The Cursed by Blood Saga

by Marianne Morea

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone by that name. I think you must be mistaken. If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long night.” Trina spoke rapidly, her words clipped. Stepping away from the young vampire, she did her best to hide her rising fear, but knew too well he could smell it a block away.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Markham, but this isn’t an invitation you can refuse.” He held open the rear door to the limo like any experienced chauffeur, except instead of touching his cap, he hissed baring his fangs.

  Trina backed away, a scream tearing from her throat. In a blur of movement, the vampire was at her side, his fingers locked around her forearm. Pivoting instinctively, she kicked him hard, driving the thick rubber toe of her sneaker deep into his groin.

  The vampire doubled over and she took off running, no time to ponder the sensitive areas of a male vampire’s body. Taking her stairs two at a time, her fingers dug unsuccessfully in her purse for her keys. Shit, shit, shit! Adrenaline surged, almost blinding her. Finally finding her keychain, she fumbled with the lock. Get inside, now! But a hand shot out from behind, grabbing her around the waist.

  Without thinking, she lifted her knee, stomping down and driving her heel into the vampire’s instep. White-hot pain reverberated up her shin from the impact, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he squeezed her chest, compressing her lungs. She tried to scream, but all her air was gone.

  Her vision blurred and Trina knew she was going to pass out. The lights went on at the house next door, and she heard voices. For some reason the vampire let go. Throat raw and head ringing, she dragged in a lungful of air. So close—

  Her knees buckled and she felt herself falling before everything went black.

  ***

  Cognizance took hold slowly. A sense of movement edged its way into Trina’s consciousness. Her mind registered the steady hum and vibration of a car in motion, but not much else. Chilled, she shifted slightly, turning instinctively toward what little warmth she felt to her side. Inhaling, she wrinkled her nose. The air smelled metallic, like fresh blood and oiled leather.

  Her head hurt. It throbbed and tingled at the same time. An odd prickly sensation fanned out along her scalp from where it ached. She opened her eyes, allowing her vision to adjust. Her head was resting on the bulging bicep of a rather large man. Shoulder to shoulder with him, her direct line of sight fixed on his flat washboard stomach. She tried lifting her head only to find his square jaw, complete with five o’clock shadow, pressed solidly against her temple.

  Clarity flooded her mind. Somehow, she was in the backseat of the limo that had been parked outside her house. She had no idea where she was or where she was going, but one thing was clear—the man to her right was a vampire, and for some reason he was licking her head.

  She jerked her head away, reflexively wrenching her body to the left. “Ew! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He let go and Trina scooted across the leather seat, putting as much distance between them as she could.

  “Relax cupcake. You were already serving, so I just helped myself,” the burly vampire stated licking his lips.

  Trina’s mouth dropped. “And what the hell does that mean? If you think I’m going to serve you anything, your brain is deader than you are!”

  She knew she didn’t stand a chance against him, and she cringed as he hissed, gnashing and snapping his teeth.

  “That’s enough theatrics, Terrence. Remember, Ms. Markham is our guest.” A voice from the front of the limo chided. The interior of the car was dim. Even the ambient glow from the floor’s running lights had been muted, and the windows were so darkly tinted, no light from the outside could penetrate.

  The limousine was an ultra-stretch, like the ones seen at Hollywood red carpet events. Trina peered into the interior’s shadows, trying to pinpoint the voice.

  The floor lights brightened a notch. It was still dim, but the soft suffuse light made it easier for her to see what was around, including the elegant vampire sitting toward the front of the large car.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Maurizio. I apologize for the darkness. We don’t often travel with human passengers, and as our eyesight is so much more acute…” he trailed off.

  “Anyway, you’ll have to excuse Terrence’s behavior. His function in Señor Mendoza’s household requires that he be…well, let’s just say less than refined. You collapsed while we were delivering Señor Mendoza’s invitation, and hit your head rather hard. El Señor would be quite upset if you arrived in less than perfect condition. Terrence was merely…tidying the mess.” He paused for effect, giving her a cold smile. “And you’ll be happy to note your head wound has completely healed. Regrettably, there’s not much we can do about the blood on your clothes.”

  Trina’s stomach flip-flopped. She suddenly wanted to shave her head, or at the very least scrub herself raw. Swallowing hard, she stared at nothing while her mind worked to wrap itself around what was happening. Invitation? Try kidnapping. She broke out in a sweat and her heart jackhammered in her chest, drawing leers and a lot of lip smacking from the big vampire.

  Unconcerned, the other one ignored it, amusing himself instead with his BlackBerry. Trina sat white knuckled, hands folded in her lap and her gut churning. She was out of her league here. There was no way she could fight her way out of this. These weren’t a couple of rowdy drunks from the club or creeps from the subway. These creatures radiated ruthlessness, and based on the way they spoke it wasn’t hard to guess where she and the rest of humanity ranked in the pecking order.

  Could this be Carlos’s doing? Was this some kind of vampiric payback for breaking up with him? Her mind revolted against the thought. Carlos was many things, but vindictive wasn’t one of them. So what then? “Look…like I said, I think you’ve made a mistake. I told you before I don’t know anyone named Mendoza. What could he possibly want with me?”

  A single raised eyebrow told her there were quite a few things Sandro Mendoza could want from her. Crossing his leg casually over his knee, Maurizio walked his gaze from her breasts to her eyes. “Oh, but you do know Señor Mendoza. However, I’m not at liberty to discuss the whys and wherefores of your acquaintanceship. He wants that pleasure all to himself.”

  The lights went dark again, letting Trina know the time for questions was over. She had no choice but to sit and wait.

  Carlos, please. I need you, her mind called out, putting everything she felt into her wordless plea. She carried his mark, or at least that’s what Margot had said. Closing her eyes, she prayed silently, hoping Carlos’s mark was more like OnStar than just GPS.

  ***

  The car finally stopped, and Terrence got out first, grunting at the driver as he pushed his way past. Sliding over to the door, Trina placed one foot nervously on the ground and peeked out. Much to her surprise, a human driver extended his hand and helped her out of the car. Touching his hat, he gave her a sad look before turning away, and Trina’s heart dropped.

  A light breeze played with her hair, as she looked around, trying to get her bearings. The driveway was long and narrow, and though she couldn’t see a gate, she had a gut feeling the property was both very private and much secured. The house itself was an imposing edifice of dark stone, an enormous estate, seemingly built on a cliff overlooking the Hudson River. The downtown skyline was painted across the southern horizon, and Trina guessed they were somewhere on the New Jersey side of the river.

  “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Maurizio commented from behind as he took her elbow. The man was even more elegant in the moonlight. His dark charcoal gray suit fit impeccably, like it had been made for him, and his crisp lavender shirt and violet tie completed the picture. He looked like he belonged on a catwalk during New York’s fashion week.

  Trina could only nod. The house reminded her of the old mansions that once lined 5th Avenue, the kind that belonged to names like Carnegie, Vanderbilt, and Rockefeller, urban estates as commanding as their owners. She swallowed, wondering what kind of command
s were in store for her inside this particular mansion.

  The moon was bright, but the river looked black despite its glow. Not a good omen, she thought crunching up the gravel toward the front door. Maurizio’s touch was light on her elbow, steering her toward the house in an almost courtly manner. Still, she knew his fingers would snap her arm like a twig with the slightest provocation.

  She was chilled, but it wasn’t from the night air. Still in the jeans and T-shirt she wore to work, she zipped up her jacket; thankful she had changed into her sneakers. Looking out at the skyline, she closed her eyes and sent out another prayer. An odd feeling of comfort stole over her. Being this close to the city, if she got the chance to run, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about getting lost. She shuddered, wondering if she’d feel quite as comforted if the only way out turned out to be the river.

  A white-gloved butler opened the front door. “Mr. Maurizio, good. Señor Mendoza had me ready the SoHo Suite for Ms. Markham. All is prepared.”

  “Thank you, Cox. Is El Señor is his study, or is he otherwise occupied?” he asked, the stress on the word “occupied” raising the hair on the back of Trina’s neck.

  “No, Mr. Maurizio, the master is spending the night in town. He sent word he won’t be back until sundown tomorrow. He asked that Ms. Markham enjoy the house and his hospitality until he arrives. He sends his trust, as always, that you act as host during his absence.”

  Maurizio snorted. “On that, he can depend.” With a dismissive nod, he led Trina to the right past the grand staircase. Trailing beside the vampire, she couldn’t help glancing back over her shoulder. She watched the butler as he spoke with other members of the household staff…all human.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Ms. Markham. Señor Mendoza likes to keep human staff around for various purposes. When they get too old, too troublesome, or are no longer of service, he eats them.”

  Laughing at Trina’s horrified look, Maurizio let go of her elbow. Across from them was a narrow but ornate elevator off the main foyer. Reaching into his inside breast pocket, he pulled out a security access card, like the ones used in offices all over Manhattan. “This house is wired for everything. You can’t sneeze without us knowing it, so don’t get any ideas. You are Señor Mendoza’s guest until he decides otherwise.” He swiped the card through an unobtrusive electronic eye, then tucked it back in his pocket.

  “Where I come from that isn’t exactly the definition of guest. It’s more like hostage,” Trina answered coldly.

  “Perhaps, but it’s a question of semantics. In our world, human definitions simply don’t apply. Neither, for that matter, do human civilities. Be grateful for the courtesies bestowed on you. Take my word for it—they are not the rule.”

  The elevator door opened, and Trina stepped in first, her arms folded over her chest. Maurizio pulled the antique-style, wrought-iron gate closed, and the elevator door slid shut in front of it. The lift moved silently upward, and Trina’s stomach clenched. There was no getting out of here.

  ***

  The afternoon sun hovered in the sky already well past its zenith. Its light winked in through the curtains, glinting across Trina’s face. Cracking one eye open, she hiked the covers over one shoulder and rolled to her side. Still half asleep, she snuggled further down into her pillows. After just a moment, her eyes flew open and she sat bolt up, letting the heavy duvet fall to her lap. This wasn’t her bed and she certainly wasn’t home.

  The reality of what happened pushed all remnants of sleep from her consciousness. Closing her eyes, her hands went to her temples. Whatever peace she enjoyed was gone, and the terror and ensuing adrenaline from the night before took over again. She glanced down at her watch. Considering Sandro’s entourage had hijacked her sometime around four thirty this morning, she wasn’t surprised to find it well past noon.

  Actually, it had been closer to dawn when Maurizio deposited her here. The thought lingered that perhaps that was the reason Sandro hadn’t gotten down to brass tacks with her right away. Bleary-eyed, she curled back into a fetal position, staring numbly at the windows across the room. Of course, if Sandro wanted her dead he wouldn’t need hours to do so. He was playing some kind of game with her. But why? If this was some bizarre version of cat-and-mouse, then who was the cheese?

  A knock on the door had Trina sitting up again. The bedroom door opened, and a maid came in, carrying fresh clothes. She didn’t say a word. In fact, she didn’t acknowledge Trina’s presence at all. She simply set the clothes on the chair by the makeup vanity and left, her eyes never leaving the floor.

  “This place is like something out of a horror movie,” Trina murmured under her breath. Pushing the covers back, she got to her feet. Gooseflesh pimpled her skin as she stood there in nothing but her bikini underwear and matching camisole. Someone had undressed her, and the realization made her wince.

  Padding over to the chair, she picked up the blouse from the stack of clothes the maid had left. A gorgeous crème silk, jeweled halter-top—striking, especially in the way the lustrous material crisscrossed the throat. Very telling, since it was a gift from a vampire. Folded on the seat was a pair of black wash jeans, a black lace strapless bra, matching panties, and pair of soft-as-butter, knee-length leather boots. Black stiletto—of course.

  Fingering the underwear, she dropped them back onto the neatly folded pile. No way. She wasn’t a Barbie to be dressed up and manipulated. She was here against her will, and until she knew why, she was hanging onto whatever was hers.

  Finding her own clothes on the bench at the foot of the bed, she gathered them up and headed into the bathroom. It was huge, with a deep enamel clawfoot tub that looked like it could easily hold three people. A long, carved chestnut vanity housed two handpainted Crema marble sinks set into rich Italian granite. The fixtures were all antique oiled bronze, and the room gleamed.

  She walked to the back of the bathroom where a separate toilet room was off to the side, complete with bidet, yet her mouth dropped as she stepped down two marble stairs into a massive sunken shower.

  The walls were tumbled Tuscan marble and inlaid with mosaics. Dropping her clothes on a built-in bench, Trina stripped and walked to the center. It was enormous, with at least ten different knobs and an electronic wall panel that looked to control everything from water temperature to steam.

  Salon-quality shampoo, body wash, and conditioner were laid out, as were a set of washcloths and a natural sea sponge. Exhaling, she mumbled eeny, meeny, miney, moe, and turned a few knobs at random. Water poured from the rain head above, drenching her almost immediately, and she yelped in surprise as sprays shot at her from two different walls, the rush echoing in the expanse.

  The warmth and pressure of the water felt wonderful, and she longed to just stand there and let it cascade over her body. But she was being watched, or so she’d been told. So rather than give them an eyeful or be caught unawares, she hurried, giving her hair and body a quick once over, and gave her underwear and socks from the bench a quick scrub as well.

  Rinsing off, Trina wrapped herself in a long terry robe and towel-dried her hair. Sandro had provided for everything, but she wasn’t having it. Rolling her underwear and socks in a hand towel, she squeezed out most of the water and hung them on the heated towel bar. Combing her fingers through her knots, she used the blow dryer on her roots, then on her under things.

  This is as good as it’s going to get. She reasoned with herself, looking in the mirror at her rumpled clothes and her bloodstained jacket. Beneath her jeans, her underwear and socks were still a little damp. Nevertheless, she grabbed her sneakers and headed downstairs, memorizing the layout as she passed. Wherever she looked, there was another security camera. “Either this guy has a lot to lose or he’s just paranoid,” she mumbled, finding herself on the landing above the main foyer.

  “Can I help you with something, Ms. Markham?” a young man in a white serving jacket asked from the circular bend at the base of the stairs. He was holding a tray
with a crystal decanter filled with some sort of red liquid and a single wine glass.

  “Um, yes…I was looking for the kitchen.”

  “Of course, ma’am. It’s downstairs to the left. Follow the main hall to the back of the house and turn left again. Mr. Cox is there. I’m sure he’ll help you find whatever it is you need.” With a nod, he headed in the opposite direction, and Trina’s stomach convulsed as she thought about what was in that decanter.

  ***

  “Leave the bandages and splints. Your forearm has a slight fracture, but your shoulder needs tending to first.” Cox frowned. The gardener’s arm hung limply at his side, his shoulder obviously dislocated. Handing him a piece of leather, he took the man’s arm and moved it slowly till it rested at a ninety-degree angle against his belly. Sweat beaded on the gardener’s forehead, running in dirty rivulets from his temples. Teeth clenched, he bit down into the leather strip.

  Rotating the arm up and around, Cox cursed under his breath. The dislocation was bad, and the man screamed in agony, his neck muscles corded as he tried not to move. After a few tries, an audible pop followed by a tense exhale said it was well done. The gardener’s shoulders slumped. It was obvious he was still in pain, but the relief on his face was palpable.

  “Next time, Josef, use more care while on the ladder. The gutters aren’t going to clean themselves, and El Señor wants them done today. I’ll have Mario finish up. You need to be out of sight until you’re healed. This is the third time you’ve gotten hurt while working the grounds. I’ll cover for you this time, but once more and you’ll to face the master…” Cox’s voice trailed off, as if he couldn’t bring himself to utter the words.

  His full meaning wasn’t lost on the poor gardener, and the man’s face blanched. Trina froze in the kitchen doorway. She had seen and heard the whole exchange.