get a salary, bonuses, and benefits."
She paused in her recruitment and repeated her question about my accepting tonight's date. "Do you want this appointment?"
Behind me, from the comfort of a long couch, I heard grumbling from a trio of well-endowed women, harsh unhappy sounds that a 'bleeping-bleep' had just been offered a lucrative job before them. Their language could put a sailor to shame. I ignored the resentment.
"I'd be happy to go since I did come as a favor to Tanya. Twenty percent sounds like a steep cut, but I'll do it."
"Perfect. Take the printout." Madam Waken keyed in a noisy flurry of data. "It gives the pertinent details. Your date is with a Mr. Calvin Hamilton. He runs a tattoo shop on the other side of town. Welcome aboard, Charity. And," Madam turned all business, terse and firm, "remember, the Bete Noir gets a full twenty percent, due within fourteen days of the service or services having been rendered. Just a word of caution, dearie. Don't ever try and cheat a progenitor."
"Thanks, Madam Waken." My smile cracked a little bit. "I'll be in touch with Constantine's cut ... all of it ... within the week. If things work out, I just might sign on fulltime." I retrieved the slip from her printer, eyeing the address of the appointed rendezvous, feeling lightheaded as I left the office. I had a date with a vampire, perhaps, with Rasputin. I was gambling that this was how he had lured Tanya into his clutches. If so, and he was this Hamilton, hiding out as the owner of The Tattoo Emporium, then I was meant to be his next victim. Only I wasn't going to get that close. I planned on staking out Hamilton's place from a safe distance to see if my theory was right or wrong.
All joking aside, I had to go through with this, but I was scared at the idea of trying to spy on Rasputin. Perhaps I could enlist Gerard's help, so long as he promised not to involve Constantine? Preoccupied, I got back into the elevator, crinkling the paper as I stuffed it into a pocket, wondering why I felt so jittery. My mission had gone perfectly. Madam Waken had set me up on a date---which I didn't intend on keeping---with the last client ever booked for the missing vampire fledgling, Tanya. I might be on to the best clue as to her whereabouts, so why had my stomach seemingly dropped into my feet where it refused to budge?
I selected the button for the lobby. I wanted, no, I needed to get out of the Constantinople. Immediately. The elevator rose. My stomach grew nauseous. My legs felt rubbery. The elevator passed the ground floor, although it was lit, indicating it should have stopped to let me out. I angrily pressed the first floor, thinking to take the stairs back down. The elevator continued smoothly upward. Crossly, I jabbed every other number on the panel, excluding the superstitiously unnumbered thirteenth.
The elevator did not stop on any floor. Instead, it continued its silent eerie, ascent.
The breath caught in my throat. I backed myself completely against the rear of the car. I was trapped, with nowhere to go but up. To the thirteenth floor. To Constantine's chambers! He didn't, as the Von Heslings contended, occupy the sub-sub-basement of the hotel. Rather, he slept in the penthouse! And, against all commonly held wisdom, he was wide awake, when he should have been absolutely at rest. His mind shimmered like a new penny on the edges of my perception.
And, holy shit, he was impatiently waiting for me.
As I was being swept to the top of the high rise, I fought for calm. I had only just become aware of Constantine. Did that mean he had likewise only just become aware of me? Or, far more likely, had he known from the instant I had stepped inside the building? This train of thought slightly derailed when I realized that I was now whooshing past the ninth floor!
Don't panic, I commanded myself, closing my eyes, breathing with forced regularity, trying not to hyperventilate. But, again, I wondered, how much of my emotions, of my mind, could he sense? It was a major disadvantage. So, I tentatively tested my own awareness of him. I mentally strove to reach out, to see him, to read him. Nothing came back to me except the surety that he was awake. And he was waiting.
The eleventh floor came and went. I still cowered in the rear of the elevator.
I resorted to punching the emergency stop. "No escape there," I mumbled. Constantine controlled the elevator, either by some electronic override or by sheer force of his will. I much preferred the former. Who wants to confront an ageless vampire with super-duper psycho-kinetic powers? Not me.
But whether or not he was telekinetic, I was, indeed, about to face him. I slid past the twelfth floor. I trembled. My entire body was fluttery and weak.
"Get a grip, Avna." What's the worst that could happen? Well, for starters, he could humiliate you. And beyond a little ego-bruising humiliation? He could completely subjugate you, body and soul. Huh, 'wanna bet? That shut up my internal dialogue real quick.
I squared my shoulders, straightened my spine, and prepared to do battle.
The elevator halted on lucky, but superstitiously unnumbered, thirteen. The doors automatically opened. I stepped out without hesitation. The elevator closed, descended, and abandoned me to my fate.
I looked around me and was amazed. Constantine's 'room' was the entire penthouse. It was stark, virtually empty, yet airy, almost like being outdoors. The vast area was somehow lit with a smoky gray effect, similar to a 1960's type black-light, but not as harsh and resembling twilight. It felt like being inside of a gray tinted fish bowl. Constantine, the son-of-a-gun, had fashioned a bit of near daylight. This revelation, that a progenitor craved something of humanity, was poignant. But right now I had no time to shed crocodile tears. I took another shaky step into his dwelling.
Since there were no rooms, hence no walls, there were numerous visible support columns, painted shiny white, but tinged the same soft gray as the strange lighting. They rose tree-like, invitingly, perfect for a game of hide-n-seek. Only I wasn't in the mood for games. Besides which, as far as I could tell, Constantine was a cheater. He did not like, or follow, rules.
I moved further into the vampire's den. Underfoot, sumptuous carpet in a faded shade of black---or more accurately a charcoal hue---threatened to suck me down like a quagmire, because the pile was so thick and soft and luxurious. It reminded me of walking across an antique feather bed, only the floor was more stable, but it was definitely comfy enough to lie upon, to sink your body into its plush depths, to stretch out upon with abandon. The entire floor was perfect for trysting.
With that thought, an unbidden image blasted into my mind. Of two bodies, male and female, twined, writhing, coupling upon this very same carpet. It was a fragmentary flash, just a minute shred of erotica, jammed into my mind's eye so painfully, so overpoweringly that I staggered backwards, nearly collapsing. My breathing was ragged, not in response to the sexual rhythm of the two lovers, which under normal cable channel reception would have had me on fire, but because of the physical stress of receiving such an intense unlooked for vision.
I recovered. Slightly. The couple, like a ghostly burned-in-image on a computer screen, stayed for a moment in my mind. He, Constantine, was atop her, suspended in a thrust worthy of a pile driver. I could not see his face, but the glory of that glossy, curly, longish hair, plus the magnificence of that broad male back, tapering down to a perfect backside then muscular legs, could only belong to one soulless man---Constantine. I now completely understood and agreed with the added appellation of Constantine, The Great.
But as my concentration riveted upon Constantine, I had no idea of the woman's identity, her face and body being obscured by him. Only her knees were visible, bent up and around his hips, cradling him. Nor did I care to know her. She was nameless, and faceless. And, as they faded, I hoped to never have to find out whom it was that Constantine had so ardently conquered. He was a lecherous pig, and the mystery woman was one of thousands ... amend that to tens of thousands. No wonder she had been blotted out by him. To Constantine, one female was as good as another.
That made me angry. And anger tended to stiffen my backbone, especially when mixed with righteous indignation. I wanted this confrontation over and done. Regardless of the outcome.
Punch drunk but determined, I unsteadily pushed onward a few more feet into the tomb-like silence of the enormous penthouse. Where was he? He had to know I had arrived by any of a dozen means. Such as the 'ding' of the traitorous elevator when it had delivered me into his clutches. Or what about his vaunted vampire senses? Surely in this cavernous silence he could hear the hammering of my heart. It pounded tom-tom-like, beating for the both of us, since his did not need to throb or circulate blood ... or feel love. Worse yet, he doubtless could smell me. All the adrenaline. All the sweaty fear. All the feminine secretions. The vision had left me horny. And, to be blunt, I was throbbing and wet. Without so much as exchanging any words, Constantine had already humiliated me. I felt reduced to his lecherous level, at the total mercy of my appetites, not caring about dignity, or pride, or morals. Just about the urge to get laid. He had to have done this to me. I did not normally go around in an uncomfortable state of arousal. There was a time and a place for everything.
Then again, if there was a perfect place other than my own bedroom in which to get all hot and bothered, maybe it was a vampire progenitor's boudoir? After all, what did I care what he thought about me, one way or the other?
"Constantine." I did not shout or raise my voice.
There came no reply.
I paced still further into his domain. Surprisingly, there was a grouping of velvety sectional couches, oddly arranged in a triangular pattern, covered in metallic pewter. Next came an even more incongruous item, a baby grand piano, its sleek cabinetry glossy white. I rounded one of the support columns and I finally saw his coffin. It sat atop a five-foot high platform, which resembled a miniature ziggurat with stairs running up its sides. The coffin must have been a custom job. I had never seen or heard of such a thing. It was both deep and wide enough for two people, offering plenty of room for a pair of restless sleepers. Like the baby grand, it was pristine white, and, impressively, it had a hinged gull-wing door which just happened to be open.
I lost my bravado when I saw fingers, elegant and artistic, but equally strong and purposeful, grasp the coffin's splendid side. Fingers had to be attached to a body. In this case Constantine's. He had already gotten me randy with very little effort. When he sat up inside his coffin, I knew I was right to be worried. He was bare-chested, possessing slabs of well-defined muscle. His bright blue eyes unerringly trained upon me. With a liquid, inhuman grace of sinew and bone, he began to stand up. I could not tear my own gaze away. His beauty, the arrogant attractive face, the superb, symmetrical body, was dumbfounding.
My mouth went cottony. I licked my lips, regretting the action because it had made Constantine smile, a lush sleepy eyed smile. Porn stars licked their lips like that, but not Avna Soulsmith, damn him! Yet, fascinated, I kept watching, even while feeling degraded by him. I had already seen his beautifully formed posterior, if only in a vision. Any second I would get another eyeful of the flipside! I was afraid to blink.
Constantine disappointed me. He rose to his feet with athletic ease, and, get this, he was wearing a pair of knit burgundy boxer briefs. Very sexy, but not quite revealing enough. Darn! As some small consolation, he did surpass any underwear model that had ever lived and breathed, although he, himself, no longer did. His skin, from this distance, shown flawless and impossibly tanned, covering that perfect form, carved and cut, delicious and defined, beautiful and balanced. His pectorals were fantastic, solid, substantial, sexy. And let's not forget his flat, ripped abdominals down which an inviting trail of hair disappeared into the band of his boxers. Here was Playgirl's next centerfold, if only vampires could be photographed! Of course, that too might be erroneous, just another inaccurate myth promulgated by the Von Hesling Institute of Vampiric Studies.
He was utterly, physically irresistible. Yet, I had to resist. The temptations he offered cost too high a price. In fact, they were incalculable.
Constantine bent down to retrieve a black-on-burgundy patterned silk robe which he shrugged on even as he fluidly stepped from his coffin to descend the stair-like sides of the platform. Never once did his gaze waver from me.
Talk about a god-like entrance!
It was as if he moved in slow motion. Small inconsequential details became important. Like the way his unfastened robe fluttered about him, showcasing his broad chest and bare legs. The soft, seductive padding of his feet. The utter stillness of his hands. As before the middle finger of his right hand bore the heavy golden signet ring, its intricate initial winking at me, hypnotically. I gave myself a mental shake.
Constantine reached the bottom step and without breaking his long stride he came towards me. His pale blue eyes remained focused, laser-like, on me. Their intensity---their very brilliance---increased, sweeping over me from head-to-toe, taking in the unruly mop of my dirty blonde hair, the flattering romantic blouse with crisp white ruffles that offered the slightest peek of collarbone, and the skintight dark denim jeans, where he lingered on the curves and hollows of waist, hips, and pelvis. Madam Waken's cursory inspection had made me feel naked. His made me feel not only exposed but invaded.
Under his powerful gaze, I felt nailed to the floor. Not that I necessarily wanted to run away, but it's always nice to have that option. Since I felt paralyzed, whether or not I actually was, I stood, seemingly passive, as he neared me, closer and closer, until his robe slightly brushed my fingers. He circled me, the silken garment touching me twice more, on my right hip and then my left arm. He glided like a shark drawn to blood. He stopped at my side, a hair's breadth from me.
With a soothing murmur, he reached out to gently clasp my wrist. He then, bowing like a regal coal-haired courtier, slowly raised it. He kissed me there on the soft inner side. On the pounding pulse point. Blood seemed to gather there, scorching and energized, drawn by the summons of his sinful, supple lips. Yearning after that warm pool below my skin, Constantine touched that vulnerable spot with the tip of his tongue which he ran enticingly, incitingly over the heel of my hand, coming to rest in my semi-curled palm. He then straightened, releasing my arm.
I weaved a tiny bit on the balls of my feet.
"You disturbed my rest." He spoke first. His voice, like a deep resonant purr, gave me chills.
I almost felt incapable of putting two words together, until he broke his own spell. He made an exaggerated show of inhaling my scent. His eyes hooded over as if savoring some small sexual frission. That really pissed me off.
I very significantly stepped away from him. "Just returning the favor."
A scowl suddenly marred his brow. He did not quite have the upper hand and it annoyed him.
I pressed on while I had a slight advantage, discovering the more I concentrated on speaking the weaker his hold on me became. "I don't want any part of your vampire head games. Stop them."
"Head games?" He repeated, feigning innocence, while making the simple words sound obscene.
"Whatever it is your doing to me, stop. Must I spell it out for you? No more sleeping when you sleep, waking when you wake. No more sensitivity to direct sunlight." I pulled the obnoxious sunglasses from where I had clipped them to my jeans and shook them at him. "And no more invading my dreams."
At that last admission, I knew that I had let something crucial slip.
Constantine smiled triumphantly. His extra pearly whites glinted at me. "Ahh, my dear little Soulsmith, how exceptional! You are quite the sensitive, as, indeed, your untutored aura, your intrinsic essence, attests. Few are so gifted as to unconsciously establish an empathic dream state. This effortless psychic rapport pleases me. As for the rest," he waved his elegant hand in a negligent, dismissive way, "you attribute far too much power to me."
"You're lying." My chest heaved with deep ragged breaths. I didn't connect with him! I didn't bring him into my unconscious! It was the reverse! He infiltrated my dreaming, my mind. He lied. He lied. He lied. Didn't he? In that most unhappy instant, I would have given anything to read his thoughts, dangerous as that would doubtless prove. The muscles of my face tightened angrily. "And, believe you me, Constantine, I don't overestimate your powers. I cannot begin to conceive the things you're capable of."
He flashed a devilish smile, beguiling, entrancing, leering. "A demonstration of a few of the more unseemly seems in order. Shall I?"
He made no move towards me, but I quickly sidestepped even further from him, afraid he would start groping. "Get your mind out of the gutter."
"If I must." He shrugged his broad shoulders in a defeated, world weary fashion. "I merely offered to ... umm ... ease your tensions."
"Sex is not why I came here." Although I felt as if I had engaged in it. Several times already. Truth to tell, his little tongue exercise upon my wrist and palm had left me weak in the knees. Not to mention that my nipples had hardened. Thank goodness that they didn't show through my blouse. Much.
"I could be a gentleman and not contradict you, but you are most obviously suffering from a state of arousal. With which, in a most gentlemanly fashion, I do offer my services." He grinned, a radiant you-cannot-possibly-resist-me grin.
"If I were horny, which I am not, it's because of the psychic pornography you threw at me!"
"Psychic pornography.... "Constantine rolled the words over his tongue, quite taken with the idea, and doing a superb imitation of someone never having heard of the concept. "An interesting novelty, no doubt. Perhaps you could provide me with one or more?" He raised a curious eyebrow.
"I'm not the one whose penthouse reeks from innumerable sexual exploits."
"Here, again, I must contradict." He was absolutely serious. "No mortal---until now---has ever entered here. Of my people, other than Gerard Lamphere and the twins, none has unrestricted access." His shiny blue gaze fastened upon me like a vise. "Perhaps, you had a premonition?"
I did not like that suggestion. "I never have had." And that was the end of that, as far as I was concerned. He was totally wrong. I never saw into the future.
All at once, Constantine dropped his seductive playfulness. "If you haven't come to engage in a tryst, why then have you come here, Miss Soulsmith?"
"To get information about Tanya. Pure and simple. Madam Waken wasn't very helpful, I'm afraid." So I told a white lie. Sue me. "If you hadn't hi-jacked the elevator, we wouldn't be having this, or any, conversation. I want to help Tanya. After which, I want nothing more to do with you or your kind."
"So I gather." He crossed his arms over his chest, his satiny black-on-burgundy robe shifting with the movement, proving a bit of a distraction. "You declined my offer to reside here at the Constantinople. I make the offer again. Your safety is paramount." He paused, then added, "We both know who killed Officer Donovan. Let me protect you."
"I'm touched. Really. There certainly couldn't be some ulterior motive in all your concern for my well being, now, could there?" Sarcasm dripped from each syllable thicker than maple syrup. "But not on your life---or mine---would I ever shelter under the same roof as you."
"I can extend much in the way of hospitality." His pale blue eyes were riveted upon my face. He sought to ensnare my will, to gain control of me. His voice was equally beguiling, soft, reasonable, cajoling, somehow whispering beneath his spoken words of steamy enjoyable nights, and long languorous days. He offered pleasure of unknown magnitude. "There is nothing I would not do for your comfort. Simply ask. Ask for anything and it shall be yours."
"No." The word croaked from out of my dry throat. I actually regretted saying no. How sick is that?
Constantine's silky façade vanished. Fury replaced it. His anger, invisible but tangible, lashed out, nearly blinding me.
I flinched in reaction to a burning pain in my head. Constantine saw and suddenly leashed his anger. My pain dulled almost immediately.
"Some host you would make." I glanced at him with revulsion. "If I should defy you over anything, you'd kill me with an aneurysm."
"Not intentionally." His words were clipped. And sincere. He had not meant to direct his angry frustration at me, or perhaps, until now, he had not even known it was possible. No one else, I'd bet, made a habit of challenging him, while I, on the other hand, seemed intent on nothing else.
"That's reassuring." I rubbed at my temple. "But dead is still dead."
"Unless one is undead." His unspoken, underlying proposal---to make me as he was---came through loud and clear. "Consider shedding this frail mortality."
"Don't even go there. Sharing eternity with you would be no bed of roses." However, try as I might to deny it, the idea of sharing a bed of any sort with him held a great, lurid appeal. That traitorous realization made me very glad that a few feet separated us, although his power permeated that space. The idea of 'turning' me was 'turning' him on! His sexual tension pulsed in my veins. To diminish its affect, I insulted him with a derogatory phrase coined and used by Vampyrophobes. "I'm not into stiffs."
I barely saw Constantine move before he was right in my face. At such close proximity, I felt a stinging near my chest. I suspected this to be another of his twisted sexual overtures.
He smiled, revealing to me for the first time the full awful extension of his fangs. It wasn't as repellant as I would wish. "You are smoldering, Miss Soulsmith."
A denial formed on my lips. How dare he keep propositioning me! If he kept at it, he might be able to wear me down and take advantage of me.
His wicked smile widened. "More precisely, your cross is smoldering."
I could feel the cross growing hot in reaction to the progenitor's nearness. I glanced down and saw it's scorch-marked shape outlined on my blouse where it lay in the hollow of my breasts.
I jerked at the long silver chain, trying to pull it away from me. Its intense heat not only burned the fabric of my blouse but my skin, as well. I couldn't work it loose.
"Back away," I snarled.
Constantine did, but not very far. The cross cooled somewhat, but the spot still smarted. I very much wanted to remove my blouse and inspect the burn. Unfortunately, I had an audience of one who would be more than thrilled to watch. So, I did the next best thing. I undid the top two buttons and used the edges to fan myself. With the buttons undone, I was able to pull the cross from inside of my frilly top to let it dangle down my shirtfront.
Constantine cocked his head to one side. "On occupational hazard, I presume."
A minor profanity sprung from my lips. I never---make that seldom---used the major one. "Screw you."
"Is that an invitation?" He did not laugh. At least, not out loud.
"Just try it and see."
"Not unless you take off your necklace. Otherwise, we would both probably instantaneously combust."
"I think I'll leave it just where it is." My next words were thoughtless and flippant. But they also reflected how I truly felt. "So long as it can keep you at bay."
His playfulness ceased. "You place your safety in that trinket, yet you refuse my offer of protection. That cross cannot stop the likes of Rasputin. Or me." With unnatural, almost-blurred-beyond-vision speed, Constantine ripped the silver chain from about my neck, flinging it away with the same motion, sending it spiraling while the chain's molten links rained in all directions.
He physically towered over me. He psychically smothered me.
But I couldn't let him intimidate me, although I was basically at his mercy. "How safe a refuge have you to offer? The Constantinople? A five star hotel, which you own. The whole world knows that you rest here, some of the time, if not all. Even a psychopathic progenitor can figure this one out. The only security measure I have seen is that you don't occupy the sub-basement level, as tradition," and I cursed the Von Heslings for promoting more inaccuracies, "would dictate." I scowled, still wondering about his unique lair, the entire penthouse level, aboveground rather than below.
"There ARE," Constantine's voice deepened, "other protections." His gorgeous frame leaned into me. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on anything other than the contact of his groin against my stomach. But I persevered.
"I suppose it unlikely that anyone would suspect you lived on the thirteenth floor." I admitted grudgingly. "But it still seems too dangerous, too much possibility of exposure to the sun. Why risk it?"
"I enjoy an occasional risk." And his eyes scanned over me, pretending to measure then dismiss me as a threat. "Nor should my defenses be minimized simply because they are unseen." To emphasize this boast, Constantine's pale blue eyes shimmered, and for one long second, I felt surrounded by something ... supernatural. Magic guarded him. "Besides which, I can oftentimes sense others' approach, not just yours, little Soulsmith." Constantine pressed that much closer to me.
I refused to be distracted, even by the prodigious, and flattering, length of his 'distraction' presently gouging into my ribs. How was it possible that he could awaken at the approach of an intruder? Vampires were supposed to sleep the sleep of the dead. Most likely it resulted from being a progenitor, but I wasn't persuaded. "No, not this much risk, not without a good reason."
He gave a snappish reply. "Such risks are non-existent, and only in your way of thinking. My species is not bloodthirsty or crazed. We don't prey upon ourselves. 'Tis the hatred of mortals that poses a danger."
"But why the penthouse? It doesn't make sense. Vampires historically dwell underground. "Unless, of course, the entire field of vampire experts, first and foremost being the Von Heslings, had gotten this factoid wrong? This was a distinct possibility.
He sighed at my dogged refusal to change the subject. "My coffin is itself a safeguard. It is more like an impregnable vault, fireproof, waterproof, airtight." With each adjective Constantine used, his dislike of them became palpable. The coffin imprisoned him.
I absorbed his strange comments. "I supposed that you had commissioned it made big enough to hold two, for a partner." I gulped a knot of corresponding fear, sharing his revulsion of the box to which he must surrender himself during the light of day, and I was frightened anew, of him, of his monstrous side, because I had stumbled onto his secret, which I could not hold back. I breathed it aloud. "You're claustrophobic."
He paused long enough for my heart, pressed against his steel-like body, to make one rapid, terrified beat. How could he let me live, knowing what I knew, knowing the particular vulnerability of a progenitor? Tired lines seemed to form around his beautiful ice-blue eyes. "More accurate to say I suffer from insomnia brought on by mild claustrophobia, especially," and here he smiled down at me, still snuggled up against the VERY hard-bodied length of him, a position that I would never have dreamed of in a million years, "when there is something I find particularly troublesome, or annoying, or disturbing. Pity me, little Soulsmith, that I find you to be all three."
I did feel a sliver of pity for him. To spend half of eternity---the daylight portion---locked in a coffin, a place so confining and terrible that you could barely stand to close your eyes and sleep. Even a vampire such as Constantine, whose major flaw seemed to be a predilection for sin and vice, deserved better. He was not a brutal killer like Rasputin, who preyed upon both vampire and humankind alike. But I could not let Constantine know that I had the slightest of soft spots where he was concerned.
"I have none to spare for your kind."
"That's not true." He bent his head down so that his lovely mouth was close to my ear ... and, thus, my throat. I strove not to pull away, braving that peril as proof of my own strength. "You pity Tanya enough to enter my world."
I shut my eyes tight, expecting a strike to my exposed neck. "For Tanya's sake alone." But nothing happened, no bite, no rip, no nibble. I fought, but lost, the urge to steal a quick, shielded glance at him.
His own eyes were now half-shut, as if drowsy. "I feel I must soon retire. But can I not persuade you to join me, Miss Soulsmith? Can I not entice you? Can I not tempt you?" Yearning poured over me. His murmur, soft and soothing, turned my limbs leaden, my mind mushy. My lids sunk closed, the better to FEEL rather than see. Automatically my head tipped back. The cords of my neck stretched, extended ... solely for his delectation.
Constantine nuzzled there, languidly. For one lovely second, his lips sucked, his tongue teased, then he trailed those sips downward to the hollow of my throat. While his mouth tasted that tender skin, his hands, I dimly realized, were pulling the tail of my crisp white blouse from the waistband of my jeans.
"What ... what are you doing?" My query was breathless, confused.
"Nothing." Constantine, using the diversion of his seductive mouth against my throat, gently tugged my shirt free. Its dainty buttons popped open one-by-one with his deft assistance. I scarcely noticed that my tummy, then my ribs, then my brassiere were now partially bared. He folded back the halves of my shirt to claim even more.
My breath sped up from fear and arousal. My eyes remained closed, my thoughts muddled. Only my flesh under his caresses was alert. "I don't think ... you should ... stop.... "Befuddlement strung my words of protest together incorrectly, incoherently.
"Trust me, I won't." Constantine's lips traced further down my chest. When he neared the hollow of my breasts where the cross had burned me, he hesitated, then ever so gently, ever so thoroughly laved at the spot with his warm, wet tongue. All my pain eased, and I slumped into him in relief.
"Oh," I wheezed out, blindly standing there reveling in the surcease of that small hurt, in the lulling, constant, provocative sweep of his tongue, "that feels good. That feels so incredibly good."
He grunted. "It just gets better from here." Constantine tweaked each of my nipples through the thin material of my bra. Nor did he let up that touch. He rolled and pinched those peaked nubs, then soothed them with swirls from the pads of his fingers.
I inhaled sharply. His pinches, slight yet stimulating, excitedly shot through my nerves. In reaction, my closed lids fluttered, as did the muscles of my vagina.
"Oh, shit," I gritted out the obscenity. The thrilled sexual rush had the side-effect of rousing, somewhat, my common sense. I should demand he stop! But I didn't. I couldn't. Haziness still clouded much of my thinking.
"I know exactly how you feel," Constantine growled. "Let me show you."
He cupped a hand around one of my own and dragged it along the firmness of his belly. Dragged it downward over sharp cut muscle and sparse but rough hair. Forced it under the tight elastic of his boxers. "Here. Feel me. Learn my need. Ease my hunger."
And he wrapped my fingers around his erection, big, throbbing, feverish. We both moaned. His in satisfaction of that sinful clasp, mine in appreciation of his perfect length, his huge girth, his eager pulse.
"Constantine.... "I tearfully whispered his name, because I, shocked back into full control of my actions, had to make a choice---either have sex with him or refuse him. I had too much self respect to engage in an act under the pretense that he was in control. If I acquiesced, I would have to live with the consequences, the regrets, of having casual sex when I never ever had done so before. I believed in deep, committed relationships. For me, sex came last, not first. So decided, I forced my eyes open to look him in the face. The bliss on his features changed as he sensed that he had lost his hold upon me.
But he didn't accept defeat gracefully. "Stroke me."
"No." But, lord help me, I wanted to! I wanted, very much, to fully appreciate the velvety hardness so hot and turgid within my palm! Instead, I unclasped my fingers from about him and snaked my hand out of his briefs.
"I could make you ... do anything." He barely contained his wrath. "I could have you kneel and suck me into your mouth. I could bend you over a couch and take you in the ass. Or I could put you against the wall and plow for as long as I wished."
Carnal images of just such kinky acts besieged me, and I almost begged that he command me to perform each. But overshadowing---ruining---the idea of sex was this implied threat of violence. Unable to withstand his anger, I dropped my gaze down to watch as I calmly re-buttoned my shirt.
"There's no doubt you could make me do ... almost ... anything," I said quietly, "but I don't think you will. That's not your style. You might beguile, but you don't force. You might entrance, but you don't rape. Right?" I suddenly met and challenged him with an intense stare.
"Yes, you are right." But his jaw clenched around his frustration. Then, right before my eyes, he suppressed that emotion. The tight lines around his eyes, the clench of his mouth vanished. He became charming. "Prove that there are no hard feelings? Come and tuck me in to bed?" He was lecherous to the bitter end.
"Sorry, no." My smile was pensive. "Even half asleep you would prove too much a handful."
"Then, goodnight, my little Soulsmith."
Behind me, as if on cue, I heard the bell-like 'ding' of the returning elevator. I marveled that Constantine was going to release me. I was free to go.
He had already turned back towards the astonishing ziggurat-styled platform which held his coffin. I watched his elegant silk robed back, his beautiful derriere, his finely muscled legs. It was a long look, as I vowed it was to be the last. Constantine, I decided, was a danger to me on a par with Rasputin. They would both tear my soul apart, if given the opportunity. Which I did not intend to do. Therefore, it was not a simple good night that I exchanged with Constantine.
"Good bye," I said, and good bye was exactly what I meant as I headed for the elevator without a single glance back. Did I have the slightest regret as I left the penthouse? Sure, I was leaving a twenty five hundred dollar cross, now seared and blackened with carbon scoring, behind.
I managed to drive myself home, feeling like a limp dishrag. I was exhausted, but I could not tell if it was my own genuine fatigue, or a residual feeling from Constantine. He had succumbed to the power of the sun almost in the same instant that I had gotten onto the elevator to escape his penthouse lair.
After having parked my car in the spot behind my shop, I cut through the narrow gap between my building and my next-door-neighbor's, which just happened to be the best bakery in the city. I inhaled the scent of breads, cakes, and pies without my usual relish, another indicator that I was not quite myself. I normally had a giant sweet tooth.
I entered De Facto Self Defense, setting the old-fashioned bell to ringing as I did so, causing Ginny, who sat slouched over a pile of bills scattered across my desk, to glance up at me. She kept the store's books on a rather forlorn computer situated in a back corner cubbyhole just underneath the wrought iron staircase. I paused in the doorway and reversed the 'Come in We're Open' sign. It was almost five o'clock.
"Christ, Avna, what happened to you?" Ginny gaped, referring to the cross-shaped burn on my beautiful frilly blouse.
My face screwed up as if I had bitten into a lemon. How should I answer without revealing too much about Constantine's 'mild case of insomnia' and the fact that he had been awake and frisky? Best stick with the truth. "I had a small run in with Constantine. Seems a progenitor isn't necessarily as vulnerable to the power of the sun as is the rest of his kind. These marks are a souvenir."
"Wow," Ginny murmured, suitably impressed. "Nothing can rouse Gerard once the sun has risen. I should know. I've tried everything."
I stared at her wordlessly, chastisingly, and she had the grace to blush. "What took you to the Constantinople, anyway? You've made it very plain that you don't want anything to do with ... vampires."
"That's true. But what was done to Tanya is so inhumane that I can't ignore it. I've got to help." Self doubt crept into my voice, so that I just managed a whisper, "If I can."
Ginny nodded. "What did you come up with? Anything?"
"Other than an unexpected encounter with a prince of darkness?" I laughed ruefully, sliding myself into the chair kept for clients, propping my feet onto my desk. I rubbed at my eyes and stifled a yawn. "Not much. It seems Tanya still worked for the Escort Service, even after having been turned by Max. I guess a vampire has to earn a living like everybody else, even if ostensibly through the world's oldest profession. Madam Waken spoke of her very highly."
Ginny became defensive. Her shoulder-length coppery-red hair shifted on her shoulders as she mutinously tossed her head. "It is not a prostitution ring, Avna, although," her self righteous anger slipped a bit, "some of the girls do accommodate their dates with some of their more exotic requests. But the Escort Service does not solicit that sort of business!"
"Glad to hear it. Since I'm now an employee. On a temporary basis, of course."
Ginny nearly exploded. "Have you lost your mind?"
"What's wrong, if it's so legitimate? It's my only lead to Tanya. One of her dates, or perhaps one of the other girls, knows something."
"Don't you think that the girls were questioned? That her last appointment was checked out?"
"By whom?"
"Gerard and Maxamillian. They discreetly investigated at the Club, at the Escort Service, even her last several clients, especially a Mr. Hamilton. They came up empty handed. That's when Constantine wanted the authorities---and you---brought in."
"Not to disparage either Max or Gerard, but maybe I can ferret out what they couldn't. I'm an unknown quantity, not one of Constantine's very own henchmen."
"That's only partially true. Locally you've got a twisted sort of reputation. And what about the Lantaglia Voodoo case? The tabloids ate that up. So, like it or not, you do have a bit of notoriety yourself."
"Au contraire. Avna Soulsmith does, but Charity, the call girl, doesn't."
Ginny rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Charity?"
"What's wrong with it?" I prickled defensively then muttered, "Besides being unoriginal?"
"Nothing." She openly giggled. "Only I cannot picture uptight you as a charitable hooker, ready to give and give and give until it hurts."
"Stranger things have happened." And I could not restrain the erogenous memory of Constantine licking my wrist and palm and how much I had enjoyed the sensation. Or, even more vivid and unwanted, was my recall of Constantine, hot and firm, clasped in my fingers. I tried not to squirm in my chair and decided to excuse myself before Ginny could ferret out my discomfort. "I'm about ready to turn in for a nap. I'm pooped." I yawned behind my hand. "Thanks for watching the place this afternoon. How'd we do by the way?"
"Really good. I sold some crystals, a couple of wards against the evil eye, refused the sale of a love potion to a minor, took an order for an old style mortar and pestle, and," Ginny made a bit of a face, "told a reporter you were unavailable for comment about the Donovan murder."
"Someone from the Gazetteer?" I hated reporters, one in particular.
"Yeah, Patrice Blanchard." Ginny spoke her name like it tasted unpleasant. "She was totally obnoxious, wanting your reaction on the murder, particularly as Donovan was the victim of a vampire attack, would he rise again? Everybody knows better than that."
"She may work for a legitimate paper but she's strictly into yellow journalism, Ginny." Patrice Blanchard had, in fact, covered the Lantaglia Voodoo Murder case, always trying to sensationalize the facts, which did not need to be inflated. Not when they included Hetti Chambogo, a gorgeous deranged voodoo princess, and several corpses, including the chopped up remains of her lover, Salvatore Lantaglia, spread like so much fertilizer in his own apple orchard. "I'm permanently unavailable to that woman." I yawned, this time massively, then got up and went to the circular stairs to my apartment. "I've absolutely gotta get some beauty sleep. I have an appointment with Mr. Hamilton for tonight. I plan on checking out whether or not he's Rasputin. If he's not, then maybe I'll ask him a few questions."
"I don't like it, Avna. Not that I believe for one minute that you'll run in to any trouble. But there's always that possibility."
"I'm not too keen on it either. But it's the only avenue open to me. I need to do something." I began to climb upward, when I paused. I wanted to reassure us both. "Don't worry. I'll be fine."
"Check in with me, okay?"
"You got it." And, moving on automatic pilot, I went upstairs where I stripped down to my bra and panties and flopped into bed. I instantly fell into a deep well of sleep, and I awoke with a start at the very instant of sundown. Nothing of Constantine had intruded into my dreams, or so I believed since I could not recall dreaming at all.
I nuked a frozen dinner and ate without much appetite. Next I showered and dressed in a formfitting sleeveless tan bodysuit and a long denim skirt, after which I did considerably more grooming than I normally wasted any time on. Charity had a certain image to present. Cheap and Easy. I went heavy on a deep plum eye shadow, chose a matching shade of lipstick, and brushed on bronzer. Despite my best efforts, I did not look as slutty as this rendezvous required. My outfit was tight, but not outright sleazy. My makeup was a tad dramatic, but not truly over-the-top. The only item that was sexy were my undies, and they were bikinis as opposed to thongs. Never let it be said that I don't have a wild streak.
I grabbed up a fanny pack, a black vinyl job with an easy open flap, into which I tucked a small wooden cross (no more silver-plated heat-conducting ones for me), a small atomizer filled with holy water, and the ubiquitous flashlight. I also crammed in the computer printout with the name, time, and address of my Bete Noir Escort assignment, although the information seemed indelibly fixed in my memory: Mr. Calvin Hamilton, twelve o'clock midnight, or, more poetically, the witching hour, at the Tattoo Emporium, located on the East Side of Charleston.
I had just over an hour and a half to get there. Plenty of time. I meant to arrive early in order to reconnoiter the place, to scope out whether or not it was safe. I flipped off the lights and, using the dim ever burning nightlight above the stairwell, quickly descended the gentle corkscrew of steps. Halfway down, the bell pull at the De Facto Self Defense entrance jangled. I stopped in mid-step, frowning, wondering at the identity of my visitor. My curiosity was immediately rewarded when a wary little shiver, accompanied by a low buzz in my back teeth, ran down my spine. Both were minute and faded away the second I realized that a vampire stood on my doorstep.
I was absolutely certain that the presence was an immortal, a reanimate. I was equally as certain, with a hint of disappointment, that it was not Constantine.
I crossed the familiar shop in the semi-darkness. Street lights filtered in through the huge window front, also shedding light onto the figure before the front door. My earlier disappointment at not receiving a visit from Constantine was replaced by pleasant surprise at seeing Josh Warner. In the shadowy evening, I could just make out a box negligently tucked under one arm.
I unlocked the door, thinking that he, a vampire, was a sight for sore eyes! Gone was the formal tuxedo, his work uniform, replaced by a casual pair of faded blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt. He had even more muscles than I had realized, his biceps revealed to be large and solid and impressive. Ditto for the expanse of his chest, broad and well-defined underneath the t-shirt. His soft brown hair curled away from the nape of his neck.
When he saw me, his mega-watt, dimpled smile flashed, as did something within the liquid brown of his irises. His attraction felt genuine. "Hello, Avna." His voice came out rough and husky.
"Josh."
He noticed my outfit, the fanny pack, the fact that the lights were all turned off, and he frowned. "Were you on your way out?"
"Actually ... yes." I did not want to send him on his way, but I had a job to do. For Tanya's sake. She had been missing for over two weeks. Two hellish weeks.
"Then I shouldn't keep you." But he made no move from just inside the doorway. It seemed a very possessive pose, because his body filled the entire door frame. If not for my invitation of the other night, he would have had to stand outside the doorway. I had always made a conscious effort to live, feel, and make the downstairs business as much my home as the upstairs apartment. In fact, I had gone so far as to sleep downstairs on several occasions.
I waited for the slight awkwardness between us to pass. It was never going to, so I asked him about the box nestled under his arm which he seemed to have forgotten about altogether. "Should I beware of Greeks bearing gifts?"
The heart-winning smile wiped from Josh's face. Instead, his mouth set in a grim line. A taut jaw muscle twitched. He rather forcefully thrust the enormous red-foil heart-shaped, undeniably expensive box of candy at me. "This is from Constantine."
I numbly accepted the huge red wrapped box and noted a small card taped to the top. Automatically, I flipped it open to read the finely penned note.
A sweet treat until next we meet. To whet your appetite. For more.
When I peeked under the lid, I discovered the contents weren't your basic fattening assortment of chocolates. "Cordial cherries, the pervert," I growled, not missing the risqué allusion of sending a woman cherries. I now understood, actually shared, Josh's anger.
"He made you his errand boy for his nasty candy gram. I could strangle the son-of-a-bitch." I tossed the heavy box into the wastebasket next to my desk, the pretty red foil flashed at such an indignity.
"I would be tempted to do so, as well, if I could." His warm brown eyes stared deeply into mine, like a man looks at a woman, not like a vampire looks at a meal. "But I don't mind." He quirked a smile in my direction. "I get to be with you with his permission."
"Yeah." I gulped. "Too bad I have to go out." I had an escape. And I needed one! Josh, his chemistry, his intensity, his appeal, was nearly as compelling as Constantine. Whereas, I had, so far, only just managed to keep Constantine at arm's length (or would that be at fingers length since I had held him, his oh-so large cock, in my hand?), I had shared a kiss, hot and suggestive, with Josh. I had, also, gone against my every principle and invited him inside my place to view my proverbial etchings.
I repeated myself, nearly stuttering. "I ... I ... have to go out."
Josh lifted an eyebrow. "You're off in quite a hurry?" He was fishing for my destination.
"Just business." That wasn't stretching the truth too far.
"Maybe I can give you a lift?" Josh stubbornly held on.
"I wouldn't want to take you out of your way."
"No problem. I have all night. Afterwards, we can go for a drink ... or something."
I tried to shake him loose. "I'll be tied up for most of the night. I couldn't ask you to wait."
"Avna," he said, sighing, "exactly where are you going?"
Rather than answer (or blast him for!) his presumptuous question, I asked him one of my own. "Why do you need to know?"
He guiltily glanced away. "Constantine has ordered me to guard you tonight. I'm to safeguard you from Rasputin." Before I could protest, he added an ominous warning. "If you don't cooperate with me, Constantine will take more drastic action. He will, Avna. And you won't like the alternative."
How did I get so entangled, so quickly, with Constantine? More importantly, how did I get untangled? There was only one way---find Tanya. Once that was accomplished, he would have no reason to intrude into my affairs, even if I had to resort to a restraining order. Stalking, especially by vampires, was nowadays taken very seriously by the law.
"Tell me where you're headed, Avna."
"On a so-called date with Calvin Hamilton. I'm to meet him at the Tattoo Emporium. He was Tanya's last appointment through the Escort Service. So, I thought I should do a little investigating. I don't intend to get too close. I'm just going to snoop."
"I think it's a waste of time. Max and Gerard checked him out when Tanya first went missing. But let's go. I promise to stay out of the way. You won't know I'm anywhere around." Sternly, he added, "I'll be silent backup."
"All right." In point of fact, I was glad to have someone trustworthy watching over my shoulder. That a vampire could feel trustworthy with my life, with my safety, was an idea I was not ready to examine. I locked up the shop and accompanied him down the street. He opened the passenger side door of his banana yellow sports car and gallantly handed me in. A breeze, presaging a storm, flipped the hem of my denim skirt before he shut the door. Josh surreptitiously, flatteringly, glanced at my exposed leg.
He then went around the vehicle and got in behind the wheel. Before he turned the ignition, I asked him something that had been eating at me for awhile. "Did you follow me home the other night on Constantine's orders? The night you saved me from Snitch?"
He half turned in his seat. His grin nearly blinded me. "Nope. That was all my own idea."
"Good." I spoke so softly that a mortal would not have heard me. Josh did. The car was now running. He put it in gear and then very casually he placed that same hand on the top of my thigh. Just as casually he ended the small intimacy, but not before sensing the shiver that ran throughout my body.
"Give me the address."
I told him, then sat back and tried to compose myself. After all, Charity had a date, but, alas, it wasn't with Josh. It was with some other vampire.
The moon waxed full on this early summer night. It was beautiful, nearly golden, hovering above the treetops, casting a light sheen over the city. From here on it would wane. I dreaded the new moon, when it disappeared entirely from the sky. Vampires might not need it to see in the dark, but I did, and I needed every scrap of advantage I could get.
Yet, as we drove along, a gathering of storm clouds threatened my precious moonlight. Black billows crowded closer to the moon's glorious face. Very soon a violent summer storm would erupt. With thunder. With lightening. With rain. Not exactly the weather I would have ordered for a nocturnal expedition.
Josh drove slowly through the quiet city streets, into the mostly residential blocks, mindful of the 30 mph speed limits, and the many one way streets. The homes of Charleston's East Side were lovely, big Victorian structures of red brick, two-and-three storied, with wonderful covered porches, large enough to simultaneously hold enormous patio sets, masses of kids, and a family pet or two. Each house even had a decent yard, some with dogwoods or rhododendrons or elaborate gardens. Block after block of such marvelous old houses comprised this part of the city and well-maintained sidewalks lined these blocks, great for strolling or jogging or just chatting with neighbors. And, for the hardier power-walkers, the State Capital Complex, with the gorgeous gold-domed Cass Gilbert-designed State Capital Building, set amidst magnificent landscapes that included magnolias and oaks, historical statuary, heart-wrenching war memorials, wishing pools and fountains, was not more than a stone's throw away. Too bad that wasn't my destination.
"It's beautiful here." Josh echoed my own thoughts. "A great place to grow up."
"Did you? Grow up around here?" My question slipped out.
"No. I'm a good ol' country boy. From Roane County." He had to prompt me to be as forthcoming. "What about you, Avna? You seem part and parcel of the city."
"Well, sort of. I was raised just outside of the city limits. It felt rural, yet you could be in town within fifteen minutes." With those words, my lips shut tight on personal information. Not that my childhood was painful, just the opposite. But I disliked revisiting such a golden time: the people, places, and things of those days were gone. And I was all alone.
By now, we had almost reached the address of my euphemistic 'date'. I ordered Josh to park well away from the Tattoo Emporium. He slowed, pulled in to the curb, then shut off the engine to study the length of the now windswept street.
The Tattoo Emporium, a converted Victorian house with a scraggly, neglected lawn and an overgrown ornamental hedge bordering---and concealing---its entire foundation, sat well back from the street and the houses to either side. It looked isolated. A more interesting fact was the numerous red and white for sale signs that dotted the yards of the neighboring houses, which were darkened, abandoned, silent. By contrast, a neon sign in aqua and orange blazed out Tattoo Emporium across the roof of Calvin Hamilton's home. Secured to the eaves of the wide wooden porch was a stark patio bulb, there to draw tattoo enthusiasts, but instead drawing a crazy swirl of moths.
"Still think this is a waste of time?" I-told-you-so was written all over my face.
"You were right." Josh groused, peering into the dark. Rain had begun to pelt the car's roof. Rivulets streamed down the windshield. He swiveled to face me. "And there's no way I'm going to let you go into that place."
"If I intended on going in there, I'd like to see you try to stop me."
Josh smiled, a quick appreciative quirk of his lips. "I'm glad you're being reasonable."
"Not reasonable, just realistic. That place is ... evil." We were almost half a block away, just another car inconspicuously parked in a sparse row of neighborhood vehicles. The landscape about us was becoming increasingly obscured by the night and the rain, yet I could sense, if not see, that the house radiated bad vibes. Rasputin, while not there now, had left a pall upon the place. Somehow, someway, I was positively aware, absolutely assured, of his absence! Even given that fact, I was more than ready to leave. I had confirmed Rasputin's whereabouts, his lair. Let Constantine handle the dirty work. Let Constantine dispatch his nemesis.
I slanted my head towards Josh. "I've seen enough. Nothing on god's green earth could get me in there." A sudden bolt of lightening arced directly overhead, accompanied by an enormous rolling crack of thunder which punctuated my words. My teeth even jarred at the explosive sound. The world went bright as day, frozen in a strobe-like effect, revealing a pack of vampires surrounding the car.
One was on the hood. "Wrongo, scrumptious, because I'm taking you inside." The thunder still roared as the vampire punched his fist through the middle of the windshield. Thousands of glass shards flew inward. I barely had time to fling my arms over my face to protect my eyes. Josh tried to turn the ignition, but a second and third vampire had already bashed through the driver's side windows. One, mangy and black toothed, grappled Josh into a head lock while the other ripped the steering column sideways into an inoperable angle.
Josh was still struggling against the two when the ringleader lurched nearer. "Come to me, you sweet little morsel." He stooped low there upon the hood of the car.
I pushed back against the seat. My hands fumbled with the seat belt, then managed to undo it. The next burst of lightening illuminated the crouched shape of the vampire framed within the gaping jagged windshield. Uncannily, I looked him full in the face, turned to stone by my own personal Medusa. His compelling eyes, dark, sparkling pools of India Ink, hypnotic, almost on a par with Constantine's mesmerism, snared me. In that brief instant, their sheen turned avid, curious, appraising as he studied the contours of my face, the heavy mussed weight of my blonde hair, the frantic rise and fall of my chest. Something wild and joyous shuddered through him.
The lightening faded, but the shimmer of his eyes did not. He, unlike the others marauding around us, was alluring, attractive, that difference in and of itself enough to isolate him amongst them, but he even felt different, less vicious.
He made a soft murmur that sought compliance, that hypnotized. "Don't resist. Don't fight. Don't struggle." Unspoken within his compulsion seemed to be a real reluctance to hurt me.
But I did fight. I couldn't help myself! I had to! I shoved at him and smashed my fists into his forearms when he reached down towards me. He chuckled at the blows, sweeping them aside as he grasped me firmly and began to haul me out. My kicking legs scraped and banged against the dashboard, then against the wicked rim of the broken glass windscreen. One shin went a little numb. Then, with one bodily jerk, he drew me up and out until I stood enfolded by him upon the front end of the car. Possessively, he pinioned me to him, like an obscene hood ornament.
"DogBoy, Trey, finish off Sir Vlad Galahad. Then you can rejoin the rest of us." He then spoke to the squat beefy vampire standing at the front of the car. "Back off, Beluga, so that we can get down."
But the grotesque vampire scowled. "Hand her over, Thomas. Share her." From the surrounding wind-tossed rain-spattered darkness, evil voices chorused him.
Thomas' arms closed a fraction tighter around my shivering body. He didn't want to hand me over. His inky black glittering gaze swept over my face. He squeezed my middle, trying to hearten me. And, underneath the dwindling roll of thunder, he leaned in closer and spoke, whispered, to me. "I have no choice," he quietly uttered, "neither do you. Simply play along. Maybe we'll both keep our skins."
"Here, Beluga, catch her if you can." That was all the warning Thomas could offer before he flung me off of the car. Beluga, aptly nicknamed after a species of whale, in fact made little effort to catch me. I basically bounced against his protruding stomach, thankfully falling onto rain soaked ground rather than concrete. I caught the brunt of the impact with my shoulder. Beluga yanked me up by the roots of my short, mussy blonde hair. My left arm and shoulder were numb but unbroken, at least so I hoped. I could wiggle my fingers, if I tried very, very hard.
"Gently, gently." The leader, Thomas, crooned. He leapt to the ground without so much as a grunt when he landed. "She's alive, and Rasputin wants her to stay that way. She's a dainty niblet. So have a care."
Beluga questioned these disappointing orders. "Don't be a spoilsport, Thomas. Let us have some fun with her."
"In due course." Thomas drawled out the words, sweeping a gaze across his deformed compatriots. With an upraised hand, he motioned the final pair of vampires to close ranks. "And within reason. She needs to stay in one piece, else your master will be displeased."
Now that I was parted from him, Thomas' mesmerism lessened. Swiping away the drizzle in my eyes, I could finally see him, all of him, not just those captivating India ink eyes. Once, when he had been alive, Thomas would have been extremely handsome. His hair, some dark glossy shade, was permanently slicked back from his high forehead, while a single lock swung pendulum-like across his pale brow, shadowing those large, long lashed eyes that stared at me with a calculating, fascinated glint. His face, once upon a time, had been arresting. Oh, yea, he was most definitely still a lady-killer. Only the handsome features had become hollowed, had become harshened by his depraved existence. His physical beauty dimly remained. Meet Thomas, poster boy for the heroine chic. Such handsomeness, even when faint, when muted by decadence, set him apart from the rest. Made him an outcast. But could I trust him, as the tug of his psyche professed?
Beluga used his handhold on my hair to direct me towards the Tattoo Emporium. The grass was slippery, and he liked the many times when I stumbled. He would jerk me upright by the same bruising handhold against my scalp. Eventually, he thought to include his buddies in the game. He shoved me to the ground at the feet of a stooped over creature, who, regardless of his gnarled hands, very capably dragged me in a muddy trail across the lawn of the Tattoo Emporium. I lost a shoe along the way, a brown leather wedge, very comfortably broken in---I was going to miss that shoe. But, just then, I did have more important matters to deal with, such as keeping my skin and my sanity intact.
Why, during the course of this brutal attack, did I not scream? Because it would have been a pointless waste of breath. Josh, most likely, had already been dispatched, whether staked or beheaded or disposed of in some fashion far more slow and gruesome. Then, too, if I screamed for help, some unsuspecting person might make the mistake of coming out onto the street and into the grasp of monsters. Or, if, in the more likely scenario, the cops were called, they, too, would arrive, unsuspecting and ill-prepared, onto the scene---the inevitable outcome? More dead bodies, like poor Officer Donovan. No, I was on my own. Terrified. Petrified. But resolved. No one else was going to be on my conscience.
Beluga and Gnarly, my name for the misshapen vampire who had cost me my favorite shoe, began to bat me between the two of them. After one vicious push, I sprawled, hard, rolling onto my hands and knees. Thomas finally intervened. He hunkered down near my face and murmured. His mouth barely moved. "Remember, this is for their benefit. I don't want to hurt you." Then he swept upright with the grace of a ballet dancer.
"Enough tomfoolery. I want in out of this rain." He grabbed hold of my numb left arm, and he dragged me towards the wide red-stained porch. Despite his low-voiced assurances and his apparent separateness from the others, I didn't necessarily trust him. I dug in my heels. I knew in my heart that should I enter that horrific place I would never come out ... the same. Thomas, his intelligent features speculative and curious over my combativeness rather than compliance, merely laughed. I stumbled on the steps, twisting my already battered arm, trying to rip free of his cold grip. All I succeeded in doing was further dislocating that shoulder. Our footsteps thudded on the wooden porch, Thomas', mine, and a crew of Rasputin's underlings.
Thomas threw wide the huge metal front door. "Welcome home, cupcake. You arrived a little early. But not to worry, the Master is expected to arrive shortly. Until then, we shall offer every hospitality." He turned fully toward me to perform a shallow, mocking bow. At once, he became transfixed. Overhead, the bare bulb which starkly lit the porch revealed me as a battered, helpless mortal. Rain plastered my clothes against me. Muddy stains smeared the entire length of me. But what held all of the vampires, not just Thomas, spellbound were the fine cuts, gotten when Thomas had shattered the car window, that ran down my arms like a fine tracery of lace. There was a deeper gash on my shin that dripped warmly onto my bare foot and pooled onto the planks of the porch. Now that I was out of the rain the cuts bled freely, not diluted. Here I stood, a bloody mess, in the midst of a vampire clan. Oh, happy day!
Gnarly reacted first with the greed of a half-starved runt. He threw himself down at my feet and began to lap the blood up from off of the porch. He whimpered his pleasure. Thomas kicked him roughly out of the way, for which I was glad because I knew that Gnarly would next have glued his mouth to the wound at my leg.
"Enter within, tartlet." And Thomas, masking all concern for me, if, indeed, I simply wasn't imaging it, propelled me through the portal of the Tattoo Emporium. I crossed the threshold so forcefully that I slammed to a halt in a crumpled heap. I lay there panting, raking the rain plastered hair from my face, trying to stay sane. My one thought at that most grave moment: Madam Waken, I herewith resign from the Bete Noir Escort Service!
I quickly scanned the room into which I had been shoved. The ceiling, covered with pretty stuccoed plaster, was at least twelve feet high. The windows, which from the outside showed closed Venetian blinds, were actually boarded up, the boards then nailed over with burlap. The only furnishings in the room were some dozen raw pine boxes. They stood on end around the walls of the large room, its dimensions feeling unaccountably smaller when all five of the vampires had filed in behind me.
I could not resist a smart mouth comment. "Nothing but the best, I see, for Rasputin's family."
"Learn some respect." Beluga kicked me square in the chest. I flew backward, smacking into one of the rough hewn coffins.
I gasped, trying to locate my lungs. They seemed to be lodged against my spine.
"I warned you that Rasputin wants her alive." Thomas surprisingly retaliated against Beluga. He smashed him with a fist up against the side of the head. Beluga skulked away, casting hate-filled glances at Thomas, shuffling into a darkened corner. There was no love lost there. Thomas, by force of personality, was at the top of this particular food chain, precariously so. By the look of things, he could just as easily be the next item on the menu. His strange kind of savoir-faire, an odd appeal that was much more than skin deep, set him apart from the rest. Or maybe it was that he wasn't physically repulsive, like Gnarly, or DogBoy, or Beluga. I never claimed I wasn't shallow.
Thomas flexed his punching hand, studying me through the thick lock of hair that draped his pale brow. "That makes twice tonight I have battered myself over you, sweetmeat. My fingers will be a bloody pulp before long, if I keep this up." A wicked little gleam entered his India ink eyes, more mischievous than malevolent. "Kiss it and make it better."
"Keep away from me."
"Or else?"
"Or else, you'll be sorry." How's that for intimidating?
He laughed. "I'm sure I would be."
Gnarly, hunched over into a ball-like crouch, whined. "I am hungry." His pin-prick, colorless eyes stabbed at me.
Thomas glanced around at the gathered crew of vampires. In such close quarters, their deformities, from moss-colored boil-covered skin to stubbed and foreshortened limbs, were fully exposed. As was the swell of their voracity.
"No one is taking a sip!" Thomas' order was sharp, stinging, and this time made no mention of being given in Rasputin's name. It also seemed far from effective. Defensively, Thomas placed his back to me and challenged the menacing ring about us. Was he actually shielding me...? Nah. That would be preposterous.
But suddenly Beluga, shambling his great girth, returned to the fore. He carried a heavy sack. My stomach heaved, because whatever was in the bag was alive and wriggling and trying to tear loose.
"Stop it, Beluga," Thomas said.
"You promised a bit of fun. I just want the Soulsmith to meet Benjamin." Beluga's bloated face, doughy and mottled, twisted in a mockery of a smile. "He's a harmless pet. He's not gotten any exercise in over a week when I put him in the cellar with Hamilton. Surely, Rasputin won't object." Beluga loosened the cord that bound the sack shut.
"What is it?" I whispered to Thomas, the question barely able to pass my numb lips.
"A river rat. An undead river rat." His voice was flat and icy. He did not relish having a nasty rodent set loose in the room, either.
My mind couldn't grasp what he had told me. "Animals can be turned?" The thought was horrifying.
"It can be done, but, to most vampires, the idea of giving a mindless thing bloodlust and turning it loose on the world is abhorrent. Besides, it requires the same ritual---thrice taking and once sharing blood---to make one of those," Thomas nodded toward the rat still struggling to get out of the sack, "as it does to make a human inhuman. Most of us are not that perverted."
"Save for Beluga's ilk, warped to a fault." I could not tear my gaze from that wriggling sack.
Beluga, still working at the ties of the bag, replied to the insult. "I take exception to that. I'm not so depraved as to REPEATEDLY bleed a rat." He gave a sick, leering grimace that showed broken unwholesome fangs and that belied his words. "It's possible to cause a change by drinking only once, very deeply, to the point of death before infusing the thing with your own juice. But it takes practice to get down the precise timing, else you kill your intended changeling. Oh, aye," Beluga's matted eyes gleamed scarlet as he seemed to relive favored memories of many such experiments, "it takes practice, practice, practice. But it is possible, once you learn this particular progenitors trick."
Nor did Beluga's cohorts seem to be as repulsed by the transformation of a rat as was Thomas. They crowded in for a better view of the show. Their eyes were avid. Saliva dribbled in a long strand down Gnarly's chin. While they gathered closer about Beluga, his beefy fingers finished their work.
The disgustingly fat reanimate smacked his blubbery lips with expectation. "This'll be fun. When the rat's finished with the both of them, we'll have leftovers."
"Beluga, don't!" Thomas shouted, but it was too late.
Beluga flung the bag away from himself. The top was worked loose enough for Benjamin, the river rat, to emerge. It was hideous, over a foot in length from twitching whiskered nose to stiffened hairless tail. Its rodent eyes were red rimmed and fearless. It reared up on its two hind legs, sniffing the air, baring yellow needled teeth, scenting a bloodied target---me.
I wished for a weapon, but what did you use on a reanimated rat? The same implements that you used on a regular vampire? My fanny pack, crushed and battered, was still belted to my waist. I grabbed for its contents. The atomizer was broken, the holy water having leaked away, but the cross was still there. I pulled it out.
Thomas had backed himself closer to me. The small cross sizzled when I waved it, actually skimmed it against his shoulder. "Ouch. Watch that thing!" he growled.
Benjamin streaked across the floor. The circled vampires hooted, as if watching a cock fight. The rat was fast, a super-charged undead piece of vermin. I could already imagine him at my throat. But Thomas was equally quick. He caught the thing by the tail, and he slung it across the room.
Stunned, Benjamin crashed against a wall and thudded to the floor where it twitched and squeaked like a thing caught in its death throes. But only for a moment. The rat scrabbled to its clawed feet, hissed, pulled the lips back from its teeth and chattered angrily. There was only one thing it craved in that ghastly room, my blood. It skittered at us again. Only, this time, when Thomas tried to grab it, it jumped up at his face, scratched at him, then dashed towards me. I screamed, using the cross to keep it away. The rat did not recognize nor care about religious icons.
He bit my hand, catching hold of the flesh between my thumb and index finger. It hurt like hell. I pressed the cross against the ratty pointed snout. The contact fizzed and crackled! Benjamin's hellish jaws unlocked. He dropped to the floor. I wanted but dared not kick at him. He would probably latch onto my foot.
Droplets of blood from my new wound had spattered onto the floor. The rat, mimicking Gnarly, lapped it up. I deliberately flung my arm in a wide arc, sending more drops outward which Benjamin scampered after, giving me a moment's respite.
"How much damage can it inflict?" I asked of Thomas.
"Plenty."
My heart quailed. To make matters worse, I was suddenly aware of movement on the porch at the same time my teeth faintly buzzed, signaling the nearness of vampires. Both heralded the arrival of the two brethren, DogBoy and Trey, who had been left outside with orders to deal with Josh.
I also received a strange powerful rush, like a tremendous jolt of electricity throughout my entire being, and I feared that Rasputin had, indeed, come at last. It was definitely the aura of a progenitor which shocked the nerves underneath my skin. My insides glowed like Chernobyl.
And Benjamin had just finished licking up the last of my blood. He would come for more.
I braced myself for the dreaded onslaught.
Hell suddenly broke loose.
The door explosively, concussively burst wide open, as did the boarded up windows. It was not Rasputin, but Constantine! Marc and Max, followed by some faces I recognized from the Bete Noir Night Club, clambered commando-like through the windows, dispensing death with methodical efficiency as they rounded on Gnarly, who was decapitated in one masterful stroke from a stainless steel garrote, then Beluga, who was staked through the heart with a red-painted spike. The room overflowed with the sights and the sounds and the smells of carnage---shrieks and screams, pounding and rending, blood and guts and gore and limbs---all assaulting my strangely jacked up senses, as the last of Rasputin's spawn were cornered and killed.
Thomas, for some unknown reason, protectively threw himself in front of me, covering me, shielding me from the ongoing massacre.
Constantine, poised in the broken portal, calm in the midst of chaos, saw ... EVERYTHING in the room at once. His men. Rasputin's. Me. And the last threat to me, Benjamin. With supernatural speed, he crossed the length of the room, snatching the river rat in mid-jump as it sprang for me. Constantine clamped the rat's slashing mouth shut. He extended Benjamin to full length, then, before my eyes, he ripped its head off with his teeth.
Benjamin's lifeless, headless body hit the floor at the same time that I did.
I was in a near faint, but still conscious. Thomas knelt over me. We both watched as Constantine produced a sword, more correctly a shortened, miniature scimitar from a sheath under his long tailored dinner jacket. He was a marvel to behold, urbane in formal black attire, a crisp ruffled snow white shirt molded to that devilish body, diamond chips on his cuff links, his coal colored hair lying in near curls upon his collar.
Then Constantine ruined the glamorous image. He wiped a hand across his sensual mouth, removing a scarlet patch from where he had torn Benjamin asunder. His golden signet ring winked, glowing as if newly burnished.
Constantine's pale blue eyes riveted upon Thomas and allowed the other no escape.
Thomas was on a level with me. He yet knelt beside me, aiding me to sit up when I had collapsed. He began to plead in a voice tinged with strength rather than fear. He appealed to me, not begged, calmly, reasonably, persuasively. He was offering himself to me! "Mercy on me, sweet lady. I am not of Rasputin. I renounce my mistress. I am strong enough to place my allegiance where I will. Spare me.... I will serve you always and wellll...."
"No!"
But it was too late. Constantine, with surety and skill and vengeance, sliced Thomas' head almost cleanly from his shoulders with the scimitar. Aghast, I pressed as close as I could to the wall and as far as I could from the corpse. There was little blood, almost none, perhaps due to some weird physiology of the vampire species that instantly coagulated such a wound? Then, again, I'd never heard or read of such a feat. I gulped down my nausea and fought not to stare at the loose bits of tissue that slightly connected the head to the neck. Thomas' face was a shocked mask, shiny ink-black eyes open but unseeing, mouth agape with his final unuttered supplication, hair still perfectly slicked back save for the one wild lock that fell rakishly across his brow.
I almost sobbed. "You didn't have to kill him!" In that short time, Thomas had formed some strange bond with me. He had, in fact, protected me, saved me. And I had failed him.
"He endangered you. He brought you here. That was reason enough to dispatch him." The tone of Constantine's voice allowed no further discussion. In fact, he sounded as if my defending Thomas was reason enough to destroy him.
That subject now firmly closed, Constantine replaced his weapon, almost with reverence, into its hidden sheath. He imperiously held out a hand, raising me to my feet, forcing me to step across Thomas' sprawled body. He drew me even further from that spot, then halted, towering over me, unleashing a mental vampire compulsion to impose his will over mine, aiming in this moment of vulnerability to mark me exclusively as his.
I felt woozy, disoriented, terribly susceptible. All aspects of his personality, particularly his desires and lusts, leached into me, diluting my own. The foremost of these, surprising and flattering, if it were not counterfeited, was his intense need to fuck my brains out! The bright blue of his irises lured me to gaze deeper, to sink further. Once again torn between accepting and rejecting him, I shivered. I needed a reminder, a jolt, of what he was. With difficulty, I managed to shift my eyes to his mouth. So sexy, so kissable. And the perfect antidote to his all consuming power was visualizing him ripping a rat apart with his teeth.
I blinked away his psychic assault. Just like that, thank you very much. Did that, I wondered, mean I was getting better at combating him?
"You jeopardize yourself needlessly." Constantine's wrath beat against my tired brain. "I will not tolerate any more such rash impudence."
"Glad to see you, too. Berate me later, Constantine, I absolutely HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE." I added a word that I never thought I would offer him. "Please."
His answer caught me off guard. "Soon."
I felt like jelly, turned inside out and upside down. I swayed. "I think I need to sit down."
Constantine obliged by throwing the nearest coffin down onto the floor. With the lid closed, it made a passable seat. That was all the pity he openly demonstrated. Instead, he crooked a finger at a woman waiting just inside the shattered doorway. She carried a medical bag. "Tend to her."
She was incredibly petite, tiny and freckled, her sandy hair jouncing in a high pony tail. With a professional reassuring smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes---and seemed positively surreal amidst a trashed up room full of dead vampires, a dead rat, and a dozen or so coffins---she moved to my side, opening her bag and putting on latex gloves.
"These are for your protection." She explained, snapping one glove snugly around her fine-boned wrist.
She then brought out peroxide, readied a tube of anti-biotic ointment, and finally rummaged out an assortment of bandages and endless rolls of gauze. Constantine watched. His icy blue eyes keenly fixed on me, as if assessing every single minute nick or cut.
He was making me nervous. "So, you have your own surgical staff. I'm suitably impressed," I muttered, sounding anything but.
He merely grunted.
The woman, however, was more forthcoming. "The name's Haley Davis. And, yes, I used to be a surgical nurse, one who loved the profession." Her hazel eyes met mine with the same directness as her words. If she had been a nurse, past tense, that meant that she was now a vampire, present tense, because it was illegal for reanimates, particularly vampires, to work in the medical field. It tended to make people think of mad scientists. Paranoia would always win the day. And, yes, I personally had been guilty of that a time or two.
"Sorry." And I meant it, too.
Her only answer was to tilt the peroxide bottle over the cuts and abrasions on my arm. "This is gonna sting."
"Criminy!" I had a low pain threshold, but I tried to keep the whimpers to a minimum. When she examined my bruised left shoulder and arm, which she overcautiously immobilized in a sling, I silently speculated that it did not seem so very tender for such a serious injury? Or, perhaps, it was too numb for me to realize how badly it did hurt? All-in-all, as Haley continued with her first-aid, I marveled at how much stronger and better I felt than I had a right to, given that I had been battered from head to toe. The real pain would probably catch up with me tomorrow.
Still, I flexed the fingers of my left hand. "Is the sling really necessary? It feels better."
"Humor me," she grunted, never lifting her gaze from her work. Methodically, Haley next inspected, cleaned, and bound the long jagged scrape on my shin. The place, which I had thought quite severe, had completely stopped bleeding, more like a superficial cut? Finally she came Benjamin's bite wound. She gently wiped at the raw place, glancing up at Constantine, asking him, "Will she need rabies vaccine?"
"No."
My mouth gaped. "I want that carcass tested."
"It is not necessary," Constantine curtly replied, signaling me to accept his statement.
"I say it is necessary. See," I held up the now bandaged hand, "it chewed a hole in me."
"Take his word for it," Haley advised.
"Why should I?"
Constantine's irritation showed in the tension about his jaw. "Because I tasted of the vile thing. As, once, long ago, I was forced of necessity to feed upon such vermin to survive. Rabies, as most mortal diseases, are not communicable to my kind. But I recognize the taint, and this one had none of it." He had not wanted to make such a revelation, a terse bit of unpleasant history, yet I had pushed him to it. I experienced, but denied, a twinge of inquisitiveness over an event to which I would never be privy. Progenitors didn't volunteer their life histories for a reason.
Constantine gave me a twisted piece of a smile. "Miss Soulsmith, however, will need, at the least, a tetanus shot." His revenge was giving Nurse Davis carte blanche to stick me with a needle as many times as she pleased.
"Why not a booster for smallpox, or diphtheria, or yellow fever, while you're at it?" I grumbled, being a surly patient.
"Shall I?" Haley asked of him, keeping a straight face. Unless, of course, she wasn't joking?
"Whoa, I think I should go to the emergency room." My voice had risen to a high squeak, especially as Haley was filling a syringe, checking the dosage, and telling me to bare my hip.
At that, both Marc and Max broke from the crew of Constantine's people who were busily breaking up the row of roughly made pine boxes and they joined our little trio, appropriating second row seats---Constantine being in the first row---for the proposed floor show of baring my butt to the world.
I refused to stand up. "Not until the reprobates leave the premises."
Constantine nodded his head, indicating that the twins leave. Indeed, the entire room cleared, save for him.
"That includes you most of all."
Constantine's eyes narrowed.
Haley waved the syringe in the direction of the door. "To insure cooperation of the patient.... "She could not bring herself to actually order Constantine outside.
He wouldn't have went anyway. He simply turned his broad back, creating a screen behind which he dared anyone to look.
I stood and hiked up the bedraggled denim skirt. Underneath, my tan bodysuit was cut thigh high. I felt the cool swab of alcohol then the sharp jab of a needle.
"All done. I believe, Miss Soulsmith," and she looked pointedly at Constantine's back, "that you will undoubtedly heal at an exceptional rate."
I didn't even have time to put my skirt back to rights---nor study the inference of Haley's words---before I heard Marc's, possibly Max's, voice. "You're not quite done, yet, Haley. There's still another patient."
I peered over Constantine's shoulder, about ready to launch into a tirade about privacy, when I saw Josh, standing propped up against the broken door frame. I barged past the progenitor.
"Josh!" I stood on tiptoe to wrap my arms around him. I didn't want to let go.
"Take it easy, Avna." A tremor ran through him. I pulled away to take stock of his damages. Pretty extensive. Purplish bruising around his throat evidenced where one of his assailant's had tried to crush his windpipe. A deep slash across his stomach, red and oozing. A battered, swelling eye.
"I didn't think you made it." I ignored the catch in my throat. I couldn't be that choked up over a vampire?
"Neither did I." He grinned his charming dimpled grin, made even more adorable by the way his poor eye squinted in obvious pain. "But I had to make it or who else would've been able to call in reinforcements?" He winced suddenly.
"Come sit down and let the nurse take care of you."
Marc swooped in under Josh's shoulder, offering his support. "And once Haley has taken care of you, dearest Josh, she can take care of me." The innuendo in his voice matched the leer on his face. "I don't mind waiting my turn."
"Not if you were the last undead man on earth." Haley began her ministrations on Josh, who was now seated on the coffin which I had vacated. She spared not so much as another word or look on Marc. Which I interpreted to mean she had it bad for the punkish, pot-smoking vampire.
Constantine had removed himself to a far corner of the room. His entire face, especially his brilliant blue eyes, were in shadow, unreadable. "Is the touching reconciliation over, Miss Soulsmith? For there is work yet to be done."
"I don't understand. Shouldn't we call the authorities? Turn over the crime scene? Notify them about Rasputin?" The questions tumbled out like a handful of jacks. I had already begged him to take me home. His reply---soon. I trembled. "What is left to be done?"
"Something of a rather distasteful nature. The bodies must be destroyed."
"Destroyed. Aren't they already ... destroyed?" I looked to anyone other than Constantine, who seemed to want to confound and hurt me, for an answer. Haley would not meet my gaze. Marc, joined by Max, silently took up a position near to their master. Josh alone mustered an answer for me.
"Some vampires, not many, can resurrect themselves if not reduced to ash by fire or immersion in holy water. For most of us, a staking or beheading ends it all. Few of our kind are indestructible. What is fatal in life is also almost always," Josh's glance wandered from me to Constantine's shadowy form, "fatal in death. These here won't likely rise. It seems overkill." Josh actually sounded defiant. "Besides which, Avna, what Constantine hasn't yet said is that you are the only one who could do it. You are the only one here who can safely handle holy water."
I nearly retched. "Is that true, Constantine? You want me to act as your disposal crew. NO FREAKIN' WAY. Not when Traeger's people have access to a crematorium."
For one prolonged heartbeat, Constantine remained silent in answer to my outburst. Then he acknowledged it, almost gave in to it.
"All right. This mess can wait for the police. But, my little Soulsmith, Rasputin's coffin cannot. It lies in the cellar. We must ruin it so that he cannot use it."
"He will just find another. It only fuels his vendetta."
"Exactly." For the first time since Constantine had slipped into the shadows, I could distinctly see one of his features. He had bared his fangs, shiny, sharp, scythe-like.
"Accompany me, Soulsmith, into his blackness."
Against my will, I nevertheless joined Constantine who stood at the threshold of a trap door built into the floorboards. Max, I finally noticed, had fetched a large tote from off the front porch, almost a piece of luggage.
Max sketched a mock bow. "Everything you'll need, Miss Soulsmith, to foul a vampire's bed." He still considered me a vampyraphobe and that made him hostile. No wonder he wasn't a happy camper. After all, he was carrying a bag full of vampire killing paraphernalia.
I nodded. "But there's still an item I need, being merely mortal." I retrieved the flashlight from out of my fanny pack, ecstatic when I tried it and it still worked.
Marc stooped, grasped the embedded handle to the cellar door, and lifted it open. With a whoosh of cold air, the darkened space was revealed. Stairs had once necessarily descended into the depths but had been removed, leaving a huge fifteen foot---give or take a foot---drop into a concrete pit. Marc balanced there, seemingly on alert, his eyes and senses raking the nothingness below, then he stood back. "It's clear. Rasputin has been careless."
Constantine easily, carelessly dropped down into the lair.
I started to protest. I couldn't likewise jump that far! Not even if I weren't bedraggled, achy, tired, and one-armed! No matter that my injuries, in retrospect, did seem to have been relatively minor! I began to sidle away from that gloomy hole when Max shoved me into Constantine's waiting arms.
The impact hurt. I reflexively curled up within his embrace, digging my face into the crook of his shoulder, my flashlight laying disregarded in the cradle of our bodies. His hold was firm yet gentle. The curly fringe of his extraordinary coal black hair caressed my face. His soft scent was of aftershave, unexpected but pleasant. Enveloped by his heat my pain melted. I felt secure and safe and comforted until, that is, Constantine rolled his head downward to rub and stroke his cheek against my hair. The contact was incredibly provocative. He had once again lulled me into something close to compliance. If the time, place, and circumstance were different, I worried, how much further would I allow him to touch me? The probable answer scared me. I had to stay on guard against him.
"Put me down." My tone was flat. He did not dare do otherwise.
He set me upon my feet. I grasped the heavy handle of the flashlight. I switched it back on, aiming it away from Constantine. Right at that moment, I could not stomach the sight of him. The cellar, however, offered no more pleasant a view. The black space, like a cool concrete bunker, was stripped of every item of the previous owner, for all that Calvin Hamilton, too, had been a vampire. There was no accumulation of junk, of old canning jars, or discarded baseball bats, no rakes, hammers, saws, nor laundry baskets, no piles of winter clothes, nor stacks of comic books. No collection, nor recollection, of a life-once-lived.
Instead there was an enormous gleaming coffin, finished in cherry with intricate carving around the golden handles. My jaw dropped open. Rasputin must be humongous!
Suddenly, from overhead, Marc shouted, "Geronimo!" He, too, heedlessly dropped into the pit. Max followed hot on his heels. I stumbled away, feeling crowded, needing to make room for the twins. They must have been struck mute, for once, by the sight which their cat-like eyes detected long before the beam of my bobbing flashlight had showed me.
There were two more smaller coffins. One to either side of Rasputin's.
"Somebody enlighten me." The silence of the twins boded something ill.
Marc spoke without thinking. "It must be Donata...."
Max supplied the rest." ... and Sylvana."
Constantine turned on the two with a low hiss. "Enough."
"I deserve to know what's going on. If you don't tell me, you can find somebody else to do your dirty work." I nodded toward the three coffins. Each was well-crafted, expensive, a portable home-away-from home. Rasputin, it seemed, had roommates.
"Donata is an old acquaintance." Constantine offered nothing more. Naturally he wouldn't.
"She's not of your issue?" I prompted.
"I have never spawned something that vicious and amoral."
Those were strong words. Constantine, as far as I knew, as far as I could sense, was not a cold blooded killer of humankind, whatever else he might be guilty of---gambling, pandering, prostituting, seducing. I'd take him over Rasputin, or Rasputin's retinue, any day. Imagine that?
I was not likely to get the intimate details on this Donata and Sylvana. Not that Constantine was above kissing-and-telling, but, apparently in this instance, to do so would be giving away some crucial bit of his own well guarded past. A definite no-no for a progenitor. Obscurity offered safety.
"Gimme the tote, Max."
He placed it fairly close to Rasputin's coffin. I began to rummage through the contents: six crucifixes of silver, two gallon jugs of (what else?) holy water, and almost a dozen zippered baggies full of dirt. With my uninjured arm, I held one up questioningly. "Let me guess. Consecrated soil?"
"Blessed by a Cardinal, no less." Constantine smiled at me. Then, with a flourish, he opened Rasputin's coffin and by-turns the other two. He noticeably stepped out of the way as I set to work. It was emotionally draining. Physically, too, as I was handicapped. The entire time---while I splashed holy water onto the satin linings, smeared with a large quantity of the rich earth---I felt like someone trod upon my grave, someone with mighty big vengeful feet. The finishing touch, the piece-de-resistance, was jamming two crucifixes inside of each.
"Now how do you propose I get out of here? You can't carry me out. Or do you expect me to levitate?"
Constantine walked up to me. "Nothing so esoteric. There is a ladder hooked to the wall."
I swung my dim light in the direction he indicated. Sure enough, hooked high up on the concrete wall was a shiny aluminum extension ladder. Now all I had to do was muster the strength to climb out of this unholy pit. The twins retrieved the ladder, then propped it at a safe angle against the edge of the cellar entrance. They gallantly insisted I go first. Then I remembered I was wearing a skirt, even if it was ankle length and I had on a bodysuit underneath, as well. I had paranoid suspicions that they had x-ray vision. "I'll go last, if it's all the same to you."
Constantine heaved a long suffering sigh. "Very well."
Marc and Max, grumbling all the way, climbed to the top. Constantine began his elegant, athletic ascent. He halted midway to twist around and offer me a hand. I ignored his chivalry and stepped onto the rungs of the ladder after reluctantly abandoning my flashlight on the floor. With one arm in a sling, the climb out would be difficult, let alone hampered with the flashlight. Constantine assessed my progress with a small frown before he turned back to the final rungs ahead of himself. He disappeared over the edge of the cellar's opening. I felt a small bit of panic. I was alone in a pit with the faintest pool of illumination from below. I had not even climbed a quarter of the way out.
Wearily, I stepped up a couple more rungs. My progress was slow, painstaking, my balance in jeopardy with every movement. For an instant, a wave of dizziness nearly overcame me. I clung to the ladder for all I was worth.
Constantine startled me. He hung, head downward, on the ladder as if about to slither its length, slicky-slide fashion. "Hurry, Miss Soulsmith." The urgency in his voice made my heart nearly jump into my throat.
Then I heard a scratching in the dark below me. Worse still the ladder bowed with added weight as someone, or something, stepped onto the ladder.
"Ohmigod!" Fear prompted those words thoughtlessly out of my mouth. Constantine jerked in reaction to my invoking a deity.
Through gritted teeth, he repeated himself. "Hurry."
I scrambled upward. Slavering sounds followed me, as did a foul rotting stench. I was closer to the top. Constantine's face twisted with hatred at the thing coming after me.
Suddenly, the ladder bounced as the added weight dropped off with a thud. It had given up pursuit, or so I thought.
Constantine, now on the opposite side of the cellar door, stretched out to me. "Give me your arm. Now!"
I reached up but was still inches from his outstretched hand. I felt the ladder being knocked out from under me. I screamed, not knowing what horror awaited me below in the inky black. The ladder grated against concrete. It titled. I began to fall ... when Constantine, superhuman progenitor that he was, grasped my arm. I swung helplessly. He began to pull me upward, the strain of doing so etched upon his handsome face. Apparently, I weighed considerably more than a feather.
I rose higher and higher, gritting my own teeth in response to the pain in my uninjured arm and shoulder. Constantine had very nearly pulled me to the top. He awkwardly tried to lever me up over the lip of the cellar's rim. My legs were still dangling into the pit.
In the frightening instant before Constantine made one last giant heave, something leaped up and grabbed for me. All it managed was to pull loose my shoe, mate-less ever since I had lost the other on the rain-slicked lawn of the Tattoo Emporium. I crumpled partially onto Constantine, seeing the twins concerned faces over his shoulder.
I managed to sit upright. "I should probably say thank you.... "But that was all the thanks I intended to give.
And Constantine knew it. He laughed ruefully. "You are more than welcome."
Morbid curiosity drew me to peer down into the total darkness of the pit-like cellar. My flashlight had been broken, probably trod upon, shutting off its pitiful rays. Nevertheless, I saw, or imagined, a pair of red rimmed eyes. I shuddered and was glad that I could see nothing more. However, there were sounds, slavering, grunting, and nails scrabbling against concrete. "What is it? And why didn't you know it was down there?"
"I suspect that is the remnants of Calvin Hamilton, driven mad by privations such as Tanya is enduring. As for why I did not sense his presence? He is a shield to his masters, and, they, in turn, are a shield to him. Two progenitors slept here. That is a powerful combination. Plus, I had certain preoccupations." He made that last word---preoccupations---sound positively filthy.
I nodded my understanding. Awkwardly, I tried to stand. Constantine assisted. I accepted, mainly because blood rushed from my head and I felt faint. My vision blurred, fogged, dimmed. Yet, for all that I could scarcely see, once I had regained my feet, I instantly knew the room was different.
"Thomas is gone!" His corpse wasn't where I had last seen it, although the others, Gnarly, Beluga, even Benjamin, hadn't so much as twitched.
"Marc, let's go after him!" Max did not wait for his brother to answer. He began to sprint away until, that is, my raised voice halted him.
"Don't let them, Constantine," I asked of their master, even willing to beg that Thomas be allowed to escape. If I had to.
The twins instantly froze in their tracks, glancing from me to Constantine, impatiently waiting for the order to pursue. It did not come.
Constantine's features reflected jealousy, until he hooded his brilliant blue eyes, cobra-like, and upheld my order with the barest nod of his head. "I shall spare him, my little Soulsmith, although your attraction to him makes me reluctant. This Thomas of yours," Constantine's lips curled nastily around his name, "has latent powers. When our paths cross again, I shall show him to what purpose I spared him. There is a price yet to be paid."
Max, however, took the order very ill. Rasputin's people had taken, had tortured, had for all intents and purposes destroyed his Tanya. He did not want a single one of them spared. His anger needed a release, so that he rounded on Josh, crouched on the makeshift seat, bowed over at the waist. Haley Davis pressed a dressing to him. Max's voice thundered angrily. "You sat there and let him resurrect. He's escaped!"
Josh, seeming somewhat dazed, glanced up at Max, then he looked to me. "I didn't exactly just let him walk out. He sort of took me by surprise when he shoved a pine plank in my guts."
I really wished I hadn't caught a glimpse of the wound which Haley was trying to staunch. She basically was re-stuffing intestines into him. I fainted, trying to reassure myself that after all I had witnessed I was entitled. Fainting absolutely did not make me a wuss.
I supposed if you fainted then you couldn't complain too much about where you woke up. Luckily I wound up at Ginny's place, a small Tudor style house on the outskirts of town. I hadn't been taken, while incapacitated, to the Constantinople. That would have been bad. In the extreme.
As it was, I had blacked out for several hours with no recollection of when or how I had been delivered to Ginny. Late on Tuesday morning, I roused, magically cleaned up and re-dressed in black silken loungewear, and tucked under a blanket upon her living room couch. She informed me that Haley Davis had accompanied the twins in bringing me there. Of Constantine, there had been no trace, which irked me.
"He didn't even have the decency, the concern, the courtesy to personally see me home! He just let his lackeys dump me on your doorstep. Even though he has permission to enter here, I assume?" I asked from the plush comfort of a black and white modern sectional that crowded the small area.
"That's not fair. Constantine's people can't enter your home. So they brought you here, where, yes, they are all welcome. And they did not just dump you on the front stoop." Ginny's temper flared.
"I should consider myself fortunate that he at least sent a chaperone for those two juvenile delinquents."
Ginny chucked. "Yea, Marc and Max are a handful."
"That's putting it mildly. I'd call them a couple of little perverts. Cute but still perverts." I yawned and stretched, fearing a multitude of aches and pains, but nothing hurt, except for a mild twinge in my left arm, now no longer immobilized by the sling. I experimentally rolled to a sitting position. "What gives? I'm not stiff or sore." I pulled away a few of the bandages on my arm. The minor cuts had faded, the deeper ones were scabbed and fast healing.
"Ginny, last night Nurse Davis said that she thought I would heal quickly," I took a closer look at my light-pink scarred shinbone, "but this is plain freakin' unnatural."
Ginny looked as confused as I felt. "Maybe you weren't hurt as badly as you thought?"
"Maybe not." But I wasn't convinced. My left arm, the one Haley had immobilized in a sling, had been fractured, if not outright broken. The rest of me had been battered and bruised. I should be one big ache. So why wasn't I? Or perhaps the better question was did I really want to know why I wasn't? I shelved this unsettling topic for my own peace of mind, since there couldn't be a satisfying answer, or one that didn't involve you know who.
I rubbed at my gritty eyes. "What time is it, anyway?"
"It's after noon."
I hid my startlement at having been unconscious for that long. "I need to go open the shop. Can you give me a lift?"
"Sure thing, after you have some brunch."
"Pancakes and sausage?"
"Certainly." Ginny, elegant in a garnet colored tank dress, headed for the kitchen.
I followed and plunked myself onto one of the high backless bar stools at the island-like counter which divided the dining area from the kitchen. While I watched, she did the domestic thing, with bowls, measuring cups, spatulas, matching plates and cutlery, and powdered sugar for the pancakes.
Her kitchen, in fact the entire house, was a domestic paradise, well-ordered, well-decorated, well-kept. And absolutely demon free. But I had a sharp twinge of memory of the two episodes, three years apart, when I had been called upon to exorcise what, in my inexperience, I had thought to be a harmless, but-hard-to-banish poltergeist.
The first encounter had been relatively tame. Items, such as jewelry, hairbrushes, magazines, furniture, were systematically rearranged. But such small annoyances had escalated to more important things---utility bills, car keys, personal effects---actually disappearing. The bumps-in-the-night had begun to get very loud and very disturbing. Then, the pushing and punching and pinching had started.
Ginny, at wits end to keep her lovely just-purchased home, had desperately called me in after two nationally accredited exorcists, one a Bishop, had failed. Spectacularly. I had rid the place, or so I had thought, of the prankish spirit only to have it return three years later. With a vengeance. There had been an escalation in physical assaults, the number and the severity. And, too, electrical appliances, especially here in the kitchen where a bread knife had given me a real scare, had gone sadistically haywire. After a long, hair-rising, and rather improvised ceremony, I had again managed to banish the obviously demonic presence. But the third anniversary of that second exorcism had just passed. Three years had also lapsed between the first and second exorcisms, when the presence had returned. I couldn't help but warily look around the room and wonder if another reoccurrence was likely. Particularly since Ginny was using an expensive juicer to squeeze us some oranges. Appliances had been the evil spirit's favored MO.
Unaware of my slight unease, she began flipping uniformly round cakes on the griddle. The sausage links began to sizzle. Spatula at the ready, she turned to the frying pan.
I sipped at my pulp-free juice, trying not to slurp with my usual relish. "Bye-the-bye, where was Gerard last night during the brouhaha?" Not that I really cared but, as an afterthought, his absence did seem odd.
Instead of an answer, Ginny let out an exclamation when a bit of grease popped onto her hand. "Owwww." She ran cold tap water over the angry red skin for several minutes.
My question went unanswered because I was more concerned with Ginny's grease burn. And then, she further turned the topic with the lure of food. Ginny divvied up a stack of pancakes and a mass of sausage links. So, of course, I didn't spare another thought on the whereabouts of one Gerard Lamphere, Constantine's right-hand-vampire. Besides, my mind was busy scheduling the rest of my day. I had to open De Facto Self Defense, take care of some paperwork, plus update my inventory. And, later that evening, at around seven o'clock, I had plans for an appearance at Officer Donovan's viewing. The thought immediately ruined my appetite. Even for pancakes and sausage.
Ginny dropped me off at my own place just before one. When I opened up for the day, several hours late, I had some interesting customers: a mysterious lady looking for a hex (which I'm sure she would have used on me, after I politely informed her that De Facto Self Defense did not trade in black magic), a well-to-do couple purchasing a ward for pixies, and a yuppie come in search of a dowsing stick (I explained to him that either you had the knack or you didn't and most dowsers made their own equipment).
There was also a long phone call to Traeger, confirming that the authorities were well in charge of the Tattoo Emporium ... and the thing in the cellar. Zellden's people had put it down, rather inhumanely it sounded to me. They had torn out a wall, ripped open a good portion of the cellar's ceiling, and subjected it to daylight. The thought of Calvin Hamilton, an innovative vampire entrepreneur, being twisted into a starved crazed thing made my skin crawl, no less so than the means he had been ultimately destroyed by. The call had left me gloomy.
Then, as if to lift my mood, just before closing, Sam Sachem, one of my suppliers, came into the shop.
"'lo, Sachem." I beamed at the old man. His chiseled tanned features and the feathers twined in his waist length salt-n-paper hair proclaimed his Shawnee heritage. Arthritis in one bowed knee gave him an odd rolling gait.
"Soulsmith." His black eyes shined with pleasure. He refused to call me Avna, instead speaking my family name with reverence. As always, he offered up a varied collection of rings, broaches, pendants, and belt buckles all inlaid with semiprecious gem stones that were purported to offer efficacious properties, from healing to protection to stress relief. Many, seeing as I was his best client, were worked in silver. He also sold dream catchers in intricate patterns and colors, woven with bits of stones, feathers, metals. They were very popular.
From out of a large leather pouch tied at his belt, Sam spread out a beautiful selection of his craftwork upon my desk. I handled the jewelry and haggled over prices, settling in his favor---which was my intention. If times were hard for me, they were harder for Sam. Like me, he seemed to have little family, save for a wayward grandson, and even less resources. But I considered his friendship a privilege. I respected him for many reasons---for his craftsmanship, for his honesty, for his warmth, and for his wisdom.
I paid Sam and for another hour we chatted over coffee and chocolate covered doughnuts. Sam had a way of hearing anything of interest on the streets. Today, however, he was tightlipped, especially when I brought up the subject of the current unsolved vampire murders.
And my involvement.
"Surprisingly, the Gazetteer's account was accurate," I begrudgingly admitted.
Sam pursed his mouth. "Yes, I read the story. Bad business. A new undead long tooth on the rampage. I think to myself, mebbe, the city's other dark prince must be involved. Some predators are territorial, no?"
"And you haven't heard anything ... strange ... or ... out-of-the-ordinary ... that could help me?"
Sam's eyes gleamed like black marble. He reached into his pouch one more time and withdrew a trio of matching dream catchers done in a color scheme of scarlet and black on the intricate spider-like webbing. They were double the normal size. "Take these. I think, mebbe, bad things bring bad dreams."
"Thank you, Sachem." I intended on hanging them ASAP. Perhaps I should have thought of this solution myself, for I was positive that Constantine had invaded my dreaming, although the progenitor had claimed it was the reverse, that I unconsciously reached out to him! Soon after bestowing his gift, at almost six p.m., Sam Sachem left. We exchanged short but meaningful hugs and wishes for good fortune.
I officially closed shop simply by flipping the 'We're Open' sign to 'We're Closed', took his gift with me upstairs, but had no time to hang the dream catchers because I had to get ready for poor Officer Donovan's visitation. It was going to be an emotional evening. For oh so many reasons.
I rushed to get ready, slipping into a somber navy dress, and I drove myself to the Sampson and Parker Funeral Home. I had been there twice before for the funerals of both my mother and grandmother, so the way was indelible in my brain. Daylight was dwindling. I parked on the crowded lot and sat there in the heat of my car, gripping the wheel, steeling myself for the coming ordeal, trying to overcome a promise I'd made to my young self years ago---that, after burying my closest living and loving relatives, I would never attend another funeral. Ever. But, sometimes, out of respect for the grief others, such a selfish promise had to be broken, as now.
Numbly, I crossed the wide parking area and into the cool foyer to be faced with professional ushers, grim faced and low voiced, opening doors and offering directions. The hall was filled with much of the police force, some of whom I knew well, Traeger, Maxi Penton, her partner, Cameron Styles, Agent Zellden, while others I knew only casually, Hap Chesterfield, Warren Martin, Bobby Nance, a gathering of law enforcement at the passing of a brother-in-arms.
Traeger, sharp in a dark uniform, his bristly silvered-red crew cut well buffed, joined me. Together we walked through the open double doors. The pew-like seats held many mourners, a few prominent city officials, and more members of the force who met and returned my glance, nodded, offered a hello, or patted my back. The Donovan family was off in an adjoining chamber.
"This is rough, Traeger." Tears clung just barely unshed on my lashes. My chest hurt. A lump cramped my throat, painfully. It was rough for so many reasons. Death always was. But, in this case, I was the last person to see and to talk with Richard Donovan. I had braced for a less supportive reception in case Zellden had spread propaganda against me, having been found at the crime scene covered in the victim's blood. My presence, however, was welcomed, accepted in the fashion it was offered---respectfully.
Yet, underneath the tragedy of Donovan's death, other painful emotions churned. I had not dealt well with the passing of my own loved ones. This place, this ritual, was a horrible reminder.
"You're doing fine, kid. It's tough on everybody." Traeger didn't use a lot of words, but I was buoyed up by the sentiment. We went to the front of the room where Donovan's portrait was displayed next to the closed casket. There were huge arrangements, sprays and baskets, everywhere. And, too, there was weeping. I could here it faintly but distinctly.
After a short time, we moved away, going to the back of the room. I aimed for an empty spot by a wall to claim as my own. I did not realize that as we passed a hush fell. Mrs. Donovan, whom I had never before met, had followed in our wake. When I stopped and faced forward, she stood there, a tall thin willowy brunette, her eyes puffy, her face tear swollen, but she was composed and very purposeful.
"Miss Soulsmith? I am Amanda Donovan, Richard's wi.... "Her voice broke a little, as she started to call herself wife, but changed it to widow.
"Yes, Mrs. Donovan." My mouth tasted of sawdust. My blood stopped pumping. "I am truly sorry for your loss. Officer Donovan was an exceptional person."
"Thank you for your condolences. But, Miss Soulsmith, I demand much more from you. You were with Richard before he died. Before he was murdered." She constantly knotted a white lace handkerchief while she spoke.
I murmured, "Yes."
Traeger tried to escort her elsewhere. "Amanda, please, come sit down."
Her eyes went wide, the whites scary in her pale thin face. "The reports, from you Traeger, from the papers, say she KNOWS the monster that did this. Miss Soulsmith can identify Richard's killer. You can, can't you? You'll help the police find him. Won't you, Miss Soulsmith?"
Her voice and composure had grown progressively strained. She practically begged me to assure her that, although I had not been an actual eyewitness to Richard Donovan's slaughter, I could identify Rasputin in order to gain justice for her husband's death. Others tried to intervene, tried to lead her away. She continued to stare at me, asking again and again, "You will, won't you? You will? You will ... bring us justice, won't you?"
Someone, an older brother by the resemblance, began to gently pull her away. Amanda Donovan grasped my hand. One final, lucid time she asked me, "You will, won't you, Miss Soulsmith?"
"I promise. I will." And that was a vow I intended to make good on. With a grim nod of satisfaction, her hands shuddered loose of mine as she was drawn away. She was gone then, eerily quiet and calm. I, however, was trembling, chilled from head to foot. "Traeger, I don't think I can manage any more. I'll call you ... sometime soon."
"Do you want someone to go with you?" he offered.
"No, thanks," I reassured him with a small smile. I wanted to be alone, to escape, to break down. "I'll be okay."
He nodded, concern still etched upon his features. "Goodnight, Avna. Drive safe."
"Goodnight." I slipped from the funeral parlor and out the hall. No one else accosted me. I crossed out the front entrance of the Sampson and Parker Funeral Home, and a camera bulb flashed in my face. Patrice Blanchard, reporter for the Kanawha Gazetteer, and my nemesis from the lurid Lantaglia Voodoo murder trial, had me cornered. She was slick as snot. I never saw her coming.
"Sources say you're pretty tight with the vampire community, Miss Soulsmith. What's your response? Are they hiding one of their own? Protecting a vicious undead killer who is stalking the Kanawha Valley?"
"You're the bloodsucker. You tell me."
"I'm just reporting news." Her professional exterior, groomed perfectly in a flattering double breasted dress suit of forest green, short brown hair in cute cork screw curls a la Shirley Temple, French nails manicured and polished in magenta, disguised her unethical tactics. Pettiness made me glad to see she didn't rate a photographer. She had a 35 mm dangling about her neck, the one she had snapped in my face, temporarily blinding me.
"If you won't comment, I'll have to try, try, try again." Pointedly, she shifted her hard gaze to the funeral home and those inside.
I thought of poor Mrs. Donovan. Surely, Patrice Blanchard wouldn't ambush the family, the wife, out here, too? I called her bluff. "Get lost, Blanchard."
The reporter clicked off her micro cassette recorder which she slid into her tight skirt pocket. "Talk to me. Give me everything. Or I'll print how cozy you have become with Charleston's best known progenitor. My readership would just eat that up with a spoon."
I gave her an unconcerned smile. "Print it, then." There was no way to deny that I had been inside the Constantinople. But how did she know that I had had face-to-fang dealings with Constantine? Her source, whoever it was, could have damaging information, especially about Tanya and Calvin Hamilton and, in Calvin's case, what monstrous entity he had been turned into. That would create a public panic. With witch-hunts. Or, more precisely, vampire-hunts.
"If you want a comment on that score, Ms. Blanchard, go ask Constantine, himself." I raised my face skyward to measure the last of the twilight. "He'll be available in about a half an hour."
"You can't scare me. I just might head there right now. Questions need to be answered concerning two murders in this city in less than a week. Gory, bloody, vampire attacks. If Constantine doesn't have the balls to do something about it, maybe I know someone who does."
"Good." I started to walk away. "Oh, by the way, exactly what blood type are you, Ms. Blanchard? I'll call Constantine and tell him to expect you."
She turned a purplish shade. As I drove away, rolling slowly past the statuesque reporter, I thought it suited her perfectly. Having a laugh at her expense, however, was the only pleasant spot in my evening. The ordeal inside the funeral home---confronted by Amanda Donovan---left me wiped out. I bee-lined for home, wanting to sleep and recuperate.
So, that's what I planned: a quiet night at home, soaking in the tub, watching a screwball comedy, or checking out the cable channels, then turning in early. The vampire set could rule the night. I craved normalcy. Sleeping at night and living during the day, not the reverse. Not bloodied corpses strewn over the Boulevard, nor unregistered reanimates stolen from out of the morgue, nor hellish things that guarded a dank cellar full of coffins. Nor, especially, any reminders of Constantine, the master of all things superficially seductive but underneath savage.
The evening went according to plan. I baked pre-made brownies and I ate the whole cookie sheet full. Waste not, want not. The next item on my agenda was to soak myself like a prune. I ran a steaming torrent into the old porcelain tub. It filled, burbling and warm. Off came the navy dress, discarded into the wicker hamper. I brushed my teeth in the sink while the bath still ran full blast. Then, when I had a virtual sauna, I tossed bra and panties after the dress, and got in, submerging everything, washing dirt and fatigue and worries away. I stayed with my head propped against the back of the tub for nearly an hour, until the water went tepid, and I was in danger of falling asleep and sinking under the water. Dripping, I got out and toweled off, feeling cleansed. Too bad the summer heat still permeated my upstairs apartment.
I lazed on my bed in a skimpy camisole set, propped up on a pile of pillows as I flipped through a thousand cable channels in search of a fluffy romantic comedy. I grew drowsier and drowsier. At midnight, the witching hour, the remote happened to stumble upon Love At First Bite, a frothy vampire send-up. I shut off the TV. Coincidence was never just coincidental.
With that discomforting thought, I called it a night. I switched on the fan, sprawled on the top of my rose colored comforter, and soon snored with abandon. Some time later, in the deeper hours of the night, I commenced dreaming ... of sleeping ... with a ghostly lover.
At first, I thought I was wide awake, disturbed by the fan blowing across my exposed legs. I shivered with the sensation of cold air upon hot limbs. Then, it felt more like the slight caress of skin against skin, an exotic massage to my feet, a feathery touch running up my calf. Contentedly, I grinned, rolled onto my side, and commanded myself back to sleep.
I resumed my snoring. Nothing romantic about that. Until, I found myself being gently maneuvered once again onto the flat of my back. I threw an arm across my eyes and bent one leg, kneecap pointed toward the ceiling. It was a classic leave me alone I'm not interested in anything but sleep pose.
The dream became slowly more insistent. Weight, not heavy, not uncomfortable, not even real, progressed up the length of my body, as if someone lay down with me, atop me, molding to me, brushing my splayed leg even wider, snuggling into the hollow created there. Part of me fought to wake up. My head thrashed on my pillow, but the weight now had hands that clasped either side of my face to hold me immobile. One ghostly leg began to rub suggestively against my inner thigh. The rubbing continued in unison with kissing, wet slippery kisses that sucked first at my earlobe, traced along my right cheek, flowed down that jaw, along my neck, and onward to sup at my breast, to suckle at my nipple.
Throbs of wanting and need pounded within me, wickedly delicious. My pussy quaked. Within the safety of this marvelous dream, I wanted to be fondled there. I wanted his fingers to explore that puffed up, creamed up slit.
I groaned, to rouse myself, to wake up, to not surrender, but the sounds I made were immediately smothered with that other's mouth which greedily sucked at my lips, then probed in and out with its own tongue, swift and sure and inflaming. A hand massaged at my breast with strong knowledgeable fingers. Electric fingers. Exhilarating fingers. Erotic fingers. He shaped and pushed and cupped me through the thin material of my pretty forget-me-knot-flowered camisole. I moaned again, only, this time, it was a strangled carnal sound. I begged for more such intimacy. All those strokes and kisses needed to be focused on my pulsing clit!
I throbbed so hard it was painful. To ease that pain, I ground myself against the phantom, meeting shallow unfulfilling thrusts that built the awful hurting to the next level, but still not high enough! I wrapped my legs around his waist and demanded with short rough jerks of my groin that he assuage the ache therein. But he merely slid against me to further tease and torment.
"Please.... "I hated that word, yet I hated worse still this unquenchable ache. I needed release. I bucked and heaved harder to get myself to that ultimate place where the mind froze and the only semi-coherent thought you had was of pleasure, and the only words you could utter were whimpers of encouragement and enjoyment. He, the son-of-a-bitch, was still engaged in extended foreplay by raking our fully clothed bodies against each other, straining to join, promising orgasmic explosions, but prolonging the ultimate fulfillment.
To repay him in kind, I skimmed a hand between us and cupped him. Although invisible, he was still satisfyingly substantial, rigid, fully engorged, big. I wanted to share naked flesh, to hold him, to gently squeeze him, perhaps, even more daring than I had ever managed in my life, to actually taste him. My body craved sex. My pussy was electrified. The intensity was so frustratingly good that I cried out, thankfully, to the ultimate power. "Oh, god, please...!" The roving hands stilled, the rhythmic thrusts paused, the French kiss ended abruptly. And, I could no longer ignore who---or more correctly what---would halt mid coitus because The Deity had been ecstatically called upon. My dream lover had a name. Constantine ... The Great.
The realization doused me like a bucket of ice water. A memory from my shanghaied visit to his penthouse lair haunted me. He had called me a 'sensitive'. The implication had been that I harbored exceptional paranormal abilities, that I could make psychic connections, that I, basically, drew HIM to me! Yet, if that were true, he had exploited that sensitivity, since I had no control over it.
Disembodied, he had flowed into my home to fuck me while I was unresisting. I had been asleep. He had been awake. I had been dreaming. He had been fantasizing, consciously, about me. Constantine had superimposed his fantasies over my dreams. Et Voila! He had initiated long distance transcendental sex. Or, in this case, pretty darn close to the grand climax. Almost, but not quite, there.
"For God's sake, get out!" I hoped that that simple, powerful word was agony for him.
His shadow self fled. I lay there a total mess, angry and aroused at the same time. If only I kept a vibrator in the house, I could properly finish the job. On second thought, it was best to punish my traitorous body. It had far too easily responded. To him. To Constantine. To a progenitor. I got up and took a cold shower. And, before I crawled, humiliated and alone, back into my violated bed, I gathered up nails and a hammer and tacked Sam Sachem's beautiful dream catchers directly above where I slept.
As I lay there guilty and ashamed, I felt their protective force, and I could not help but wonder why I had not remembered to hang them earlier. Simply an oversight, I assured myself. But another little voice, the one that was usually always right but which I nevertheless habitually disregarded, mocked me. Careful there, Avna, your Freudian slip may be showing. As if! I drowned out that nasty little voice with a 20 decibel snore. Almost having sex was exhausting.
Wednesday progressed as a normal day, after an abnormal night. The alarm eventually, and with difficulty, roused me at around ten o'clock. My eyes grated with sand, my mouth tasted of who-knows-what. More than half asleep, I fixed a yummy breakfast. Something healthy. Served in a bowl. With milk. Cardboard-like bran flakes dotted with raisins, washed down with lots and lots of hot sweetened tea. I continued to feel draggy, lethargic. The May morning sun filtered in through the thin curtains at the large French-style window. The soft beams were mesmerizing. I shook off the urge to go back to bed---to sleep the sleep of the undead---instead taking a quick shower and dressing in regulation jeans and shirt, fresh dark denim complemented with sky blue cotton. Unfortunately, I was neither bright-eyed nor bushy-tailed when I stumbled my way downstairs.
It was close to noon and De Facto Self Defense would shortly open for business. People were actually lined up, waiting to get in. Ginny, the first at the door, her petite frame jostled against the glass by the crowd, managed to get inside without letting the others force their way in, too. She performed a miracle by not smashing any fingers or toes in the door when it slammed shut. Tucked under her arm was the morning edition of the Kanawha Gazetteer.
"Take a look at this." She unfolded the paper. My blood chilled upon reading the awful headline: Killer Vampire's Reign Unchecked. A secondary headline added, City Considers Curfew. Two more victims, a teenaged couple, Dean Isen and Sally Cuthbert, had been found on the Vandalia Elementary School's playground ... near the swing sets. Near each other, or what was left of each other. The report, bylined to Patrice Blanchard and accompanied by a bad picture of yours truly, gave extreme stomach-churning details of the gruesome crime. Her article also misquoted me as saying, "If you want answers to your questions about these murders, talk to Constantine." Blanchard's slant made it sound as if I were accusing, in her words, "the Capitol City's sole progenitor" of the ghastly crimes.
The article proclaimed me a bonafide consultant to the Federal Bureau of Interspecies Coexistence.
An old adage said there's no such thing as bad publicity. I would beg to differ. De Facto Self Defense did not want business from a frightened township, especially when my name and so-called reputation had helped fan the hysteria. I refolded the offensive paper and flung it onto my desktop. "Why didn't I keep my big mouth shut?"
Ginny scowled. She moved to the far side of my desk, seated herself in the wheeled office chair, and distractedly tidied a pile of unopened mail. Her hand came to rest upon the newspaper, atop the article in question. "You didn't say these terrible things. Did you?"
"No ... not the way she's printed it. I merely name dropped to scare her. She ambushed me in front of the funeral home when I attended Officer Donovan's viewing. So, when she brought up my meeting with Constantine---at the request of the police, I might add---I told her to ask him for comment. She practically accused me of joining the vampire fraternity."
"Which, naturally, offended you." Ginny, she of copper haired Irish descent, let fly her anger. "You're impossible, Avna. Now the entire city suspects Constantine, and all his people, of these deaths."
"Patrice Blanchard twisted my words. How is that my fault?" I huffed, then went on the offensive. "Besides which, in a roundabout way, Constantine is responsible. He drew Rasputin to this town. I didn't. He has the power to face off with a progenitor. I don't. Traeger dragged me kicking and screaming into the middle of this vampire war. I don't want any more casualties on either side, vampire or human."
"Are you sure about that?" Ginny tilted backward in the desk chair in order to glare at me full in the face. I finally noticed that today she wore no chocker, no high collar, no bandage to camouflage her neck. There were several healed over pin pricks, overlapping so that they were impossible to count. They looked old, although I wasn't much a judge of such matters. Unconsciously, I stroked my own throat, swallowing with difficulty. How must that feel? I could all too vividly imagine it. In the throes of passion, exposing that erogenous spot to the ultimate kiss, a penetration that recalled, no, that intensified, that trebled, the actual sex act.
I silently cursed Constantine. I had never before been so preoccupied with S-E-X. I was old fashioned, a champion of monogamy not promiscuity. In less than a week he had almost turned me into what some experts called a vampire fetishist.
Ginny's smoky green eyes, lovely against the cream of her paler than usual complexion, revealed contempt. She had witnessed that envious caress of mine. How could she not! I'd practically gone into a full blown fantasy. "Dying to ask about Gerard? I've never known you to be timid about my personal life before, Avna. Ask. About any intimate detail. Where? When? How much?" Her voice cracked. She started to cry. When she bowed her head, the silken, copper curtain of her hair obscured her tears, but not her heaving shoulders.
I held her while she sobbed. It took better than fifteen minutes for her to calm down. In the meantime, a customer, some idiot in a ball cap, banged against the plate glass window, pointing at his watch. It was half past twelve. I should've opened the shop by now.
"Keep your pants on," I barked at him, then placed myself between Ginny and the shop's huge window, blocking her from sight of those gathered. "Ginny, what is it?"
Tears stained her pretty face. She gave me a defiant stubborn glance. "Like you care about my relationship with a vampire."
"Oh-ho, so now it's a relationship. Explain to me, then, why none of Gerard's little love nips are fresh." I could not resist taking a pot shot at the ex-District Attorney, he of the superb mind control. This could be the perfect wedge between the two. I didn't want to see her hurt, especially not by one of them. "Maybe he's dining elsewhere?"
That made her livid. "How dare you! As a matter of fact, Constantine has forbidden Gerard to take ANY sustenance for four days. That's FOUR days, Avna. He'll practically lose his mind." She was about ready to cry again. "I don't know where he is. He said it would be too dangerous to be around him."
"Whoa. Back up a bit. You lost me somewhere." I braced myself against the desk's edge, continuing to block her from the sightline of the street. "Constantine is punishing Gerard.... Over what?"
"Because he failed to discover Rasputin's lair at the Tattoo Emporium." Ginny looked away, then leveled her gaze directly at me, like a double barreled shotgun. "Because that jeopardized you."
"Holy shit." Agitatedly, I tousled a hand through the mop of my hair. "Gerard couldn't have known. Constantine didn't even sense the presence of not one but two progenitors. An immature vampire like Gerard certainly could not have known."
"Tell that to Constantine." Ginny's expression pleaded. "Literally, Avna. He would rescind the order, if you asked him. Gerard might not be able to survive. He could become bloodthirsty, uncontrollable. That's why he left me."
"Ginny, I can't. It's not good for me to be around Constantine. He's playing games with my mind. The less contact with him the better." I avoided the lurid details, such as last night's near sex romp with an invisible man, er, vampire.
"You're too strong for that, Avna. That is what he finds so appealing, so fascinating. You are a challenge. Marc told me how you broke from Constantine's hypnotic control. Help me, Avna. Save Gerard."
"I'll call him, but I can't go back to the Constantinople." The thought of facing the master vampire made my mouth go dry. My heart pitter pattered. I feared for my mortal self.
Ginny's slender shoulders drooped. "A phone call. That's what my friendship is worth."
"Ginny, try and understand." Honesty was the best policy. "I'm scared of Constantine. Of whatever it is he wants from me. I don't want to be as he is."
Ginny stood with such force that the wheeled office chair crashed backward onto the floor. It cracked like a truck's backfire, but I plainly heard Ginny's softly spoken harshly meant words. "And I wouldn't want to be what you are. Afraid of love, afraid of commitment, just plain afraid."
She stormed past me, flinging wide the front door, loosing the mob from the street into the shady interior of De Facto Self Defense. She was gone, and I was stuck in the deluge of customers. The guy in the ball cap got in my face. He demanded that I sell him 'the works'. It sounded like he was placing an order at a fast food drive-thru. Actually what he, and the dozen or so others, wanted was to vampire proof their homes, families, and selves.
I spent the day reassuring people that vampires were not insane killers. And, get this, I actually believed those assurances! I repeatedly, patiently explained that the best protection was simply to not invite strangers into their homes. Nor should they go out after dark ALONE. I calmed a lot of peoples' fears, but I still made a killing on crosses, patented strands of garlic, various good luck charms, mostly horse shoes and giant floral arrangements of synthetic four leaf clovers, and lots of run-of-the-mill protection wards.
My till overflowed with blood money. By closing time, I had had more customers in one day than I had ever had in an entire month. I would much rather stay impoverished.
I inventoried my on hand stock, then called in a rush order to a supplier in Belpre Ohio, Paranormals Plus. The merchandise, I was told, would arrive by Friday. I hung up, staring out the huge plate glass window, judging that the light outside would last another three hours or so. I did not want the sun to go down. Too many threatening things crawled out from under cover. Dangerous things. Fanged things. Sexy things. I shivered, imagining Constantine. Or, perhaps, it was not merely imagined? I distinctly felt him, even though, if I concentrated, I similarly felt he was lustily asleep---the horny bastard.
I gripped at the desk and mentally clamped shut on such contact, not wanting to be dragged into any more shared long-distance sexcapades. All traces of him were gone, disconnected. Very much relieved, I unlocked my hands from the desktop and breathed more freely. He couldn't seduce me if I didn't let him. My own will, plus the dream catchers, would see to that. His claims that I summoned him, that I channeled him, were lies!
I went upstairs, dug through my cupboard in search of some dinner, then decided to walk to the mall for some fast food, the unhealthy kind with lots of fat, and sodium, and calories. I had plenty of time to eat, window shop, then return home before nightfall. I only wished that Ginny and I weren't fighting, if, for that matter, we were still even friends, so that I could invite her for a girls-only-evening.
I grabbed up a shoulder bag, frayed and worn, and left. The evening was perfect, not too hot, not too humid, balmy and pleasant. The walk was relaxing. The crowds at the mall were sparse. I took the escalator to the third floor food court and I ate Chinese, an enormous portion of General Tso's chicken, a couple of egg rolls with duck sauce, and a crunchy fortune cookie, which I automatically cracked open without a second thought. I unfolded the tiny slip and read it. The future comes with mixed blessings, wealth and poverty, love and hate, life and death. Whoever wrote these things should be shot. I threw the remnants of my dinner in the garbage.
The cookie's fortune was just so many shreds of paper, fluttering into the receptacle.
Try as I might, however, I could not as easily rid myself of those foreboding words. Nothing in the mall lifted my spirits, not even a short browse through the book store where I unhappily encountered a Von Hesling Primer on Vampires, a basic introduction for the general public into the habits, powers, mythology, and arcana of the undead. Its cover, straight off a romantic bodice ripper that reinforced and played-off stereotypes, nevertheless echoed my own encounters with Constantine to the point where I hastily dropped the book back onto its display table, jostling the mass of other vampire themed titles, and sprinted out of the store. In fact, I left the mall entirely.
Returned back home just prior to dusk, I locked up the downstairs with extra care, then ascended the corkscrew stairs to my apartment. I turned on the CD player with some Celtic music, a local group, and tried to relax. With no such luck. The apartment felt oppressive, cage-like. I paced its length, halting at intervals by the curtained French window, pulling an end back to watch the street below, and willing the sun not to set. Of course, it did anyway. Daylight reigned, weakly, for another quarter of an hour before dying away in crimson glory, shades of pink and red streaking over the skyline then slowly fading into starry half-mooned night.
I braced myself for any push of awareness that might come from Constantine upon his rising. None did. Yet, then, perversely, I was left to worry if I had denied him access or if he had not bothered to reach out to me? Surely, I would have felt something, some faint twinge of his ire if I had thwarted him. I eased off the mental barriers, and still felt nothing but my own strange frustrations. To soothe myself, I played more of my favorite Irish-Celtic artists. And I paced some more.
I decided to place a call to the Bete Noire Night Club. But not to Constantine, rather to Josh Warner. I wanted to hear a friendly voice, and, more importantly, to make sure he had healed from his injuries of the other night. I dug out the phone book from a drawer of the bedside nightstand, made myself comfortable upon the bed, and dialed. My fingers trembled.
After several rings, a polite woman's voice answered. Her professional, reedy voice verified that I had reached 'Charleston's premiere night spot, The Bete Noir, located within the Constantinople Hotel, at the juncture of Main And Central'. The voice paused. "How may I help you?"
"I need to speak with an employee, one of the bartenders, Josh Warner." So far, so good.
The woman paused once more. "I'm sorry, The Club's policy forbids personal calls on work time unless of an emergency nature."
In lieu of lying, I made a perfectly reasonable compromise. "Then, can you possibly give him a message, have him call me on his break?"
The dreaded pause came once again. "That wouldn't be possible. I can't leave the switchboard." She hesitated one second. "I could connect you with the manager on duty. Would that be of some help?"
I began to smell a rat. Although the operator couldn't see me, I scowled at her through the receiver. "Just exactly who is the manager on duty?"
Another short pause. "The club's owner, Constantine."
"Put him on." Somehow I knew I wouldn't have to wait long.
Almost instantly, Constantine's voice, low and velvety, came to me. "Good evening, Miss Soulsmith." I shivered. His words were alive, curling around my body like a purring feline.
"Cut the crap, Constantine. I didn't call for you. And you know it."
"You cut me to the quick. Didn't our last encounter thaw you just a little? It was rather heated, no?"
"If that's the way you bed women, when they're asleep and vulnerable, I wouldn't brag. Even I can be manipulated."
He laughed. "Shall I manipulate you some more, little Soulsmith?"
I gritted my teeth. "This is pointless. I want to talk to Josh Warner."
Asking for Josh did make him mad, whereas a slur on his love-making technique had not. "Impossible." I heard his irritation.
"Why impossible? You're the owner. You can bend company policy." I chose my next words precisely. "I WANT JOSH."
Constantine turned things to his own advantage. "He is unavailable for phone calls. However, if you come in person, you might be able to speak with him." There was a subtle inflection in his voice that really said under no circumstances would he allow me to see, speak, or get near Josh Warner. Macho vampires, it would appear, are as susceptible as regular men to the green eyed monster. However, in this case, I did not want Constantine to take out his anger on Josh.
And I said so. "You had better not give Josh or any of your clan a hard time on my account. I heard another of your people was being disciplined because of me. Ginny told me about Gerard. I don't approve. Not in the least."
"Come to me. Persuade me otherwise." Constantine definitely had a one track mind.
"I won't be coming back to the hotel."
"Very well, then Miss Soulsmith. If that is how you feel, it appears our dealings are at an end. Expect payment for services rendered for your assistance. The matter, which is even more dangerous than the newspaper accounts indicate, now rightly stands with the police. And myself."
He was about to hang up on me! "Wait ... Has there been any progress in locating Tanya?"
"None. On her behalf, I thank you for the concern. Now, please excuse me, I have matters to attend to. Good evening."
I muttered my own good bye, but just before the lines clicked dead, I had a flash, maybe from him, maybe from my own subconscious, of his urgent business---a buxom brunette, with a tremendous amount of cleavage but a scant amount of inhibitions.
Apparently, the green eyed monster was having one helluva good night. It had even gotten to me. I pretended unconcern over his dinner partner. Instead, I seethed over the gist of our short conversation.
He had fired me! After involving me in this nightmare, he was, in effect, giving me my walking papers. I was stunned.
"Fine." I irritably snapped at the telephone. I didn't want to be a part of that underworld, anyway. His dismissal was a relief. At least, it should have been. That night I slept fitfully. I tossed and turned. There were no nocturnal, astral visits from Constantine. No dreams. No nightmares. No out-of-body overtures of any kind. The dream catchers filtered out that particular invader. Yet, something disturbed me. Something helpless, and lost, and afraid, a desolation of the most profound kind. Something that seeped into the back of my mind, begging for help, crying for release. Something that permeated everything about me, my pillow, my bed, the air I breathed.
In the wee hours of morning, I sat bolt upright, having lost the fight to clear away that awful clinging presence. It was Tanya. She was haunting me. From somewhere in the city, I could feel her pain, her anguish, her despair. She was trapped. In her own body. And each minute of existence was agony.
Unlike Constantine's assaults, which were prurient and selfish, Tanya's could not as easily be combated. I spent the day in misery, dragging through a routine of breakfast, dressing, opening the shop, and waiting on customers in a fog of distress and hopelessness. When I walked, I shuffled. When I sat, I slumped. When I spoke, I slurred. Finally, during a lull in business, caused, no doubt, by my seeming incoherence, I tried to trace my thoughts back to her. When, amazingly I succeeded, my head split with her raging screams! I could only just muffle her. I closed the shop early and went upstairs to lie down. That was a mistake. It only brought her surging forward, for she, too, wherever she was, lay prone, stiff and unmoving and powerless.
And I had to partake of her suffering. In desperation, she had reached out and found me and I knew I had to rescue her or go mad, as well. There was no respite from her tormented spirit. Every effort to shut her out failed. Nor could I try to repeat another direct contact with her. Her screaming was unendurable.
The day wore away. Night, quiet and humid, fell over the city. As with the previous night, this one offered no sleep, no rest. I feared to lay down, to close my eyes. She would be there waiting to suffocate me with her pain. So, I walked. First in the apartment. Then through the streets of my beloved city. I wandered almost sightless through alleys and back streets and narrow cul-de-sacs. I stubbornly refused to be led, guided, controlled by her so that I picked my own meandering path. My muscles were close to collapse, my emotions no less so. Finally, close to daybreak, I acknowledged where she wanted to direct me, the city block of the Hotel Constantinople. The one place in all the world that I wanted to avoid.
"All right. I'll go there. Tonight." Upon making that vow, Tanya released me. I dropped, exhausted, to the ground. Freedom. Release. It was heavenly! And I had to give it to Tanya. I had to find her and free her. Or, next time, she might not let me go from her horrible tortured grip. I would not survive another such night.
I somehow managed to return home. I slept like a log and even opened the shop for my regular business hours. Traffic remained brisk because The Killer Vampire, Rasputin, was still on the loose, although, thankfully, no more victims had been discovered. I received my rush order from Paranormals Plus out of Belpre Ohio, replenished my shelves, waited on customers and watched the progress of the clock. This evening I had a mission to fulfill, or literally die trying.
I intended on going to the Constantinople in the guise of Charity. After all, I, she, had agreed on being one of the hostesses for a private Friday night party. If I was careful, and kept my mind shielded, Constantine might never know I was there. Then, again, my odds probably weren't as good as a snowball's chance in hell.
As Charity, one of the Bete Noir Escort Service girls, I had a certain image to project, cheap and easy. So, I dug into my closet, ignoring the triple-stacked totes full of memories and photographs, and tried to pull together an appropriate ensemble. The pickings were slim. Most of my wardrobe consisted of jeans, shirts, and a few sweaters. In a sack on the floor, I found a bunch of discards, stuff which I had forgotten to donate to Good Will. Poking through the contents, I dredged up an ankle length skirt in an outdated paisley print, lime green upon black, and a scoop necked black polyester blouse entirely too snug through the chest.
I tried the pieces on in front of the small medicine cabinet mirror. It worked! Charity was officially on the job, uniformed in a tight, formfitting top and a loud easy to hike up skirt. I sprayed on an atrocious amount of perfume, aptly called toilet water, went heavy on the green eye shadow, peach blush, and stark red lip stick, then put on a gaudy pair of turquoise ear rings that dangled against my jaw-line. My bowl-shaped short haircut added a contrasting girlish innocence. It revealed my vulnerabilities, and that added a strange sort of appeal. Underneath I wore my one and only matching bra and panty set, save for my forget-me-knot sleepwear camisole. Someone should feel privileged.
I slipped into a pair of flat soled sandals, sans pantyhose, and prepared to leave. Dusk had already deepened to near dark. I grabbed up my shoulder bag, throwing in the usual mix of a tiny wooden cross, a plastic bottle of holy water, and a few garlic cloves out of sheer habit. If nothing else, the contents, including a heavy change purse, might stun a mugger.
I left De Facto Self Defense with much misgiving. But I really had no choice. Tanya was out there, waiting, suffering, monitoring. She would not hesitate to link up again and share a dose of living hell with me. So, I went. The streets, regardless of the fear hanging over the beleaguered city, were busy. It was a Friday in May and people were ready to party. I parked on a street some few blocks from the Hotel. I got out of the car, shutting the door, locking it. A small shiver, like an icy hand, ran up my spine. I guessed that to be Tanya. When no other contact occurred, I moved to the nearest crosswalk and scrambled across the street. I scanned the area, watching other pedestrians, passing cars, keeping to well lit areas of sidewalk. My pace slowed. I was nearing The Constantinople. I walked past the small well tended suburban garden on my side of the street, the hotel on the opposite now plainly in view. The tall modern building glowed with light and excitement, and, for me, the slight buzz in my teeth that indicated vampires.
This sudden spurt of awareness, of alertness, made me weak kneed, but I forged onward, strolling by the night shadowed park, smelling a mixture of grass, compost, and flowers, chiefly the last of the wild honeysuckle. I did not regain my entire strength until I had crossed the street at the stately colonnaded entrance to barge through the automated glass doors as if I owned the place.
Charity received a few interested glances, some of which she cheekily returned. On the inside, Avna was less pleased to be ogled by strange men. I breezed across the familiar lobby. My sandals clicked on the octagonal beige and pink tiles. I sidestepped a group of flamboyantly garbed men and women---none, I realized with a shiver, mortal---gathered near the waterfall. As if united, the odd clutch gave off a vibe of antagonism. I could feel several pairs of eyes watch my progress to the elevator. Hostility seemed to follow me. Distracted, I punched the down button, and, since I had seen no other reflection but my own on the back wall of the elevator, I hurriedly stepped inside even before the doors had fully opened. When I pivoted toward the front, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Marc and Max were in the elevator, only they had, indeed, cast no warning reflection against the mirror-like chrome.
Nor had I felt them. I put that down to saturation. Most likely once I was in close proximity to several vampires my body quit giving off the warning signals rather than try to ratchet up their volume. It wouldn't be worthwhile to buzz continuously due to the emotional and physical stress once I was initially alerted. For instance, I had already had one major, draining jolt on the outside of the hotel perimeter. Or, more likely, it was plain old inexperience that made my newly acquired vampire alert system flawed. Hey, it wasn't like I had an owner's manual!
"Avna." It was Marc, ever friendly, that offered me a greeting, and a quick glimpse of his golden tongue stud as he spoke my name.
Max stared balefully, finally giving me a nod.
"Guys." They were exquisitely attired, alike in brown suede jackets over top of crisp mocha trousers. With their hair artfully spiked, they made an identical pack of double trouble. And, even though they stood one on either side of me, exchanging secretive smiles at my expense, there was still no sign of them on the reflective walls. It was disorienting.
"What brings you to the Constantinople?" Marc leaned nearer, letting his gaze drift down my body, waggling his brows in a suggestive Groucho Marx fashion. Yet the flaring of his nostrils, as if breathing in the aroma of my thick perfume, dimmed some, but not all, of his prankishness. "Business or, hopefully, pleasure?"
"I'm back to square one in the search for Tanya. I don't know where else to go."
Max tensed. "It's too late for her." His voice was gruff, choked off.
"Maybe. Then, again, maybe not." The elevator opened onto the hallway of the Bete Noir Club and Escort Service. I stepped off, leaving Marc and Max to hastily catch up.
"What do you mean?" Max exchanged his anger towards me for concern over Tanya. For all that he mocked my humanness, despised my mortal weakness, did he secretly believe I could help?
"I ... felt her last night. She's trapped somewhere in the city. She's not insane, at least, not yet." I stopped in my tracks, closed my eyes, and let go a harsh breath, trying to banish the terrible memory of her.
"She's still sane," Max whispered, disbelieving. Marc consolingly squeezed his brother's shoulder.
"Yes." But when I calmed enough to look once more upon the world, staring by turns between the twins, they saw Tanya's anguish within my eyes. "Now, go away, like good little boys. I have work to do, and I don't want you to cramp my style. By the way which door is parlor B?" I stood a few feet from one of the two doors that opened off the right hand side of the long hallway, which itself led to the night club proper.
Their eyes met. They shared a smirk. "That's parlor A. Parlor B is the second room." Marc offered the information. "Are you going to the shindig?" At that idea, another flicker of humor at my expense passed between the brothers.
"As a matter of fact, I am." I struck out for Parlor B and the private party which Madam Waken had told me was booked there. I warily glanced at the guards on duty down next to the Bete Noir Club. I did not recognize them from my first visit, nor did these men resemble the no-neck, no-brain brawn that seemed to be the only requirement for employment. They actually looked somewhat intelligent, with the stature and expression of ex-military.
I deliberately did not pause or hesitate at the threshold of the party so as not to be plagued with second thoughts. I opened the door, pushed inside, and was instantly assailed by the fact that the huge gathering was mostly of the vampire persuasion. The place was a chaotic mass.
Behind me, Marc and Max hemmed me in, forcing me to move into the noisy pulsing room. Music, heavy on synthesizers and drum machines, thrummed. Purplish red lights flashed in tempo to the music. Of course, in the center of the cavernous banquet hall, entertainment of the lewd sort was in progress. Three women, in various stages of undress, were doing a group strip tease on a raised platform. One I recognized as Helga, the Swedish masseuse, whom I had encountered at the office of the Bete Noir Escort Service.
Set in a rectangle about the stage were banquet tables. The centerpiece of each was a woman, dressed in a period costume, wigged and jeweled from bygone centuries, Elizabethan England, Italian Renaissance, Pre-Revolutionary France, Czarist Russia. Periods of great aristocracy, of wholesale decadence, of unquestioned historical significance. But what did these women, dressed from those eras, those times and places, represent? What did they have in common? Constantine, The Great.
He, a progenitor, and far older than I had ever suspected, must have lived during them all. This private party was his! Thus the decorations were living models of the women he would have known, intimately, wantonly, frenziedly, over the countless years. That accounted, too, for a guest list almost exclusively of his immortal kind. Suddenly, I felt panicked, being but one of the few hot-blooded living beings in the crowded room. I did not feel like a glorified hostess so much as the buffet.
Bodies, lithe, lean, attractive, jostled all around me. Marc and Max, standing behind me, anchored me to that one spot, even as the driving music seemed to mute and the pulsing purplish lights to still, while the crowd, that glorious gathering of undead, surged forward slightly, catching me up in their excitement. Something was happening, a bit of entertainment that overshadowed the ongoing striptease. I tiptoed to see above the throng. Theirs was a distinct hungry anticipation.
That feeling was reinforced by the sight of one of the male guests, his athletic back to me, sexily garbed in black leather pants and dove gray satin shirt, rising onto one of the banquet tables where he proceeded to publicly taste of the woman in Elizabethan dress, bending her back over his arm, running his free hand up over her torso, cupping and massaging at her breast, then lightly biting her neck, daintily sipping, seeming to pump their bodies in orgasmic unison. I thought I heard her moan with pleasure but she was too distant and the place too noisy. I was merely supplying the sound effects in my head.
When he finished, and, thankfully, he did not drink too deeply, or too long, he sat her back upon her feet and, with a seductive slowness, he stuffed a bill---again, I thought I could see that far, to make it out as a hundred---into the depths of her bodice, repeatedly fingering the money until it disappeared in the recess between her large up-thrust breasts. It was obvious, even at a distance, that she had enjoyed herself. Tremendously. She smiled and tried to detain him, grabbing his hips, rubbing her voluminous-skirted self against him, whispering some enticement into his ear.
He threw his head back and laughed, but he still abandoned her, turning to lightly jump down, instinctively knowing where I stood, that I had seen, that I was transfixed. Constantine, of course, would be the first to try the party favors.
Marc and Max mumbled some parting words, then made themselves scarce. After all, the lines waiting to take a turn with the women were growing fast. They knew that Constantine might willingly share the women on the tables, but his generosity only went so far. It was more than obvious that he considered me all his, especially given the icy glitter of his pale eyes targeted exclusively upon me.
I stood my ground, gripping hard at the shoulder strap of my heavy bag, but my legs shook. He gracefully parted a way through the crowd, aiming directly for me, capturing me with his bright blue vampire's gaze. My lungs felt stifled. I hastily sought some escape, catching a few familiar faces, Haley Davis, the vampires who had helped clear up the aftermath at the Tattoo Emporium, and, finally, Josh Warner, although he quickly turned away from me. In fact the crush of bodies thinned, dissipated, at Constantine's approach. Gazes, too, were averted. I alone faced the progenitor. My breath stayed shallow and shaky. I had a rush of dizziness. And Constantine was at my side.
Neither of us spoke. His eyes were so powerful that he did not even have to physically touch me. It seemed, here, in one sheltered spot amid a mass of heated bodies and frantic but muted music, that his hands were everywhere upon me. He stroked a shoulder, touched a thigh, caressed my stomach, excited every nerve in my body. And, as he thoroughly perused me on a psychic level, he physically divested me of my offensive weapon-filled handbag. He slipped the strap down off my arm and casually tossed it away. Ensnared by his hot roving gaze, I allowed him to disarm me without any protest.
If only he were mortal, I could revel in those caresses, thrill to them, return them in kind. But, as hard as it was to pull away from him, I had to do so. I used anger as my weapon, for how flattering was it to have a man, or rather a vampire, come to you immediately after having been with another woman? Not very.
He knew I had erected barriers between us. His low resonant voice actually sounded hesitant. "Part of me is glad to see you."
"Which part?" I looked down at his groin.
"I'll forgive your vulgarity," he latched on to my wrist, uncannily knowing I was about to walk away, "since I have upset you."
"I'm not upset, you hypocrite. You practically fornicate on stage with some costumed bimbo, and you dare to call me vulgar!" My chest, in the too-tight scoop-necked polyester top, heaved. He was right. I was upset. Damn him.
Constantine tightened his hold on my wrist. Those delicate bones felt incredibly fragile within his clasp. "Normally, I'd welcome you here with me. Tonight, however, I must send you away. I have invited far too many dangerous guests. I shall have the twins take you home. Now." He spotted the brothers on the other side of the teeming room, Marc in a clench with some rail-thin half-naked waif while Max sat back watching with indifference, and Constantine wordlessly commanded them to him. As one, they obeyed, immediately wading through the mass of vampire kind.
I attempted to shake loose of Constantine's hold on my wrist. "You have got to be kidding. I came on my own, and that's how I'll leave ... WHEN I'm good and ready." I was a bit startled when Constantine, instead of releasing me, yanked me directly up against himself. He fisted a hand, the right one upon which he wore his gleaming gold signet ring, into the thickness of my short dirty-blonde crop of hair. He suddenly jerked my head back, extending the length of my throat.
"Learn to obey me without question, my little Soulsmith, or I will take away your ability to deny me once and for all." As if his words, his cold tone, weren't menacing enough, he ran his tongue up the side of my neck. He then picked one spot, over my carotid, which he slowly lavished with attention. He applied his silky tongue and mouth as a child would to a melting ice cream cone, in long greedy strokes.
I stifled a groan. How, I hazily wondered, could he exercise enough self control to resist biting me? For I was definitely beyond trying to stop him. In fact, some perversity made me try to entice him. I leant more fully, more aggressively into him, pressing every inch of flesh and bone against him. Because of one sloppy, wet tongue lick, my hormones overruled all my considerable willpower! Such had never happened before. This behavior was beyond reckless, beyond irrational. My eyelids drooped shut in a narcotic-like stupor. I breathed out a whisper.
"I don't want to be this attracted to you." My words were desolate.
"But you can't help yourself. STOP FIGHTING." Constantine's mouth traced up to my ear. His tongue flicked like a hummingbird sipping nectar.
"Then," I quelled an ecstatic shudder, "these sensations are an illusion? They're a beguilement?" I clenched at his shoulders, just as surely as I grasped at the notion that Constantine's aura compelled me against my nature to feel so debauched.
"Hardly." That word was tinged with humiliating arrogance. Heat flashed in Constantine's eyes. He nuzzled his face into my hair. "You, my little Soulsmith, are trying to resist the irresistible."
"Damn straight," I muttered, reacting to Constantine's insufferable conceit by trying to shake free, mentally and physically, from him. In a lessening daze, I continued to withdraw from him.
Defeatedly, his eyes closed. His head bowed low. He allowed me to pull away only so far, retaining a looser hold on my hair, keeping a bare touch of his hip against me. He seemed bereft. Or, so, I thought. His hooded gaze slowly opened. He pressed his hand hard against the back of my head, forcing me to look directly into his icy blue eyes, to see and hear and accept the depths of his next words.
"One day I shall taste of you, and drink my fill, and gain your heart and soul."
To him, it wasn't a threat, just the truth. What he desired, he took. For the present, for whatever unfathomable reason, I was what he desired.
"You bloody bastard. Keep your hands off me." I wanted to cry. From fear. From fury. From frustration. Talk about being caught between the proverbial rock and the hard place. My body ached to be with him, but my mind rebelled. How could I succumb to a soulless man who wanted nothing more than sex mixed with my very life's blood? Far too easily, I mentally cringed. A woman's libido didn't care about love or respect or commitment or CONSEQUENCES. In this case, the price for bliss was self determination. When he held me in his arms, it seemed a reasonable trade. Ergo, I needed to get out---and stay out---of his unnatural embrace. I shoved hard against his chest, using the momentum to twist out of his hold and to stagger further away.
I was brought up short. Two vampires, female, barred my way. Standing several feet behind them were their followers, lounging together in a tight knot, waiting for what was to happen next. And, like a leper amongst his own kind, one-eyed Snitch lurked just beyond them. This, then, was the hostile group that I had bypassed in the hotel's lobby!
The space that had earlier emptied to accommodate Constantine had widened. En masse, the partying vampires had gotten out of harm's way, save for a scattering of thrill seekers and Constantine's own people, hovering in the foreground. However, the human strippers on the stage and the period-costumed models on the tables remained motionless, caught-in-the-crossfire, rooted to the relative safety of their spots.
And, as for myself, well, I stood out front and center, facing the newcomers like some warped wild west showdown.
Constantine fluidly strolled forward even with me, while his eyes focused upon the two. As, in fact, did mine. They were incredible. A beauteous pair of physical opposites. One was ebony black, skin flawless, dark, perfect. Her sensuous body, clad ONLY in a see-thru shimmering citron-hued dress of lace, was a sculpted, muscled, triumph. Every bit of her was visible through the sheer material, her large dusky areolas, the sharp indent of her belly button, and, if one had the nerve to look, the tight black curls between her shapely legs. Her thick hair, of a length down to her long tapered waist, was a striking shade of white, framing a face of extreme beauty, amazing cheekbones, liquid brown eyes, a generous mouth. Those parted, pouty lips promised immoral pleasures.
Yet, as striking and beautiful as she was, she was obviously subordinate to the other whose beauty housed such a palpable viciousness, emanating off her like a physical entity, that I flinched. Her skin, next to her slightly taller ebony compatriot, shown pale and creamy and unblemished. The charms of her slender but large breasted body were not likewise openly displayed, but were more cunningly revealed in a form fitting sea green gown, cut low almost to her navel, with a slit up the leg. Her hair, too, was waist length, a lifeless shade of black, that had no sheen or shimmer, like an extremely cheap dye job. She had a slim face, triangular, the chin rather pointy. Her almond shaped eyes, drooping and concealed, were some indeterminate shade, perhaps dishwater brown. Her mouth was a harsh scarlet gash, lush, full, and cruel. On her bare arms twined lengths of braided leather, bracelets of cord that spoke of dominance and submission, of pain without pleasure.
Even before Constantine spoke their names, I knew who they were---the owners of the extra coffins at the Tattoo Emporium. There was no doubt as to which of the pair was the progenitor.
"Hello, Sylvana," Constantine uttered softly, with a brief nod at the long limbed ebony nymphette. His pale blue eyes shifted to the other, the one standing dominantly to the fore. "Donata." From him, the name sounded musical, seductive, full of hidden meaning. "How good of you to come."
"But, Constantine, darling, how could I not return the favor when you have cum for me on so many occasions?" Donata's heavy lidded gaze raked over me.
I tried not to cower, but I was way out of my league, wearing castoff clothes and exuding no supernatural aura, sexual or otherwise. And Donata obviously wanted to catfight with me---over Constantine!
"Honey, if you still want him, he's all yours." I took a step to the left, away from Constantine, but no closer to the evil female vamps. I had just openly disavowed him, but all Constantine did was speculatively glance in my direction. Still I felt the censure of that minute gesture. It caused a dry lump to form in my throat.
Donata smiled unpleasantly. "I have had my fill of him. And I left him sucked dry."
Constantine disputed her. "If you---or any woman---left my bed, it was because I kicked you out."
Donata practically foamed at the mouth. The air seemed to vibrate with menace. It was Sylvana, running the tips of her fingers up her progenitor's arm, that calmed her. "Remember why we are here, Donata. Not for him, but for her," Sylvana, her head tilted slyly, her liquid brown eyes meant to enrapture, nodded at me, "for the Soulsmith, the great prize. Rasputin will be much pleased."
I scowled, not liking the way her Caribbean accented words referred to me, as if I were not a person, but a thing, to be coveted, to be owned, to be obtained. "Exactly what do you mean?"
Donata ignored my question, if not my person. She traced an assessing glance up and down my garishly clad body. She did so not once, but twice. Something discovered in the second sweep of her gaze caused her to pause and smile. "I, too, begin to sense her potential, dearest Sylvana. We don't necessarily have to present her to the Master right away."
Sylvana's chocolaty brown eyes glowed. She was excited, rather tremulous. She now faced Donata. "Yes ... oh, yes. There is a great deal to teach her. May we, my mistress, train her together?" She folded down onto her knees beside Donata, like an irreligious supplicant. She very suggestively, very persuasively ran her hands up the slit of Donata's sea foam dress, gripping at the soft flesh of her inner legs. "Allow her to join us."
I decided to burst her lesbian bubble post-haste. "Sure thing. Maybe we can include Constantine and have a foursome."
Sylvana, still on her knees, swiveled toward me, her excited nipples visible through the sheer citron-colored lace. "Yesssss ... any thing you desire." Apparently sarcasm was lost on her. To make matters worse, behind me I heard Marc muttering, "Count me in." The horn-dog.
Sylvana cast one final sly glance at Donata. "May I begin?"
It was Donata's turn to wear that avid, hungry look. She patted Sylvana's head. "Convince her to join with us. Entreat her. Do bring her to us."
A power radiated from Donata into Sylvana, an irresistible flow of raw sexual desire. And it was all directed at yours truly. Sylvana began to crawl towards me ever so slowly. She moved with feline grace, arching her back with each deliberate movement, thrusting her breasts forward. She smiled a beguiling, extra long, white-toothed smile.
I felt compelled to go to her---to them. To do their wondrous, torturous bidding. I drew a shuddering breath. I was repulsed by them yet magnetically drawn to them. It was their mesmerizing vampire gaze. As I internally fought against them, a pulse beat in my temple. But even pain could not distract me. Their thoughts were pounded into my aching brain: YOU MUST SUBMIT. YOU MUST JOIN WITH US. ECSTASY AWAITS.
It was a far greater assault than any of Constantine's. He had always failed because he did not wish to utterly break and subjugate me. They, however, intended nothing less. And, working together, they were winning. I trembled, knowing if I should take so much as one step in their direction that I was a goner. Perspiration dotted my upper lip. I strained to stand motionless. The effort made my limbs quake.
And, still, their undeniable, unshakeable will beat at me, pretending to offer whatever my mind and body could possibly desire, when, in fact, they offered nothing but domination. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, trying to find safety in that blinding gesture, blotting out Sylvana's cat-like advance, focusing to control the burning urge to move towards them. A helpless tear tracked down one cheek.
Incredibly, that one tear moved Constantine to action. Nor was his intervention altruistic, for if he did not intervene, he would lose me. Forever. He stepped beside me, enveloping me in a matchless aura that silenced Donata's siren call. My entire body buzzed in the aftermath of their attack, but I remained standing.
"I do not share what is mine." Constantine personified arrogance. "And this female IS mine." Normally, I would argue that point, but at this moment, very shaky, very unsteady, I let it slide. Who wouldn't settle for a rescue from a male chauvinist son-of-a-bitch over no rescue at all? Certainly not me.
Simultaneously, Donata and Sylvana hissed, the sound like water scorching on a hot griddle. Sylvana withdrew to her mistress' side, her beauty now twisted and ugly. Ochre veins popped out in her cheeks, forehead, and chin. Her lips twisted in a nasty grimace.
Donata exuded anger. That emotion, noxious as a vapor cloud, leached out from her. "I have a little parting gift for the Soulsmith. Key, bring it." She crooked a finger and a very cute boy, barely out of his teens, in a ragged sleeveless sweatshirt, worn jeans, and battered sneakers, broke from the midst of Donata's crew. The tow-headed youth hauled a large, lidded willow basket which he placed before Donata.
Her imminent departure, however, triggered another to action. I heard a shuffle and, then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw FBIC Agent Ezekiel Zellden strutting forward like a rooster. Detective Traeger accompanied him, but his own stance and expression was grim ... and a touch cautious.
Zellden's arm made a sweep. "By the authority of the Federal Bureau of Interspecies Coexistence, I hereby place you," he pointed straight at Donata, "and your people under arrest for numerous violations of the United States FBIC Codes, including the perversion and ultimate destruction of Calvin Hamilton, priorly deceased proprietor of the Tattoo Emporium. Officer Penton read them their rights."
Maxi Penton, dressed a la Catherine the Great of Russia, scrambled down from her perch on one of the four banquet tables. By now, other members of the police force, combined with Zellden's own FBIC team members (including the two Bete Noir guards I had seen earlier in the hallway, now wearing bullet proof vests, crosses, and carrying stun batons), were visible, surrounding the members of Donata's clan. Brilliant. Zellden had set up a sting. Only, the main bad guy, Rasputin, was absent. And needless to say, there were far too many civilians present. I had a bad feeling in my gut. Perhaps Constantine had been right when in his penthouse he had said that I might be having premonitions. This one was not as visceral but it was every bit as strong. I was scared.
I spoke to Constantine under my breath. "Surely, you didn't agree to this?"
"No. Zellden was to track Donata to her lair. Surveillance only. I allowed a few of his agents to infiltrate the party. But there was to be no trap sprung, not while we are also inside it." Those few words were all we had time to exchange.
Donata sneered. "So predictably impotent," she spat at Constantine. "As promised, a gift for your little human whore." And Donata quickly threw back the woven basket's lid. She reached her creamy leather-braceleted arm inside to pull out a writhing handful of snakes, rattlers and copperheads, the only two fatally venomous vipers found in West Virginia. Ironically these were the same type of serpents used in some rural church services where the handling of snakes exulted the word of the Lord. Before I could react, she flung them at me. She dumped the rest onto the floor to slither freely about the room. Snitch, who watched the proceedings from a goodly distance, cackled.
Two copperheads, like giant bronze rubber bands, flexing and twisting in their arc through the air, fell harmlessly short of me. Unfortunately, the rattlesnakes hit their mark. One bit me on the lower thigh. The other struck me in the chest, fell down, and bit my ankle. I tottered, feeling like a living pin cushion. Beside me, Constantine, being immune to their bites, grabbed up the snakes and snapped off their heads. My eyes glazed over from shock. The poison would run its course soon enough. Constantine caught me as I swayed. He gently placed me on the floor. In no more than a heartbeat his people---Josh, Marc, Max, Haley, several vampires that I was beginning to recognize by face, if not by name---had moved to encircle us.
Things grew fuzzy, again from shock and an overdose of adrenaline. Cold electric coursed through my veins. So, too, did the venom. Over top of screams and shouts, I could still plainly hear Donata's mocking voice.
"If you manage to survive, ask Constantine why he wants you so badly. Ask what it means for him to control a Soulsmith."
My tongue felt large and swollen in my mouth or I would have asked Constantine, who leaned over me with a somber stony face, exactly what she meant. But words, coherent or otherwise, were almost beyond me. I felt sluggish, dazed, wasted. And, as the haze about me grew heavier, my hearing strangely sharpened. I heard crystal clear the screams and shouts of pandemonium.
The party was definitely over!
Constantine loomed over me, his beauty etched with harsh lines about his mouth and eyes. The concerned faces of the others were there, too, but less distinct. My eyelids grew very heavy. "We must extract the poison." As Constantine spoke, he ripped open my black scoop-necked blouse. The material tore as if it were no more than tissue paper, exposing my gorgeous burgundy bra ... and also exposing the snakebites, angry bloodied dots that marked my breastbone.
Haley Davis, hunkered down near my waist, yanked away the skirt. Now I was thankful in a hazy, out-of-body-fashion for the matching bra and panty set. She instantly bent over me and locked her mouth to the bites on the top of my thigh. Her dainty, pointy teeth jabbed quickly into the flesh, covering a larger area than the first punctures. She applied her mouth like a suction cup. Her jaws worked hard to withdraw blood and poison then swallow it down. Marc, I groggily noticed, had attached himself to the bitten ankle, sucking hard, swallowing convulsively. Of course, the venom would naturally taste bitter.
That left the bites on my chest.
Constantine's head lowered almost as fast as had the rattler. Yet, drowsy and dazed, I somehow grabbed at him, refusing his ministrations.
"No. Not you." The voice came out weak. The determination behind it, though, was strong. Constantine's mouth stretched into a grim line. Unaccountably, even though my life was on the line and every second counted, he would not---perhaps could not---act against my will.
His eyes went to Josh Warner opposite him. Constantine's grim appearance became tainted with anger and resentment. An unhappy scowl marred his brow. The grooves deepened around his mouth. Rather distantly, I watched Constantine battle with himself, finally deciding to allow the other, a rival, a lowly youngling, to touch me, to place his hands and mouth and bite upon me.
"Do it."
Josh folded down over top of me. His expression was neutral. He was under orders to do this. I felt like Resuscitation Annie and he was practicing CPR techniques. His long pearly teeth flashed then pierced the delicate skin of my chest. Because there was so little tissue there, as opposed to my more ample breasts, he could not bite deeply, so that his fangs pressed hurtfully against my breastbone. I cried out in pain. He instantly changed the pressure and angle of his elongated canines. I exhaled with relief, a low whoosh of air from my lungs. Josh commenced a very meticulous, very skilled extraction as he milked the bad contents from my body.
I grew light headed. Fuzzy. There were three, no, four, vampires sucking away at various parts of my body. With a monumental effort, I managed a glance to my left ankle, the one that had not been bitten, and saw Max attached there, his eyes closed with an expression of satiation. I wriggled that leg. "Get off."
He reluctantly pulled away, wiping at a little trickle of blood and drool: he was actually salivating, like I was a seven course dinner! If I had had the freedom of movement, I would have socked him.
"Why can't I have a taste? Marc is."
Constantine did not hide his own irritation. After all, he, too, had been denied. "Show some restraint, Max. There's only so much to go around."
"Ha, ha." It was hard to mock somebody when your head was spinning. I closed my eyes and concentrated on not being sick. As one, in some strange rhythm, the vampires seemed to be draining every ounce of poison---and blood---from my body. The lightness in my head spread throughout me. I was about ready to float to the ceiling ... and beyond.
I decided not to protest. I didn't have the energy. They had gone from saving me to feeding off me. Their mouths sucked urgently, greedily, supping from an impassive, unresponsive victim. Josh smoothed the hair back from my forehead, a loving affectionate gesture. His own beautiful brown locks splayed across my torso, soft and silky, a veil hiding his features, offering a privacy of sorts for what was fast becoming something intimate. Where he had begun the process with impersonal calm, the taste and lure of blood naturally enticed him, especially since he cared about me. His tongue began to work around the sore area. His body slightly rocked. He was becoming aroused. Good for him. If I had to die, it might as well be for a good cause. Say, for instance, a gorgeous vampire's hard-on.
Strange, then, that as I was ready to close my eyes and lethargically enjoy the inevitable, I wanted to hold Constantine's hand. I, in fact, was holding his hand, unsure as to how it had happened, whether he had reached for me or vice versa. I smiled dreamily. My eyes fluttered. I wanted to tell him goodbye.
"Enough," he snarled. The others immediately broke from me. Haley guiltily pulled back, her eyes downcast, her shoulders hunched. Even she had gotten caught up in the sweet narcotic of my blood. Her entire body posture bespoke her humiliation. Marc, on the other hand, sat back with a small smack of his lips. And a satisfied burp.
"Excuse me." He grinned. Any minute I expected him to pat his tummy and mutter ummm-ummm good.
"Don't rub it in, brother." Max had only had a sip, and he wanted more.
And so, it was obvious to me, did Josh. But he kept his desire well leashed and well masked. Outwardly, he seemed calm, placid, returned to his usual good natured self. Constantine, however, could most likely read the other's unabated hunger. He was a powerful progenitor. Besides which, he knew how such a token taste would not be enough---not for any vampire with strong appetites, whose feelings were also engaged. That made for an irresistible, unquenchable thirst. He himself was parched for just such a drink. Of me. So far, he had been denied. I intended to keep it that way.
My head buzzed. I felt tipsy, drunk. "Is dinner over?" I almost sounded disappointed.
"Yes." Constantine, still possessed of my hand, looked to Haley. "Was enough extracted?"
The nurse judged her words carefully, knowing that, although woozy, I was listening and comprehending. "Given her ... enhanced ... strengths ... she should be fine, even if some of the venom still circulates."
And I was listening, after a fashion, being more interested in studying Constantine's large warm (impossibly tanned!) hand, with its heavy gold signet ring, wrapped about my own, comfortingly, strongly, possessively. My absorption stopped with the shattering sound of a loud crash. Immediately I remembered that my life had not been the only one endangered. There had been other mortals in Parlor B.
I sat bolt upright, and denied the crazy tilting of my equilibrium at the swift motion. I almost felt like myself, just weak. "You've got to protect the humans." The huge room, under the soft pulsing purple lights, was a mini battleground. Several of Zellden's men, trained and armed FBIC agents, were down, some obviously dead, spattered with their own blood, contorted, heads and necks misaligned to bodies, limbs snapped or dangling or missing.
Traeger had gathered the models together and he was guarding them from a couple of Donata's people, amongst them the fair haired teenager, named Key, who had offered up the basket of snakes. It was a bizarre scene. Traeger, his silvered-red soldier's buzz cut standing at attention, swept a big crucifix to-and-fro, using it and his own solid body to shield the frilled and pompadoured women, while Key and his cohorts made comical, exaggerated grabs toward them, almost playacting.
Constantine spoke to the twins. "Lend some assistance to Detective Traeger ... And Marcus, lend Avna your jacket." I had forgotten that I was nearly naked! Constantine accepted the suede jacket and tugged it onto my arms. He dressed me as if I were a distracted child. The jacket fit like a funky mini-dress. At that moment, I was too preoccupied to worry about clothes or the lack thereof.
My gaze swept across the banquet hall. Of Donata and Sylvana, there was no sign. Snitch, however, was cornered by Officer Penton in her guise as Catherine the Great. And she was wielding my very own wooden cross! During the commotion, she must have retrieved my purse, and now she put its unusual contents to good use. Snitch, however, moved like an eel. He slithered backwards, bumping into the stage were the three strippers cowered. He scrambled, still moving backward, onto the stage where he grabbed the closest of the strippers, Helga, she of the statuesque Nordic beauty, the Swedish masseuse with the magic fingers. I clambered to my feet, even though the world tilted.
Constantine steadied me. "Stay here. I shall deal with Snitch."
I didn't listen. I marched across the distance to the stage. Constantine came at my back. Snitch's pock marked face screwed into a snarl, his one good eye trained on me with murderous intent. Nothing, not Maxi Penton brandishing a cross nor even the presence of a progenitor, could redirect his attention
"Stay back. Or she's dead." He had enough vampire strength in his scrawny body to shake big buxom Helga like a Raggedy Anne doll, but poor Helga unlike a rag dolly had no permanent painted on smile. Her own mouth was a round frightened hole. Her gaze, like Snitch's, fixed on me, silently plead for help.
"Release her, and I promise you will go free."
Snitch, dragging Helga along in a head lock, scuttled across the stage, scattering the other half clad dancers, who screamed and jumped from its height. He took advantage of their mad scramble and he dropped off the back side of the stage. Once on the far side, he loosed his hostage and upturned the portable platform to create a barricade. By the time I---accompanied by Constantine, as if he were my own shadow---could get around it, Snitch had disappeared. Helga was thankfully still alive.
"Where did he go?"
She could not speak.
"Where?" I hated to further manhandle her but I did, trying to shake an answer from her.
Josh, standing a little back from Constantine, supplied me one instead. "He must have used the stairs."
I scowled. "That must have been the way Donata and Sylvana left."
By now, Detective Traeger had joined us, the twins, too, jostling a broken-armed Key between them. It took considerable force to break a vampire's bones. Their altered physiology strengthened them and made them heal faster. But, still, to actually see a vamp with a snapped arm was astounding. The twin brothers had managed to impress me. Not that I would ever tell them that.
I scanned the banquet hall, mentally tallying the dead---at least three FBIC officers, and four of Donata's clan. That left one single-browed Neanderthal unaccounted for. "Where's Zellden?" I demanded, an awful sickness in the pit of my stomach.
Traeger's gray eyes met and held my own. "He placed officers in the stairwells. He meant to catch the renegade vampires." He then glanced to Constantine. "He wouldn't abide by your terms. He made this an actual extermination, not surveillance and reconnaissance."
"The stupid SOB!" I clenched my fists, an impotent gesture in view of all the carnage. "He's dealing with a PROGENITOR, Traeger. It will be an even worse blood bath."
Max pointed across the debris of the hall to a steel door marked Exit. "It already is."
Zellden stumbled partially out of the fire exit, his large blue-suited frame propping open the heavy door. As if paralyzed, he stayed there.
Up close, he was even more pathetic. Traeger hoisted him, bodily, to his feet. Zellden's square jaw was slack. His eyes were vacant and unfocused. On either side of his face were handprints imprinted with blood.
Haley Davis spoke the obvious. "He's in shock."
"Traeger," I was afraid to ask, but I had to, "how many men did Zellden have stationed in the stairwells?"
"At least ten more."
I shuddered. Ten more slaughtered. I was sure of it. "We should check for survivors."
Traeger contradicted me. "Not we, me."
"You're not going alone."
It was then that Key, cradling his broken arm, spoke up. His voice was surly. "Donata has gone."
"Would he know?" Traeger asked.
Reluctantly, Constantine answered him. "Some vampires can sense their sire, particularly if the bond is strong, say, as with a progenitor."
"He could be lying." Max intentionally jostled the slighter boy. Key did not cry out.
My own words came out slow and soft and certain. "I don't think he's lying." An uncomfortable hush descended. The entire group sensed a strange magnetic pull, a swirl of some unseen force prying into each by turns. I wasn't aware that it came from me. Key's delicate features lit from within. His eyes slowly blinked, owl-like.
He made an admission that came from out his lips without conscious thought. "She reads me deeper than even Donata. Oh, Lady Soulsmith, you make my heart ache."
Marc reacted first. "Shut up, filth." He struck Key across the cheek, leaving a long welt. Josh, too, had seemed to take a menacing step in Key's direction.
"Don't! He might be able to lead us to Rasputin." But the light of truth within Key had been extinguished by Marc's merciless blow. He lowered his eyes, refusing to look anywhere near me, afraid that he could very easily be persuaded to divulge Donata's, and, thus, Rasputin's new hideout.
"Come on, Traeger, let's check out the stairs." I made a move toward the fire exit. That slight motion awakened Zellden.
"No. You can't. They are all deeaaaddddd." His voice dropped, lowered, afraid it might attract more monsters. "They rip you to shreds. Tear out your heart. They are ravenous." He began shaking like a leaf within his once immaculate suit. He had been reduced to a blubbering, terrified lump.
"Haley," I glanced in her direction, "take care of him." The nurse, also a vampire but unbeknownst to Zellden, gently lead him away. She used soft words and hypnotic suggestions to calm him, and her enhanced strength to accept and support his sagging weight. I watched their departure with a scowl of concentration.
"And you, my dear little Soulsmith," Constantine, lingering at my side, deliberately stepped into my field of vision, and he exerted his own seriously considerable physical and psychic aura, "must likewise allow me to take care of you. I would forbid you this undertaking if that were possible. You are weak, exhausted, wounded." He was trying to influence me! I shook my head to disrupt the lethargy that his words imparted.
"If there is anyone to be saved, we have to try." The resolve of my words strengthened me.
Constantine frowned, but said nothing more. He took the lead, entering the cool interior of the stairs, which were lit by the dull glow of fluorescents. I caught the merest glimpse of the gore within. Just inside the door were piled three entangled bodies, mangled, mutilated and stacked like grotesque cords of firewood.
"Avert your eyes, little one," Constantine commanded over his shoulder, while he blocked the scene with his broad torso. He did not bother to check for pulses. His very nature assessed, without a doubt, that they were dead. I knew it, too.
I pressed as close to the wall as possible and shunted my gaze away. Eerily, however, I somehow almost visualized the horror that I passed but averted my eyes from, whether from my own vivid imagination or, more unsettlingly, from seeing through a progenitor's eyes? Constantine's footfalls echoed hollowly, emptily. He glided up the steps. I came next, then Traeger, the twins, and finally Josh. Our little parade wound up the concrete and metal steps in a file. The walls felt claustrophobic. I had to wonder how Constantine endured the sensation. All I could see of him was his wide, gray-shirted back, and his glorious glossy hair that fell in coal-colored waves about the nape of his neck.
I began to notice, too, something much less pleasant. Long streaks had been smeared upon the walls. Blood, thick and stinking of copper, painted the stairwell like abstract graffiti. I gagged.
"Come." Constantine twisted halfway around. He imparted to me some of his fearlessness within a quick flash of his icy blue eyes, followed by a small touch of reassurance on my forehead, another on my chin. It was very calming.
The wide, ground-floor landing that exited onto street level was now up ahead. I braced myself for greater horror. As I had feared, more bodies, brutalized and butchered, blocked it. The close space stank of an abattoir. Traeger circled around me and began to check for survivors. Constantine waded even further through the carnage, reaching the heavy door, pushing it open, allowing a fresh breeze to enter ... and me to run for an escape. I tripped through the corpses, brushed past Constantine, and practically dove outside in frantic terror. I scraped a knee as I came back to my feet. Instantly, I knew that I was not alone.
A hulking dark shape sprouted from the side of the Constantinople. At first, I recognized the distorted figure as the pitifully ragged street person I had glimpsed several times on various downtown streets, hunkered in a doorway, reclined against a garbage bin, existing as a homeless vagrant. But, now, on the darkened dead end service entrance to the five star Hotel Constantinople, I knew I was confronted by Rasputin, the progenitor who was responsible for the deaths of so many ... Patrolman Richard Donovan, the sweethearts Dean Isen and Sally Cuthbert, vampire entrepreneur Calvin Hamilton, all of the FBIC agents who lay in mutilated piles just beyond me ... and he meant to extend his rampage across the entire Capitol City of Charleston, West Virginia.
Rasputin, still shrouded in his black rags, slammed the fire exit closed. He used a steel crowbar to wedge it shut. Great muffled pounds boomed from the other side, but the door stayed fast! There was no immediate help coming from that direction, although which each successive, hollow blow I could feel Constantine's all-consuming anger spill from around the edges of the jammed door. For one hopeful instant, that strong emotion caused the door to bulge, but a glare from Rasputin reinforced the metal. Constantine would eventually rip through the steel exit. But, alas, not soon enough. Unconsciously, I made a fluttery motion with my hand to aid Constantine's efforts. That impotent gesture amused Rasputin.
With a grating, rattling laugh, Rasputin rounded upon me, virtually unfolded until his full height and breadth, a massive bulk some seven feet tall, filled my entire world, blotted out the very earth and sky. He was grotesque with sallow yellow skin, sagging and peeling, covering his huge round head. Brown age spots showed on his diseased scalp through sparse patches of string-like hair. His eyes were watery brown holes. He lacked a fully formed nose. When he smiled malevolently, the teeth in his mouth shown like long filed knives. By nightmarish contrast, the voice that issued from him was undeniably, frighteningly melodic.
"You cringe and shrink away, but in the end, you will gladly come to me, Soulsmith." He stretched out a gigantic beckoning hand. The nails on those fingers were scabrous, caked with ages of dirt and gore, petrified into weapons perfect to pierce the softness of humans, their flesh, muscle, bones, and tendons. To rip and rend and tear. "I have desired you ever since the night at the river when I savaged that policeman. I watched you. Wanted you. Bespoke you. Now, soon, you will be mine. The power of a Soulsmith has come unto me at last."
I began to tremble, harder. Dread shook every inch of me, body and soul. I was at the mercy of the merciless, another weak victim to be added to his death count. How many men, women, and children, I crazily wondered, had been sacrificed to his hunger, to his diet of blood and fear? I blocked out the answer to that question, for Rasputin had been of the undead so long that the number would be staggering. He was utterly repellent, except for that voice, wrapping around me, stealing my will power, ensnaring me. The sound seeped into my very marrow and pulled at me. It called like some undeniable force of nature, the instinct for survival in reverse---to answer his lure was to accept a living death from a hideous inhuman master. But his call seemed impossible to deny.
I crammed my hands against my ears. I had to block the reverberations of his desire out of my mind. "Go away. Leave me be." I made childish whimpers, unable to do anything else. My eyes, too, were shut tight, tears trickling out to scald my face. But I knew he drew near. I tried to be deaf and blind to his approach, but I could see him in my mind, that enormous black blot upon the world. And I smelled him. It was a hellish reek of rot and decay. It engulfed me. It overpowered me. It encircled me. Rasputin, it seemed, was going to have me for an eternity!
I threw back my head and screamed and screamed, one long cry of defiance, of denial, of desperation that would never end....
Nor did it even when Constantine had somehow pulled the steel fire door from its reinforced hinges, slamming it down with a loud concussive thoom. I was still screaming when he came to me and forcefully took me in his arms. I was still screaming when he held me fast, rubbing my back, whispering in my ear, crushing me to his chest, forcing me to accept his touch, his embrace.
"Hush, hush, hush." I finally did quiet, mostly because my voice was in shreds. I was panting. Each ragged breath seared my lungs. And then Constantine swept me into his arms. He carried me out of the cul-de-sac, up the front walk of his hotel, through the lobby, and into a waiting elevator. I clung to him for dear life. My limbs trembled so violently that I feared breaking into pieces.
"Pick a floor." When I could not rouse myself to answer, he gently rested his cheek against the top of my head. I clenched my arms tighter about his neck. Some of the tremors left me. "Lucky seven?" He quietly suggested.
I nodded my head against his shoulder. He selected that floor, and we rose in a gentle rush. Once arrived, he stepped out into the corridor. He stalked down the lushly carpeted hallway, passed rooms 701 through 708, seemed to feel occupants inside each, until he came to 709.
He stood before the beige colored door with its large brass room numbers and he concentrated on the handle. He gripped me tighter, and I felt tension---like undisciplined energy---being siphoned from me. It relaxed me greatly. It also allowed Constantine to command the locked door, which swung open of its own accord. With gentle ease, he toted me across the threshold into a sumptuous suite. The immense bed was covered in satiny lavender. A deeper orchid carpeted the floor. The walls were papered in a rich complementary eggplant.
Constantine strolled to the bed and eased me upon it. I was unable to untwine my arms from about him. "Don't leave me."
"I won't." He tenderly untangled my arms from around his neck and made a great show of brushing a kiss across each knuckle before placing my hands at my sides. "I need to make you more comfortable by removing the jacket, and your sandals." His bright blue eyes radiated nothing but warmth and caring, almost a subliminal tranquilizer. I nodded agreement, weakly aided his efforts to pull off the suede jacket, let the plain sandals drop to the floor. He covered me with a fold of the lavender comforter, tucking it around me snugly. He remained perched there.
"Close your eyes." Before I did so, I noticed an ornate sun-shaped clock on the far wall. The time was three o'clock. It would soon be sunrise. I looked then to the floor-to-ceiling orchid and gray patterned drapes. Could light seep underneath those heavy swagged curtains?
My eyes asked him that question, because I was afraid that if I spoke it would come out a scream. Evil had nearly swallowed me whole. I hadn't recovered, not by half.
"Do not worry. I am safe." I heard him in my mind acknowledge---you are safe, as well.
And waddaya know, just like that, I yawned, closed my eyes, and went to dreamless sleep.
Sleep. Black, velvety, rejuvenating. It was exactly what the Doctor ordered. Only once, at mid afternoon, did I groggily come to wakefulness in the closed-curtained, artificially-darkened room. I was still safely tucked in the king-sized bed. Constantine, statue-like, sat propped against it, his knees drawn to his chest, his head slightly bowed, one arm stretched across the edge of the mattress, as if he had been reaching for me before deep sleep had also overtaken him.
An emotional pang stabbed me to see his inert figure, frozen there like a vigilant guardian. I wanted very much to stroke the coal colored waves of his glorious hair. To enjoy the texture of it, to explore its thickness. But fear held me back. Locked within that slumbering form was heat and passion, ready to be enflamed with a single touch. I could not risk releasing---could not risk awakening---his beast. If we were growing increasingly attuned to one another, it would be a huge mistake to disturb him. Deliberately, I turned my head away and was immediately weighed down by sleep.
When next I awoke, it was with a sharp start just after nightfall. I had recuperated for an entire day. Constantine was no longer by my bedside. In fact, he was no longer in the room. But there was, I noted with a scowl, a table set for two. I slid out of bed to inspect the setup. A golden lace tablecloth covered an intimately small table. There were unlit metallic-gold tapers, long stemmed crystal goblets, place settings with clear china, and golden-toned tableware. Nearby, on a graceful stand, a bottle of champagne awaited, chilling in a bucket of ice. I squinted at the French label and guessed the vintage to be impossibly old and undoubtedly rare. I clenched my fists and took a distancing step backwards. Last night Constantine had been a true gentleman, chivalrous. Heroic and tender. But, now, his hands-off policy had obviously switched to hands-on.
"How sweet," I murmured sarcastically, eyeing the romantic arrangement with disgust. "Dinner for two. When only one of us actually needs to eat ... food." I uncharitably suspected Constantine was at that very moment nibbling on some not-so-innocent-soul as an appetizer. I, of course, was being saved for the main entrée.
To complete this seduction, Constantine had provided me with his idea of appropriate attire, laid out on the foot of the king-sized bed, side-by-side with another offering, some of the contents of my lost purse, my car keys, a lipstick, and some breath mints. I held the dress up to my scantily clad self. Disturbingly, there was no evidence whatsoever of my snakebites. Not so much as a pimple. Shouldn't there be bruises, or punctures, or discolored skin? I swallowed a rising bit of hysteria and, instead, concentrated on Constantine's gift. It was a plum-colored, thin-strapped, sequin-covered little number that ended mid-thigh. I loved it, and I hated that I loved it. But, seeing as I had nothing to wear, not even Marcus' suede jacket, I had no choice but to put it on. I had to get out of there before Constantine returned.
So, without so much as washing my face, finger-combing my hair, or rinsing my mouth---although I did search out the luxurious, fancy-shmancy saffron and daffodil hued bathroom to relieve myself---I slid the silk-lined dress over my burgundy undies. It fit like a second skin. Everything was accentuated, the curve of my breasts, the narrowness of my waist, the roundness of my hips. More of me was exposed than I, the ultimate conservative, was comfortable with, from pale shapely arms, to long lean legs, and an appealing amount of cleavage. I felt uncharacteristically sexy. That feeling, of unadulterated sexiness, surged, rising from without me rather than within.
I absolutely had to get out of that room! Now!
In a panic, I scuffed my feet under the flounced, lavender bed skirt in search of my low-heeled sandals. I slid them on then grabbed up my car keys. They went in the only spot available, nestled in my bra! I hightailed it for the doorway.
Naturally, with my brand of luck, Constantine appeared there, halting to stare at me, seeming to taste of me with his vampire eyes. And that hungry intense gaze echoed in me, caused an agitated pulse to beat in my throat. That beat, hard and insistent, spread lower. To between my legs. I gulped down a mouthful of air, because my breathing had become very shallow. I totally blamed him for my unwanted reaction. He was incredibly beautiful poised there in sleek dark trousers with a matching ruffled shirt, two buttons carelessly undone to reveal a bit of his own strong throat. From the crown of his coal black hair to the soles of his hand-made Italian leather shoes, he was male. Passionate. Virile. Sexy. And, without a doubt, he had not, repeat NOT, already fed this evening. His craving permeated the very air. My body responded with a tiny tremor. Reflexively, my arms crossed before my chest.
His answering smile was predatory. The points of his teeth flashed. Even that was hot! My response to him, the tremble, the defensive gesture, redoubled his interest. Unconsciously, in accordance to his wishes, I uncurled my arms from about my body. His ice-blue gaze roved over me with ardor, enjoying the slinky dress, the abundance of skin, the tight fit. "Quite adequate," he decided, the words soft and slurred. "Indeed, far more than adequate."
He shuttered his eyes, as if to hide something, some emotion. "But surely you cannot be leaving?" He braced his arms on either side of the door, barring the way, daring me to pass him, anticipating that I would try.
"I don't mean to be ungrateful," I kept a bland expression, "but I was about to leave."
He eased his stance within the doorway to gesture with his right hand towards the romantic table-for-two. His burnished gold signet ring glittered at me, drugged me, ensnared me. "I insist you share a meal with me."
It was difficult to clear my mind. I blinked rapidly to shake off his spell. His tactics riled me, so I got sassy. "Don't you mean be the meal?"
He openly laughed at me. "My darling Miss Soulsmith, you are not the main course." Contrary to his disarming reassurances, his bright blue eyes once again traced a possessive trail down the sequined dress. Assessingly, he focused on certain aspects of my physiology, chiefly my neck, breasts, and groin. He returned his gaze to mine. "But ... you could be the desert?" There was a hopeful note to his voice.
"Constantine.... "I sighed in exhaustion, closed my eyes, and renewed my will to fight him. This struggle was so hard, because he was everything a woman could want. Tall, dark, and handsome. Intelligent, sexy, and wealthy. So what if he also happened to be a vampire? Everybody has flaws. I, myself, had a catalogue of them. For starters, I was commitment phobic. Hence my romantic history was short and bitter, including only two unsatisfactory failed relationships. And just why couldn't I commit? Blame an absentee father, a man who had lived up to my mother's sole but oft-repeated description of him as King of the Gypsies. He had gotten her pregnant and left before I was born, abandoning us both to relative poverty, surviving on the love and generosity of my grandmother.
Admittedly, I was far from perfect. I was a wounded, isolated loner. But I was still a human, a mortal being. Constantine was not. How could I accept such an eternally frightening flaw?
Fortified, I opened my eyes. He now stood beside me, having crossed the distance in a fraction of a second. Using vampire powers of any kind, whether pedestrian or grand, at this particular moment only hurt his case. It served to remind me that, with him, I could never totally be sure of my own true emotions. Part of me believed that he could not influence me deeply, not way down at my core. But what if I was wrong? What if that was what he wanted me to think? What if that was what he MADE me think? Such second-guessing would soon drive me crazy. So, I decided to beard the lion in his den.
"I need to thank you for last night." I looked straight into his icy-blue eyes. It was bravado of the worst sort, a foolhardy dare, saying, gimme your best shot. Test me. Snare me, if you can.
And he did something that surprised me. He hooded his gaze, as if wary, or, afraid, I might discover a secret there.
"Thank me? Why?"
"For not taking advantage of me. I was pretty.... "I scowled. "Make that totally out of it. Everything about last night feels blurred, out-of-focus, but I mostly remember being scared shitless. I felt safe. Here. With you."
"I would not violate you in such circumstances." However, his double entendre was tactile and solid, and it slid silkily against my skin, eliciting an electric thrill in me because it clearly meant that he would violate me in other circumstances. It was a deliberate diversion and meant to do much more than begin some seductive maneuvers. His gaze pulled at mine and with that tug of power a strangeness occupied my brain. He seemed to be trying to distract me while he rearranged or, perhaps, outright destroyed my memories of last night's events. He tried to preoccupy me with sexual need while he rummaged through my thoughts like so much bric-a-brac. His attempt failed. Miserably.
In fact, vivid snippets, the very ones he was trying to conceal, replayed in my mind. Of Sylvana crawling towards me, Key offering up the basket of snakes, Zellden completely melting down in face of a bloodbath of his own making. And, then, all at once, I collided with the one he was trying to shuffle completely out of my reach! I mentally grabbed for it with speed reminiscent of Constantine's own vampire kind.
I again heard, I relived, the hateful mocking echo of Donata's departing words to me. "If you manage to survive, ask Constantine why he wants you so badly. Ask what it means for him to control a Soulsmith." Every muscle in my body clenched. Her question was one I had avoided asking my-esteem-impaired-self for a good long while. Principally, what could tall, dark, and handsome want with me? If it were just sex, he would have moved on to much easier conquests by now. So, what, exactly, DID he want from me? I had never trusted him less than I did in that instant.
I glared at him. It took a great effort to get the words, the question, past the lump in my throat. "What is it you want from me, Constantine? Why this pursuit? I'm nothing special." I refused to shed the tears, of grief, of hurt, of suspicion, that threatened to drown me, but my eyes were surprisingly misty.
His hand, the right one with its large gold signet ring, reached out to try and brush my cheek. I flinched away, not allowing him to touch me.
"Answer me, damn it! What did Donata mean?"
"She meant nothing more than to turn you against me. And, indeed, she has accomplished her aim well."
"No!" I ran a shaking hand through my thick, mussed hair. Strange, unaccountable things had been happening around me lately. I could not ignore them any longer. Desperation tinged my next verbal barrage. "What is it about me that you want, that you need? Why is it that after having been bitten by snakes I'm perfectly fine? I should be dead, Constantine!"
Anguish coursed across his face like storm clouds blotting the beauty of the sun. "Don't say such a thing."
"Start explaining. Why can you enter my dreams, not simply because you're a progenitor? Why does the presence of vampires sometimes give me a physical buzz? Why did Key say that I could read him? What's with the super speed healing? Tell me." Here came the clincher. My jaw raised, jutted belligerently. "I know you used me last night to open that locked door. Somehow you drew the power from me. Didn't you?"
Suddenly he looked arrogant and cold and unfeeling. The perfection of his mouth twisted with a sneer. One brow rose in a haughty arch. And, of a sudden, in a rush of frustration and anger, I dared to beat an answer out of him! I used both fists to pound him in the chest. Again and again. He stayed immobile, and yet I knew I was hurting him, very little physically, but a great deal emotionally. He had to grab my wrists.
"Stop it." He jarred me with a single, rough shake. "Calm yourself."
But I wouldn't. I thrashed powerfully against his hold. I was in danger of hurting myself, yet I still struggled. He cursed at his inability to contain me. Since we were close to the bed, he flung me onto it. Then, while I tried to catch my breath, he began to follow me, forcing me to scuttle back against the headboard. His progress was slow, deliberate, that of a purposeful predator.
"Don't come any closer." As for myself, scrunched against the intricately carved headboard, I had nowhere left to go. My teeth were bared. My arms were out-flung against the wall behind the head of the king-sized bed. I was backed into the proverbial corner.
"Not even to get an answer to your questions?" His brilliant blue irises flashed. Motionless, he awaited a reply.
"You can tell me from there."
"And you won't run away?"
"I won't." At least, I would try not to.
"Promise to accept what I tell you."
"No." My head swung negatively. "No promises."
"Very well." But he was unable to go on for a long time. The sun-shaped clock ticked loudly the precise passage of seconds, minutes, hours, a reminder that he was immortal. For him, time meant little.
"Several centuries ago...."
"How many?" I coldly interrupted him.
"Over four centuries ago, on a trip through the Balkans, I learned of an old crone said to be cursed with foresight." Constantine's head tilted, causing his icy blue eyes to flash with an odd brilliance. "I sought her out merely as entertainment. I paid her handsomely to tell me my future."
"You didn't just use mind control? You know, force her." I practically jeered at him.
"She was too strong." He grinned wolfishly back at me. "For once, I had to pay for a privilege."
When I asked my next question, softly, hesitantly, his wolfish grin vanished. "What did she predict?"
"That I was doomed to decades and decades of lonely existence." Bitterness shrouded him. It was as if he sat in the present, looking back at himself, knowing that then, in the moment of the telling, he had laughed at her dire prophecy. Only, she had been right, and therefore she had had the last laugh on him. He remained frozen, gazing inward, needing to be roused from the past.
"There had to be more to it than that."
"Oh, there was." He looked at me very sharply. Then, as he continued his revelation, an unpleasant smile tugged at his finely shaped lips. "Zemaralda Draconetti prophesized that should I survive all the trials of countless time then one day I should find a soul mate, a woman who could reshape my own perverse soul, someone for whom I would willingly make the ultimate sacrifice to protect."
I snorted. "Sounds like a scam to me. Fortunetellers, the fake ones anyway, always predict a 'someone' in your future. You didn't believe her, did you?"
"No. Not at first." His expressive, sensual lips now curved into a sad smile. "Not until that same night when I happened upon a tasty monk, hastening towards a monastery. My spirits had been unaccountably high. I told him the words of the fortuneteller. Invited him to drink with me over my impending good fortune. And he, being French, offered up a toast, praying that, indeed, some soul mate, some soul smith could reforge my evil spirit. Just before I ... partook ... of him." A quick flash of the tips of his fangs punctuated his black humor.
"Soulsmith is just a family name. Like any other."
"On the contrary, the Soulsmiths' bear a powerful lineage. They are a force for good. The counterpart to evil. Protectors. Of mankind ... and, as such, imbued with uncanny abilities." There was distaste in his voice. "Not exactly my ideal. But the notion was intriguing. A Soulsmith for a mate. That would make for a powerful combination, indeed. Yet, their kind, your kind," his gaze flicked at me accusingly, "are not particularly compassionate to my kind. The Nocturnal Kindred never accosted any of the Soulsmith line. Over time, it became a taboo of sorts."
He paused, still staring at me, a baleful glare that penetrated like an X-ray. I, yet pressed against the headboard of the gigantic bed, had to prompt him to continue, but it was also an attempt to redirect his disconcerting scrutiny. "So, what does any of that have to do with me? Other than coincidence." But coincidence, my favorite motto went, was never coincidental. Not that I'd ever admit that out loud! "Exactly why did I get so lucky?"
Constantine sighed in obvious disdain of our discussion. He gracefully resettled himself onto his side, reclining, keeping his distance, making himself comfortable. "I avoided your family line like the plague. After a time, their numbers dwindled. Goodness, it seems, does not thrive in this world. Out of curiosity, I began to send observers. Some of my clan followed the last branch of the Soulsmith family to America, around 1750. From Massachusetts, they immigrated onward to New York, and finally to West Virginia. And still their line, full of such beneficence and power, waned. Until, word was sent me nine years ago---at your grandmother's passing---that there was only a single directly descended Soulsmith left upon the face of this earth."
I internally rejected the story he had spun, the inevitability of it. I would not believe it. I had to find ways to refute it. "But you only came here within the last four years? So you don't believe or you would have come much sooner." I made one final waspish dig. "The lure of a Soulsmith, the last of the ancestral line, would have been too much to pass up, hum?"
"Scoff if it eases you. But such denial doesn't change the truth." He did not raise his voice, but it seemed as if he shouted. "You may have no conscious knowledge of your heritage, of your supernatural strengths, but they are there. And they, often, unconsciously manifest. As a Soulsmith, the LAST Soulsmith, bequeathed with all the previous generations abilities concentrated within you, or so I suspect, you are comparable to a capacitor for paranormal energy, accumulating, storing, directing, amplifying, sharing---indeed, creating it. And, to a greater or lesser degree, you can do the same for others. Consider if you should ever intentionally develop, then wield, your power. Consider your potential."
My pain filled heart canted dangerously. How could I accept such a legacy, one that diminished my humanity? I couldn't believe him! I wouldn't! "If all that's true, then I can't believe that you didn't rush here years ago to claim..." I swallowed convulsively, "...me."
"Admittedly, I resisted," he drew out the pronunciation of that word as if now sorry that he had fought his destiny. He cast another sharp glance at me to judge my reaction. "But, eventually, the allure of the possibility was too strong. I wanted permanence, a home, some semblance of a family, and, perhaps, if Zemaralda Draconetti had been right, love of a sort, too."
"Love." I spat the sentiment back at him. "That's hysterical, just like the rest of your story." But I was actually terrified that it was all true. "What you try to do to me isn't love. And, now, after hearing your crazy rantings, I'm not so sure that plain old sex is even what you want. You believe I'm some thing, a talisman, to possess." I began to slide off the opposite side of the bed, as far from him as I could manage. The plum colored dress, with its shiny sequins, hiked up my thighs, drawing his hot gaze up the length of my legs. He rose up and edged closer, so I stopped.
Constantine was not about to release me. "It might not sound romantic. But think about it ... I have waited over four hundred years to test a prophecy that I could not bring myself to hope for. Then, when there was only you, I had to come here." He tensed, as if every fiber of his vampire body wanted to spring upon me, yet he kept the impulse in check. "We belong together. Whether or not the old woman was right, whether or not you believe, there is no denying the heat and fire that burns between us. I want you. I need you."
"But I don't want you." His head snapped backward like I had slapped him. "I don't need you. Granted, I am, as far as I know, the last of my family, the last Soulsmith, but there is no tradition of being sunshine-and-light, of being the purest of heart. We were just regular flesh-and-blood people." But even while I spoke, I knew why there was no Soulsmith heritage. My mother had been killed in a traffic accident when I had barely turned fifteen. My grandmother, almost in her eighties at the time, had suffered strokes from that point on, finally passing away the year after I had left SCWV. There had been no one left to teach me, to instruct me, to guide or support me. No one to initiate me as a Soulsmith, a champion for good. Perhaps, even more likely, that knowledge had been long lost to my family by the ravages of time and tragedy. Death, violent and unexpected, had taken many of my people.
"I can't handle any more of this. I am leaving the Constantinople. Now." I spoke with exaggerated slowness, so that there was no room for misunderstanding. He had best stay out of my way. I carefully rolled off the mattress, close to the romantic dinner table, now all-for-naught.
Constantine, however, stalked after me. His face was deceptively neutral, yet I read his seething emotions, a mixture of irritation, arrogance, and most of all fear. He couldn't risk letting me go. Not when I knew he could read my own equally strong emotions---mistrust and revulsion. I was supposed to fall at his feet because of some idiotic prophecy? He had better think again.
I backed up another few steps and I bumped into the wine stand.
Constantine was almost upon me. He halted within arms reach, finally asserting his real powers. He invaded my mind with frightening ease. He exuded longing, desire, a hunger for complete satiation of the body and the soul, to couple and join and bond and, yes, to fuck. All the blood rushed to my groin. I went weak kneed. I bit back a strangled sound, a moan of surrender.
In one earth-shattering, mind-numbing instant, he possessed me. He bound me with his arms about my waist, his lips upon my mouth, his pelvis thrust hard against my own. His entire weight bent me backward, pinioned me to him. He arched me ever tighter against his erection, which he began to very suggestively rub against me. I throbbed for him. Frustrated whimpers escaped my throat.
I tried to break free. Honest injun'! I pushed at the brick wall of his chest with less and less vigor. The sensual tide of his desire aroused me everywhere. My nipples jutted. My belly clenched. My breath stuttered. My pussy ached.
Constantine's mouth roamed across my face, near my ear, into the hollow of my throat, sometimes kissing, sometimes licking, sometimes sucking. With the speed and dexterity of Houdini, one of Constantine's hands groped inside the low cut neck of my spangled dress. He briskly squeezed the tops of my breasts then dipped inside my bra for a few sizzling circular brushes against my nipple. His hips, insatiable and frantic, began to grind harder. But our clothing impeded his efforts to enter me. He dropped that talented hand which had been fondling my breast to paw at the hem of my short, shiny, sequined dress. Through my thin panties, he cupped my mound, wet and swollen. He ran his middle finger up and down my labia in simulation of the sex act he was about ready to perform. He tried to penetrate that thin layer of fabric and claim the center of my sex.
Heat built up where his finger touched me, and not just from friction. It was his signet ring, throbbing and pulsing against me. It reminded me that this had become violation over seduction. I did want him, but only when it was MY conscious, willing choice. His needs, his arousal, dictated my responses. His wanting poured over me, soaked into me.
"I'm not ready. I'm not ready," I tossed my head away from him in a refusal of his kisses. "I don't want to join like this."
Constantine was not swayed. His fingers tugged at the bit of burgundy colored nylon and lace which covered me. "Your body craves me. Soon your heart and mind will follow. Give in to me. I'll have my Soulsmith. Now."
"Don't, Constantine," I rasped, asking him to stop. He was too far gone to hear.
The weakness of fighting against my own capitulation nearly buckled my knees. I wobbled. Behind me, the wine stand rattled. The unnerving clatter gave me some focus. I awkwardly gripped the bottle of champagne, and I swung it up and against his temple. For all that it was weak and ill-aimed, the blow---or perhaps the fact that I could break his mesmerism enough to wreak violence---stunned him enough for me to break away and run for the door. I flung it open and rushed pell-mell for the elevator. It seemed an eternity before it arrived. By then, Constantine had stepped into the hallway. Again, as within hotel room 709, he slowly stalked me. This time he loomed large to fill the entire far end of the hall like a wrathful genie spewing from the prison of a bottle. I watched his approach with dread, and I blindly punched at the elevator panel. When the door opened, I collapsed inside, relief flooding over me because I had escaped him.
Only ... I had not ... escaped Constantine, who easily, surreally slid into the elevator as it closed. Perhaps, after it had closed? My mind refused to interpret his oily vaporous entrance. Vampires couldn't transform themselves, could they? That was another myth, wasn't it?
He leaned back against the chrome elevator door, watching me through heavy hooded eyes. His inhuman beauty seemed accentuated by his fury. An internalized inferno gilded his sculptured nose, mouth, chin, sparked in his shuttered ice-blue eyes, heightened the lustrous sheen of his wavy coal black hair. The breath caught in my throat. I, Avna Marie Soulsmith, had refused sex with a god! But I'd made my choice, and I had to stand by it.
"If you so much as touch me, I'll despise you forever."
"I don't need to touch you," he tilted his head and raked a dismissive, insulting glance up and down my body, "to pleasure you." And, as he stood stock still, his dark-clad muscular body indolently reclined against the shiny chrome upon which he cast no reflection, I was firmly pressed by invisible hands against the opposite side of the elevator. Shocked, I drew in a huff of air. Carnal sensations instantly bombarded me, surpassing the point where we had left off in room 709. I shook and trembled with pent up frustration.
Constantine, however, remained an aloof but intent spectator. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched me squirm. It felt like he knelt directly in front of me. Hands, determined and strong, plastered my hips to the chrome-like surface, spread my legs very wide, rucked up the hem of my short, sequined plum dress, and ripped off my burgundy panties. (I had no doubt that this particular progenitor's trick will never be written up in any of the Von Hesling Vampire Annals.)
At first, his beringed hand toyed with me in a tantalizing ruffle through my feminine curls. With extreme sensitivity, I felt him fluff my pubic hair, and I enjoyed that playfulness. Then, abandoning such gentle foreplay, his fused fingers slicked into my wetness in a long satisfying motion. He repeatedly dragged across my plumped up flesh. Rather roughly, but agreeably, he caressed my insides. My thighs, jittery and weak, sagged wider. His disembodied touch rewarded me by gently scrubbing at my swollen lips, my hard clit. My heart beat in time with the pulse in my quim, and my breath came in short, labored pants.
Constantine continued to watch me from afar, still pretending indifference, but his body language spoke eloquently. He slouched no longer but stood straight and stiff. His arms were clasped across his chest. His features were brittle, drawn into a sinister grimace of sexual tension. And his assault continued, escalated, when his expert tongue took over in a succession of quick touches that flicked, then thrust into me. For several strokes, he licked hard and deep.
"It should be my real, true hands upon you, my mouth tasting of you." His whisper was hoarse, his body taut.
But still he continued to pleasure me orally. His methodical laps at my sex drove me wild. I pushed hard against him, against his wraithlike presence at my feet, against the mouth so intimately pressed to me.
"More!" I again forcefully bumped my groin at him. Vigorously, he sucked me, and I plumped and creamed all the more. At this raunchy provocation, his tempo grew frantic. The throes of my arousal increased. My insides throbbed, slick and sopping. I was horny as hell! Momentarily, I could not even feel shame for letting go and enjoying such swollen pleasure. I moaned and thrashed my head, begging him for more, more ... rougher, faster, deeper. He lapped ever more rapidly, convulsively. I almost reached that ultimate peak. I neared it, hotter and higher, lashed to that point by his hungry mouth and wiry tongue. His name caught in my throat. My scream of release was building, burgeoning....
"You're almost there," Constantine murmured. There was a silky undertone to his words.
"Ye ... s, yes," I panted turning glassy eyes upon him, "Yes ... almost!" My face scrunched up in the pleasure that was pain. Just another second, just another slick wipe, and I would peak like a wailing banshee!
"THERE SHALL BE NO CLIMAX." The sexual caresses instantly, harshly ceased. The erratic, sexual pulse in all parts of my body jangled with unquenched desire. In an instant, he had doused my climax. "As I was denied, so shall you be."
It felt like he had thrown a bucket of ice cold water on me. I wilted almost to the floor, but managed to regain enough strength---and shredded dignity---to stumble upright, and fumble my dress back into order.
"Prick."
He smiled, a sleazy evil leer. "Exactly, my dear."
The elevator, which he had stalled between floors, now reached the lobby. We stood antagonistically facing one another, both wound tighter than a watch spring and blaming the other for the problem. The air between us was charged with anger and unspent sexual force, thick and heavy as a fog bank. The doors swept open.
Marc and Max halted on the brink of a headlong entrance. They exchanged startled looks. It was Marc, flashing his gold tongue stud, who asked of us. "Are you interruptible right now?"
Constantine threw me an annoyed glance, then growled at Marc. "Apparently."
This time Max spoke. "There's a messenger here for Avna."
Snitch, hunched in upon himself, his one good eye constantly moving, stepped into view, not quite in line with the twins. He carried a slip of paper. "For the Soulsmith."
I took the note, trying to keep as much distance between myself and Snitch as possible. He made my skin crawl. So did the mere texture of the note. I somehow knew the contents before I read it. "They've taken another of your people."
"Which?" Constantine took a small but menacing step toward the pockmarked, eye-patched vampire, causing him to shrink even further.
"The brown haired vampire," Snitch rasped, but he did dredge up some courage. "Her loverboy."
"Josh Warner." With a shocked tremble, I exhaled his name. I stared blankly into space, immersed in his nightmare. My voice thinned with pain and outrage. "They have hurt him." And, I knew, too, that he lay almost comatose, drained by a pack of ravenous vampires, feeding in a frenzy upon their own kind. He lay in cool earth, with more being shoveled over top of him, helplessly sealing him within a mass of dirt clods and fertilizer. He whispered to me for help.
And, then, Tanya, nearby to him, added her own weak pleas.
I shook my head, trying to snap loose of my disorientation without breaking the connection to them. I tried to walk but staggered. Constantine held me up.
"What is it?" His arms braced me.
I trembled uncontrollably. Tears ran down my face. "I know where they are. I know ... I know ... where Tanya and Josh are buried. Across the street in the city garden."
No one doubted the surety of my words. In fact, without any preamble, the group, with Maxamillian surging to the fore, nearly trampling Snitch, scrambled from the elevator, charged across the beige and pink octagonal-shaped tiles of the lobby, and battered the slow-to-open automated door. I kept pace with the others, barely. Constantine had disengaged himself from me, thinking me too dazed to follow.
I was last to break out into the tropical, humid warmth of an early summer night. Overhead the sky was velvety black. A stale breeze ruffled over me, yet I felt smothered. I, too, felt buried along side of Tanya and Josh, covered in dirt, unable to move, trapped in a cramped makeshift grave. The one-way, three-laned thoroughfare was still busy as usual on a late Saturday party-hearty night ... for all that a monster was loose in the city.
Max streaked across the street disregarding oncoming traffic. Marc was only slightly more cautious. He chose to circle behind a motorcycle rather than to outrun it, as his brother had done. Constantine crossed through the traffic like living quicksilver. He charged in and around the speeding vehicles. The nearness of their passing rippled the ruffles on his dark shirtfront, waved his coal black hair from off the tops of his shoulders. He looked like a crazed matador. One frightened driver laid on her horn, loosing an uninterrupted, slow-to-fade wail. The screeching sound raised the hackles at the nape of my neck.
I watched from the curb, unable to brave cars, and trucks, and jeeps, as they did, with disregard and fluid unbelievable speed. Snitch, alone, remained with me. He cast a sideways glance at me with his one good eye.
"Best stay, here, Soulsmith. It's safer. For the time being."
I used an expression I never thought to say to a vampire. But with Snitch, I risked it. "Bite me." And I stepped into a small break in traffic, then pounded across the three lanes on rubbery, weak legs. My stomach felt like an empty frightened pit as I unsteadily trailed the others onto the sidewalk which now widened into the park's entrance. Someone had busted most of the overhead street lights, replicas of turn-of-the-century gas lamps.
In the shadowed night, the bark of the sparse trees shown eerily. The concrete statuary, modern shapeless obelisks, was menacing. The footpath upon which I now slowly trod wended off in several directions. The ghostly scene, a gray obscured garden-scape of annual flowers, of low banks of roses, of any number of azaleas, hydrangeas, and dogwoods, of a gazebo at the far end of the park, was devoid of any color, washed in shadows of gray and black.
And, positioned at intervals along this main entry, decorating the walkway, were the deep, mammoth, trough-like planters that I had seen being dug up only last week by city workers, or so I had thought at the time, doing some of the more bothersome fertilizing and transplanting at night so as to not interrupt the tranquility of the garden for daytime visitors. It had been during my first ever visit to the Constantinople, and the novelty, the complete oddity, of seeing such work at such hours had not registered, because my complete focus had been upon an impending and unwanted introduction into the world of vampires. All-the-while, Tanya had been buried within feet of me. Last night even, I had passed by this park, buzzing with an erratic sense that vampires were near. I had mistakenly believed them all to be within the Constantinople ... I had failed the poor girl, entombed here for more than a week, after having been tortured by the enemy for over two weeks.
I swayed, overwhelmed with a shared agony. Pain and misery encompassed both of us. Not even the hope of rescue could lessen the terrible desolation. Through my eyes, Tanya could see Max begin to dig into the first of the huge concrete planters. He used his bare hands although there were several abandoned shovels strewn about, one cast to the ground, another propped against Tanya's own tomb. Our arrival had obviously interrupted the fiends' work.
Josh, in the next sarcophagus-like planter, was only partially buried. Dirt covered his legs and torso, but his chest and face were still visible through a light layer of dirt, sand, and rock. I took a few steps closer. His beautiful hazel eyes were open, staring sightlessly up into the dark sky. Hundreds of bite marks, many ragged and seeping, mottled his hands and neck, plus I could even make out many that punctured directly through the sleeves of his light cotton shirt. It was ghastly. Marc worked to free Josh, his twin having refused any help in liberating Tanya, Max's first fledgling.
Max dug frenziedly. The earth had compacted. But, with his super human strength, he tore ever downward. It still took time. Tanya was buried in at least three feet of dirt. I began to add my own puny efforts, whether welcome or not. My skin soon abraded against rocks and pebbles. My nails broke and tore. I kept clawing. It was me trapped down there as much as Tanya.
Soon, but still after a seeming eternity, she was unearthed. I gasped. This Tanya, no longer the tall, voluptuous girl who Max fought to recover, looked like an emaciated husk. Bones protruded through the last tatters of a modest sundress, now discolored and stained with dirt, and blood, and excrement. Her puny little arms were more twisted than folded across her pitiful chest. She was one step from mummified, having been drained of her life's blood then buried in a tight constricted hole and starved further still. A worse indignity, for me, was looking down into a face which had been horribly enclosed in a plastic bag, rubber banded tightly around her neck. I could not clearly see the piteous face beneath, could not clearly make out the remnants of peaches-and-cream skin, the straight little nose, full rosy lips, the shuttered eyes. It was as if I looked at her through a depth of unfathomable water.
During the frenzied rescue, Constantine had stood watching. Silent. Angry. Vengeful. His features were shadowed, a concealment that nevertheless did not obscure the power raging off of him. I realized that by comparison our own confrontations only rated as lovers' spats. He had never, yet, unleashed such a crushing fury upon me. Or, else, I would not still be living at this moment. Very little could withstand him. Except, perhaps, another progenitor.
Speaking---or rather thinking---of the devil apparently conjured him, in the shapely form of Donata. Accompanied, of course, by Sylvana, and over a half dozen vampirelings. At first sight of her, red suffused my vision, adding color to the black and gray of the night. My hands curled around the top edge of the concrete planter. Without its support, I would have fallen face first to the ground. This reaction, this deep loathing hate, came from Tanya, who shot me a rapid remembrance of Donata repeatedly, viciously biting her, taking flesh as well as blood.
"So, Constantine, you managed, not so surprisingly, to save your luscious little prize, your foretold Soulsmith." Donata, dressed this night in a backless, and nearly frontless, slinky leopard wrap dress, slits cut up both legs, her trademark leather bracelets on her slim arms, moved to within feet of where we stood. Sylvana, in a peek-a-boo blouse and fluorescent green thong underwear, came forward with her. She swayed with the grace of a model on a runway. The others, however, hung back. I didn't blame them. Constantine was about ready to erupt. When he did, there would most likely be casualties of the underling variety. Apparently, vampire loyalty only went so far.
"Confronting me here, of all times and places, was not very bright, Donata. Not even for you."
Her scarlet lips twisted. She tossed her head in a temperamental gesture that swished her lifeless black-dyed hair. "You are the one out numbered, you arrogant cocksucker."
"Still the same old Donata. Always overestimating your own prowess. When will you ever realize how ineffectual you are?"
"We shall see who is weak." Her attention turned to me. Her avid gaze sucked at my consciousness. "Did he tell you about Zemaralda Draconnetti's prophecy? How he would make any sacrifice to possess you? That to own a Soulsmith is a great triumph?"
My insides curdled at her words. Donata had been with him at the fortuneteller's! He had traveled in company, most likely in intimate consort, with that evil thing. She had been with him four centuries ago and knew of the prophecy. That fact reduced me, once again, to vampire bait. They all believed that possessing me, a so-called Soulsmith, strengthened them. Regardless of what Constantine pretended, of however much he might profess love or affection, he only wanted one thing. Not me so much as my supposed power. And, then, too, each had phrased the gypsy's prophecy differently, by a single but important word. That word being possess versus protect. For some reason, I believed that Constantine was the one lying
Well, screw him ... only not literally.
"I heard one version of the story. So I know enough." I looked between the two progenitors, nauseated by both.
Donata laughed, a low throaty sound. "Good. We wouldn't want Constantine to offer happily-ever-after, only to renege on it. He can be very charming. Seduction, as you assuredly will discover to your sorrow, is his especial forte."
Constantine took a step forward. His skin glowed, white-hot, nearly translucent. His eyes glittered, diamond-like. Fire seemed to kindle within him. "I'm going to rip your heart out."
Donata fell back. She signaled to her followers. They grudgingly complied, attacking in a broken line. Constantine met them in a rush and easily vanquished any who dared block his path. He snapped the neck of one, twisted his opponent's head completely around, then dropped him in a heap on the ground. The second, who by then was trying to flee, he gripped like unbreakable steel and pulled to himself. He bit through the side of his neck, ripped, then spat out a huge gob of flesh and arteries and gooey stuff. Marc and Max engaged and dispatched two more with equal ease. Marc used a glittering steel filet knife on his, while Max simply jammed his hands into the chest of another. I turned my face so as to not witness what he pulled, abracadabra, from out of his enemy. I was already overloaded with gore and violence.
Constantine was an unstoppable killing machine. His terrible power imbued his followers, allowing Marc and Max to overcome anyone or anything that they encountered. They were an extension of all the power, skill, and prowess which their progenitor possessed.
While the one-sided battle wound down, I remained at the head of Tanya's grave. Her piteous remains held a glimmer of strength---all focused on me. I wanted to help her, to free her, especially when Sylvana sidled nearer to me. She leaned in closer to examine the remains, grinning a nasty, toothy grin. Shroud-like, her strange white hair cascaded over Tanya's prone form. "She was a tasty little bit."
Again, Tanya's rage flooded through me, shared with me a small portion of the depraved indignities she had suffered directly from Sylvana. My hands moved of their own volition to tear the plastic away from Tanya's face. It seemed to keep me from breathing. My hands, my wrists, worked the plastic away. I was very close to the girl who lay in the concrete trough. My supple skin touched hers of parchment. Tanya was finally free of the suffocating indignity!
Constantine, dropping a third unmoving body to the ground, whipped his head towards me. He knew even before Tanya's teeth sank into the inner part of my wrist what was happening. He made a strange groan that mingled with my own startled cry. Tanya fed upon me. She sucked the blood so furiously hard that my entire arm went numb. I felt tipsy and disoriented. At this astonishing rate, she could drain me dry in a matter of heart beats. But she drank for only a moment and then she released me. I pressed the opposite hand to the shallow place she had bitten and was amazed that although driven by starvation she had not torn at my wrist, had not gnawed or gorged on the vulnerable spot.
Somehow what she had taken was sufficient. She rose, a skeletal figure in a tattered sundress, her long blonde hair matted and tangled, her eyes a shiny blood red. Her cheekbones protruded from her nearly skinless face. She grinned vengeance at Sylvana and snatched up the shovel which leaned against her concrete prison. Tanya skewered the long wooden handle clean through Sylvana with a pulpy, fleshy thud. Then, Tanya snapped the shovel in two. She left half the handle embedded in Sylvana. The other half, with the shovel's shiny head, she repeatedly drove into Sylvana's lower torso until she had cleaved her in two. Both severed parts fell to the ground in opposite directions with a heavy wet kerplop.
All-the-while Donata screamed like a banshee. Before I could move, Donata, in a blur of fast forward motion, was at the concrete planter. Her scarlet painted claws rent Tanya's emaciated form to shreds in a matter of seconds. The girl sighed and sank back into the waiting hole, now to be her permanent resting place. Her silent 'thank you' reverberated in my mind. She had avenged herself upon Sylvana, whose death also visited a small revenge upon Donata.
But now I stood face-to-face with Donata. Weaponless. Unable to match her vampire strength. And knowing that no matter how fast Constantine could react, he could not prevent her first killing blow. So, he did the next best thing, instantaneously, riding in upon a blinding flash of white, he inhabited my body, raising my right arm to block hers. Each successive blow he anticipated, met, and deflected.
Donata snarled at us, a hideous flashing of slavering fangs that revealed the truth behind her beautifully structured face. With all of her little ineffectual minions dispatched, Donata had no alternative but to turn and run. She disappeared like a puff of wind, using every ounce of progenitor's power to conceal her passing. Constantine physically came to me. His psyche was partially in both of us. It was a curious sensation, looking into that gorgeous face which looked back into mine, mixing what each felt and thought into a confusing tangle, hate, fear, desire, revulsion, distrust, and, the biggy, LUST.
For a second, I vicariously experienced his thrill at being a part of me, at possibly influencing me. Could he have found a better way to corrupt me than from within? I dreaded a battle with him for control of my own self. I squared off towards him. "Get out of my head."
"Are you sure you would not like to expand this experience? Enjoy such bonding? Further explore each other?" These euphemisms alone disguised what he wanted from me ... what his hands and mouth and body longed to do, what positions, what locations, what fantasies. They were all there for me to view, if I would but turn my mind's eye in that naughty direction. I could not help but sneak a peek. And that was more than enough!
I clamped down on his X-rated tendencies. No easy task, given that, as he was now part of me, I shared his overpoweringly erotic nature. I had a strong urge to throw him down---atop Sylvana, even---and ravage him then and there. I mentally whitewashed such thoughts, hearing him 'tsk-tsk' in my mind. "No, thank you, I'll pass."
He scowled. "In this age of promiscuity, you would have to be a prude."
"Deal with it." I suddenly felt faint, and my head hurt, overcrowded with two personalities within it, one a sex maniac, the other a born-again-virgin. A thick trickle of blood oozed from one nostril down and over my upper lip. Unconsciously, I tasted of it, using the tip of my tongue. The gesture nearly drove Constantine crazy. Inside my mind, he commanded me to taste more, to wipe my entire upper lip clean, to drink every last little drop. I just stared at him, and tried not to capitulate. After all, with him half in control, struggling to take TOTAL control, it was mighty tasty stuff.
While we battled, my insides began to dissolve. He could feel how his presence was actually destroying me. Concern was emblazoned on his face. However, for one instant, it was displaced by hunger. His hand stretched out toward me. His intent was to smear my blood onto his fingers then suck each one dry. I convulsed sharply. The beats of my heart slowed, pulsing harder with each labored pump. It was about to stop. Defiantly, I wiped the back of my hand across my face, removing all traces of the nosebleed.
Constantine uttered a major blasphemy. I thought I saw sparks accompany each word from his mouth, punishing him for such sacrilege.
"I suppose," Constantine's petulance washed through me, "I must separate from you." He had no choice. We both felt that other organs within me were imminently close to hemorrhaging. He turned his back to me, and I braced against a wrenching, ice-pick-like pain in my brain as he yanked out of me. I nearly accused him of purposely using such force to hurt me. But I knew that it had been as blindingly painful for him. That was why he had turned his back, to try and hide it. But I had felt it, the same hot migraine, knifing through our skulls, carving us apart.
It was Max who offered me an arm when I listed to one side. I drew several breaths as I leaned against him. I did not look directly at him when I spoke. "I am sorry Tanya is not with us."
His answer came after a pause. "I know." He spoke again, very softly. "I loved her."
I bobbed my head in a sad repetitive nod. I had always known the depths of his feelings.
"Allow Marc and me to take you home."
"But what about Josh? I want to make sure he's all right." I could sense Josh's restlessness, bound in a body not his to command.
Marc flashed a cell phone. "Not to worry. I'll call Nurse Nightingale at the club. She can round up a couple of Bete Noir Ladies and give Joshua a jump start. A little plasma, a dash of hemoglobin, some TLC, and he'll be good as new."
I heard the gist of the quick phone call. Marc snapped the cell phone shut. "She'll be here soon." He added in his cheerful nonchalant way, "With a few donors."
I nodded my agreement. Haley Davis was capable and, surprisingly, for me, trustworthy. On-the-other-hand, Constantine was not. Josh Warner belonged to Constantine's clan, but did the progenitor believe him a rival? I threw out a challenge. "I expect Josh to be fully recovered." I received silence for an answer. When he half turned to me, Constantine's usually bright eyes were semi-closed. I felt a ripple of jealousy from him.
The twins took up a position on either side of me. The silence stretched. Constantine, shielded by the shadowed night, stared at us, at me. His own people seemed ready to defy him. Thank goodness there came the sounds of a hurried approach. Scuffing footsteps. A nervous laugh, or two. Then I saw Haley, dressed casually in a bright red peasant blouse and skirt, her medium-length sandy hair bouncing as she walked. With her came two slightly inebriated women, a pair of plump platinum blondes, whom I had, indeed, seen in the office of the escort service.
Marc covered his attraction to Haley behind a bad joke. "Dinner delivered in five minutes or less. 'Ya done good."
The laughter from the two mortal women ended, abruptly. At Marcus' frightening humor, they cowered together and took in the grisly scene, the dead bodies scattered around, the fact that they were in the company of vampires. Haley scowled at Marc, but she spoke to the women, using a soft hypnotic cadence. "Don't be afraid. No one is going to hurt you. There's nothing to fear. You are perfectly safe." Her words ensorcelled the pair. They immediately became glassy-eyed with vacant smiles. In their profound stupor, they leaned against one another, no longer fearful. They waited patiently for their next command.
Haley nodded at me. "Miss Soulsmith."
"Please, call me Avna." It was a little dig at Constantine, whom I still had not given like permission to use my given name. "Josh is there." I pointed to the second massive concrete planter.
Of the first planter, Haley intuitively knew and guessed aloud, "That must be.... "Where Tanya had been confined, had died. She gave it a wide berth.
"Yes," I solemnly acknowledged.
The situation dimmed some of Haley's perkiness but did not diminish her competence. Haley herded the women to where Josh lay. At the thought of the process needed to revive him, my stomach lurched. I knew the necessity of what was to happen. I just didn't want to see it, to have to remember Josh drinking from these mesmerized women.
"He'll be all right, Avna." Haley's eyes swept over the two women. "So will they. I promise."
I turned to Max. My voice came out slightly shaky. "Take me home, please."
Max tucked my arm into his and began to lead me away. Until now not so much as a word had been exchanged with Constantine. As we neared him, he canted his head to exaggeratedly observe my approach. We drew abreast of him.
He spoke, and his sultry voice made my steps falter. "You will not get far without these, no?" And he made a foreshortened wave of his arm. My car keys, that had so recently been secreted in my bra, dangled from his fingers. He unerringly tossed them to Max, who caught them with an equally flawless ease. Damn vampires!
"Thanks." Max continued walking. Marcus fell into step behind his brother. Numbly, I moved beside Max, but I shot one parting scowl at Constantine, angry that he had taken my keys off of me, aroused by the idea of what else those magic fingers could do.
Constantine mutely watched our departure, a brooding shadow amongst a garden full of fallen vampires. The authorities would have to be notified. Constantine would have to deal with the macabre scene that I was leaving behind. Only, by tacit agreement, we all realized that Tanya, an unauthorized, illegally transformed vampire, would have to remain where she rested, in a place unmarked but never unmourned. I heard dirt being shoveled back into her grave, and I shivered, knowing that Constantine himself was re-interring her. That bone-deep chill did not leave me even after retrieving my car and arriving safely home to change out of the plum-colored shiny-sequined dress and into a pair of worn-out flannel pajamas. The discarded dress was a reminder of how I had very nearly surrendered myself to Constantine's potent desires. I crawled, alone, into my bed and cried myself to sleep.
When I awoke, it was Sunday afternoon. I had had a doozie of a weekend, and the events were freshly imprinted on my brain. Every bit of it: beginning with Constantine's private party in parlor B, the entrance of Donata and Sylvana, the horrible confrontation with Rasputin, my near seduction in Room 709, the metaphysical cunnilingus in the elevator, the release, if not rescue, of Tanya, the halving of Sylvana, and ending with Constantine's inhabiting my body. I had nearly died from that union. But how could I entirely fault him for it? If he hadn't acted, I would have been dead from Donata's wrath.
So, it was now the Sabbath, and I was still alive, able to read the extra large Sunday edition of the Kanawha Gazetteer and learn some of the fall out from Friday night's bloodbath at the Constantinople. The front page article offered some interesting reading. Senior FBIC Agent Zellden had been suspended from active duty, pending an official investigation into the deaths of ten D.C. based agents under his command. The article, not written by Patrice Blanchard, was accurate. There were several quotes by Detective Traeger. First off, he reminded the public that no 'civilian casualties had occurred during the failed capture of the suspects'. And, furthermore, 'the Hotel Constantinople had cooperated fully in all official efforts to arrest the suspected individuals'. Traeger, bless his fair-minded little heart, was trying to do damage control for Constantine's business, trying to reassure the public that Charleston's premier five-star hotel was safe and secure. All the blame for the deaths, or so the article inferred, lay with Zellden, who had ordered the arrest and capture of the suspects, while not properly securing the area nor fully arming the FBIC team. No silver ammunition had been distributed as the assault force had been under orders to capture, not kill.
"The bastard." The paper rattled in my tense hands. Zellden had led those men to the slaughter. Why? I had no real clue, only speculations. To foment panic? To ratchet Charleston's hysteria level? To direct all that anger and fear at Constantine? Maybe. Or, maybe, Zellden was simply an incompetent SOB, anticipating a promotion, who had not realized the danger of trying to imprison a vampire progenitor.
At least there had been no more deaths, other than the FBIC agents, all of whom had been brought in from the Washington DC area. I threw the paper down and called Trager's office. I left a message that I would be at the station around six that evening. But first, I wanted to stop at Ginny's. I hadn't seen or heard from her since our argument earlier in the week.
After a quick brunch of toast and a cheese omelet, I threw on some jeans with a brown cotton shirt and drove to her place. I parked in the driveway. One of her neighbors, Mrs. Graves, a sweet grandmotherly woman, dressed in olive Bermudas and tan blouse, shaded with a wide-brimmed bonnet, a set of pruning shears in her gloved hands, waved me over.
"Hallooo, Miss Soulsmith." She plucked at a few dandelions and stoutly walked to the adjoining property line. "I've been keeping an eye on Ginny's place, too. She's not expected back from her mysterious trip for another day, at the least." Mrs. Graves obviously wanted to know exactly where Ginny had gone. So would I. Her spontaneous trip was news to me.
"I'm just checking in on the place, Mrs. Graves." I smiled, wondering where the woman's pair of lethal chocolate brown poodles were hiding. Normally, when their owner was not looking, they surreptitiously attacked anyone in the vicinity of Ginny's yard. The postman had complained about them and even I had taken a bad bite on the ankle. However, oddly enough, they never attacked within view of Mrs. Graves. I cast a wary glance around the area, but the canine piranhas were no where to be seen on this warm and pleasant day. It definitely felt good to be outside. In sunshine. In daylight. And, it definitely felt good not to be assaulted by anything toothy, whether two or four legged.
I walked across the stepping stones of Ginny's patch of lawn, noticing that the grass was getting a little long and weedy. Then I passed her barn-shaped mailbox. Its door was ajar. I saw a pile of mail in the box. I made out a few bills, a TV Guide, and sundry junk ... at least several days worth of accumulation. Casually, I gathered it up. Sharp-eyed Mrs. Graves still watched.
I shivered. The summer warmth had faded. I hurried to Ginny's pretty Tudor house, used her spare key, the one she permanently left with me just as I always left keys for De Facto Self Defense with her, and I barged inside.
"Ginny." There was no answer. The silence closed upon me like a malevolent presence. I moved further into her comfortable, cramped living room with the black and white sectional couch. The room was dim. The blinds were all down. I cautiously moved forward. Everything was tidy. Nothing out of place. Yet, a knot of anxiety formed in my throat. The house, usually full of Ginny's energy, was quiet. Empty. Desolate. And, yet, not! A weird presence echoed here.
"Ginny?" I tried again, the quaver in my voice unnerving. I stepped closer to the couch and finally saw a rusty-colored spot on the immaculate upholstery. I examined the spot, recognizing it for a small pool of dried blood, shuddering at the implications. There was more of it, too. Drops and spots that marked a path either to or from Ginny's bedroom. The lump in my throat grew harder to swallow and the sense that something bad had happened in Ginny's pretty Tudor house grew harder to ignore.
I followed the dried up, days old trail to the bedroom. Whatever 'bad' that had happened here had occurred inside. I stood in the hall for many, many fearful moments. Feeling off kilter, lightheaded, I did a vertical pushup against the closed door and I tiredly rested my face against the wood. When I mustered the courage to enter, I crossed an invisible barrier that raised football-sized gooseflesh on my arms, revved my heart beat, and made me feel very faint, like my immune system was fighting off a nasty invading virus.
The room was empty. The bed, its sheets and pillows and comforter all rumpled, was smeared with more blood. I was trembling all over. I wavered unsteadily while something cold filtered through me, possibly a psychic imprint of the evil committed here. I had never before experienced such a flood of negativity. But, I speculated, was it from the horror of my discovery or from the malicious psychic aura, that imprint of evil, trapped in this place? Or something else entirely?
"Buck up, Avna, this is no time to space out." I forced myself further into the room regardless of the sickly impressions seeping into me. Little-by-little, as I searched Ginny's wardrobe, her vanity, her writing desk, I felt more like myself, queasy and off-kilter but more normal. It took nearly two hours and a half for me to drag myself throughout the entire house. I blamed the lengthy amount of time on being meticulous, but there was no denying that on my search I hauled around extra mental baggage with me, fear and worry and anxiety. My head was overstuffed, pounding.
And Ginny, my best friend, was nowhere to be found. But blood, permanent rusty-brown patches on fabric or flaking off of tiles on the bathroom and kitchen floors, stained nearly every room. When my circuit was complete---and no body had turned up---I ran outside and heaved dryly upon the high grass of Ginny's patch of front yard.
There was only one sure way to find out what had happened to Ginny. I had to first locate Gerard Lamphere.... And hope that he had not broken his fast, imposed by Constantine, with her.
I couldn't bring myself to go back inside, so I explained the situation---and my concerns---to a polite but skeptical Mrs. Graves and then called the police. I stayed at her place until the officers, Hayter and Prince, arrived on scene. Hayter, with squinty black unfriendly eyes beneath his policeman's cap, questioned me. Unfortunately, his questions put me on the defensive. I answered succinctly, honestly (for the most part), unemotionally. When had I last seen Miss Bahr? Last Wednesday, at my place of business, De Facto Self Defense. Why had we argued? Over her current boyfriend, Gerard Lamphere, vampire extraordinaire. What had prompted me to enter her home? I had had no communication with Ginny in over four days. I was concerned. Wasn't Miss Bahr, as Mrs. Graves, the next-door-neighbor, had stated, simply out-of-town? Maybe. I hesitated on this answer. Ginny could have gone on a spur of the moment trip, but I thought it unlikely. And, finally, why did I suspect that the stains in her home were blood? Because, whether politically correct or not, she happened to be dating a vampire! 'Nuff said?
In the end, the cops were unable to take any action, because there was no sign of forced entry, and, because they felt Ginny could not be classified a missing person. Not at the present, at any rate. After a second go-round of the premises, at my insistence, they left, assuring me they would file a report that could be, if sufficient time elapsed or more information warranted, reopened and investigated. Soon after, I left, as well.
I went straight to Pater Traeger's office, arriving much later than I had expected. It was after nine. His door was closed. I knocked.
"Come," he barked. Traeger sat hunched at his desk. Folders spilled across his work space like a snowdrift, nearly burying the gilt framed eight by ten family photo---a wife, four sons, and one daughter---that occupied a tiny oasis on his desk, one miraculously uncluttered corner. Traeger's shirt sleeves were rolled up over his elbows. His military flat top looked even shorter than normal, bristling silvery-red. Empty Styrofoam coffee cups and a couple of candy bar wrappers littered the edge of his desk ready to join a pile of such debris already in his wastebasket. I suspected that he had spent the past forty-eight hours, or MORE, chained there. To serve and protect described the man to a T.
I poised half in and half out of the doorway. "Let me guess. You haven't been home once since Friday night's debacle at the Constantinople. Am I right, or what?"
Traeger's sharp gray eyes went from me to the ten-year-old family portrait. "It comes with the territory, Soulsmith." He scuffed a big hand over his face, then added with a growl, "They understand." Yet his gruff assertion proved that this was a contentious issue. His attention swiveled back to me. "Soon as we clear up business, I'm on my way out. You're a primary concern, too, Avna."
And not just because of the case, Pater Traeger's unspoken thought came to me loud and clear. His paternal worry meant a great deal to me.
"Yeah," I began a sheepish apology, "I meant to be here earlier. Sorry I'm so late," I paused, still leaning on the door handle, "But I ran into a bit of a snafu. Maybe you already heard about what I found at Ginny's place?"
"Anything with your name attached to it gets funneled by me. Pronto." He gave a rueful smile that revealed the lines of fatigue about his eyes and mouth, but, then, awkwardness softened his voice. "Avna, I think there's something you are not aware of regarding Miss Bahr."
My stomach knotted. "What?"
"A marriage license was filed last Wednesday at the Kanawha County Courthouse for Gerard Lamphere and Ginny Bahr. It's been a big item around here, what with Lamphere being an ex DA and all. That possibly explains what you found."
I was stunned. Ginny and Gerard might already have been married. Traeger was intimating that the stains I found, if, indeed, blood, might be a sign of a wild honeymoon. Ginny might now be one of THEM. And I hadn't even been asked to be maid-of-honor! Not that I would have accepted. I stood there trying to digest the indigestible.
For a second time, Traeger rubbed a hand across his bleary eyes. "It's been rough around here, Avna. Everybody's wanting action, demanding that order of execution against Rasputin enforced. The Mayor, the Governor, the Press, and the Feds." He stretched back in his chair and tried to relax the muscles in his back and shoulders. Then he gave me a full-on stare, penetrating, measuring, assessing. "I'm glad to see you came through the thick of things unscathed. I checked with the Constantinople last night. They said you were fine but indisposed and refused to make further comment on the status of a guest. If I hadn't heard from you by today, Avna, I was prepared to get a warrant and bring you out. Particularly after an anonymous tip turned up a half dozen DISPATCHED vampires across the street in the city's urban garden. Care to comment?"
"About your anonymous tipster?" I casually pretended that the shit hadn't just hit the fan. "There's nothing I can possibly tell you. I don't know who placed the call." After having smudged the truth, I managed a smidgeon of a grin. At least, in view of Ginny's apparent defection from the ranks of humanity, I still had one dyed-in-the-wool friend, if a rather inquisitive one. "But thanks for worrying about me, Traeger. I got out in one piece." Tattered and frayed, but nevertheless intact.
"That's more than can be said for Zellden," Traeger muttered.
I automatically dropped into the slat-backed chair across from him. "The paper said he's been suspended? Rightly so, in my opinion. He didn't arm his people, Traeger. Not with information or ammunition. He led them into a bloodbath."
Traeger buffed a hand across his silver-red short-buzzed hair, as if waking his tired brain. He glanced off into space then refocused on me. "There's been an even bigger development."
I scooted to the edge of my chair.
Traeger let drop another bombshell. "Zellden, on the power of his reputation and credentials---and before word of his suspension broke---went to the FBIC lab in Virginia where all vampire DNA, hair, blood, and tissue samples, are stored. He stole a lot of it. Primarily that which was used to legally ascertain, verify, and confer progenitor status."
My mind tried to sift through the implications. Why steal progenitor DNA? All I could think of was that Zellden was nuts! Then a stray thought escaped me. "That means he has Constantine's samples."
"More importantly to us, Avna, he has Rasputin's. And that was the concrete physical evidence, the BEST evidence, we had to link Rasputin to this killing spree, to the brutal murder of a policeman. The DNA evidence collected from Officer Donovan allowed for the FBIC order of execution. The only good news is that Zellden, the arrogant bastard, kept a small sample here in the city morgue. You know how he kept lobbying for an FBIC lab and repository here in Charleston, citing the NCIC fingerprinting database in Clarksburg. Still, that sample might not hold up in Court. We aren't, yet, a regulated licensed facility."
Traeger's strange emphasis on the word BEST had caught my attention. I think I suspected his answer before I asked my next question. "Then what's the second best evidence?"
"You."
My blood pressure plummeted. "I was there ... at Donovan's murder. Although I didn't actually witness it. But I'll never forget the psychic aura of the killer. I would know him, could identify him, anywhere." Fortunately in this enlightened age, psychic evidence, when presented by a verifiable telepath or an accredited layperson, such as my recent U.S. Court certification as a 'sensitive', could be used in a court of law. Semantically speaking, I had not actually seen the crime. But I knew, I recognized, I could paranormally identify Rasputin as the killer. His evil essence, which had so overwhelmed me in the side alley of the Constantinople, was the same exact one which had committed Donovan's murder. If that wasn't enough, Rasputin had also confessed the killing to me. I did not need DNA proof of that fact. In this case, given the grisly nature and escalating number of murders, the FBIC apparently did not, either. Hooray for trampling a vampire's right-to-due process! An order of execution was very seldom enacted. It was even more rarely rescinded. The killer, be he called Rasputin or Rumplestiltskin or Rosemarie, could legally be terminated, on-sight, no questions asked. Just as long as the deaths stopped.
Traeger seemed to read my mind. "The Bureau won't rescind the order. So long as you confirm the progenitor's identity."
"Absolutely." I suddenly had an idea of how to locate Rasputin's new lair, which I offered to Traeger. "We have one of Rasputin's people in custody, Key. I'm positive, given time and access, I can get the location from him."
"Zellden very effectively closed that avenue." Traeger's whole face tightened with distaste. "He put in paperwork transferring Key, classified as an at-risk youth detainee, to a drug rehab program. The EMT's had no reason to believe that he was other than sedated and took him out by gurney. Bright and early Saturday morning. Key combusted instantly, severely burning one of the paramedics. So, no, we don't have a reliable informant. The episode highlights how dangerous this case has become." Traeger concluded with one final statement. "Of course, you will be in protective custody until Rasputin is located and executed."
"Wait a minute. I didn't agree to that. Otherwise, you have my full cooperation."
"It's for your safety."
I was already on my feet and backing towards the door. "I can take care of myself." Now why did those overly confident words ring so familiar? Oh, yea, I had said some variation of the same thing to Constantine when he had wanted to 'protect' me from Rasputin. Only Constantine had had ulterior motives. Traeger just wanted to keep me alive.
"Avna." His tone was a warning.
"I'll keep in touch, Traeger. Don't sweat it. My place is fully warded. I'm one of the so-called experts, remember?"
"Check in regularly...."
"Sure, sure, sure." I backpedaled all the way out his door, not stopping until I had cleared the building. Outside dusk had settled. Another hour or so and true dark would have fallen. Part of me wanted to go home and hide. The other part ordered me to go to the Constantinople, a place---and a progenitor---to which all roads seemed to lead of late. How, I dismally wondered, had life gotten so very complicated, so very fast?
I finally nixed the urge to go and confront Constantine. It was too late to undo the damage. In my heart-of-hearts, I had already lost my best friend. Ginny was a vampire. And I wanted to entirely lay the blame at Constantine's door. Gerard was his puppet. Gerard did his bidding. Thus Gerard had turned my best fiend into a reanimate, because it was another way to draw me closer to him, to Constantine, using my affection for Ginny.
I hated him, yet I could not keep my mind off of him. For the next few days, I kept busy at the shop, trying to take care of the paperwork that was Ginny's bailiwick, repeatedly refusing requests from the Kanawha Gazetteer for interviews on the case, ordering Traeger's plain clothes men to stop their surveillance, phoning Ginny's parents in California to fish, unsuccessfully, for her whereabouts, inventing strategies to thwart Rasputin. Which always brought me full circle to Constantine, the only one who could offer any real, if small, defense from the evil progenitor. And thoughts of Constantine always seemed to turn into fantasies ... especially of the elevator. I shoved that memory aside countless times. It was my own frustrations and cravings that precipitated it, not any wayward thoughts from him. At night, the dream catchers kept him totally locked out. The erotic dreams I had were of my own devising. Not that he didn't try to get through. Several times. I would sense a pressure, like a tentative testing of the power around me, but that tentativeness had eventually given way to a final angry but ineffective push. As if in retaliation for being kept away at night, Constantine purposely blocked himself from me during the day. Why that realization was disturbing, I hadn't a clue.
And while Constantine, himself, never made an appearance near my apartment, his people did. Or so I believed, since I did not catch sight of any of them. Nor could I identify which presence sometimes lurked, watchful and alert, from a relatively close position. I only knew that whoever it was 'felt' familiar, and, more importantly, 'felt' safe. Still, I had to rule out Josh Warner, because Constantine was too jealous of him. And the presence felt far too intense and focused to be Marc, although Max, moody and broody, could possibly be that single-minded. I only knew that this infrequent watch dog radiated protectiveness, else I would have made a greater effort to rid myself of him.
So the week went, full of struggles---with accounts for De Facto Self Defense, with sexual tension for one vampire, and with fear for another. I had only come up with one semi-brilliant idea to stymie Rasputin. After all, everybody had convinced me how 'helpless' I was against him, from Traeger to Constantine ... to myself. Hadn't I fallen to whimpering pieces in Rasputin's presence? I needed to work on a real plan to protect myself when next he struck. And prepare to kill him when he did. Time was running out. I could feel it. Even so, after close on a week hiding out in the shop, I decided on an outing.
Dressed casually in kelly-green cotton slacks and a lighter-green tank top, with a Celtic cross on a chain in my back pocket along with a change purse and my shop keys, I made a quick trip to the mall. I hit a few boutiques, the bookstore, and the vitamin place. After an hour of browsing, I went to the third floor food court and wolfed down an order of lasagna, plus a handful of my just purchased diet supplements, then took my goodies home.
Once there, I halted in the door, feeling a little bit like Goldilocks ... Because someone had been sitting in my office chair. And that someone was still there. I could not make out the hidden silhouette, which faced away from me. I flung open the shop's door, setting the bell cord to swinging with my hasty entrance. My fear of confronting a prowler was tempered by the fact that it was daylight. Therefore they had to be of the live-and-kicking, rather than the undead, variety.
Immediately, I recognized the copper hair. My shopping bags went flying as I swung my arms wide for a bear hug. "Ginny!" I nearly bowled her and the chair over in my excitement. She was out in the daytime! Gerard had not transformed her!
"Glad to see you, too." She laughed. "You act like you just got your best friend back."
"I did."
She sobered. "You don't lose a friend over one argument."
"It was a major argument, Ginny."
"I wasn't being fair to you, expecting you to run interference between Gerard and Constantine. Their world shouldn't concern you."
I began to gather up my purchases. Almost everything had spilled out of the two large mall shopping bags. Ginny came around the front of the desk to help me pick up things. She gathered up and handed me several paperback romances, raising her eyebrows at the racy covers, teasing about the suggestive titles. While she was distracted, I hurriedly stuffed the pill bottles from the vitamin store back into one of the large mall bags. Ginny would assume the worst if she saw me, the perpetually malnourished, taking supplements. I did not want to explain my sudden health kick. She would worry.
Both of us were still on hands and knees and all the items had been rounded up. I took a deep breath and poked at the sore subject which lay between us. "I went to your place on Sunday evening and saw traces of dried blood. When I went to Detective Traeger with the information, he told me about the marriage license, and how he had heard about it from the city hall grapevine. Why didn't you tell me?" I eased back onto my haunches and waited for her answer.
"Oh, Avna, you must have thought Gerard tore me to pieces." Tears filled her eyes. "No wonder you practically tackled me. You thought I had crossed over!"
"Actually, I thought much worse. That Gerard had gone berserk from hunger and eaten his fiancée alive."
A strange, guilty look crossed her face. "Well, after Constantine's deadline had passed, he did lose control. But it wasn't me that he pounced on." She couldn't bring herself to meet my gaze.
"Ginny, whose blood was that?" My heart constricted on a slow, painful beat.
"Mrs. Graves' poodles. You know how they made a habit of attacking me in my own front yard. So, this time, Gerard kind of lost it. He didn't mean to hurt them. He feels terrible. Normally, he would never, ever harm a pet. After it happened, we went away, to put things in perspective."
"Mrs. Graves doesn't know, does she?"
"No. She thinks somebody stole them. We got her a pair of registered apricot cocker spaniels. They're beautiful." Her expression begged me to be understanding. "If it helps, Gerard thinks they were possessed by the poltergeist you expelled from the house. The poor dogs were suffering."
"Yea, that was a particularly nasty spirit. And I wasn't absolutely positive that I had destroyed it. Especially since it came back a second time. It does seem likely it migrated into the dogs." That accounted for the bad behavior. The dogs' own native affection for their owner had kept them from plaguing Mrs. Graves, while the rest of the world, including Ginny, the postman, and myself, had been fair game.
I thought back to the time six years ago when Ginny had been desperate to rid her dream house of a devilish poltergeist. My first novice attempts at removing the spirit had seemingly worked, until it had returned three years later. Now, after another three year interval, it had apparently come back again. This time it had been residing in the poodles. One way or another, they most likely would have had to be destroyed. Carrying such a malignant spirit would have permanently warped them. Suddenly, I experienced a cold chill, like something walking on my grave. Just because the dogs had been destroyed did not insure that the spirit had also been destroyed since it had returned from banishment twice already to the same general location. If it was not truly dispersed, where had it gone? I would have to be vigilant against a reoccurrence.
I tried to smile. "Does she like her new dogs?" It was the best way I had to signify acceptance of the bad circumstances.
"She adores them, Avna."
We both laid the sad subject to rest. We went upstairs, drank some vanilla caramel tea, ate a tray of crème horns, and avoided any mention of the two most prominent vampires in our lives. So long as she did not question me on Constantine, I returned the favor and did not bring up Gerard. Or their marriage license.
And, of course, neither of us dared utter the name of Rasputin. For one evening, we were just giddy girlfriends. But outside, dark night, and every thing it brought with it, was quickly descending.
The next day, a Thursday, was average. Ginny came by for a few hours to undo the damage that I had done to the business' books. There was still a steady stream of traffic through the shop, although no more vampire attacks had occurred. Phone calls, too, remained high. People wanted information. I doled out the best advice I had to offer. Late in the day, Traeger phoned. His update wasn't reassuring. Zellden's whereabouts were unknown. So were Rasputin's.
By quitting time, I was unaccountably wound-up, antsy. I decided to catch a movie, ignoring my own oft-repeated counsel on the best defense against vampires being 'to avoid going out alone, after dark'. Late evening was shading into the colors of true night when I walked to the Cineplex to catch a mindless entertaining action flic with plenty of superhuman feats and gratuitous sex. Because of the Rrating, I squirmed a lot in my seat.
When it ended, I left the Cineplex in a particularly surly mood, this also due to the explicit nature of the film. I had over a dozen well-lit blocks to walk home. That was not nearly enough distance to work off all my frustrations. Especially as the night was sultry. The air was heavy and warm on my bare arms. A trickle of sweat rolled down the middle of my chest.
"Enticing someone to lick it off. ''
That thought had been someone else's, more specifically Constantine's. I glanced further along the street. There was a wooden bench, part of the city's Renaissance beautification plan that used old style turn-of-the-century benches, street lamps, and brick roadways to duplicate a by-gone era. Tonight, one of those picturesque benches was being put to time tested use. Constantine, inhumanly handsome, lounged upon it, while a gorgeous girl lounged upon him, seated in his lap, straddling him. She was very pretty, around twenty-one years old, her abundant thick brown hair fastened in a loose coil atop her head by a large tortoise-shell comb with much of it escaping in wayward tendrils, much as her abundant, voluptuous breasts seemed to be barely confined in her flimsy bra, exposed by a low cut blouse. She had on a voluminous azure skirt that fanned out about the two of them, hiding exactly what kind of contact there was between their bodies. Although outwardly their positions looked sexual, I knew that it wasn't. Nor had it been even before I had arrived.
The girl seemed carved of stone, again in a pose resembling a sexual invitation, her back slightly arched, her breasts pushed tantalizingly near Constantine's face. Distance and darkness made his eyes seem black unreadable holes. But I could feel him watching me, rather than the girl's proffered charms. I leisurely strolled the distance which separated us, still feeling his gaze welded upon me.
I slowed. "Have you ditched fric and frac in favor of a new friend?" I exaggeratedly glanced around for the twins, sensing they were nowhere near, nor was the other unknown henchman, the 'safe' presence that had occasionally guarded me. "Who is she, by the way?"
"Natalya," Constantine replied in a voice thick as honey.
"It's Natalie." The girl broke from her coma long enough to whine a complaint before falling back into a happy vampire-induced fugue state. Constantine had her floating on cloud nine, but he had not bothered to join her.
My reaction, or rather lack of it, severely disappointed him. He had meant to provoke shock and jealously. All he got was blasé disinterest. However, if their encounter had been real, a tryst with all of the anatomically correct parts fully engaged, I would have been anything but indifferent. Try livid!
"Sit down. Join us." I now very clearly saw his fangs flash in a lascivious smile, prompted, no doubt, by the thought of a threesome. Not in this, or any, lifetime, buster.
Yet, grotesquely fascinated, I actually considered his offer ... merely to sit down, not to join them in a menage a trois!
"I wouldn't want to interrupt."
"Damn you, woman. COME SIT WITH ME."
His tone was too commanding. My body obeyed before my mind even realized it. Once on the bench, I could not move, no matter what mental orders I gave my legs and feet.
My mouth, however, was a lot harder for him to control.
"You need to stay away from me." The words took enormous effort to say. I felt like I was trying to lie to a polygraph.
"I have tried. Unsuccessfully." His deeper, truer thoughts crept into my head. I cannot get you out of my mind. I can think of nothing else. You torture me.
"And that explains this production, starring Natalya. Because you miss me?"
"I'm Natalieee," she whined again, before returning to her own internal paradise.
"She is not the one I want." Constantine's eyes, even in the dim star speckled night, shone iridescent blue, shimmering with his power, spearing me with his gaze, further immobilizing me. I was all he saw, all he looked at. And, when his hands slowly caressed up Natalie's arms, around the sides of her plump breasts, swept ever upward to stop when they encircled her slim neck, it was me who gloried at his hands, shivered at his touch, waited for his kiss, not upon the lips but upon the throat. My head fell back, exposing the vulnerable length of my neck. My eyes shuttered in that strange fashion of anticipation. And I waited.
No exquisite pain came. That made my breath grow even more ragged. And, then, I felt Constantine raise my hand to his mouth. My eyes remained closed, savoring every sensation, as he slowly took my index finger into his mouth, sucking gently, first the tip, then down to the knuckle, and finally taking its entire length. His mouth was satiny, running up and down the length of my finger. He masterfully used his tongue, rolled it around the tip, sucked ever harder.
But, then, he had to spoil the experience. He nipped the end of my finger.
"Shit." It was a quick unexpected pain. I recoiled from him, noting that a tiny drop of blood welled at that spot.
"Why did you do that?" I was angry and hurt.
"To prove a point." He lounged back on the bench, confronting me with his own blazing anger. He was completely oblivious to the fact that a girl straddled him in the most intimate manner. There was only the two of us. "I used no sway upon you. You have no true moral objection to sex with me. You are not repulsed by what I am. You enjoyed this small intimacy. Admit it."
I listened to his accusation, all-the-while wanting to soothe the small ache in my index finger by popping it into my mouth. But that wouldn't be very nice since he, being a vampire, had his total attention riveted upon me. Would it? What the hell did I care! I forcefully sucked the thick droplet of blood from the pad of my finger.
The gesture made Constantine's eyes contract to black pinpoints.
It was my turn to give him a leering smile. "I have never believed in casual sex."
He gave a nasty snort. "Yet, we both know, you are not a virgin."
"I never claimed to be. I have been involved in two serious relationships, but I have never slept around."
Constantine's voice dropped to a low whisper. "Perhaps, since your serious relationships have failed, you should try a casual one? Just for the sex. You are a grown woman. You have needs, desires...."
"Which you could fill?"
"Most assuredly." His mouth titled upwards in a smug smile.
His arguments sounded so logical. I was single, almost thirty, and had no partner, companion, boyfriend, fiancé. If I consciously practiced safe sex, with another mature adult, what was the harm, except to my own unfulfilled Prince Charming fantasies? I had been plagued by strong urges of late. Caused by Constantine. Who better, then, to sate them?
But I could not throw away my romantic beliefs that easily. "Sex without love, respect, or commitment...."
"Is a purely physical act. I can offer you every pleasure without the worry of diseases, because I have none to transmit."
"With humans, abstinence is the best safeguard." I gnawed at my bottom lip. Another question popped into my head, making me blush with embarrassment. I asked it anyway. "What about pregnancy?" This was a total unknown in most of the reference material I had ever read. Of course, the Von Heslings' purported that it should be scientifically impossible (since vampires' rarely had a viable sperm count) for any such conception, whether between two vampires, or between a vampire and a human. The Von Heslings' should know. They were the experts. Yet I had recently come to doubt their expertise.
"It is possible---some lore has claimed such---but most unlikely. I have existed a long time, my little Soulsmith, and never encountered such. Nor," he slowly, reluctantly added, "have I ever fathered such."
I heaved a sigh. "Worry free, casual sex. As much and as often as you liked to indulge yourself. Centuries worth. Has it been satisfying?"
"Yes." Then, however, with his eyes shuttered, he made a further admission. "At least, it has always been so until this point in time. Feel free to interpret that statement as you choose."
"I might wish it otherwise, Constantine, but I can't offer myself that easily. Most especially to a vampire." That last inhibition was the most unshakable. I was afraid of him, of the progenitor who ruled the night, who held sway over most of humanity, and could seduce any woman he should happen to meet.
"Nor can I change my nature, my love, but I can control it." His voice flowed like satin, carrying with it only a nominal spell of mesmerism, easy for me to sense and counteract, if I so chose. Which I didn't. That way I could later claim to have been compelled by him rather than by the uncharacteristic and overwhelming need to have fiendish sex ... with anyone. He continued, and his words, his tone, made my spine tingle. "I vow to never take what you would withhold. Deny me as much or as little as you choose. I will abide by your will."
"Just sex. Nothing else. And on my terms." I could barely get the words out. The hammering in my chest hurt dreadfully. I had agreed to sex with Constantine, with the vampire who had once, not all that long ago, roughly grabbed me to him and said that he meant to taste of me, to take me body and soul.
I remembered, yet did not seem to care. I suddenly stumbled to my feet, causing Constantine to nearly dump Natalie on the ground in his need to detain me. I did not look back at him when I spoke. "See that she gets home safely, Constantine. That's where I'll be. Home. Waiting." It was an evasive, roundabout way of asking him back to my place. It also gave him freedom to dine with Natalie before he did so. This way some of his hunger would be blunted. A sated vampire was less likely to sip on his bed partner, wasn't he?
I started to run, but I couldn't escape from there fast enough. If I had been miles away, instead of only several city blocks, I would still have felt Constantine expose Natalie's throat, stretching it taut and ready, before he gently sank his sharp teeth into her warm flesh, relishing the sweet taste and the robust smell of the girl's blood. I was too attuned to him to not vicariously feel and enjoy every aspect of his 'meal'. The perfection of Natalie's throat, her heady fragrant tasting wine, the pleasure of each and every mouthful.
Disgusted with myself, I kept running, more like staggering, trying to outdistance the connection with him. When I could not break from him, like some cartoon character unable to break from an electric circuit, he took pity enough to finish his feast privately. And I, wanton that I had become, went home to await him, and trusted that he would not share any other intimacies with Natalie.
At home, I nearly climbed the walls because I was so strung out with overwhelming, alien emotions. I was not acting like myself---at all! Sex had insidiously, absolutely become consuming! How could I have just let Constantine convince me that sex could ever be SAFE with him? So what if he had given his word to not force me into anything I did not want ... how trustworthy was a vampire's word of honor? How many times, in no uncertain terms, had he said that he wanted me? And not just in the biblical sense, but every part of me, blood, body, and soul. He was a progenitor. Domination came part and parcel of his makeup. Only I didn't want to be his submissive.
Then, as a further complication, there was the prophecy of Zemaralda Draconetti. Perhaps everything Constantine did and said was to try and make it come true? Except, what if he sought to claim the power of a so-called Soulsmith, rather than to find a soul mate, a woman to love?
What was I thinking, anyway? Love with a vampire! Utterly preposterous. Any involvement with their kind meant manipulation, coercion, mind-control. I definitely hadn't succumbed to his not-so-subtle seduction. I refused the possibility. On some level, I did match Constantine's power. Several times I had deflected his hypnotics. Then, again, maybe it was just my stubbornness that had refused to be controlled. What if that stubborn part of me had been worn down? My values certainly had been, else why would I have just invited him to my apartment for sex? All I wanted was physical gratification, like some maddened beast in heat. What had unleashed this growing casual hunger?
I paced around my apartment, with no lights, no music, no TV, and grappled with my morals, the ones which Constantine had short-circuited. From somewhere within me, a voice, muted and unrecognizable, whispered that this coupling was inevitable. Why continue to fight? There seemed only one sane reason left ... because I feared turning into a vampire. But he surely could not compel me into that irrevocable act, my newly carnal half asserted! No, I was pretty certain he would not risk eternally possessing but also eternally alienating me, but I was far less certain that he could RESIST the attempt. Something within me knew that I would carry over enough hate and resentment against him to break any hold he sought over me. Constantine couldn't win me that way without ultimately losing me. Ergo, it was safe to let him fuck my brains out? This internal debate, waged with a newly emerged and radically different side of myself, wiped me out.
I suddenly felt exhausted. It was after one a.m. and I was tired, depressed and more than ready for bed. So I took a quick shower, stepped into white cotton bikinis, pulled on an oversize nightshirt, but remained braless. I mentally cancelled all tryst! I did not feel amorous, only lethargic, worn out by an overabundance of emotional baggage. Now readied for bed, I did something I seldom ever did. Went to the tall French-style windows, more like floor-to-ceiling glass-paned doors, and partially opened one to peer over the narrow concrete ledge that ran around the building down into the quiet, empty street. There was no way up those steep, tightly-cemented red bricks! I did, however, keep a rolled up rope ladder for an emergency escape. With a regretful sigh, I moved away, stirring the thin curtains, trusting that a two-story climb up the side of a brick building was obstacle enough for any nocturnal visitors.
And I lay down. And I was instantly asleep.
I awakened as instantly. Constantine was nearby. Not on the street. Not in my room. But balanced on the thin ledge outside the window. Had he climbed the red brick façade? According to the tarnished Von Hesling canon, vampires didn't fly, but who knew for sure if they didn't? Unfortunately I had no time to ponder this disturbing idea.
Constantine was here seeking admittance. There was now only one truly insurmountable obstacle preventing him entry. I had to actually invite him into my home, since my earlier words had implied but not actually welcomed him inside.
I pressed back against the headboard of my bed. My heartbeat surged with distress. He was a huge, monstrous shadow against the curtains.
"Invite me in." He spoke softly, gently. He simply asked my permission.
I shuddered, more like convulsed. That peculiar, unusual duality argued the pros and cons of my dilemma, to have sex or not to have sex, that was the question. How could I allow him in? How could I not? Why was I fighting against what I wanted? Give in. Give in, a strangeness within me chanted, the words an echo of Constantine's desires and surely due to his influence. Then, swayed by a profound craving that unfurled in my brain, I decided to exercise the seeming power I had over Constantine. We'd do things on my terms or not at all.
"You may enter this once. With no penetration." Take it or leave it. I had granted all that I was able.
He had no problem accepting. A dramatic gust of wind billowed the curtains, and he was in my apartment, his tall well-formed body outlined by ambient light from the street, his muscular chest semi-exposed through his unbuttoned black shirt, his indented washboard abs apparent even in the low light. He approached with lean grace, peeling off his expensive linen shirt, tossing it down carelessly. He made no move to undo his dark trousers, although, even in the shadows of the room, he appeared to have an enormous erection. He mostly hid his other signs of excitement. Only a small amount of his inner fire, that light that kindled within him at times of stress or passion, seeped out of his eyes, but it leant his features, his skin, an unearthly beauty, a pale translucence that heightened the sculpted arrogance of his brow, nose, lips, and chin.
I could scarcely breathe! My poor heart heaved and rolled within my chest. He, Constantine, The Great, night's beauteous raider, had entered my home ... to plunder my body!
By now, he had reached the foot of the bed. He placed one knee upon it. Through the tumult of my mind, I noticed he was barefoot. The observation distressed me. How convenient to arrive at a rendezvous already half undressed. I sobbed, and he halted.
"You are crying."
I sniffled. "Why shouldn't I cry? This is totally out of character. This isn't like me. We aren't even in a relationship. I'm not ready."
He was a little more direct. "You mean you are not aroused."
"It's more than that. I'm surrendering my values in exchange for sexual gratification. Something---your desire---has infected me. I feel like I'm agreeing to have sex with a stranger. And trying to not have it at the same time. On a technicality. That's how bad I want this. I'm rationalizing the entire act. It's not me, not the real me." My hands fisted in my lap.
I felt his smile, confident, assured, in control. Confoundingly, he had seated himself halfway down the length of the bed without my registering when. "Shall I speak very frankly, my love?"
"How frank?" I was suspicious.
"Only to reassure you that when I entered I understood and accepted your conditions. You are willing to receive oral sex. It might help you to realize that anything which brings you pleasure," and his voice purred all around me like a velvety jungle cat, "also brings me pleasure. Much, much pleasure."
It was easier to pretend that oral sex wasn't sex. But I knew different. It was still sexual contact, although, technically, it wasn't intercourse. Constantine was willing, as he had said, to abide by my terms. There would be no penetration, and he maintained that he, too, would enjoy himself. So, all I had to do was lie back, let him do all the work, and savor the experience. Fat chance!
But I forgot, for a moment, with whom I was about to not 'technically' have sex. A progenitor! Constantine did not make a move. He merely said a single word, a mesmeric command, which he elongated, extended, deepened.
"R-E-L-A-X." His voice acted like an aphrodisiac. Erotically potent.
I dropped, languidly, back onto the pillows lumped against the headboard. Simply on the power of his suggestion, I was wet, throbbing and ready between my legs, puffed up and excited. I felt amazingly horny but also oddly lethargic.
With my mind so sated, drowsy, clouded, he was able to move, unnoticed, to seat himself at my hip. He leaned over me and I could almost see, in vampire-fashion, the voracious gleam of his eyes, the perfection of his chiseled and planed face, the waves and curls of his wild coal black mane.
"May I seduce you, my little Soulsmith?"
Mutely, I nodded yes, and bit my lower lip to stifle the foreign urge to beg him to please have his way with me in every sense. Constantine seemed to hear what I refused to say aloud, so that when he slowly, savoringly set his mouth against my own, his lips wore a wry, self-satisfied smile.
And those lips, which had drunk of thousands and thousands of women, were soft and gentle and full of warmth. He kissed and explored for a long time with close mouthed innocence. Wandering the contours of my face, he nuzzled at a dimple, rubbed against my cheek, assessed the shape and texture of my lips. With an unrestrained fervor, his large dexterous hands combed through the weighty mass of my thick blonde hair. He massaged my scalp, traced around my ears, then cradled the back of my head. He continued his rather meek kisses, while one of his hands sensuously, surreptitiously trailed downward to capture my left breast. His touch was possessive, holding me, cupping me, thoroughly fondling me, making my insides pulse and bunch with eagerness. I gasped and mentally applauded my subconscious for not wanting to wear a bra.
Constantine's hand lifted, as if to move away and seek out another place to explore. I huffed a demanding grunt because the prudish, frightened part of me didn't want him to delve elsewhere---just yet---instead wanting more of that erogenous, arousing, safer touch upon my breast. I pressed his hand firmly back in place with one of my own and ground my torso into that wonderful heated caress. Obligingly, his fingers kneaded me, plucked at the tight tip. Erotic waves went straight from my belly to my crotch.
"Oh, yes, my love." Constantine conceitedly laughed in between feathering kisses across my cheekbones. "You're already greedy for more. This should satisfy." He flattened his palm and slowly swirled it around my nipple. The friction felt marvelous against its excited peak, and I moaned, a lusty vibration from my throat. He pulled back slightly to observe me as he tweaked that pebbled, aching knot. Again he laughed at my reaction, my panting glassy-eyed shudder.
"You'll like this even better," Constantine, with a final hard squeeze to my breast, promised with a hoarse whisper. He shifted and dropped his head to take it into his mouth. With liberal tongue strokes, he thoroughly moistened the sensitive tip through the nightshirt. He tickled it, then, ringing the entire areola with his greedy, sinful lips, he suckled with a vengeance. I gripped handfuls of his coal black hair and clasped him tighter to my chest. Yet another treacherous groan escaped me in response to that beautiful ache, throbbing way down low, which the hard pull of his sucking mouth amplified.
"I like that sound ... let's hear more of it." He lavished that one breast with rougher attention. He lightly bit at the distended nipple and simultaneously palmed the other. He molded my flesh in a rough up-and-down motion. And, heavy lidded, I did whimper softly in the back of my throat, interspersed with breathy little grunts that drew Constantine back to my mouth.
"Open for me." He nibbled at the corner of my lips. "Let me invade." His voice was hushed, strained. "Let me in."
When I obeyed, he forcefully thrust his tongue inside. His violence demanded that I open wider. I, of course, gladly allowed his kisses to ravish my mouth, to scour and sweep and stab, to mate with and subdue my own tongue. Nor all-this-while did his hands remain idle. They grasped the sides of my breasts while his thumbs twiddled my brick-tipped nipples. His mouth fused to mine. He feasted on my least gasp or moan.
I had an overwhelming urge to explore his skin, his contours, so that I pulled at his wide shoulders to drag him closer, that last mere inch that separated us. I massaged warm muscle, velvety and alive, as my fingers ran down his back, then reversed direction. He trembled. I rubbed my erect nipples against his palms then made a grope for his crotch.
"Naughty, naughty, Miss Soulsmith." Constantine batted my hands away, feigning amusement. But his shiny bright blue eyes flashed like lightening just before his head shifted to place his mouth right beside my ear so that there was no mistaking his next words. Or his dark emotions, the resentment, the frustration, the bitterness, that poured over me like some clinging, pleasurable, but poisoned liquid.
"Be warned, my lovely little Soulsmith, that this night is entirely about gratifying you, while denying me. You established our rules. Choose to break them, and so shall I.... "This last was barely spoken, more like resonated within my very bones, and I shivered at this devil's pact that could be so easily negated.
"I ... I understand ... I'm," my broken reply came out ragged, "I'm not supposed to touch you in return. I'll try, I'll TRY, to control my hands, but not the rest of my body." I scrunched my eyes shut to dampen the need, the desire that raged within me, a concentrated beat and pulse within my wet sex.
Constantine reclaimed my attention by gripping my jaw. He forced me to focus upon him, to look at him. A ruthless determination harshened his gorgeous, dim-lit face, made his tone cruel and callous. "All is at my leisure. All is at my pleasure. To do with you as I wish." He smiled, fang points faintly glinting. "Lift up your hips."
His order was arrogant, a taunt that wickedly reminded me that I had willingly opened my home, my passion, and soon my legs to him. Still, despite his haughty domination, I arched upward when he reached for me. I quivered with expectation, but Constantine merely slipped off my panties with the finesse of a magician, unerringly locating them underneath the huge nightshirt, negotiating hips, and legs, and ankles like a vampire with way too much practice. Tossed aside, they negligently wafted to the carpet. So, now, hidden beneath the edges of my enormous nightshirt, I was completely exposed.
I was also moist and throbbing and more than ready! So why didn't he touch me? Why didn't he trace a finger, or two, or three into my fulsome cream? Panting, laboring, I levered myself a bit higher from off the mattress. The very idea of him thrusting into me made the urgent throb within my sex even harder, more painful.
"Constantine, I can't stand it. Please, touch me."
"At my leisure, at my pleasure," he repeated in a mocking croon as he bent over me. Prurience transformed him into a satyr with glowing blue eyes. "You're swollen everywhere for me, aren't you? Your lips," he brushed a finger there, "your tits," he grazed a knuckle across one sensitive mound, "and especially here." His hand hovered over my groin. But he still didn't touch me!
I squirmed and scooted downward on the bed for some relief. The nightshirt gathered and rode up my thighs. Constantine's hungry gaze plunged to that extremely hot, and until-this-moment-forbidden-to-him, spot. That look, filled with such longing, made me ache unbearable, heavy and thick and demanding. But again the bastard made no move to stroke me!
"Damn, damn, damn.... "Nearly crying, in extreme frustration, my head swept from side-to-side. I definitely couldn't take much more of this.
"You are very vocal when aroused, my love. That is good. Use all the profanity you want. But REMEMBER," REMEMBER, remember, Constantine's warning echoed, reverberated, implanted within my mind, "do not blaspheme. It tends to kill the mood."
"Constantine." I blearily looked to him. "I'm a horny little slut, and I can't wait." Careless of any consequences, I tried to initiate some contact between us. I raised up a little, intending to wrap my arms---and possibly my legs---around his body but he would not relinquish control. With a mocking little sound, he flipped me over onto my stomach, where he stretched out full length atop me. He held my arms above my head. His weight imprisoned me. For a moment, I struggled, feeling helpless.
"Don't resist, my love." As before, his words swelled my body with lust. He let loose my hands. His own possessively stroked down my forearms. He roved eagerly, massaging my shoulders, sliding down between our bodies to gently grip at my buttocks. He shifted but still kept me pinned beneath him. One of his hands continued to clutch and release my derriere, while the other sought out the fullness of one of my breasts. He snaked in-between my body and the mattress, gently clenching and unclenching his hand. He began to drop sloppy, hurried kisses across the back of my neck. I let my needs be known by repeatedly pressing my rear against him. He, in turn, began to rub himself, still clothed, against me. He felt gigantic. I groaned in enjoyment of the rhythm, our simulation of energetic, frenetic sex. I pushed and undulated against him with equal fervor. My pantiless, stimulated sex buzzed. I creamed at the humping friction against my raw flesh. But he was not quite ready for me to climax.
He gripped my hips and rose up stallion-like onto his knees. He easily pulled me up with him and encircled me in his arms. I was held tightly, encompassed with his velvety body. We were locked together back-to-chest. With one hand, he marauded over my breasts, the other traced a swirling, tantalizing, leisurely route down my stomach where he purposefully stalled. He caressed across my lower belly from hipbone-to-hip-bone. Sensuously, he continued that back-and-forth tummy rub, each swipe just a tad lower than the last. His heavy palm lingered on the spot above my pubic mound.
Nearly insane, my cleft painfully full and distended, I panted and watched and waited for his next torturous move. Would he stroke me? Or not? Would he pet my aching, needy pussy? Would he negligently insert a finger, to tease rather than soothe? Or would he thrust, vigorously, like I feverishly craved? That fever cramped my belly with excitement, weakened my legs until they quivered, speeded the throb within my puffy lips. In agonized response, air hissed in between my teeth.
Then, very quietly, almost meditatively, Constantine spoke, while his soft caress hovered like a pendulum upon my clenching stomach. "You sound and smell and react deliciously ready. Are you, my little one? Ready and primed enough to come with a single touch?" He paused, dropped a kiss to the side of my brow, then murmured in a cadence that matched the beats in my pussy, "Come, come, come, my Soulsmith."
He claimed my clitoris with a savage caress!
His masterful stroke of that engorged nub rocked me into a physical cataclysm. I screamed as I hit a magnificent orgasm. I pushed forcefully against him, my entire body clenched, my heels dug into the mattress, my back bowed with a devastating sexual paroxysm. While the rest of my body was rigid, my hips continued to relentlessly piston against his firm hand in a palsy of mindless ecstasy.
Constantine supported me with his solid chest while the spasms---and the inarticulate cries---subsided. Somewhat. I eased, little-by-little, back onto the mattress. And immediately Constantine began to freely explore me, the entire slick length of me, gliding his middle finger---with its gold signet ring---over and into that sensitized eager opening. Up-and-down. Up-and-down. Around and around. A little harder. A little faster. Applying the perfect amount of pressure.
My shaken breath hitched anew as my pussy responded to his skilled fingering. I tossed my head where it nestled on his shoulder. "It's too soon!" But the intense ripples inside me said otherwise.
"Nonsense. Women are multi-orgasmic, and I'll prove it." He unabashedly delved into my swollen lips. "You like this.... "His face, I dazedly saw, was a mask of rapt concentration. He relished each long, fast, and fluid stroke of his fingers into my slippery folds, smearing my thick cream, causing me to whimper. "Just feel. Just enjoy. Don't think. Don't deny."
"Yes. Yes, oh, yes." I jerked against his hand in complementary rhythm, bucked wildly, fought to multiply the sensations, to reach that awful peak! Finally, with several sharp juts of my pelvis against the harsh pressure of his touch, I experienced the bliss of another spasmodic orgasm, which Constantine extended with his extraordinary progenitor's powers. He pushed in and out with his finger, heightening my urges. I was on an orgasmic roller coaster. His long middle finger dropped lower than the rest. He penetrated slow and deep, into my fullness, into my slickness, all the way in. It was the ultimate finger fuck.
"Lovely. Tight." His glistening fangs locked around those words, so painful to utter. He plumbed inside me in a circular, swabbing motion, then forcefully thrust in and out, working me into a frenzy, compelling me to get off.
My vagina clenched, tried to imprison his wonderful touch within me forever. It felt so good to let him support all of my spineless weight while his hand continued to stroke with sure vigor, with building pressure between my wide open legs. Never in my life had I sprawled so wantonly.
I nearly screamed aloud for him to truly fuck me! And I knew that that was his goal, for if I asked him to do it, he could take my body with no qualms, no force, no guilt. I bit back the words. Only just barely. And I thwarted him with his own mesmeric suggestion, the one that had reinforced my awareness during sex. Remember, remember, remember ... do not blaspheme. Or, as I had amended, do not ask him to really and truly fuck you!
I sighed regretfully. His body would feel so good ... but his tactics were as underhanded as ever. I collapsed, totally spent, and he scooped me up and then lay me down flat on my back. His own gorgeous body partially blanketed my own until he sat back and positioned himself between my wide open legs. I damn near hyperventilated as I watched him gradually, teasingly push the nightshirt up my thighs, then higher still, until the triangle of my pubic curls was bared to him.
"I must savor that special ... sweet ... spot." He seemed mesmerized; his heated searing gaze appeared to darken from bright blue to indigo. Behind my own eyes, something even darker surfaced, then submerged, burrowing into my subconscious, allowing me to concentrate solely on Constantine. I pulsed for him. My legs quivered. My hips jutted in a shameless summons.
Constantine advanced sinuously. His oddly sun-bronzed shoulder muscles flexed and flowed like some sleek-coated predator. He moved slowly, deliberately, maddeningly into place. As he crouched closer, his fingertips spread my legs ever wider. Single-file, he chafed the pads of each up my inner thighs, arrived at that feminine juncture, and watched with fascination as he gingerly grazed, then combed, and finally parted my coarse brown pubic curls. He stared intently, covetously at my intimate flesh.
His gaze, devouring in its icy blue intensity, never wavered, even when he spoke to me. "I shall eat ... and drink ... every morsel offered, my love. This is a repast too long denied me."
The muscles in my belly clenched with anticipation. The throbs in my vagina felt exquisite. I meant to hurry him. "Can the dirty talk for now, Constantine." My breath snagged. "Shut up, and get on with it. Hurry. Eat me out."
This did earn a brief flicker of his attention, annoyed but not. His eyes glanced up-then-back-down. "Oh, yes, of course, my darling little Soulsmith. Never let it be said," he dramatically inched closer, "that I am so discourteous as to talk," he bent down to me that much more, "with my mouth full."
And Constantine, The Great, with more of that inhuman unhurried grace, went down on me. At the first rapid, ruffling incursion into my thatch of brown curls, he---we---loosed a silent but tangible sigh of contentment. He applied his avaricious mouth in an assault of laps and licks. Then, not nearly long enough to suit me, he sucked with explicit intent, just not on my clit. Of the means to thoroughly enflame a woman's body, Constantine had the expertise of a hundred lifetimes. I went wild, digging my hands into his hair, needing to pull him deeper and deeper inside.
"Sing for me, my love." His fingers worked me in small circles. I obeyed him as best I could with soft broken moans. Responding to the swirl of his fingers, the flick of his tongue, I instinctively convulsed against him, feverishly, to meet him, to join with him. His luscious tongue continued to probe me. He slid his arms underneath my hips to rock me in unison with each bold stab.
Then, his attentions changed. His tongue furrowed my slick, pulsing length in a long lustful lick. Steadily, thoroughly, he repeated that lapping, that delicious drag into my sensitized folds, but he merely teased the big bud of my clitoris. My abdominal muscles clenched with growing need.
For a very few bleary-eyed seconds, I saw the crown of his beautiful coal black hair rise and fall over me. Then conscious thought deserted me. I thrashed my head back and fourth against my pillow. My hands clawed deeper into the rose comforter. A delirious, tormented smile twisted my mouth. My breath grew agitated, raspy. And while Constantine steadily ate me out, I jerked and twisted and writhed. The pleasured sounds I made, moans and hums and shuddering sighs, became frantic. My body needed to peak! My pelvis pumped up to demand more from Constantine's mouth, but he quietly laughed and splayed a hand on my stomach to press me back onto the mattress.
"WAIT. Don't come, yet. I dictate the pace. Remember?" He looked up at me from his licentious nest between my legs. His vampiric order lessened, just a tad, the swollen-to-near-bursting ache in my pussy. Still holding my bleary gaze, he leaned close to my mound.
"I should make you wait all night.... "But, instead, Constantine dipped his head again to me and wholeheartedly toiled on my behalf. Pulling my puffed up lips apart, he buzzed and fluttered his tongue everywhere, fast and furious. He swiped at my clit, rasped my wet flesh, spiked my need for release to an unbearable height.
"Oh, oh, oh.... "Unbelievably pleasured, I almost screamed the G-word! The name of my deity! God almighty! I stifled that impulse, once more fortified with Constantine's hypnotic suggestion. As he speeded up and stimulated me faster, nastier, my groans went to yelps, the yelps to cries---a building, mind-numbing crescendo---then I clenched and spasmed and climaxed, grimacing in utter abandon, willing Constantine to prolong the feeling with more stroking and rubbing. Which he did, forcing the shuddering ecstasy to repeat and repeat and repeat.
Then, he let me come down. The throbbing eased. Constantine crawled to my side. He threw his right leg and right arm across me. His face was so close to mine that his coal black hair mingled with my dirty blonde mass. Coherent thought returned to me, and I had to marvel at his self-control. Not once had he tried to gratify himself, not sexually nor arterially. And during the encounter, he had wanted both. Intensely.
Reclining, half draped over me, he seemed calm, but I could feel that he was still erect. I was almost too tired to care. But I wasn't that selfish, even if the SOB had tried to trick me into having intercourse with him. In the end, he had lost and I had won. And I did owe him some thanks for three tidal-wave-like orgasms. So, without speaking, without considering that I had never ever thought about much less given a man a hand-job, I unzipped his trousers. Surprise, surprise! He wore no briefs. He practically sprang into my hand, large, well-formed, mouth-watering. He was incredibly thick and pleasingly long, as I had learned on that earlier occasion in his penthouse lair when he had forced me to fist him. He was, indeed, Constantine, The Great. The hot, silken feel of him made me pulse wetly.
Still unaccountably aggressive, I shimmied down his prone body to better admire his superb cock. My fingers readjusted their grip upon his width, almost unable to fully clasp him. Directed by some inner demon, I bent down and rubbed the flared cap against one of my cheeks, then the other, and lastly waggled it against my chinny, chin, chin. He twitched, not just his cock, but his entire tight sculpted midsection. I overcame the urge to roll him into my mouth. Instead, I positioned my mouth near his tip and I drooled long warm strands upon him.
"For lubrication," I murmured, pulling back from his shaft.
It was now Constantine's turn to groan wordlessly. He wrapped his own hand around mine, and guided me from the base of his engorged penis to the head. He tried to sustain his own ecstasy, tantric-like, but was unable, especially since I cupped and tickled his balls in revenge for all his earlier sexual torment of me. His entire body stiffened with passion. His groin thrust once powerfully. Our coupled hands traveled only twice up and down his shaft before he ejaculated, an explosion of semen that sprayed warmly over me and the bedclothes in a strangely iridescent geyser. What a waste! He shuddered, making one extended groan of pleasure before releasing my hold upon him.
"Thank you, my love." He drew me even nearer and kissed me full on the mouth, but he made no move to leave. "I want to stay here as long as I can, as close to sunrise as possible."
He definitely wasn't an ordinary lover. He actually wanted to stay and hold me. So, naturally, I let him.
Some time later, when I was nearly asleep, I knew Constantine was rousing, pulling away from me. He sensed dawn, and, through him, so did I. He lay staring at the dream catchers suspended from the ceiling. Their power was unmistakable as we spooned side-by-side. They were a barrier, to my dreams, my emotions, my psychic self.
"Those most be removed." He allowed me no time to answer. Indeed, he expected that I would do as I was bid. "I must depart soon." I could see his unhappy expression. Then, his next thought made him grin. Joy lit his beautiful face. His fangs gleamed. "But I shall be back tonight."
I breathlessly repeated the word. "Tonight.... "My body gleefully wanted to agree, anticipating another bedroom romp. Tonight, and every night thereafter. My mind, however, was confused at how readily I was about to agree ... when I had specifically set the ground rules. Constantine could only enter my home THE ONE TIME. Nor would we engage in penetrative sex! I was certain, in this unique instance, with me if with no other human, this was binding upon Constantine. My voice was very shaky. "You can't come back.... "My insides burned with disappointment.
"I forget how strong you are." His tremendous mouth, which I literally couldn't keep myself from imagining doing any number of explicit activities, twisted petulantly. "Even last night you wouldn't give in and beg me to take you." Although you came very close. His harsh thoughts burned into my mind. "But it won't be long now." His brilliant blue eyes seemed icier than ever.
"I won't let you back in."
He laughed, then suggestively drew a line across my chest, not even touching my breasts, and I reacted like the proverbial dog-in-heat, panting and ready, fighting the urge to grab his hand and guide it to my crotch.
"Yes. You will," he predicted.
I feared he was right. I suddenly felt like I couldn't get enough of him. I sat upright, and tucked my legs protectively underneath me. "What have you done to me?"
"Nothing. I've simply taken advantage of a small bit of corruption within you." He dazzled me with his most seductive vampire smile and my insides melted. "It is just part of my magnetism. Someone should have warned you. Most humans become sexually addicted to vampires. That includes even you, Miss Soulsmith. Otherwise, do you think you would have invited me in? Our every encounter has precipitated this. And many more shall follow."
I tightly shut my eyes, wiping his smug face from my sight. "Only once. I only allowed you to enter once." I was now screaming. "Go away! Don't ever return! Get out, you monster!"
Look at me. I had to obey. He was now standing by the window, a well-built gorgeously-muscled shadow against the white curtains. "Soon, my love, you will scream while writhing underneath me." To punctuate his words, he loudly, lasciviously re-zipped his trousers. "I am, as they say, in your blood. Soon, we shall share that, too."
And the son-of-a-bitch fairly shimmered, as he turned and vanished out the long-paned French-styled window. "I hope you get caught in the sun!" Venting my rage did not help. I was in big trouble. I could feel the onset of vampire withdrawals. I had the shakes. I wanted to fornicate. Hopefully, a cold shower would help.
It was the morning after, and I was completely disgusted with myself. I had had sexual contact---on a near cosmic scale---with a reanimate, with a progenitor, with Constantine, The Great. And he was, as the tiger was fond of roaring, GREEAAT! And so had IT been, too. Earth-shatteringly, leg-quiveringly, mind-bendingly great. Only, following the deed, the Don Juan of the vampire set had humiliated me. He had expected, had actually demanded, further intimacies. He had, also, acquainted me with the awful knowledge that I was now probably sexually addicted to him. While most men thought themselves irresistible, this one actually was. Or so he claimed.
Unfortunately, from all the signs, I had cause to believe the liar. Ever since we had met, I had been growing strangely antsy and that unrest had multiplied, seemingly overnight, as if something deep seated and foreign now controlled my libido. SEX, embodied by a black-haired, sharp-toothed Adonis, had started to preoccupy me as never before. He had enticed me at every turn, getting under my thick skin, using the defenselessness of my dream-state to seduce me as a disembodied phantom. Each encounter, or so Constantine had savagely told me, had led me to invite him into the sanctuary of my home. That invitation, however, had had a catch. Constantine could never again enter without my permission. In this instance, I had bound him to my will and struck a bargain for one night of oral sex, never to be repeated. Hurrah for the one scruple which he hadn't subverted!
But what good would that do me if I couldn't keep my hands off of him?
He had been gone for less than three hours and my nerves were shot. I kept having flashbacks of our night together with a vividness that made my crotch ache and weep. I would remember the rise and fall of his coal dark head just above the apex of my legs, the texture of his tongue waggling within my wet folds, and the luscious width and overabundant fit of his cock in my fist. Such recollections left me shaken ... and extremely frustrated.
But I had to go on with business as usual. Most of my day at De Facto Self Defense was quiet. This allowed me time to research my unsavory little problem, namely a vampiric sex addiction, at various way-outside-the-mainstream occult and paranormal websites, such as 'The Lifted Veil', 'Necrophiliacs Anonymous', 'Lovers Of the Paranormal'. The legitimate sites had almost nothing on this subject matter! The foremost of these, naturally, belong to the Von Heslings and espoused one pertinent fact---that the entire species, male and female, was sterile. However, as far as I was concerned, the accuracy of this was suspect, given their worsening track record. The countless fringe sites also offered little information and what there was of it read like propaganda that could easily have been authored by none other than Marcus and Maxamillian. To whit, "All vampires are well endowed and have the stamina of bull elephants." Puh-lease. I guess no one had, as yet, attempted a scientific field study of the sexual habits, practices, and prowess of vampires. And Constantine had called me a prude.
In the end, going cold turkey seemed the likeliest way to beat my addiction. That first day was hard since I couldn't seem to keep my thoughts PG rated. The back of my skull ached. It was overstuffed with lustful thoughts and desires. Because of this terrible agitation, I dreaded nightfall more than I had thought possible. As a countermeasure, I reinforced all my warding spells. Added an extra dream catcher overtop my bed. Wore a Celtic cross visibly outside my shirt.
And, as I paced the dimensions of the downstairs storefront, watching the inevitable advance of day into night, I vowed not to step one foot outside my apartment after nightfall where HE could get at me. Here, at least, I was safe. Except for the craving! I felt like someone had doused my food with Spanish Fly. My sexual motor revved up with nowhere to go. Every erogenous zone on my body tingled. Nothing could distract me. I couldn't read or watch television or listen to music, although I put on a CD, then turned it off. Nor could I sit still. Long after I had closed shop, I was still padding and pacing around my apartment, always avoiding the white-curtained windows. For, eventually, with a pang in my heart and another in my pussy, I sensed Constantine below on the street. I stood at attention in a defensive clench, every muscle locked.
From that incredible distance, he whispered into my mind, but his enticements, at first tender and gentle, were made indistinguishable by my mental barriers, like the roar of a far off river. Whatever he would say, I refused to listen. Then his petitions grew harsher, more insistent, rather vulgar. Such a battle hurt physically, especially since I had to also fight the treasonous aspect in my mind that counseled capitulation, that demanded fornication! I soon sunk to the floor in a pained crouch, body scrunched into a tight ball, hands jammed to my ears. And, so totally engaged, I had no carnal thoughts of or for him. I refused to surrender. This time Constantine meant to take all of me.
After an hour of such agony, he left. It was either that or drive me mad. But the war against desiring him still raged. In order to silence that new sultry part of me, which Constantine had called a small corruption, I took a handful of sleeping pills and a second of my extra special diet supplements. And hoped that, rather than overdose, I could get some sleep. But the pills didn't help. I was so wired that I tossed and turned. I lay in misery. Alone.
The next morning I arose very early, groggy-minded, puffy-eyed, and still sexually-obsessed. I expended all my frustrated energies on cleaning, a novelty for me. I vacuumed. I dusted. Did laundry. Washed all the windows, upstairs and down. I scrubbed out the bathroom, the toilet, the sink, the tub. Then, after a quick shower, I breakfasted on a pop tart and glass of milk, went down to the shop, and called Traeger for a status report. The usual pleasantries were nil.
I paced the length of the phone cord while we talked. "What's the word on Zellden?"
"His suspension is now an official firing. He's vanished. Most likely on the run. Warrants are out for his arrest, although the FBIC has not released ALL the details of the breakin at their Virginia headquarters. Officially, he's wanted for his culpability in the deaths of the DC Agents as well as for the theft of sensitive material pertaining to national security. They are not releasing the fact that he took vampire DNA."
"No wonder. That's so much more than a little creepy! You have to wonder why he took it. If he's an unbalanced maniac, then the Bureau has egg on its face for having put him in such a high level of authority. But if he's sane and he took it, the question remains why?" I paused in trying to solve this puzzle and squinted with a sudden eureka-type observation. "For a hush-hush operation, you seem to be privy to a lot of stuff. Not to mention apprising me of it."
It was Traeger's turn to pause. He cleared his throat. "I've been promoted, Avna. To take over for Zellden. I'll be moving into his office at the Federal Building by the middle of next week."
"Congratulations." I managed to hide any reservations, since I never had been a fan of the FBIC, and I grinned from ear-to-ear at the news. Pater Traeger's conscience, scruples, and integrity were being recognized and rewarded. "They couldn't find a better man."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. It makes it easier to ask you to come aboard." He forestalled my protest by hurrying on to explain, "Not as an agent, but as a paid consultant. You could set your own hours, come and go as you please, just be a resource and get compensated very handsomely for doing so."
"Wow." His offer knocked me off my feet. I dropped into the wheeled office chair. The idea of working side-by-side with him, the man who was a veritable father figure, was both exciting and intimidating. But could I, a Vampyraphobe, become part of the FBIC? "That's flattering, Traeger. Really." Once upon a time, not so very long ago, I would have angrily dismissed such a job offer out-of-hand. Deal with vampires? Be their advocate? Work as their defense? For equality, dignity, and justice? But that had been when my sole contact with their kind had been Snitch's attack, scaring the bejesus out of me, ruining my chances for an education, distorting my perception of all vampires. Now I had met, and liked, several of them. Josh Warner, the sexy boyish bartender. Haley Davis, the competent generous-spirited nurse. Marc and Max, the cute exasperating twins. Tanya, the innocent ill-fated young woman. I would gladly work on their behalf. But, if by doing so I had to have more direct contact with HIM, with Constantine, the Capital city's most prominent vampire, an FBIC verified progenitor, no less, I could not accept. My insides clenched with unsated desire just thinking about him.
"No, sorry, I can't."
"Give it some more thought. The offer is always open. No matter what, I rely on your insights."
"Right. I'll keep that in mind." I shifted the subject slightly. "I guess this makes Rasputin officially your problem. Any leads? To his whereabouts? His movements?"
"Not unless you have any. No more attacks have occurred since Zellden's debacle. Nor, since the razing of the Tattoo Emporium, has there been any positive reports on the progenitor Rasputin. The FBIC order of execution is indefinitely executable. The public, in my opinion, is still at risk. Something's not right."
"I agree, but I haven't a clue as to what." But, I silently reflected, twisting the phone cord nervously around my fingers, there was one fact that I had never---would never---divulge. Rasputin, like Constantine only in a more brutal destructive way, wanted to turn me, to possess me, to consume me. Being a purported Soulsmith sure sucked!
"You're our star witness against this monster. Once you verify him, the order of execution can be carried out. Under the circumstances, maybe I should post another plainclothes man outside your place."
I had already chased off two of them. And, now, with Constantine prowling around my place like a tomcat, I wasn't about to have my privacy further invaded. "I don't think that's necessary. Thanks, anyway, Traeger. My place is as vampire proof as possible."
"I don't like it, Avna. But I guess I can't force the issue. Just remember. I'm here if you need me. As for that consultant's position, it's an open offer. So is the extra security, if you change your mind."
"'Bye, Traeger."
"See 'ya soon, Soulsmith. Keep safe in the meantime."
I hung up the phone, completely depressed, which was a nice change from feeling horny. I had actually gone fifteen, okay, ten, minutes without impure thoughts of Constantine. I determined to do more research on the Internet in hopes of finding anything useful, and, also, to try and distract myself. It was Saturday. The shop wouldn't be opening today, or tomorrow. That seemed like a lot of time with nothing much to occupy myself, except for fantasies about Constantine. Skipping around on the net, however, made matters worse, owing to the material I was hunting, namely vampires and their sexuality, which uncovered lots of pornography. After several disturbing---and shamefully arousing---photos (I presumed of mortals standing in for the undead, who don't, according to most vampire lore, photograph!), I logged off the computer.
I puttered around the shop for several hours. I cleaned the glass cabinets, rearranged displays, and made a list of inventory to restock, including incense, some of the more exotic herbs, generic good luck charms, and a few chalices. Such chores got old fast. I decided on a late afternoon matinee, although I couldn't think about a movie without being reminded of Constantine and how he had waylaid me the last time I had gone to one. But I refused to let him ruin my life. So, after changing into a clean outfit of faded denims and a sleeveless cotton shirt, without a trace of makeup or jewelry, I went to the Cineplex. This time I used a different route, so that I did not pass the old-fashioned bench where his seduction had begun.
Once in the darkness of the theater, my exhausted mind gave in to the comfortable high-back seats, the soothing flicker of the screen, the calm of a nearly empty house. As if I had been switched off like an appliance, or more aptly as if bidden to, I slept, never stirring until I awoke with a start, having somehow, suspiciously been allowed to remain undisturbed through two showings of the same film. It was now dusk. And vampires were stirring.
I tried not to panic, but my fear was a tidal wave that rose high and hard to smash me down. I could scarcely think. I floundered for a moment then rose, feet squelching against the sticky floor. I groped and stumbled out of the aisle, scrambled up the steep carpeted stairs to shoulder through the theater's swinging double doors. Weaving through the thin crowd of movie patrons, I rushed headlong through the lobby and out onto the graying evening without having mowed anybody down! I sped down the sidewalk, sensing a malevolent pursuer although, in truth, I had a few precious minutes before the last bit of twilight blinked out. When it was gone, then I would be in serious trouble, especially as I felt cut off from Constantine. Other powers, unfamiliar and dark, seemed at work around me, sought to ensnare me.
I pounded down the street like a hopped up sprinter. Every physical and emotional inch of me labored. I ran full tilt until a stitch pulled at my side. There were several blocks between me and De Facto Self Defense, between me and the safety of home. The stitch increased to a searing burn, aggravated by the psychic force which wanted me crippled. I pressed at the ache with a trembling hand and persevered, but I was nearly staggering. Drawing a breath was like eating lit charcoal.
I faltered, knowing the exact instant that day surrendered to night. I had two more blocks to cover and little time before I would be descended upon by Rasputin. Even he, with all his supernatural power, still had to worm out of his lair before he could run me to ground. He was not physically close. Yet. Pain made me weave down the street. I had one more block to go. Rasputin was nearer. The burning in my side flared enough to drop me to my knees. I crawled. Not fast. But I still crawled.
Then, I was at the door of my shop, clawing my keys from my pocket, inserting it with palsied hands, nearly weeping with relief when I scrambled inside the shadowed interior. I slammed it shut just as frantic pounding hammered at the glass! A woman, distressed and fearful, beat at my door. The panes jittered with the tremendous force of her blows. Through my own chaotic terror, I stared at her, finally recognizing the tall, handsome figure with brown corkscrew curls.
"Patrice Blanchard?"
"Please, let me in! They're right behind us!" She continued banging, threatening to shatter the double thick glass. She looked back over her shoulder, scanning the empty street. "My friend's still out there! Please! Please!" Her voice rose with each pound on the door.
I knew from the sudden buzzing in my back molars and a stabbing migraine-like pain in my temple, that vampires were nearby. And Patrice Blanchard, pale and terrified, begged to be let in. The reporter's shrill terror overwhelmed me. Having only just barely escaped myself, I threw open the door.
"Come in. Hurry."
Patrice still looked back onto the street, screaming. "My friend, he's still out there!"
"Do you see him? Where is he?" I tried to look over the height of her shoulder, but she blocked my line of sight. All I had to go on was an excruciating sting straight down the middle of my forehead. The evil undead were very, very near. I panicked. No human should be left to such a fate. "Bring him inside!" No sooner had the words escaped me, than I realized my mistake.
Patrice, tall, pale, vixenish, smiled wickedly, all her theatrical pretense discarded. "Oh, I most certainly will. Snitch! Come out, come out, wherever you are, friend. We have been duly invited in."
I nearly vomited upon her immaculate clad self, her sleeveless black velvet vest and mannish trousers. One-handed, the new vampiress tossed me backward. She crashed me into a huge display case. The contents rattled, but no more so than my own insides. Stooped-over eye-patched Snitch lurked in the doorway. He carried something---I couldn't make out what, not size, shape, nor color---in his hands. His one good eye fastened upon me, he was enjoying the fact that I was doubled over, nearly crumpled to the floor. He remained a gangly malformed shadow in the open doorway. He watched, laughing, showing his yellowed fangs, as Patrice manhandled me some more.
She stood over top of me. "This is going to be fun." And she grasped my shirtfront, bunching the material in her fists, using her strong hold to repeatedly ram me into the display case. It shattered at the first impact. I heard the glass splinter and break. The second ran a tiny sliver into my lower back. I tried not to cry out, but a muffled whuffling sound was buffeted from out my clamped lips as Patrice slammed me a third, and fourth time into the wood frame of the broken cabinet. Stuff spilled past me onto the floor, but I was too numb to grasp anything as a weapon.
"What's the matter Soulsmith? Not so big and brave, huh? Not so clever, either." She slung me in a half-circle, draping me belly-down across my own desk. Papers went flying. The old-style rotary phone crashed loudly to the floor. She grabbed up a handful of my hair and levered me slightly off the desk in a demonstration of her newfound physical strength. "How's this feel, I wonder?" Patrice dug her French manicured nails into the gash on my back, trying to widen the wound. This time I did scream. My eyes teared up. I cursed at her, but the sound came out a gasp.
"Aren't you gonna summon Constantine? Call him for help? He might arrive before I snuff you out." Her face was intense, beautiful, eyes shining with sadistic joy, mouth slightly parted with expectation. Patrice slapped me across the face. My head rolled with the blow. I didn't try to fight back. Against her augmented undead might, what was the point? She liked to inflict pain, but I presented an unfulfilling challenge. Disappointed, she flung me off the desktop onto the debris strewn floor with barely any effort.
I lay gasping, pain-wracked and addle-brained. I foggily tried to think of some plan or of some weapon among the trash from my desk that I sprawled in. I had little to choose from. Nor had I even the least bond with Constantine. Terror crowded out any other thought, stoppered up my entire brain. I hadn't a single psychic synapse to spare! Besides which I doubted my ability to reach Constantine from such a distance.
Patrice stooped over me. "Not so smart mouthed now. All alone. No progenitor to hide behind. He won't come to your rescue. You're just a dime-a-dozen human."
"Why don't you call him yourself, then, bitch?" I reared up, grabbed the heavy outdated rotary phone, and slammed it square into her nose, busting the casing---and her face---to smithereens. She was going to beat me to a bloody pulp, anyway, so I might as well have gotten in at least one good shot. She staggered backward, a hand pressed to her mangled face. When, angrily, she swiped her hand away, flinging a bloody trail through the air, her pert little nose appeared broken, bashed nearly flat. Her upper lip was also split. The pain didn't seem to faze her, but she was really pissed at having been disfigured.
"You are going to pay for this so dearly." Patrice Blanchard, her elegance now blood and pulp, lisped her not-so-insubstantial threat.
I hadn't expected her to recover so soon or so forcefully. She whipped the phone cord about my throat. It cut deep into my windpipe. I struggled to dig my fingers underneath it. For several minutes, I fought like a wild, mindless thing, kicking, flailing, twisting. But it doesn't take long to suffocate. My hands still pulled at the thin, lethal cord, but I was weakening. In the near dark, Patrice's massacred features, notably protruding cartilage and runny red gore against chalky white skin, hovered above me. She was wreathed in bloody smiles.
"Not dead yet?" She purred, a red rivulet dripping from her lips.
No! I fought to shake my head, to deny her taunt. I did not want to die! Not at her hands! Not at all! Every last ounce of strength I had burst out in a silent scream, a psychic wail meant for one person---Constantine. Instantly, we were connected, feeling, sharing, exchanging sensations. He, body pressed against a soft, yielding female form, froze mid-bite. I too stiffened, using the last of my energy to assault him with my far-less enviable situation---strangling, listless, helpless. He saw the darkened interior of the shop. He saw Patrice, triumphant. He heard the faint gargle of my deprived lungs. He felt the sting of a phone cord wrapped about his throat.
Then the bond was severed! Entirely. Cut by Rasputin, who malevolently waited on the street. The vile progenitor, obviously the maestro orchestrating Patrice's attack, had contained every bit of emotional energy within my body, so that it had built to explosive proportions. He had contrived this scene to lure Constantine here, had held my power in check until I would instinctively, telepathically transmit panic and desperation.
"It's done." Patrice dropped her stranglehold. I flopped to the floor, coughing and sputtering, barely conscious.
Snitch rasped from his vantage inside the door. "Are you certain he is on his way?"
"Yes." Patrice's mouth, although split and swollen, twisted with distaste. "I could almost feel their connection, like heat coursing off her body. He actually wants to save this juicy bag of bones."
"All I want to do is rip her throat out," Snitch grumbled, his lanky form still hunched and hidden within the shadowy entrance, his burden equally obscured. "She owes me for an eye."
"Sorry, Snitch, that's not allowed. Now, get to work," Patrice ordered him. "Constantine will be here very soon." She gripped my arm, more than half dragging me through the doorway. Snitch, I hazily saw, had begun climbing the stairs to my apartment.
Patrice pulled my near deadweight out onto the sidewalk where she threw me at the feet of her new master, Rasputin, who was surrounded by a small crew of lesser vampires. Donata, too, was there in all her black-haired, big-breasted, hate-filled glory. I lay curled on the pavement in a not-quite-fetal-position, afraid to look up at her. And even more afraid to look directly at Rasputin's gigantic hideous form. Try as I might though, I could still feel him. Massive. Evil. Hungry. He was a black unwholesome shadow that clung cobweb-like to me. I shivered uncontrollably.
"So submissive. I like that in a Soulsmith." His voice, as during our hideous encounter at the Constantinople, belied his utter repulsiveness. It was musically soothing. He reached out with his grotesquely nailed hands to grip my shoulders and haul me to my unsteady feet. He towered over me, seven feet and three hundred pounds worth of ravening undead. I cringed within his unbreakable grasp. There was no way to avoid looking into that bloated yellowy face with its deep, black, rheumy eye sockets and sparse wormy hair. "You won't be repulsed by me much longer. You will do anything for my touch, for my attentions. Be they pleasant or otherwise."
A mighty stench secreted from him. Years of preying on mankind scented his diseased skin, poured from his foul mouth, permeated the air about him. He stank of an abattoir, a pit full of death, rot, and decay. I turned my head and bent back to gulp a clean breath. His odor, like his sharp grip digging into the tops of my shoulders, was inescapable. I strained and squirmed against his hold, causing blood to seep from the wound at my lower back. Rasputin knew the exact spot by sense of smell, I supposed. He caressed that open wound with one huge, monstrous hand which he then raised to his mouth. He sucked at the liquid with obvious delight.
"Tasty." It burned where he had touched me, like something toxic burrowed there. Patrice, obsequious, nearly bowing, lisped through her busted lip and bashed in nose. "All is progressing as you have willed, Master." But it was to Donata that she slithered, placing herself squarely behind her mistress. With her graceful height but ruined visage, she jealously guarded the female progenitor, who wore an outrageously black-as-sin unitard. The pair gave me the heebie-jeebies!
Rasputin's gigantic bulbous head swung upward to the second story of the De Facto Self Defense building, to my apartment. Although it caused Rasputin's nails to gouge deeper into me, I half twisted to also look in that direction. Snitch, I knew not why, had slunk upstairs. The large living area should have been dark. Instead, a vague orangish glow bled through the white curtains. Not long thereafter, Snitch crept from the shop, and he took up a post in the alley between De Facto Self Defense and the next-door bakery.
"No! No! No!!" I half shouted, half sobbed, tugging uselessly against Rasputin's cruel grasp. Snitch had set my upstairs quarters afire. Rapidly, an inferno raged through my home, through my entire life. The long French door panels exploded outward and pelted down upon the pavement. Heat and smoke drifted on the air. Choking and coughing, I continued to fight Rasputin's hold. His talon-like fingers never eased, but bit more piercingly into my flesh.
He laughed at my pitiful efforts. Against him, I was less than a gnat. "Come, children, we must get off the street." Rasputin cocked his great misshapen lump of a head, listening to far off sounds. "Constantine is coming." His watery eye holes glistened.
Donata watched me intently with her malevolent dishwater brown eyes. "Careful of your human whore, Rasputin. She could ruin your ambush."
Taking her words as my cue, I frantically stretched out my psyche to locate Constantine, but Rasputin jostled my entire body, shaking me like a child with a rattle. "If I let you warn him, it would spoil my plans. You, Soulsmith, must keep SILENT." Silent. Silent. Silent. His command caromed around my mind.
His words, his cursed voice, induced a hypnotic state, wakeful but unblinking, aware but detached. He slid me along beside him, farther down the street, against the inky shadowed side of the Parker and Bowles law office. There to wait and watch. All-the-while, every thought and feeling, breath and blink of mine, indeed, of all those gathered, was veiled by Rasputin's awful power. He even muted Donata, whose hatred of me dimmed enough to make her physical proximity bearable.
Constantine, then, came into view. He sped down the roadway, almost a blur, a sleek speeding form with windblown coal black hair and equally dark silk shirt and trousers. With the precision of a camera shutter, I saw his every preternaturally accelerated stride, the swift pump of arms and legs, the inhuman fluidity of muscle and sinew, the incredible unflagging speed and grace. He ran this life or death race towards De Facto Self Defense where fire, unmistakable and terrifying, blazed through the upstairs interior. Yellow and red and orange flames showed there, clogged the cool night with smoke, poured heat into the air. A kernel of affection for Constantine wanted me to scream a warning. Only, because of Rasputin's dampening influence, I couldn't!
With undiminished speed, Constantine launched himself, feet first, through the plate glass panes of the shop's window front. He crashed through in a traumatic concussive noise to land on the other side in a balanced crouch.
Even in my muddled, hypnotic state, I registered that the son-of-bitch had been able to enter my home! Where was the excruciating pain? My ingenious 'disinvite' had obviously not worked! Which meant that he could have forced his way into my place---and into my bed---the other night. But he hadn't? That much-out-of-character fact was too hard to fathom. Because what Constantine wanted, Constantine took. Therefore the only thing stopping him the other night had been ... What? Conscience? Game-playing? Fear of the price for taking what wasn't willingly offered? Who knew? Certainly not me, and certainly not now. I was more-or-less in a stupor.
All I knew for sure was that he had come to my rescue, that he thought I was inside the shop, that he thought I was dying at the hands of another vampire. Under Rasputin's thrall, I pretty much ran on automatic pilot. In my half-conscious state, I more-or-less saw the flames that were destroying my home, heard the accompanying pops and cracks of stressed wood, glass, and metal, smelled the acrid pall of a roaring inferno, but emotionally I was distanced, almost uncomprehending. Nor could I mentally warn Constantine!
Nevertheless, he warily uncurled from his crouched-over-squat as if sensing something was wrong. Too late, he had intuited a trap, or had perhaps reacted to my blanketed panic?
Snitch sprang from hiding, both emboldened and empowered by his Master, reveling in his honored role as a progenitor's executioner. The item which he carried, which he hefted with deadly intent, was now visible, a glass bottle with a short, soaked, linen fuse. Which he had lit! The scrawny, eye-patched villain stood in the gaping window and flung the home-made bomb dead center of Constantine's chest. The Molotov cocktail splattered over his torso in a rush of greedy bright yellow-white flames.
Constantine propelled himself from the shop's constrictive interior out onto the open street just before part of the upstairs apartment floor caved in with a hot smoky blast of embers. The exterior of the building remained while the bonfire ate away at the insides. Constantine stopped short, regal and defiant as the liquid fire rushed up his body. Behind him, the growing flames of De Facto Self Defense almost lit the entire block, eerily backlit Constantine. The pavement beneath him shimmered and shifted in the expanding firelight. Our catty-cornered hiding place across the road was revealed!
For one interminable fraction of a second, Constantine turned his ice-blue eyes toward where we grouped in the hellish sheen from the blaze. Amid that cluster of enemies, he pinpointed me, looked pointblank at me. He was trying to connect. His stare bored into my essence until I grew faint, like all my strength had been diverted elsewhere. Then, barely outpacing the fire that whipped up his body, Constantine flung both hands protectively before his face. The signet ring upon his right hand winked a pure luminous gold before the devouring flames blotted it.
My mind tried to scream, but my voice, controlled by Rasputin, refused to obey. So, I watched, silently, in horror, as beautiful Constantine was engulfed in the white-hot fireball of a quick incendiary rush, like the ignition of a rocket. Yet, repellently, some tiny alien space within me watched with unrepulsed fascination as the flames plumed about him. Then, with the same abruptness that it had climbed his body, the flash fire, so intense it had disintegrated his clothes, snuffed forcefully downward, totally extinguished. Constantine crashed backward onto the street.
He appeared almost reposed in a ghoulish parody of sleep. The ruination of this illusion, however, was the glassy, fixed stare of his perfect, incredibly unburned eyes. Presumably they had been saved by the cover of his hands which had not fared nearly as well. In fact, of his entire body, his hands were damaged the most, the worst, blackened, scorched, charred as if they had funneled all the heat and fire away from the rest of himself. Perhaps, I marveled, they had? His gorgeous face, framed as ever by a luxurious mass of coal black---only slightly singed---waves, had survived, although the left side was sooty and blistered.
The beauty of his legs and torso had likewise largely been spared. A few bad places, such as his abdomen and his left thigh, were raw, the skin peeled away to display healthy pink flesh underneath. But the air I rasped into and out of my lungs, that nearly gagged me, told another tale in the acrid undeniable pungency of toasted flesh and scorched hair.
I mouthed his name. Constantine. My soundless appeal to him went unanswered. No sensation returned to me. Of his life, of his being. Nothing echoed back. The tainted air from my apartment stung a tear, or two, from my eyes.
In the fire's eerie shifting glow, I saw Snitch move to stand over Constantine's remains. He crowed, like a scrawny rooster, puffing out his bony chest, cackling in a long high-pitched unbroken note.
Rasputin leaned down into my face. "This immortal won't rise phoenix-like from the ashes of his pyre, Soulsmith. Constantine is no more."
I shuddered and closed my eyes. It was the first full movement I had made of my own volition. When I found the strength to speak, it further proved that I was regaining my own will. Witnessing Constantine's end had roused my survival instinct.
"You and yours," I sliced a hate filled glance toward Donata, "best watch out, Rasputin, you're not the only one who can arrange an ambush."
Rasputin tightened a crushing grip on the tops of my shoulders. He was angered that his spell over me had slipped, had lessened. "Mind your tongue. It can be removed so easily."
In challenge, Donata hissed at me, exposing the gleaming tips of her uneven white fangs. The other vampires, except for Patrice, who clung to Donata, pulled back to safety. Donata was easily within striking distance of me. The bitch took advantage of that fact! Her extraordinarily long fangs fully erupted. She jumped at me with a wolfish snarl. Rasputin still held my shoulders. His towering blubbery form blocked her reach for my throat, and, thankfully, denied her a killing blow. Instead, improvising, redirecting her attack, she rent my back in long furrows from my shoulder blade almost to my waist. Pain lanced down my body. My knees buckled, but I kept upright. Well, mostly because Rasputin still held me skewered to his claws.
Rasputin ended Donata's assault by a crushing grasp under her chin, neck, and throat used to fling her away. The maneuver to a human, no doubt, would have been fatal. All it did to Donata was stun her. She shook her head. The dull black strands of her lank, lackluster hair swished around her head and shoulders. She raked them from her eyes.
"She's just juicy meat, Rasputin. Let us have her." With an inclusive sweep of her hand, Donata indicated the small group of vampires. The others, however, stayed well back, yet they scented my fresh seeping wounds. Excitement glowed blood-red, a shade that rivaled the raging fire, from out their avid eyes. They appeared of one accord, all prepared to attack me.
Rasputin denied them all. His voice was a dominant swell of sound. "A Soulsmith, the last Soulsmith, is far too valuable to waste spattered across a street. Have patience, Donata, for soon she will be of us. Perhaps, I shall allow you to aid in her transformation. Relish the thought of her blood thick as whipped cream upon your tongue. It will be worth the wait. And never a sweeter tasting vengeance, eh?"
I was numb, physically and emotionally. My back was torn open. So were my emotions. I couldn't look away from Constantine, amazingly intact, but lifeless, spread out like a cold cadaver in the inferno's bright shifting glow. We hadn't been friends, but TECHNICALLY we had been lovers. His power, sexual and raw, had been too great to deny. It had become an addiction. So, if I managed to survive, which was highly doubtful, who would be my new supplier? That kind of drug, a vampiric aphrodisiac, was not exactly on the market. Or, maybe, with his true death, my 'need', my 'hunger' would also end? I damned well hoped so.
Rasputin's evil attention fastened on to me, leech-like, sucking on my robust emotions of fear, anxiety, loss and, perhaps, grief. A heated gust flapped the thin worm-like strands of the hideous progenitor's hair. His odor, rotten and foul as carrion, even overpowered the fire's smoky haze.
"Have one final look, Soulsmith. Up closer. To allay any false hopes that he yet lives."
And so saying, Rasputin dragged me, unwillingly, to Constantine's soulless physical shell where he forced me to kneel with one of his monstrous claws heavily curled around my shoulder. I tried not to inhale the vile charred air. Worse yet was the acrid stench of burned hair which clung heavy about me although Constantine's glorious coal colored waves were for the most part miraculously unburned. Soot and blisters coated the left side of his beautiful chiseled face, but, just as his hair had been incredibly spared the ravages of the flames, so too had his ice blue eyes, always so dangerous to me, now focused skyward, unblinking, unseeing, unaware.
I hiccoughed back hysteria as I remembered his not-so-long-ago boast that he could survive the vampiric anathema of flame, the purification of fire. Kneeling so close to him---to his mostly undamaged, still elegant body---I psychically detected nothing of HIM, not of his arrogance, his conceitedness, his incredible will. A tear-like emotion knotted in my throat.
In his odd death throe, Constantine's withered right arm stretched out above his head, as if seeking help. And on that gruesome, charred hand gleamed Constantine's solid gold signet ring. It beamed radiantly, scoured to perfection in the crucible of an inferno. Flames, sunny yellow and bloody red, reflected off it, actually refracted off it to cast a mini-rainbow over myself and Rasputin, whose clawed hold shifted to the back of my neck.
"Give it me," Rasputin, his voice husky, awed with greed, said to Snitch, who stooped covetously over the body. "I'll have his crest. His seal of power. It bestowed him much, even sparing his flesh and bones from the flames. Enshrouded within its power, Constantine very nearly survived that which is a true death."
Snitch, unhesitant, snatched at the ring. It seemed melded to Constantine's blackened finger. The one-eyed vampire gave a shrill cry of annoyance. He snapped the burned digit and wrenched the gold ring from off its owner. He held it aloft, where it seemed to pulse, a perfect golden band, an object to be coveted. And we each did. Even I, for one disorienting second.
Rasputin's maw gaped with excitement. He slurred his words. "Give it to me, Snitch."
"Yes, Master." Snitch held it for one moment more before he took a chain from his vest which he then threaded through the ring. He presented it to Rasputin with his one good eye slightly averted, his head drawn down protectively into his stooped shoulders. Rasputin took the fine chain and dragged it over his monstrous misshapen head. This was the only way he could wear the stolen talisman, because his own grotesque fingers were outsized, triple that of Constantine's slender artistic fingers.
"All is as planned. Here ends the reign of Constantine, The Great." Rasputin, the wormy-haired urine-skinned monstrosity, leaned his weight upon the vulnerable spot where he gripped my neck. He literally spat a curse over my head at the other progenitor, then he spoke to his vampire retinue gathered at his back. "Some one of you come forward and finish the deed. Remove his head and heart, and feed them to the flames. Quarter what is left, then cremate that, as well."
Anger, swift and terrible, suffused me. I wasn't going to allow this!
"No one touch him!" The order shrilled from me louder than a megaphone. It did, indeed, halt those few who had advanced. "Do not desecrate him any further!" A hot wind skirled from out of the burning building, my home, my business. Arm-like trails of sparks accompanied it, but faded before reaching me. The fire towered and glowed ominously against the inky dark sky, as if it could be called down upon those on the street. Pops and sputters gave the inferno a fearsome voice. In the face of that conflagration, mine to summon, the vampires seemed to shrink.
As I knelt beside Constantine, bathed in the hellish shimmering glow, and dared any to brave me, or my fire, a distant but distinct wail from a fire engine arose. The fire department was on the way. That meant firemen, police, EMT's---too many humans to effectively deal with. The time for gloating had passed.
"We shall depart. His remains are empty. Let them lie. It matters not. The last detail is, however, of all import." He brutally yanked me to my feet. "I have only to bind you, little Soulsmith, to me."
I swallowed, hard. "So you destroyed Constantine. Big freakin' deal. I'm not his for you to claim." Was that a half-truth, or a half-lie? "And you'll certainly never hold me."
Rasputin, his stringy hair falling across his rheumy eye sockets, showed his evil serrated fangs in a gruesome smile. "I intend to do more than transform you. This union is going to be legal. Within the law. I intend to make you my bride. For eternity."
His bride, huh? That word complicated everything. With vampires, as with humans, a spouse couldn't be forced to testify against her murderous husband. I wouldn't EVER be able to stand up in a court of law and testify that Rasputin was a slaughtering, murdering beast from hell. Rasputin was legitimately going to take care of the sole human witness to his current---and all his future---crimes. Me. He was going to marry me to do it. Oh, joy.
I was still struggling with the implications of Rasputin's mockery of a proposal---and with the shock of Constantine's ghastly immolation---as the gargantuan progenitor bodily dragged me through the back streets of the city of Charleston. My enforced march was brutal and frightening. At our approach, overhead streetlamps would detonate like mini-grenades, shattering into desolation and darkness. Animals seemed to avoid us, as when the barks and growls of a scrawny, black-and-tan mongrel had abruptly ceased and the dog had slunk away into the unnatural quiet.
Block after block, Rasputin pulled me along behind him, literally scraping me across pavement or concrete or sewer grates when I repeatedly, futilely dug my heels in to resist. I was bruised and banged worse than a prizefighter. My knees especially were torn up. So, in the end, to keep my legs and feet from being worn to stubs, I tried, again and again, to match his gigantic stride, running, staggering, then tripping, always to be dragged mercilessly onward.
Around us, his entourage spread out, unseen. They moved like shadows, glided without a sound, betrayed their passage with nothing more than an occasional glitter from out of feral eyes. Not even Donata, paralleling us off to the left, visible only by the occasional swish of her long matte black hair, offered any comment. She simply glowered, radiating hate like a toxic waste dump, highly lethal.
The area gradually became seedier, older. It was the commercial district. Many of the large crowded buildings, some wood frame, others steel and concrete, still more crumbling red brick, stood empty. After a long grueling run through the warren of factory-like architecture, a set of railroad tracks bisected the street we traveled. Rasputin jarred me across the graveled train crossing. I toppled once more to my knees and stifled a whuffling gasp of pain. A dizzy sickness hit me. I was lightheaded from being cut up by Donata, not-to-mention being overwrought by nerves from my impending nuptials, the arson of my home and business ... and the death of Constantine. The bed of crushed railway stones bit into my already torn up flesh. I cried out, but Rasputin took no pity. He kept up his pace, tugging me still upon my knees across the rails.
There was no traffic here. No unwary traveler. No passerby. No one to appeal to. I gritted my teeth, forced myself upright, and redoubled my efforts to match Rasputin, his seven foot frame humongous, nightmarish on this horrible journey. He wouldn't care whether or not he accidentally twisted my arm from its socket. He might actually like the novelty of a one-armed bride.
He drove further into the old commercial district. At one point, a chain link fence demarcated a State Department of Highways salt depot, a large darkened lot with a corrugated metal building that housed enormous trucks, plows, and mounds of street salt. I considered grabbing the diamond-shaped links, but decided against doing so. I'd most likely lose fingers. We quickly passed by the large darkened lot into a valley of squat two and three story buildings which oppressively loomed over us until, finally, when I despaired of taking another step---my legs were jelly, my lungs ached, my wounds were seepy and raw---we reached our destination, Chantario's, a huge abandoned furniture warehouse.
Six immense glass-fronted showcases, now whitewashed, overhung the street. The showrooms were at eye-level, being some five feet above the sidewalk. One of the showcase windows, however, had been smashed, not completely, but wide enough to make an entrance. Mammoth Rasputin scaled the height with supernatural ease, pulling me behind him, levering me upward by my arm, uncaring that I exhaustedly wavered on that dangerous makeshift threshold. He yanked me inside. Uncannily, he threaded a path through the pitch black of the showroom. He navigated around chunks of plaster, a few pieces of broken furniture, several big rolls of carpeting, and then down three narrow stairs to the warehouse proper. I, too, after initially stumbling in his odious wake, became more able to see in the eerie dark, perhaps tapping into Rasputin's power, a progenitor's power, as I had occasionally done with Constantine.
I consciously looked into the murky depths of the warehouse to attune my 'enhanced' vision to the huge echoing place. I marked the scattered remnants of a once thriving furniture business, busted shipping crates, scattered piles of fabric swatches, a three-legged camel-backed sofa, dried up cans of varnish. Tiredly, I stubbed a toe on a box of finishing nails and scattered the rusty contents in a screeching arc over the marbled floor.
Rasputin bared his saber-like fangs at me, angry because of my clumsiness, because of my noise, because of my frailty. By comparison, his people, the silent undead, entered and loosely fanned out around us. They disturbed nothing, not so much as a mote of dust, although it coated the gloomy cavernous warehouse. Donata slunk like a black cat, lithe and supple and deadly, casting anger and hate at me with her shadowed dishwater-brown eyes. Patrice came at her back, practically up her ass. The others maintained a bit more distance. Snitch, the murderous little creep, kept even further away, an unwanted pariah.
As we proceeded further into the warehouse, I became aware of the soft glow of candles. Coincidentally, the area that we approached had once been the lighting showroom. Overhead of that candlelit spot dangled the remains of a trio of chandeliers, haphazardly hanging like bare skeletons from the ceiling. Nary a crystal remained upon the intricate metal frames. All three denuded chandeliers were quite large and heavy and precarious. The centermost was of such elaborate multi-layered proportions as to grace a museum, opera house, or cathedral, some glorious imposing building.
Rasputin dragged me toward where the eerie lightless chandeliers were suspended above tall stands of candle. A lone figure stood in the wavering light. Recognition of the pudgy, balding, robed man jolted me. Here waited Circuit Court Judge Oscar Hyacinth, a well-known and well-respected political figure, Democrat, of course, now relegated to the role of glorified Justice of the Peace, empowered to legitimately marry couples who held the proper licenses. Rasputin no doubt had had the required documents filed in a surrounding county, Roane, Boone, or, perhaps, Lincoln. West Virginia no longer required blood tests, and only a minimal waiting period of three days. Where was the tangle of bureaucratic red tape when I needed it?
Judge Hyacinth calmly rocked on the balls of his feet, allowing the wedding party to settle, unaware that they all, including mountainous Rasputin, kept a respectful distance from him and the bible loosely held open in his hands. Judge Hyacinth was beyond noticing much of anything. He was deeply entranced. Nothing of his current circumstances permeated his fogged brain. He smiled at me with a benign, sweet grin, inspecting the happy couple over the rims of his wire framed spectacles, imagining that we had just completed the traditional wedding march down the aisle in order to marry. Likewise, in his bemused mind, the circle of vampires comprised the wedding party. Did that, I hysterically wondered, make Donata, in her skintight black bodysuit, the maid-of-honor?
Judge Hyacinth began the familiar preamble. "Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here to join this vampire and this human in the holy bonds of matrimony." Yadda, yadda, yadda.
I only half listened. I hated weddings, especially this very inescapable one! Mine. My arm trembled beneath Rasputin's clawed grasp. To ease my wrist of his brutal hold, I listed to the left. I also circumspectly searched for an escape, but I soon acknowledged to myself that there was no realistic way to flee two progenitor's, Donata and Rasputin, as well as a small pack of lesser vampires. I was a mere mortal, so there was no contest. And as my gaze roved the darkness beyond us, identifying the tiny track of a mouse through the dust but oddly unimpressed with such an unnatural feat, the words of the ceremony droned on. In his hypnotic state, the Judge did not seem bothered that neither the bride, nor the groom, responded to the 'for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health' litany. I continued visually searching the huge warehouse. Again I discovered nothing in the dusty gloom that offered me any hope. My vision pierced well beyond the sight of any normal woman in both distance and accuracy. This disturbing fact never once dawned on me.
I despaired. There would be no rescue from my not-so-shining-knight-indented-armor. Constantine was gone. I fought against thoughts of his gorgeous body, now just a sooty, singed shell, but they still haunted me. Constantine's final image, stretched before the smoke and flames of my fire engulfed apartment, refused to leave my frontal lobe. I wrinkled my nose, almost smelling that awful stench of the burned flesh of his once lovely hands. Strangely, Rasputin shifted his massive body, a restless---or anxious---gesture?
And, then, suddenly, Judge Hyacinth reached the critical point of the wedding, the 'I do's'. In his clear genial-mannered voice, I heard him ask me those fateful, and, in this case, fatal, words. "Do you, Avna Marie Soulsmith, take this vampire as your lawfully wedded husband?" He expectantly watched and waited for my reply.
I clenched my mouth shut. I refused to answer, because, once the ceremony concluded and Rasputin kissed his bride, there was the good chance that he, being a progenitor, could turn me into a vampire, then and there, by draining me to the end of life and, with the most precise timing, he could re-infuse me with his own potent undead blood. And, after that, I would truly be his. Eternally.
The Judge cleared his throat, fidgeted with his collar, and prompted me for an answer. "Miss Soulsmith?" The fact that he bothered to ask me twice indicated that he had an awareness, however faint, that something was amiss. Even though I knew it was useless to make my objections known---Judge Hyacinth would 'hear' whatever Rasputin 'told' his mind---still I couldn't meekly accept being bound to Rasputin forever, being turned into something vile and evil that would willingly, even eagerly do his bidding, no matter how perverse or horrible. That was a fate I intended to thwart. There was a small chance that if my own will were strong enough I might come through the transformation with some personality, with some identity, with some conscience intact.
So, when Rasputin's grip on my wrist shifted to my upper arm and he demanded with rancid breath that I answer in the affirmative, I refused. With a few choice words.
"Like hell I will." I mustered the ghost of a smile. Maybe if I angered him enough he might simply snap my neck and have done with it? A nice try, but not likely. Whatever powers he thought a Soulsmith carried, he wanted to possess them, hence all the trouble to arrange legal and supernatural bonds upon me.
He loomed even closer, staring at me, into me, revealing up close his rheumy black eyeholes. Suddenly, by contrast, I remembered Constantine's bright blue mesmerizing gaze, and that memory brought full-force the painful reality of his recent death. By fire. And with that recollection, there came rushing over me an awful accompanying stench of burned cloth, and singed hair, and charred flesh. The vampires, also, seemed to react, as if my memory had been strong enough to permeate the very air. They shuffled, stirring like spooked cattle. Snitch sidled further into the gloom.
It was too much for me, this channeling of Constantine's demise, bringing it amongst us. I slumped. My knees nearly buckled.
Nor was Rasputin immune. A crazed spark shown in his runny eye sockets. He shook me harder and harder. He began screaming at the Judge. "Pronounce us united! Pronounce us united!"
But Rasputin's hold over the man had definitely been broken. Judge Hyacinth, nearly in shock, awoke to himself, seeing the cavernous gloom of the furniture showroom, the true nature of the wedding party, and most of all the horrendous seven foot groom, a nightmarish figure of such immense girth and grotesque visage that Oscar Hyacinth instantly knew what he confronted, a monster, a killer, a vampire. The Judge's nerveless fingers dropped the bible. He staggered backwards several paces, trying to distance himself from his living frightmare. Behind his spectacles, his eyes goggled wide with fear. He had backed almost outside of the circles of the wavering, draught-fanned candles. Hooray! There wasn't going to be a legal by-the-books marriage after all. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to stop Rasputin.
With a menacing show of outsized razor-tipped teeth, he roared at me. "You shall be mine. Mine." To keep me pinned to the spot---as if I could possibly run---Rasputin sank his nasty claws into the bones of my right arm. For a searing, alcohol-poured-into-an-open-wound-type second, I nearly lost consciousness, collapsing even further. Rasputin's pinion-like grip alone held me upright. I struggled to keep my wits, which had scattered every which way---but mostly into the recent past and how I had met and been snared by Constantine, the Great ... and I was inundated by every last smutty detail. Then, overlaying all else, I was awash in grief.
Suddenly, once more, the thought of him evoked the stench of his smoldering scorched hands, which had been burned out of all proportion to the rest of his body, as if they had channeled the flames away. The evocation was strong. So very strong, in fact, that it seemed his remains must be here amongst us. Rasputin's grasp on me went lax. I slid from off his claws like skewered shish kebob. Like a shambling bear on its hind legs, the gruesome progenitor frantically turned in circles when a piece of singed cloth, scenting the air with that distinctive acrid smell of fire and of smoke, was tossed at his feet.
We all looked in that direction, expecting to see the impossible. But the intruder, I glimpsed with a brutal pang to my heart, wasn't Constantine. It was another, a vanquished enemy who had begged to be spared, who had sworn to serve and protect me before his head had nearly been severed from his body, a reanimate who had resurrected.
"Thomas." I breathed out his name, listless and tired. I stood, swaying, nursing my punctured arm against my side. Why, oh, why couldn't it be Constantine? I bit my lip to keep from crying this very question out loud. Hadn't I once taunted the progenitor with the threat of fire? And, in return, hadn't he offered the lie that he had unimaginable recuperative powers? But not, apparently, against fire.
Thomas' presence here to my rescue proved, then, that he had been my secret unknown protector, sworn by, entrusted by! Constantine to guard me. Armed with the same small scimitar that had once nearly beheaded himself, Thomas stalked within the fluttering light of the stands of candles. Strange twisted shadows, created by the weak flickers and shudders of the tall candelabra, fell upon his sinewy form. He was a wonder, much changed, still physically beautiful in a frail, slim, glossy-haired way, yet moving with a savage graceful arrogance that even dared confront two progenitors and any number of their unholy spawn. His pale skin, once reminiscent of a heroine addict, now glowed with a pearly hue, contrasting with his glittering India ink eyes. As before, an errant, boyish curl fell across his handsome wide brow.
He offered a faint, mocking nod to me. "So, the scrumptious little cupcake is in the middle of a wedding." He gave a tsk-tsk between his white teeth. "Why wasn't I invited? Probably ... because I intended to disrupt the service."
Donata, pissed beyond belief, snarled at him. "You traitorous prick. I am going to wear your entrails."
Thomas smiled devilishly. "Quite a fashion statement, but you have to pull them loose first."
"Dispatch him, Donata," Rasputin ordered, returning his attention to me, dismissing Thomas as a non-threat. That was his first mistake. Nearly hidden from my view behind Rasputin's great bulk, Thomas advanced on the other vampires with a fury, attacking like a whirlwind, swinging the scimitar in a shimmering arc at the first one he encountered, sending the startled male's head spurting and hurtling into the air. Snitch, the self-preserving cockroach, disappeared before the head hit the floor. Without a pause, Thomas sliced a second open from crotch to clavicle, almost, but not quite, cleaving him in two. The vampire writhed upon the dusty floor, his body gaping wide while his innards spilled out around him. That left the four females. Thomas aimed for Donata like a heat-seeking missile, but first he had to wade through her posse of bimbos.
By now, however, I had my own troubles. Rasputin, with one enormous step, stood above of me. He hovered like a huge black blimp, blocking out every other sight but his gargantuan, disgusting body. His will, his intense hunger and hatred, beat down upon me, pulverized the last of my hope. I cowered down at his feet. He leaned further over me. His sickening miasma, that of an open mass grave, bled onto me. My vision wavered with fear until I blinked it clear to see, and recognize, the bright golden ring, Constantine's stolen signet ring, hanging around Rasputin's neck. The foul progenitor bent towards me, lips pulled back from his extended fangs, the breath-like stench from out of his maw hot and foul upon me. As he descended, I reached out, tangled my fingers in the chain, and ripped it from his short thick neck. The action did not give him pause.
It should have.
The minute my fingers encircled the gold band it became warm. That warmth suffused me, comforted me. Rasputin was almost down on my level where I squatted on the floor. I got a good look at his putrid yellow skin, his wormy thin strands of brittle hair. Even as his giant hands, one pushing my head to the side to expose my neck, the other locking onto my shoulder, claimed me, I defiantly spat words at him. I looked squarely into his fathomless rheumy eye sockets. He aimed to devour me.
"Choke on it." I spoke with all the power within me. I also silently prayed that my one ace in the hole worked.
He laughed, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, as he sank his filed teeth into my throat in a huge ravenous bite. It hurt. Bad. His fangs worked deeply, almost as if he were trying to eat flesh rather than suck blood. I gripped the ring convulsively, for it was all I had to hold onto while Rasputin, the ugly monstrous beast, his bulbous discolored head at my throat, his worm-like strands of hair fanning my face, drained me dry. Only, Rasputin, with but a single mouthful, suddenly spluttered. Gagging, he jerked away from me, his dark eye holes revealing astonishment and, perhaps, fear. Pink goo frothed at his mouth. His own nasty spittle mixed with my blood and trickled down his chin. With frantic motions, he pawed at his throat, staggering drunkenly, stiff-leggedly away from me.
"Thank goodness for odorless garlic supplements." I closed my eyes in a prayerful manner, and recalled the handfuls of pills I had forced myself to take morning, night, and noon over the course of the past few days. It had been a long shot that apparently had paid off. As was my intent, I had rendered my blood toxic.
When I quickly reopened my eyes, it was to the sight of Thomas, who had dispatched all of the remaining vampires save for Donata and Patrice, and was none the worse for wear. He sported not so much as a single scratch, although his weapon, Constantine's scimitar---and the hand which held it---were covered with scarlet gore.
Thomas, with the final two members of Rasputin's family yet to battle, had heard my whispered prayer to the pagan god of garlic. He snickered. "Sweetmeat, it wasn't any such thing. Rasputin is literally 'choking' on the power of your suggestion. It's quite charming how you keep forgetting that you are a Soulsmith."
Numbly, I glanced up at Rasputin, whose usually sunken eyes were bulging from out of deep sockets. A vein visibly pulsed at his mottled yellow-skinned temple, and gurgles sounded from out of his horrid, slack mouth. Watching the progenitor pawing at his throat, struggling to swallow down whatever it was that strangled him, I knew that Thomas was right. I HAD, albeit unconsciously, placed a compulsion on Rasputin. I clutched tighter at Constantine's ring. It had focused my every ounce of psychic energy and accomplished something I, alone, never would have been able to do---namely, placing a hypnotic command upon a vampire progenitor.
For the time being, Rasputin was preoccupied. Donata, however, remained to be dealt with. Thomas, after assisting me to my unsteady feet, set himself to this task.
"Steer clear of this mess, sweetness." Thomas jerked his head at the awful detritus, his hacked and dispatched enemies that were smeared around the floor. "I've got some unfinished business." Then he motioned toward Donata with his bloody scimitar. In the quavering candlelight, his inky black eyes glinted with gem-like facets. "Come, come, my old mistress, let us have at it." His voice was jovial. He doubted not that he could vanquish her. She doubted not, either. It showed on her twisted features. All that saved her mean skinny ass was Patrice Blanchard.
The stupid cow placed herself between Thomas and Donata. Thomas obligingly eviscerated the ex-newspaper reporter, first defensively hacking off one of her creamy white arms before slicing three times Zorro-like across her torso and stomach. Then Thomas saluted Donata with his curved sword. He was coming for her next.
For one psychedelic LSD instant, the female progenitor transmogrified into a fiend. Her entire face and voluptuous form shifted. She expanded into something truly gruesome, truly otherworldly with claws and fangs and scales, red-eyes, nobbled legs, and over-muscled arms. Then the vision puffed out, and Donata fled in her usual cowardly M.O., vanishing with the rushing hiss of wing beats although I never saw her move. One moment she was there. The next she was not.
But the excitement was far from over. Rasputin chose that moment to break free of my vampire whammy. I recoiled from him. I didn't trust to another hypnotic command. So, having no other option, I decided to run. For all the good it would do me.
Thomas, several feet away, shouted at me in an exultant yet fatalistic tone. "Heads up, Sugarpie! The sky is about to fall."
I followed his gaze upward, and I gleaned his intent. He was going to crash down the entire overhead fixture! He made a leap straight up at the immense middle chandelier suspended so precariously over us. The bolted display framework began to give way.
"Judge Hyacinth, run!" But the pudgy, robed man was already much closer to safety than I was, his form very nearly swallowed by the darkness of the warehouse beyond the ring of weak candlelight. I hurtled myself out from under the fast falling weight of the dislodged chandeliers which came down with a percussive groan, the shrill scream of twisting metal, and a shower of plaster and paint chips. The debris of all three massive metal frames thankfully, mostly buried Rasputin. One long rod jammed into his chest. But not, or so it looked, through his heart. All I knew or cared about was that he wasn't moving. Neither was Thomas.
I cautiously circled the twisted wreckage to check on him. Up close, I saw that he had landed awkwardly, partially pinned under the weight of the collapsed metal chandeliers. That leg appeared busted, although no bones protruded. He was stunned, not done in.
"Thomas?" I said, gently shaking his shoulder.
"Let me rest in peace, Muffin." His own voice was soft, weak. A fine layer of dust turned his glossy black hair sickly gray and gave his model's features a death mask pallor.
"I think we should get out of here." I glanced toward the mound of splintered metal and broken ceiling, visually delineating the hump of Rasputin's body within that mess.
"Don't worry about Rasputin, sugar. Close to a thousand pounds of scrap iron were dropped atop him. He's not getting up.... "Those famous last words were accompanied by the booming, clamorous avalanche of metal and plaster being thrown aside as Rasputin, much as his namesake, the original Mad Russian Monk, refused to be killed.
The foul progenitor, standing amidst ruin and settling dust, pulled the warped piece of chandelier from out of his body with a strange satisfied sigh. On top of everything else, he was a masochist! He got off on the self infliction of pain!
Thomas' injury was pretty severe, yet he still struggled, vainly, to rise. I easily pushed him down. I was definitely on my own. Keeping my gaze fixed on Rasputin, I gripped Thomas' arm. "Don't move. Just lie still."
"Whatever you say, Mistress Soulsmith." He wearily closed his eyes. That was when I knew I was in real deep trouble: Thomas didn't have the heart to tease me with a silly, sexist nickname.
So, once again, I had no alternative but that of running. I took off, sprinting through the empty space of the gloomy warehouse as if all the hounds of hell were chasing me. Actually, it was just one mountain-sized progenitor. And he, though wounded, followed with enough speed to have me sweating bullets.
I tore across the dusty length of the warehouse, retracing the route which had brought me here, seeing with uncanny vision every obstacle from the scattered nails to the rusty buckets of varnish, and hearing with that same frightening, inhuman acuity that Rasputin was drawing nearer. Breathing down my neck, as it were, if only vampires in actuality breathed.
As I ran, I still gripped Constantine's signet ring. It throbbed in my palm, forcing me to draw on that reservoir of power, a progenitor's power, which had earlier aided me. It increased my flagging strength, dulled the horrible throb and ache of my savaged arm, my rent open back. It even amplified a premonition-like rise of the hackles on the back of my neck when Rasputin's fingers nearly grasped me, yet, with a sudden burst of speed, I pulled away, fleeing up the three narrow steps that led into the showroom and onto the street. I raced full tilt across the dim expanse, hurdled across the abandoned rolls of carpeting, and didn't slacken my pace even when jumping through the secret exit cut into the whitewashed window. I hit the pavement with a horrible jolt. If anything broke, I took no notice, I simply shook off the pain and sprang away from the side of the building.
My pursuer crashed through the glass, landing in the exact same spot just seconds behind me. His immense weight left broken concrete.
Our chase continued down the narrow streets. Rasputin, his gait lumbering yet preternaturally fast, was almost on my heels. Any moment now Rasputin would fling me down in a ravening feast. He would rip open my throat and sup of that bloody geyser. Then, worse yet, he would infuse me with something of himself. He would gain me as a disciple. He would own me forever.
Panic fueled me for a goodly stretch, but I was nearly drained. I glanced at several darkened doorways but decided not to trap myself in any unfamiliar surrounding. My exertion---and my terror, the pure unadulterated kind---nearly sledge hammered my brains out the top of my skull. As my body flagged, I couldn't even seem to coax any juice, any supernatural oomph or boost, from Constantine's signet ring. I had used up that paranormal reservoir. Its warmth had turned stone cold, but still I clutched it in my pumping fist.
I was barely outrunning the gruesome thing behind me. Noises came from Rasputin. Mostly a hissing, sibilant laugh. And I knew I could not outpace him much further. When I sped by the salt depot, I re-scanned the lot for help or a place to hide. But, as I had expected, there was no guard on duty. The gate was padlocked. I kept running. Rasputin kept following.
In that instant of ultimate grief, I heard a train's piercing whistle, alerting the night that it was thundering over a railroad crossing. I narrowed the distance enough to faintly hear its chug and clack, to see its rhythm and sway, to almost feel its roll and rumble over the ground. There WAS an escape for me! Hot tears poured down my cheek. I ran for the tracks, gasping for breath with every jarring step, intending to put myself beyond Rasputin's reach. He couldn't reanimate the dead, now, could he?
When the smothering, diesel-fueled wash of the train, a many wheeled speeding juggernaut, gusted against me, Rasputin belatedly understood how close his prize was from slipping out of his grasp. He bellowed curses, throaty and deep, that assaulted me physically. I stumbled. My fist tightened around the golden talisman in my hand, and I recovered my stride.
The train clickety-clacked louder the closer I came. The cross bars were down. Warning lights flashed red. I was almost there! Its roaring passage shook through my body. Cylindrical chemical cars were linked together in that furious procession, broken by a single car heaped with logs. Then at the rear came coal cars, all thundering past with a loud rhythmic metallic drumming. Chugga-chugg-chugg, Chugga-chugg-chugg. Chugga-chugg-chugg. But there were so few cars left! The freight train had almost passed beyond me. With a sob, I ran pell-mell for the last car, which, in this unromantic day and age was no longer a true caboose, just a simple black box car ... whose churning wheels, nevertheless, would do their job well. In a constant heated current, diesel scented air fanned me.
I was so close that all I had to do was take one more giant leap.
Rasputin's horrible, dagger-like claws curled over my shoulders.
"NOOOOOOOO!!!" My shrill scream, a denial of him stronger even than the order which had made him choke on a mouthful of my blood, reverberated endlessly. Like a supernatural war cry, it empowered me, focused me, saved me. I whipped out of his hold, whirling around while dropping down on my haunches. I watched an overbalanced Rasputin fly in a slow-motion arc over my head and under the wheels of the freight train. I read the comprehension on his misshapen face as he realized that he was being propelled by his own momentum---and a slight mental push from me---to his grisly end.
I turned my head away so as not to truly witness the sight, but there was no way to keep the awful bone-crushing, head-busting, blood-spurting sounds from my ears. Within that strange elasticity of time, they lasted a satisfactorily long while although the train soon vanished into dark nothingness.
I stayed sprawled exhaustedly on the gravel next to the tracks. Too close to them for safety's sake, I realized. I rolled over a few times to put me a short distance from the oozing wet patches of goo and masses of fleshy gop spread over the shiny rails, the gray gravel, and the surrounding roadway. Try as I might, without even having witnessed the accident, I could still mentally picture the shattered, scattered bits of Rasputin with such clarity as to know that one clawed forearm rested on a railroad tie, a portion of torso decorated a sandy patch beside the rails, while his skull and brains were strewn widely over the entire area. I rolled over again onto my stomach and retched. I came to my hands and knees, shaky, sickened, weak.
It took a long time to draw a steady nourishing breath, one which did not threaten to heave up my stomach. A footstep crunched on the gravels. Somehow, I was unafraid. Somehow, I knew it was Thomas. He favored his battered leg. I craned my neck up to watch his advance. He hobbled toward me, halting when he stood nearly atop me. The dark of night did not obscure his handsome features, for I still saw with vision akin to his vampire kind. But I could not fathom the strange look which he gave me. Was it concern? Worry? Fear?
He reached out an elegantly slender arm which I accepted. Effortlessly, he lifted me to my feet.
"Thanks," I said very softly. I did have a surge of gratitude toward him. If not for his intervention, my poor excuse for a wedding would have proceeded as planned. I would even now be in thrall to Rasputin.
Thomas, with his unruly black lock of hair falling over his eyes, suddenly seemed unwilling to return my gaze. Instead, he looked at the ugly spatterings left in the train's wake. "Don't thank me yet." His own usually cultured voice sounded rough.
"What do you mean? Rasputin's gone. Squashed. I'm safe. Thanks, in some part, to you." I tried to understand his strange meaning. "Right?"
His voice this time mocked me. We were standing nearly nose-to-nose, yet he still kept his eyes averted. "Safe. Right."
As I stood rooted there, facing and confronting Thomas, still unconsciously gripping the gold signet ring which had at one point gone cold and lifeless, I once more heard the warning crunch of gravel, this time from behind me. At the sound of this new footfall, and the accompanying awareness that we were not alone, the ring throbbed in my fist. Terrified, I dropped it to the ground.
Thomas' eyes did, then, collide with mine. There was pain and anguish there. "Please, don't turn around." He was begging. His hands gripped at my arms.
I knew what he was trying to spare me before I smelled that awful smell, of a burned body, and heard that awful sound, of flesh crackling like burned parchment, as a second pair of hands---fire ravaged hands---grasped me from behind. I bit back the words of fear and loathing that sought to burst from me---words such as "Oh, my god! No! Don't touch me!"
For it was Constantine, or, more properly, the severely burned and badly blistered shell that remained of Constantine, standing at my back. His essence felt fragile and stretched thin as a tungsten filament. I knew what he wanted, what he craved, what he needed to survive. Me. My blood. Yet, if I should shout aloud my fear and disgust and openly refuse him, he would not be able to act. I knew without a doubt that he could not partake of me should I voice a denial.
But, even wanting to save him, how could I stand here passively and allow a vampire, a progenitor, supreme amongst his race and a master amongst mine, to feed off of me? Allow him, the most seductive of seducers, to drink god-alone-knew-how-much of my life's blood and with that intimate consumption gain an equally unknown amount of, in his own words, my mind, body, and soul? Could I, Soulsmith that I was, heal him? Did I dare risk trying? Before I could reach a decision, one of his blackened arms snaked around my rib cage, dragging me against his blistered peeling body. Constantine's poor hands, the most severely ruined expanse of skin upon him, crackled like pork rinds with every movement. I opened my mouth to let loose a scream, a rejection, and found myself far too late.
Constantine struck. Fangs, long and piercing, claimed the vulnerable pulse at the side of my throat, sucking with a fierceness that dizzied me. The sensation was almost worse than that of Rasputin's bite, for there was absolutely no control, much less gentleness or tenderness, in the action. He gnawed, hard, deepening the punctures, trying to draw the entire side of my neck into his mouth. I cried out against his harsh invasion, his brutal force, his unrelenting ferocity. My heart pounded an erratic, panicked beat inside my head. He coaxed that rapid pulse to increase by stroking at my breasts. As he feasted, my blood circulated harder, faster. It churned throughout me, eager to join him! Spots were in my eyes, causing the sight of Thomas to waver. I had suffered some blood loss even before this assault. And Constantine was working fast, siphoning with a ravenous unfettered appetite, diverting the flood of my life into himself.
Thomas watched with avid attention, but there was shock in his eyes, and compassion upon his face. Yet, he did not stop the centuries old progenitor who greedily gulped down my blood. And I was too far gone to do, or say, anything. My throat had already constricted beyond the possibility of speech. I silently beseeched Constantine's newest servant to save me, afraid that it was already too late. My entire body was shuddering. Cold seeped into my bones. I was going into shock. My eyelids fluttered. I was so tired, and Constantine was still so hungry. One tiny disjointed thought consoled me: if he bled me dry, without exchanging blood---and I was in no condition to swallow anything---then at least I would not wake up one of the living dead. I gave a wistful smile. I was going to best him in the end.
Constantine's mouth stopped working. He whispered brokenly, vocal cords husky and abraded, into my ear. "You'll not escape me so easily. Sleep, my love, sleep." Instantly I did as he bid me. And the world was gone.
A nightmarish surge of adrenaline awoke me in a panic. My befuddled mind, pounding and straining, bereft of whether it was day or night, whether I was safe or in jeopardy, whether I was alive or undead, crashed awake as if from a turbulent, lengthy, horrendous fall. I jerked upright, sitting straight up in bed, knocking my head hard against ... the ceiling?
"Ouch." I rubbed at a fast rising knot. Realization, almost as swift as wakefulness, came to me. "Damn." I knew, then, that I wasn't in my own home, in my own bed, nor had I cracked my forehead on my own 'ceiling'. So, where was my completely disoriented self, exactly? Surprisingly, my scrambled mind knew, or sensed, that I was in Constantine's plush-cushioned, satin-lined, murkily-unlighted coffin. The other, cloudier questions of why and how I came to be here could wait to be investigated.
First things first! Being so upsettingly clueless, I frantically scanned myself for injuries, for evidence, for inappropriate hickies. But, since the interior was dark, I had to mentally survey myself. Everything seemed okay. I had all ten fingers and toes. The rest of me also seemed to be in working order, so I broadened my senses beyond my own self, and I realized that there was fresh, crisp, almost pure oxygen being pumped into the coffin for me, but also, I supposed ... for Constantine's burns! My tangled memories were gradually unknotting! I vaguely remembered him being set afire by Snitch!
Nor, as I closed my eyes and focused on fitting together the disparate pieces of my memory, I registered with a hard irregular breath, was I alone. I felt him lying beside me, stretched out full length upon his side. In an instant a multitude of terrors revisited me. I remembered my living nightmare. Of flames. Of pain. Of a marriage. Of rescue. Of Constantine ... and of me.
His voice, as velvety and smooth as ever, came from out of the dark next to me. "Your wakefulness is unexpected." There was also a touch of annoyance.
"I'll just bet." And I shuffled my behind as far from him as possible, which was mere inches considering that we were in a coffin, however spacious.
He heaved a much-put-upon sigh. "Shield your eyes. There's a tap light overhead, installed just for you." His cranky warning barely gave me time to react.
I only just averted my head, squinted against the soft glow. I did not want to, nor did I, look at the prone form next to mine. I didn't want to see his scarred, blistered, peeling skin or, worst of all, the ruined flesh of his arms and hands. Presumably, evidenced by my presence HERE, in his coffin-for-two, I had nourished him back to some semblance of his former existence. But what of his spoiled beauty? The idea of a disfigured Constantine was ghastly.
Even so my treacherous body hummed in response to him. I scrunched my eyes closed tighter, held my breath, both shuddered and cringed when his hand, that horribly blackened, crisped appendage, found its way to my hip and slowly roved up the length of my side to my rib cage and then higher where it cupped my breast. That nipple, indeed, my entire traitorously wanton self, reacted, blossomed, swelled.
Shock made my eyes fly wide. It was appalling that I could be sexually aroused by a single grope from a vampire---even a progenitor who had once been as physically gorgeous, as exquisitely perfect as Constantine HAD BEEN. My crotch was throbbing and wet, my stomach clenched and constricted, my breath went ragged and raspy. I was repelled by my desire for his caress. Then, it dawned on me that the hand which so seductively touched me felt supple and warm. But weren't his hands ruined?
Slowly, hopefully, I looked him full in the face. His were the same sculpted, masculine features as ever, the sinful mouth, the aristocratic nose and chin, the icy blue eyes framed by luxurious coal black waves of hair! Without thinking, I traced shaking fingers across his full bottom lip, reveling in the smooth soft skin, snatching them back when he began to suck them into his mouth.
He remained motionless, watchful, while I unashamedly gazed down the whole of his perfect, nearly naked body. I traversed his broad muscled chest, his slim tapered waist, the huge bulge straining at his burgundy boxers, then roved appreciatively on to his thighs and calves and on to his sexy feet and toes. Having completed my lusty inventory, especially after a second lingering look at his crotch where I had a skanky, un-Avna-like urge to expose him---to bare him and to blow him!---I returned my gaze back to his face. He had likewise been studying my reactions.
"You're healed?" All the blistered ravages were gone from him! All the raw, skinless patches were healed! So, too, the charred, blackened skin on his hands and arms! But I had to be sure. Trembling, I began to reach out to physically touch him again, to test this vision, but I stopped short of stroking his cheek in fear of destroying a mirage. Instead of touching HIM, I stroked at my own neck, wonderingly. I felt no marks! Surely, there should be some scab or sore? He had ripped into me like a starving man there beside the railroad tracks. And now ... he was restored. After having drunk very, very deeply from me.
I couldn't help grinning, although I didn't want Constantine to see such happiness at his recovery. In response to my dopey smile, Constantine's hand squeezed my breast, proof that the lecher was undeniably improved. I huffed and slapped his hand away. It was then I discovered that I was, much to my embarrassment, now draped in a long gauzy see-thru dress of crinkled linen, my pink nipples and dark curls visible through the thin material as I sat upright in the fairly confined, dimly lit, cool space---hence the bump on the head, which I had knocked on the coffin's lid.
"Exactly what the hell am I wearing?"
He smirked. "Just a gown chosen to make you ... as comfortable as possible."
"And to make me as exposed as possible," I muttered.
Constantine, lounging upon his side, slanting his head to flick a gaze up and down my body, merely answered with a rakish lift of one eyebrow.
Defensively, I pulled my knees in tighter to my body, wrapped my arms around them, and noticed that there was bandaging on my inner arm. I began picking at it as a distraction from the thrill in my pussy.
"What's this?"
"Exactly what it looks like." He drawled lazily. "Don't take it off or Haley will have my hide. As, indeed, would all my people if any harm were to now befall their Soulsmith. Your welfare is of great concern to all my clan."
"'Sez you." I scowled, peeling back a corner of the large band aid. "Why do I have it?"
"Because, I needed to feed from you in a less ... aggressive ... manner. Haley drew blood for me. To control the amount. And the frequency." A crease of irritation marred his brow, and his jaw had a sudden tic. "The others, the twins, Thomas, even Josh Warner, had the insolence to insist I not feed in the conventional way. They feared another frenzy." The small tic disappeared because he clenched his jaw, then added, "I am in control now, as I was not upon that night beside the railway crossing."
"I'm glad somebody cared about my welfare. A good strategy, that, to keep you from accidentally drinking me dry." Anger fairly oozed out of me.
"I have no defense. Your taste, everything about you, is indescribable." Those throaty words, the passion within his brilliant light blue eyes, spoke of more than just blood. Constantine angled his head to better ogle my outrageously clad, virtually naked, form.
I reflexively pulled my knees tighter to my chest, and clasped my arms harder about them. I was keenly aware of the close quarters, our total privacy, his obvious erection.
"Deviant." Of course, that would put him in his place!
He gave a soft snort, not a denial, more a laugh at my stating the obvious. "Guilty as charged, my little Soulsmith."
"Look, Constantine, I'll ignore being kept naked as a jaybird if you tell me what happened. My memory is still pretty fragmented. I'm foggy on a lot of details. I've lost all track of time." I wet my lips and asked the next question which I almost dreaded having answered. "How long have I been here?"
"Just a short while." Constantine's eyes, always so compelling over the course of our acquaintance, hooded.
That made me suspicious. "A short while, huh? Can you be a little more specific. How many days? Three, five, seven?"
"Time is relative." He ran an index finger up and down the top of my bare foot, and focused on the repetitive motion. He was hoping that it would snare me, as well. "And it is also unimportant. I had a great need of you. I still do."
"Is that why I'm so fuzzy in the memory department? Because you've kept me," I searched for the proper phrase, "out of it? You kept me on tap, so to speak," I gulped, "because you NEEDED me to heal. The first time we met you bragged about your amazing recuperative powers." I propped my chin upon my folded knees and studied Constantine intently. "I didn't believe. Especially not about you being immune to fire."
Constantine levered higher upon one elbow and shrugged his muscular shoulder. "I wasn't so sure myself about how much damage I could sustain and survive. Until I met you." He revealed nothing, his handsome face wiped clean of emotion. Yet, astonishingly, he admitted in a low whisper, "You assured my survival. And my recuperation. Both were a tremendous struggle."
"So, I'm the only type B + person on this earth who could have saved you? I have the magic Soulsmith hemoglobin?" I didn't know whether to be afraid or to gloat.
"I suffered, tremendously," his ice-blue eyes gleamed almost white, "as every shred of dead skin had to slough off until new healthy skin and hair regenerated. That process, of regrowing the layers of dermis and epidermis, was rather painful. Even now the new skin remains delicate and itchy. You, Soulsmith, were my balm. In many, many ways."
With this last petulant complaint to me, Constantine completely clamped off his residual outpour of vulnerability. He traded it for the more familiar one of lechery. His frosty blue gaze quickly, possessively raked over my face and my tucked-in-close body. Even curled in upon myself like a turtle in its shell, his eyes seemed to claim and arouse me, to strip me of the restraint that I feigned. My stomach clenched with an uncharacteristic sexual spasm.
I nervously cleared my throat, and tried to redirect the strained tension. "What was the fallout? Over Rasputin's fatal, er, accident."
"Detective Traeger was very receptive to the evidence, chiefly Rasputin's carcass being splattered all over the place. There was more than enough tissue and blood for a positive match with the DNA from Officer Donovan's murderer. Then, too, Judge Hyacinth corroborated your kidnapping and the attempted marriage. Based on the testimony and physical evidence, the FBIC issued an official re-death certificate for the progenitor known as Rasputin. And closed the case." Constantine's mouth tightened when he spoke of the other master vampire. "More importantly, the killings have ceased. The public, the police, and the media are all satisfied."
A sigh escaped my lips. "Good." Yet the way his eyes greedily watched my mouth make that sound was anything but good. I paused, keenly aware of discomfort over an unfulfilled arousal, which he obviously shared. Afraid of him, afraid of wanting him, of giving in to him, I blurted out my next thought. "Constantine, I want to go home." Our eyes locked.
His calm tone chilled me. "That's not possible."
"And why the hell not?" How dare he think to keep me imprisoned here!
"The building---your business, your home, and even the bakery next door---burned down."
"I ... I ... forgot." The notion that my mind was totally scrambled made me wince. My memory was still fractured, still fragmented. The harder I strove to remember that night and everything in between the less I seemed to retain. In the aftermath of Snitch's Molotov Cocktail, I no longer had a home to return to. But I still couldn't stay here. Not with him. Not with those chilling blue eyes. Not with these terribly strong urges. I definitely had to get out.
"Don't think about it now." He pressed an inch closer. His beautiful voice was low and irresistible. "Rest. You're very tired."
I yawned, sliding down upon my back. "Yes. I'm exhausted." My eyes shuttered.
"Yes," he repeated. "You must SLEEP."
My breathing had almost gone to that shallow depth which meant I was under his spell, all-but-asleep. In the beginnings of this unnatural slumber, I felt Constantine lean over me, nearly atop me.
"My little Soulsmith?" He nuzzled a spot just under my ear, not quite upon my neck, rousing me just a tiny bit. "There is something I have been wanting to ask of you. May I not call you by your given name?" As an enticement, he continued to nibble and kiss the side of my jaw.
In my semi-trance, I seemed to hold my breath, debating the wisdom of this decision. "Oh, what the hell, yes, you may call me Avna." My eyelids fluttered, trying to open and regain my wakefulness. I balanced there between being conscious and unconscious, between following my will or accepting his. However much I fought it, fought him, I couldn't break that peaceful, trance-like state. I floated on the edge of forgetfulness.
"Thank you, Avna." Constantine's soft seductive words feathered across my cheek. They slurred into my mind, almost unintelligible. "Such generosity should be rewarded." And he began to slither his right hand under the hem of my gauzy, see-thru dress.
In my dreamy stupor, I felt his heated touch rove slowly up my leg, gliding over my calf, grasping harder at my thigh, shifting to my hip and on up my belly where he stroked circles around my navel. Occasionally he drew his golden signet ring across my skin to tingling, arousing results. All of his fingers traced warmly, like heated metal, upon me. The ultimate journey of his hand up the length of my body had lifted my transparent linen dress well above my waist. I was exposed to the cool air, to his licentious blue gaze, and eventually to his touch. With my eyes shut and my mind awash in drowsy sensation, I reveled in the first two and yearned for the last.
Already my breath was raspy, irregular. My heartbeat was rapid, loud within my veins, loud within my ears. My body was stimulated, but my mind was dulled. Thus Constantine's soft murmurs, of whatever sort, were lost to me. He kissed around my navel, dragged his words across that clenching flesh, spoke when I could not focus because of his mesmerism ... and the craving for sex....
".... for four months, Avna, love ... at my disposal ... under my spell ... both well pleasured, as I vowed ... with fingers, tongue, teeth ... and toys ... you have accepted my touch countless times ... aggressive empathic control ... SHOULD allow for no recall.... "The lovely, sensuous sound of his voice droned on, and none of it sifted into my thoughts.
I quivered while he continued to lightly stroke over and around my belly. My legs shifted wide open. Just for him. There was no mistaking the invitation. He had turned me into a mass of horny sensations, from loud uneven breathing to damp swollen lips.
Constantine laughed, while his hand drew wider pinwheeling circles that brushed the edges of my pubic hair. "You are so impatient, Avna, my love. But this will make the wait well worth it." And he pressed a tiny vibrator into my belly button.
A surprised gasp escaped me. It turned into a smothered, sensual purr. Then my inarticulate noises grew lusty. Constantine intermittently traced his ultra-tiny but powerful vibrator over my body, my ribcage, my stomach, my nipples. Those pebbled knots ached abominably, so that I knocked his hand away and instead pulled his head to my breast. He sucked hard. He licked around that hard-tipped peak, his mouth working, once more speaking, as he torturously laved at me.
"...many deceptions ... to protect you ... Hetti Chambogo has escaped prison.... "I gasped, jerked, thrashed powerfully against him, and Constantine vigorously caressed at my breasts, drowning my recognition of that horrid name underneath a surge of desire. "...and also a Von Hesling this way comes.... "And before that pronouncement could register, Constantine used a shocking vulgarity to distract me. "I intend to pleasure your pussy, Avna."
My hips jerked in reply and Constantine's hand speedily cupped my crotch. He jammed the vibrator into me, buzzing and tingling against my swollen clitoris. He also slicked a finger back and forth. My extremities caught his rhythm, doing a complementary bump and grind with his hand. I plumped further at his strokes, aching and peaking. The height and pitch of my hips grew wild. I was grunting and straining in bliss. Constantine's strokes became aggressive, a slick thorough touch that made my insides flutter, then grip and pump, hard. A screaming climax tore from my throat and bowed my body into the air. So long as I was caught in this sexual maelstrom, Constantine continued to thrust his middle finger into me. He prolonged the pleasure until it became near pain.
And, then, to the sounds of my shuddering, trembling gasps, I weakly sank down onto the bedding of Constantine's coffin. He stroked my brow and eased me back into a calm enthralled slumber. I managed a great gaping yawn, tugged the dress down my hips and legs for propriety's sake, rolled away into a fetal position with my rounded back to him.
Constantine, as if compelled by a stray fearful impulse, suddenly gripped at my arm. He shook me, but, of course, found me almost completely unresponsive. He reluctantly let go his hold. I had had to succumb to his power as he must, I sensed, succumb to the day. But, before he fully drifted into velvet darkness, he wrapped me in an embrace with the entirety of his body---arms, legs, and chest---about me. That protective cocoon seemed a penance, an atonement for using my body to ensnare me.
As Constantine drifted down into his own darkened mind, he pulled me under with him. I still had time for one final, snarky thought, actually a muttered warning that, with my luck, just might have come out as gibberish.
"Just remember, pervert, that however strong you are, I won't be asleep forever."
I'm counting on it. Constantine might---or might not---have answered.
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