Vampire Bound: Book One

by R. A. Steffan

  Vampire Bound: Book One

  By R. A. Steffan

  Copyright 2020 by OtherLove Publishing, LLC

  Cover by Deranged Doctor Design

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  ONE

  THERE WAS AN ART to blotting away tears before they could spill over and ruin your mascara. I wasn’t sure what it said about me that I’d mastered that particular art years ago. Honestly, at this point I practically held a doctorate in the subject.

  My reflection stared back at me from the long mirror in the ladies’ room. Not for the first time, I wondered whether the companies that manufactured fluorescent lightbulbs for public restroom vanities designed them specifically to make you look as awful as possible. Surely, with everything science had achieved, it should be easy enough to make lighting that didn’t wash you out and accentuate the dark circles under your eyes. But... if that were the case, why continue to sell bulbs that made people look like corpses?

  Fresh tears welled, and I cursed myself as I soaked them up from the corners of my eyes with the twisted corner of a square of toilet paper. The mascara might survive, but at this rate I was going to look like I’d caught a red-eye flight from San Francisco, or maybe spent the last few hours smoking pot. And that... wouldn’t do.

  “Get a grip, Vonnie,” I muttered, looking determinedly toward the ceiling until my eyeballs ached. It was an old trick—something to do with eye movements tricking the brain into shutting off negative emotions, or so I’d read in a surprisingly on-point clickbait article once upon a time. Useful stuff for women in stressful business situations, where tears could be detrimental to one’s career prospects.

  Mind you, the authors of that article almost certainly hadn’t had my current situation in mind when they wrote it.

  The restroom ceiling was... nice. From what I’d seen so far, everything in the club was nice. Classy. Like maybe the owner cared about more than how much money he could wring out of the place by charging fifteen bucks for an appletini on top of a ten-dollar cover. I tried to see that as an encouraging sign.

  When my eyes no longer felt like overfilled water balloons, I returned my gaze to the mirror. Yep... they were bloodshot. Though it probably wouldn’t be too noticeable to someone who wasn’t looking for it.

  I hoped.

  Otherwise, I looked okay—fluorescent lightbulb zombie effect aside. Red hair still caught up in an elegant twist, a few strands escaping artfully to frame my face. Freckles successfully hidden by foundation and concealer. Stylish cocktail dress way above my pay grade, courtesy of my new boss, Guillermo.

  My cell phone trilled in my handbag, and I winced. A quick glance confirmed that, yes, the scary guys my deadbeat ex owed money to had finally managed to track down my new number. Terrific. I couldn’t turn off the phone completely, in case my kid needed to get hold of me while I was... working... tonight. But I did put it on vibrate.

  With a deep breath, I met my own gaze in the mirror and tried to pretend I didn’t look nervous. This wasn’t forever. Just for... a couple of months, maybe, until I could get enough cash together to climb out of the hole that Richard had dug by borrowing money from the wrong kind of people. The hole he’d dug for both of us, really.

  Anyway... the owner of the Vixen’s Den obviously looked after his club well. Maybe that meant he’d also play nicely with the professional escort he’d hired for the night—especially if that escort didn’t let on that this was her first ever gig... and that she was scared out of her freakin’ mind.

  * * *

  The Den popped onto the St. Louis nightclub scene about six months ago, according to the gossip I’d managed to garner from the handful of people I knew who had the time, money, and inclination to frequent trendy clubs.

  The place was all about jazz, blues, and expensive top-shelf liquor, apparently. It was popular with successful black businesspeople, though honestly, the clientele seemed pretty diverse as I made my way toward the elevators in the back. There, a very tall, very wide man wearing a very nice suit stood between the two sets of double doors. His posture screamed security. He watched me approach, his face expressionless.

  “I’m expected in the penthouse suite,” I said, not allowing any hint of nerves to creep into my best ‘seductive’ voice. It was a voice I’d perfected after eight months working as a phone sex operator. And to think... I’d felt nervous during my first few shifts talking to lonely, desperate men separated by miles of distance and a veil of complete anonymity.

  I hadn’t known when I was well off.

  “Name?” asked the bouncer. His deep voice matched his massive size, but his tone was perfectly polite.

  “Morgan LeFleur,” I said, the fake porn name tripping off my tongue almost as easily as my real one these days.

  “I.D.?” the guy prompted.

  I froze, caught out. I had my driver’s license in the little clutch purse I was carrying, but that was in my real name—

  Something of my dilemma must have shown on my face, because the man had pity on me. “A business card from the agency will do, ma’am,” he said.

  “Oh. Right,” I said, rummaging for one. “Here you go.” With a wince, I realized I’d let the seductress persona slip, and was speaking in my normal voice.

  The bouncer made no comment, just glanced at the card and nodded. “I’ll let him know you’re coming up.” He entered a code on the pad next to the right-hand elevator doors, and they slid open.

  “Thank you,” I told him, grateful for his professionalism. I wasn’t sure I could have handled a leer, or even a knowing look, as I entered the elevator and waited for the doors to close behind me.

  Aside from ‘G’ for ground level and ‘P’ for parking garage, there was only one button, for the eighth floor. I pressed it. Like everything else, the elevator was classy—the kind of thing you’d find in an old restored theater building or opera house from the last century.

  I fidgeted as it rose, my fingers going to the small pendant hanging at my neck. The jewelry glowed with a sort of inner warmth that I normally found comforting. Tonight, though, it only made me squirm. Hope you’re not watching this from wherever you are now, Auntie, I thought.

  In reality, I doubted anyone in my family would be significantly more disapproving of the fact that I’d become a full-blown, getting-paid-for-doing-the-dirty-deed prostitute than they would be of the fact that I’d been getting paid to act out other people’s sexual fantasies over the phone. There was a certain point where you reached ‘maximum disapproval’ from your relatives, and once you hit those dizzying heights of familial reproach, the details no longer mattered.

  Not that my Great Aunt Mabel had been one of the disapproving ones when she was alive. Maybe that was why she was the person I was worrying about now, even though she’d been gone for years. The elevator doors dinged open, and I gave her pendant a final rub for good luck before straightening my spine and stepping into the elegant lobby.

  There was only one door, and it was open.

  “Come on in,” a pleasant male voice called, from somewhere within the suite. “I’ll b
e with you in a minute.”

  I tentatively stepped inside, leaving the door open behind me. If I’d had any question that there was some serious money floating around this operation, the club owner’s penthouse apartment would have dispelled it. It was a single man’s residence, free of any hint of the clutter and dirt that came with having a family. The furniture was modern and minimalist, but the sharp lines were softened by the occasional potted plant, abstract sculpture, and painting.

  Movement made me glance up as a figure appeared in the hallway.

  “Sorry about that,” said my client for the night, as he emerged adjusting the cufflinks on a lavender dress shirt. “I don’t like to keep people waiting.”

  Leonides, the mysterious owner of the Vixen’s Den, was a well-built, dark-skinned man residing somewhere in that nebulous age range between late thirties and mid-forties. He was dressed in tailored slacks and a matching vest in dark violet wool, with no suit jacket or tie. His hair was done in short dreads, his beard was elegantly trimmed, and his black shoes were polished to a high shine.

  Handsome, but in a serious, sober way.

  He raised his eyebrows, and I realized I’d let the silence stretch for too long. I took a deep breath, and reached for the character I was supposed to be playing.

  “Oh, don’t even mention it! I’m probably a few minutes early, anyway. And... you have a lovely home. So, what’s on the agenda tonight?” I almost cringed, hearing myself. That had been way too much, probably.

  My client didn’t seem to notice, or if so, it didn’t bother him. If anything, he seemed a bit uninterested, his attention elsewhere.

  “Nothing too involved, just an evening making the rounds in the club. You know how it is—the whole ‘nightclub owner’ schtick calls for a certain amount of personal branding.” A hint of wryness touched his features. “For several very good reasons, I find it much simpler to hire stunningly beautiful women to hang on my arm in a professional capacity, rather than actually dating them.”

  The offhand compliment probably hadn’t been directed at me with intent. I wasn’t bad looking, but ‘stunningly beautiful’ was a serious stretch.

  “Arm candy, huh?” I said, trying to relax into the situation now that it was obvious that I at least wasn’t expected to go straight to my knees and get to work. “Hey, for a hundred bucks an hour, I will be the Ferrero Rocher of arm candy. I’m Morgan, by the way.”

  The stupid quip earned me a hint of a half-smile, though it was short-lived. There was a sort of melancholy aura surrounding the guy, I couldn’t help noticing—a hint of old sadness hanging over him.

  “I’d offer you a first name in return,” he said, “but plain old Leonides seems to be the one that’s sticking these days. I suppose it plays into the ‘rich and mysterious’ mystique that the people downstairs seem to enjoy.”

  More of my tension bled away. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

  “Fair enough,” I told him “Though, if I bat my eyelashes and call you Leo, will I have to worry about you docking my pay?”

  That drew a small huff of amusement, though I could tell that even now, only part of his attention was on the conversation.

  “No promises,” was all he said. “Now, would you care for a drink first, or shall we head down?”

  The last thing I intended to do tonight was get drunk. “I’m good, thanks. Unless you want one?”

  He eyed me. “Maybe later.”

  Trying not to worry about what else ‘later’ might bring, I pasted on a cheery smile. “Then let’s get this arm candy party started, shall we?”

  Leonides gave a nod of easy agreement, and ushered me outside to the elevator with a cool hand resting at the small of my back.

  * * *

  The job of arm candy for a loaded nightclub owner was... actually rather enjoyable, at least for the first hour and a half or so. After that, boredom started to creep in. I was briefly worried that I should have some sort of plausible back-story prepared to explain how we’d met, but it turned out I’d been vastly overestimating how interested anyone was in my presence at Leonides’ side.

  I carted a Shirley Temple around in my free hand and pretended to drink it. Beyond that, I just smiled a lot while attempting to ignore how sore my feet were becoming in my four-inch stiletto heels, and people-watched to pass the time. The clientele was interesting enough—it was clear that the Vixen’s Den didn’t allow just anyone through the door. Mostly, though, I found myself trying to get a better read on the man next to me. It was surprisingly difficult to do.

  His proprietary interest in the club was clear enough, but I didn’t get the impression he got any actual pleasure out of the place... not until a spotlight came up, centered on the low stage at one end of the large space. It illuminated a three-piece jazz band with a middle-aged female vocalist at the front. They started to play, the notes flowing as smooth and smoky as top-shelf bourbon.

  Patrons and business concerns forgotten, Leonides stood at the bar with his eyes closed, letting the music flow over him. This, apparently, was the reason for his ownership of the place—not the glad-handing or the prestige or the write-ups in trendy lifestyle magazines. I found it oddly difficult to look away from him as he soaked in the achingly sweet sounds.

  In fact, I was so wrapped up in watching him that I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice barked, “You!” and a tall man with copper-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail stalked up, pointing at us with an accusing finger. His green eyes narrowed—the expression decidedly menacing. For a hysterical instant, I thought he must be one of the men Richard owed money to, but there was literally no way they could have known to find me here.

  Heat flared at the base of my throat, and my hand flew to my great aunt’s pendant. At the same moment, Leonides’ eyes snapped open. For an instant I thought I saw a flash of violet in their depths—some trick of the nightclub’s low lighting.

  “Oh my god, seriously?” he muttered, almost too low for me to make out the words.

  He moved so quickly that I missed the details of exactly how it happened, but suddenly I was half behind him, his broad-shouldered body between me and the shouty ponytail guy. The newcomer came to a stop a few feet away from the two of us, still glaring.

  “It’s true, then,” he said. “I could hardly credit the rumor’s audacity, but now I see it with my own eyes. So, the last bloodsucker in existence has flouted the unwritten terms of the treaty, and spawned another of his foul breed.”

  Leonides gestured around the crowded nightclub, where people were beginning to take notice of the bizarre confrontation. “Look, whoever you are—you really want to do this here?” He paused. Frowned. “And how the hell can you flaunt the terms of a treaty if they’re unwritten? D’you folks not have contract lawyers in fairyland?”

  My brain was still stuck in what-on-earth-is-happening-right-now mode, but apparently Leonides’ reaction was the wrong one. Because ponytail guy sneered, raising his hand... and... there was a glowing ball of light swirling in his palm, like some kind of crazy CGI effect in a movie—

  I blinked, and blinked again, because... what? But the ball of churning light was still there, large as life and twice as sparkly.

  “Fuck my fucking life,” Leonides said, sotto voce. Then, faster than my eyes could follow, he pulled out a tiny concealed pistol from his trouser pocket and pointed it directly at Blondie’s heart.

  TWO

  SOMEONE SCREAMED, and the jazz band’s music stumbled to a halt—smooth notes tumbling into discord, followed by silence. My mouth gaped open, still trying to fit the existence of the glowing, impossible ball of light into the framework of what I’d always assumed was the real world.

  “Two words,” Leonides bit out. “Iron bullets. And a few more—put your Fourth of July sparkler away, before this explodes into something messier than you’re prepared to deal with.”

  Around us, people were backing away with increasing urgency. The part of my brain that wasn’t frozen like a star
tled rabbit was busy poking me and helpfully pointing out that those people probably had the right idea.

  “Boss?” The nervous crowd parted, shoved aside by the heavy frame of the polite bouncer who’d been stationed by the elevators when I’d first arrived. His hand disappeared beneath his jacket, at roughly the height where a shoulder holster would hang, I suspected.

  “Stay back, Maurice,” Leonides said grimly.

  Maurice came to a halt a couple of steps inside the open space that had opened up around us. The patrons stood poised, balanced between fear, disbelief, and nervous curiosity, as though unsure whether they were watching a staged publicity stunt or something far more sinister. Confused babble filled the space left by the now-silent band.

  The blonde guy sneered, his unnaturally bright green gaze flicking over the sea of confused faces. As his eyes raked across me, I felt an odd tug, my feet stumbling a half step forward as though something inside me wanted to be closer to him. My great aunt’s pendant burned so hot I yelped, the sudden pain shocking me free of the odd moment.

  “Be still and silent, all of you,” he said, his voice sounding oddly resonant. That harsh, leaf-colored gaze settled on Leonides again, even as the other voices in the club fell quiet. My heartbeat echoed in my ears in the sudden calm.

  A tendon in the corner of Leonides’ jaw ticked, but the tiny gun in his hand never wavered. “Did you come here for a reason?” he asked. “Beyond bitching to me about a decision I had no say in, I mean.”

  Rather than answer, the creepy interloper eyed the gun. His wrist flicked, and the glowing ball of... whatever... dissipated in a shower of sparks. “Do you always carry a firearm loaded with iron, bloodsucker?” he shot back.

  The tense line of Leonides’ shoulders didn’t shift a millimeter. “Don’t take it personally. I’ve got one with .32 ACP hollow points packed with salt in the other pocket. Let’s just say that things have been a bit crazy lately.”

  Bullets packed with... salt? Obviously, I was having a stress-related breakdown of some kind, and was about to regret cutting ties with the mental health organization I used to volunteer with. I raised a finger like a shy student in a classroom, ducking partway out of the shelter of Leonides’ shadow. “Excuse me—”