by J. F. Lewis
“Are you going to eat me, baby?” she cooed.
“What are you doing to me?” I asked breathlessly.
“Making you feel alive,” she said as she collapsed on my chest. Her heart was racing too. Mine began to slow to a stop. “It’s what I’m supposed to do. I want to be your thrall. A thrall does her best to make her master forget the things he has lost in order to gain immortality. A good thrall is supposed to train several replacements and then join the master in unlife, but I don’t want to be a vampire, Eric. I just want to be yours.”
“Bullshit,” I mouthed.
We lay there for a while without moving and I felt my body grow cold once more. The clock said 09:43. We had wasted over an hour, basking in the aftermath of my inability to resist Rachel’s advances. This wasn’t like me and I knew it.
Well, inappropriate sex was all me, but usually, when things need killing or my friends are in danger, sex takes a backseat. I told myself that I had hours to spare and that was why I went ahead with it, but I was lying to myself.
My little cinnamon girl was more than she appeared to be and the whole “it’s a thrall thing” excuse was wearing thin. If all thralls could do what Rachel could do, then Roger would have had one. Hell, it had been Roger who’d told me that thralls were little more than slaves, that any human who became a thrall descended into madness, like Renfield. I wondered if he’d lied, and why.
“Thralls.” I gently pushed her up and she rolled off of me. “Is there a way to tell who is a thrall and who isn’t?”
“Sure,” Rachel answered, surprised. “You should be able to tell just by looking at them and thinking about it.”
I started putting my clothes back on and Rachel did the same. “Really? How? Do they have big glowing signs over their heads that say ‘I belong to X,’ or what?”
Rachel looked puzzled as she slipped her bra back on. She put it on backward, fastened up the hooks, and then slid them around to the back. She flipped the cups up to cover her breasts and put her arms through the straps before pulling them up onto her shoulders. I’d never paid attention to how women got dressed. I wondered if Tabitha did it the same way. I’d probably seen her get dressed a thousand times and I didn’t know how she did it.
“I think it’s supposed to be similar to the way Vlads and Masters sense each other, except that even Soldiers can have thralls. Only Drones can’t.”
Which was not what Roger had told me. “I thought only Vlads could make thralls.”
“Who told you that?” She looked like it was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard.
“Roger.” Rachel’s heart skipped a beat when I answered. She continued getting dressed, but I stood there in my underwear, watching her. “So I should get a sense of age and power, but it would be the thrall’s master I was sensing?”
“Yes, you should get a sense of the vampire, probably a mental image of the master overlaid on an image of the thrall.”
For forty years, I’d gotten all that I knew about vampires from talking to Roger. Big mistake. “So do a lot of high society vampires have thralls?”
“Sure,” she said. “They’re a status symbol. Who has the most attractive, the most talented, that sort of thing.”
So Roger would have known. He hadn’t just been mistaken; his had been a deliberate deception.
“You’ve really never sensed a thrall before?” Rachel asked.
My attitude toward other vampires meant that I didn’t know many of them, but Roger knew all the most important ones around. I had steered clear of vampire society…or had Roger steered me clear of it? I had trouble remembering which way it had been. But how had I never sensed even one thrall before? “No, I haven’t. Not that I’ve noticed.”
She shrugged and slipped her blouse on. “Maybe you have to make one before you can sense them.”
“No,” I said immediately, stepping into my jeans.
“No what?” she asked innocently.
“I’m not making you my thrall. You seem to be doing just fine with what you’ve learned from those friends of yours at the Irons Club.” I looked around for my shirt, found it in the wastebin next to my desk. I shook the little bits of paper off of it and slid it over my head.
“You need me, Eric,” she said as she put a hand on my chest. I brushed her hand away and finished pulling my shirt on. She took a step away, but I could still feel the warmth where she’d touched me. “What if it would help you find Greta? You might be able to sense vampires better, too…those that are yours, anyway.”
“How does that follow?”
“You know how sires don’t sense their children?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, that’s not strictly true. When you sense another vampire, you don’t sense them all the time, right?”
“Just until you’ve acknowledged each other,” I agreed.
“Yep, and then when you get out of each other’s range and come back into contact…”
“You sense each other again.”
“Well, the reason sire and offspring don’t sense each other is that they’re always linked.”
“But if that’s true, then I should be able to sense something, shouldn’t I? Because I can’t sense Greta or Tabitha.”
“You need to practice. Which is why you need to make me your thrall. Thralls help focus a vampire’s mental abilities. In time, the most powerful vampires can learn to see, hear, and in rare occasions even taste through their thralls.”
“No,” I insisted. She sat down on the edge of my desk, crestfallen.
“Not even if it can help you find Greta?”
“I know where Greta is! She’s in Bald Mountain State Park, Campground B, like the man said.”
“He could have been lying,” Rachel argued. “What werewolves always tell the truth? What if Greta is already dead and—”
I put my hand over her mouth. “Be quiet and let me think.”
She nodded, eyes wide.
Rachel had been right about everything so far and she seemed to genuinely want to help, but no one dates a vampire unless they want something. It was possible she was just in it for the danger and the thrill, but I doubted it. She had to have an ulterior motive. Or was I just being paranoid? It wouldn’t be the first time.
And yet—when we’d had sex, why had I suddenly viewed her as a threat? And what was that feeling that made me want her incessantly? It was something more than lust, but much less natural than love. It probably had something to do with cinnamon.
Still—I didn’t see how it could hurt to bind her to me. And, most importantly, I’d do anything for Greta. Even this.
I took my hand away from her mouth. “Okay.”
Rachel let out an exhilarated yip and began bouncing up and down. If it was an act, it was a good one. She seemed genuinely excited. Then again, bouncing up and down like she was doing would accelerate her heart rate. I looked at Rachel in a whole new light and waited to smell cinnamon. “Can we do it now?” she said, rushing into my arms.
“How do we do it?” I kissed her neck. “Does it involve sex?” I tugged at her blouse and she removed it with a laugh. Still no cinnamon.
“No, but I’m ready any time you are, lover.” Damn.
I lifted her off the desk and kissed her breasts through her bra. She wrapped her legs around me and I smelled her desire. Double damn. “How do we do it?” I asked again.
“You smear your blood on my head and over my heart, then put a single drop on my tongue and we kiss. You look into my eyes and push your mind into mine, like when you control other vampires. We’ll both feel it when it happens. I’ve been told that it hurts a little for you and a lot for me, but when we’re done, I’ll be able to do even more for you.”
She pulled at my shirt. “Of course, there’s no reason we can’t do it while we have sex.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I should just—”
“Oh, please, baby.” Still no cinnamon. Maybe I was being paranoid.
“Fi
ne,” I relented, telling myself it was for Greta. “Let’s do it.”
25
ERIC:
THIRD EYE OPEN
AND READY FOR
BUSINESS
Rachel hadn’t been kidding. It hurt like a motherfucker, but when it was done, I could feel her with my mind. Without looking, I could sense where she was and how she was doing. It wasn’t telepathy, in that her thoughts were closed to me, but her general mood was clear.
She wasn’t the only new presence in my mind, either. I felt them all, my “children,” including three who were supposed to be dead. To be honest, it was kind of nice to see them.
I don’t stay mad long. Usually, I’d rather wish someone a long happy life the hell away from me. It’s just that so often, they won’t oblige. I’d staked the first two and left them to greet the dawn. I’d taken care of Irene in El Segundo; her survival proved she really was a heartless bitch.
They felt me too.
My oldest, Lisa, squirmed in her sleep, long blonde hair cascading over her breasts. She’d fallen asleep with her jeans on, the flared bottoms finally back in style. Lisa had been my rebound girl, once I’d given up on Marilyn ever taking me back. It felt like she was in the back of a plane. Someone was playing acoustic guitar softly in the background; they stopped and I felt a presence near her, a human. He wanted to know if she was okay.
Nancy was Lisa’s replacement. She was sleeping not far away, no farther than Sable Oaks. She still slept in a coffin with dirt in the bottom, the interior lit with blacklight bulbs. She’d always been superstitious. Nancy wore a white silk teddy, her supple chestnut-colored skin standing out in sensuous contrast.
In the quasiviolet light, her eyes flashed open briefly, the once-black irises now faded close to gray, flaring red before she surrendered again to the sleep of the dead. Nancy and I had had a falling out over Greta. Nancy believed that teenage girls shouldn’t talk back to vampires. I didn’t disagree, but held an even firmer conviction that nobody got to slap my little girl around.
Irene was awake, smiling, and in the act. She still got me hot. Irene had been wild, too wild, and she’d dyed her hair red, really red, like a Porsche. She climbed off of her lover and gripped his member, smiling at me. “It’s longer,” she mouthed, before beginning to fellate the lucky bastard. Irene was the farthest away of all, miles and miles across the ocean.
I gestured to Rachel. “She’s younger,” I mouthed, but Irene was gone, replaced by Tabitha, asleep in a bed in the Highland Towers. Talbot was curled up next to her on the bed, in his natural form, a little black ball of fur, purring. He’d never curled up to me that way.
Last came Greta. She was immobilized, but not by a stake. A metal box enclosed her, the sides lined with little crosses. Even if she’d been one of the chosen few who can turn to mist, the box was airtight. She twisted and turned, trying to position herself so that the crosses no longer burned her skin. Each time she found a moment’s peace, sleep claimed her, and she fell back against the sizzling signs of faith.
I waited to feel angry, but the most I could manage was irritation. The werewolves were dead either way, but it would be trickier if I couldn’t go berserk on them. Just hours ago, seeing Greta in agony had been enough to send me directly over the edge. I was in control, but I shouldn’t have been. I should have been a raging black-winged terror, tearing ass across the country to save my little girl.
“Shit.” I rolled off of Rachel and sat on the edge of the bed. We’d moved the whole thing to the bedroom because she’d asked nicely and I hadn’t cared.
“Are you okay?” she asked. There was a slight tremor in her voice. “Did something go wrong? It’s supposed to hurt me more.”
“It’s not that,” I said. “Just some unfinished business. A few of my children, ones I thought I’d disposed of, are still around. It worked; I can sense them.”
I walked over to the sink and started sponging off, thinking about Irene, Lisa, and Nancy.
Irene might try to start a fight eventually, but none of this current mess was hers. She wasn’t very subtle. She would have just blown up the Demon Heart with me in it. Lisa wasn’t a threat; she was big, beautiful, and about as smart as Kyle had been. Roger had assured me once that she wasn’t a Drone, but she certainly acted like one. Nancy could have come up with a plan like this, but she never would have been able to execute it. Besides, she would have been up in my face gloating by now.
Tabitha was safe, but asleep. Greta was my only real concern.
I went back into my office and dialed Marilyn’s number.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Any messages?” I asked.
“I got a call from our friend Captain Stacey with the VCPD. He says that he hopes you can afford to keep paying for the cover-up. He wanted to make sure you knew that you have had him, two folks in dispatch, and six other officers working double duty to cover up your—and I’m quoting—’bullshit shenanigans’ this weekend.”
“Can I afford it?” I asked.
“For a while.” Marilyn sounded like she was speaking to a delinquent teenager. Rachel walked in wearing tennis shoes, short shorts, and a baby-doll T-shirt that said Boy Toy. She approached the desk, pointing happily to a new necklace she was wearing; it was a black choker with a tiny golden padlock.
“I’ve also been meaning to talk to you about the money that you’ve been spending on clothes. I assume that Sally told me the truth about your little shopping spree?” Marilyn choked out the words.
“She did.”
“Were those clothes for your new little trollop? Will I be meeting that one again or do you already have a different one?”
I wanted to tell her she was wrong about me, but I didn’t know whether that was true anymore. There had been a line that I had been trying not to cross, the line between being a man who was monstrous and an actual monster. Now I couldn’t even see the line. I had passed it without realizing it some time ago.
“I have a couple of things to do tonight,” I said, ignoring her questions and my own guilt. “So I might be late. I have to go rescue Greta. Then I might have to kill Roger.”
“Serves him right.” Her voice was acid.
That took me by surprise. “Is he still over there? Stake him for me.”
“No, he wouldn’t be that stupid, although I imagine he isn’t far. I’m sorry I can’t stake him for you.”
“I was kidding.” I wasn’t kidding.
“Me, too.” And the funniest thing was that for the first time in the half century or so I’d known Marilyn, I could tell that she was lying to me.
“No,” I said in stunned amazement. “You weren’t.”
“Leave it alone, Eric. Please.”
“Marilyn, if something’s going on—”
“It’s nothing. I’m just tired. You said something happened to Greta?” She sounded more concerned about Greta than she usually did about me. “What happened?”
“Werewolf trouble. I’m going to take care of it now.”
“But it isn’t even noon, yet. What about the sun?”
I played with the lock on Rachel’s necklace. “Hey,” I spoke into the phone. “This is Greta we’re talking about here. Fuck the sun. Me and my new thrall are going to get creative.”
I hung up the phone and Rachel put her arms around me. She was nervous and curious at the same time. “Creative?”
“Yeah,” I told her as I walked back to the bedroom. “Creative.”
I emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later with my clothes on. “How do my eyes look?”
“They’re back to normal,” she said. “I guess a little blood was all you needed.”
“I need you to go shopping for me,” I told her. “I need a jumpsuit that covers up as much skin as possible and a full-face motorcycle helmet with one of those little thingies that covers up the neck. Get the helmet visor as dark as you can. I have boots, but I need a pair of gloves in my size. Call a cab. Get the stuff and meet me back here
by two o’clock. I want to be up on Bald Mountain by four.”
“Okay,” Rachel said. “What’s the rest of the plan?”
“Leave that to me.” I kissed her. “Oh, and buy a bigger purse, it might need to hold two.”
I gave her the money from the safe and she laughed at the amount. “When I get back from Vegas, will you still love me?”
“You head anywhere near Vegas,” I said, tapping my temple, “and I’ll know, remember?”
“Only if you think to check,” she teased.
We kissed a long, lingering kiss. She let her hands wander across my chest and lower still. It was then that I smelled the cinnamon. I was ready for it this time. Thoughts and feelings that were not quite mine danced gently through my brain like little puffs of cotton candy. “Trust Rachel,” a sweet tender voice ordered my mind. “Love Rachel. Need Rachel.” Riding the wave of sensation, I let my hands drift across her breasts and down her back. I grabbed her butt and started kissing her harder. She pushed gently away from me and I didn’t let her go, kissing my way down her neck instead.
“Not that I’m complaining, Eric, but if you want me to get everything done in time to leave…”
I let her go reluctantly.
I had Magbidion’s phone number written down on a blue sticky note stuck to the bottom of my desk drawer. It came free easily and I stuck it on the desk. Did I care if Rachel was trying to use magic on me to enhance our sex, to calm me down, to make my heart beat? The sad and sorry answer is that I didn’t.
Roger was in the same category as Rachel. I didn’t really care that he had set me up. I wanted to know why he’d done it and if we could resolve things, but basically, he was my best friend. Sure, he was an asshole, but so was I. He was also the only person still around, other than Marilyn, that I’d known when I was alive. Like my Mustang, I wouldn’t give up on him unless I had no choice.
So what if Roger had sicced some werewolves on me. I could kill the werewolves. I would rescue Greta. Hell, if he wanted the Demon Heart shut down bad enough to spike my blood supply, maybe I ought to just shut it down. I knew that it embarrassed him, that he was afraid his upper-crust pals would look down on him. What if this all could have been avoided by my buying out his interest in the Demon Heart? I hate questions like that—what-ifs. They can drive you crazy.
