The Vampire's Bond

by Martha Woods

  “So that’s why you’ve been so dogged in your determination to untangle that corporate web of ownership…” Rick says, trailing off. “No luck, though?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s exasperating.”

  “Well, do your thing, here, and see what you can find. We will check on those witnesses, just to see if the story changes at all.”

  “Fine,” I answer. “And Rick?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you provide security detail for each of the remaining dancers at the club? There are probably only five or six left, and they’re clearly targets. This woman is the fifth – her friends have got to be really scared right now.”

  “We can’t afford private detail,” he says.

  “Rick,” I say tersely. “They are targets. They need protection. We are here to protect and serve.”

  “Fine,” he says, putting his hands up. “I’ll get them coverage. But find me the perp, and soon. And for Christ’s sake, please tell Wes to get the hell out of here.”

  I nod, getting my kit unpacked and checking the scene for anything that might lead us to the warlock behind these murders.

  Wes has indeed wandered up, little notebook in hand. “Amy, this is now the fifth murder with the same modus operandi. What can you tell me?”

  “Same thing as always, Wes,” I say. “There were witnesses at the scene but we are investigating all possibilities. And since this is an active crime scene, I am going to have to ask you to step outside the yellow tape.”

  “That’s it?” he asks.

  “That’s it,” I answer. “Now let me do my work, please.”

  Three hours later, I’m headed home to shower when I get a call from the morgue.

  “Amy, can you come down here?” Ellen Morgan, the coroner, says on the other line.

  “Sure,” I say. “Let me get a quick shower and I’ll head in.”

  It is six-thirty in the morning when I make my way into the morgue. Ellen is doing an autopsy of another body that came in, so I am taken to India’s body and asked to wait.

  I stare at the young woman. She was beautiful, is beautiful, even in death. I remember liking her dancing, feeling like she was too talented to be dancing in some seedy strip club. And she helped me. I feel connected to her just for that.

  As I look more closely at her wounds, now cleaned, I start to feel my throat close up. Breathing is a struggle, and my heart beats an irregular rhythm in my chest.

  I break out in a cold sweat as I back away, my mind taking me back to being on the ground, Damon above me, dagger plunging into me again and again. It’s all I can see, as my real vision is spotty. I manage to back up until I come to a wall, letting myself slide down to the floor lest I pass out.

  This is where Ellen finds me. She tilts her head, concerned, as she jogs over to me, taking my wrist in her hand, counting my heartbeats.

  “Amy, your heart is racing,” she says. “Are you okay?”

  I swallow, blinking, coming back to reality. I am in the morgue. I am okay.

  “I’m fine,” I say, giving Ellen a short and hopefully reassuring smile. “I just got lightheaded. Probably just low blood sugar.”

  She purses her lips, clearly not convinced, but stands and holds out a hand to help me up. I am not about to tell her I am probably having post-traumatic stress, because then I would have to admit that I am the only one of these victims that survived.

  Ellen heads to the cabinet and gets two pairs of latex gloves, pulling hers on before handing me a pair. She doesn’t say anything else about the situation, but rather says, “India Walsh. Twenty-three-year-old. I wanted you to come in to take a look at these wounds.”

  “Okay,” I say, stepping closer, my hand on the stainless steel table to keep from passing out.

  I have never been squeamish about bodies. In fact, I usually find them fascinating. I enjoy unraveling the mystery of a death, finding justice for a victim. Understanding how they died is a big part of finding their murderers. But for some reason, this feels too close. And I know just how close I was to being just like India. At the hands of my own boyfriend. It makes me sick, because I know Damon would never hurt me on purpose. India’s murderer was probably just the same.

  Ellen pulls apart the skin at one of India’s wound sites. “Notice anything?”

  I peer more closely. “The wounds look cauterized…” I say, feeling a little breathless. “How?”

  “The weapon would have had to have been very hot. Extremely hot, and for a sustained amount of time,” Ellen says. She shows me a few more, exactly the same. “So let’s say the guy heated the metal of the knife somehow, the metal wouldn’t stay hot enough to cauterize for the time he chased her. And each wound would have gotten less and less cauterized, right? As the metal cooled?”

  I nod. “Yes, in theory.”

  “I don’t know what to make of this,” Ellen says.

  “Have you seen any of the other victims?” I ask.

  “Just one,” she says. “The other three ended up in another precinct.”

  “And?”

  “The same. I noted it, then, thought it was odd. But seeing a second one?”

  “Yes, I hear you,” I say. “Thank you, Ellen. This is helpful.”

  I call Rick and tell him I’ll be in tomorrow. I need to sleep and think, and he says that is fine. I am too shaken up by India’s murder, too reminded of my own near-death experience. I need to calm myself down. Take a bath. Maybe hang out with Cara.

  When I get home, I take a hot bath and scrub away at the filth I feel hanging on my skin, I don’t know if it is from being in the morgue, or if it is just a sign of anxiety, but I just feel dirty. And when my skin is pink from being scrubbed so hard in the hot water, I finally get out, dry off, and bury myself in a cocoon of covers in my bed.

  It’s dark again when I finally emerge from a fitful sleep, and I call Cara.

  We meet up at our favorite bar. Cara looks amazing, as usual, in designer clothes and heels, her long hair wavy down her back from a fresh blow-out.

  “You look gorgeous,” I say as I lean in for a hug.

  “And you look like you just got out of bed,” she says.

  “Well I did,” I say. “I was up in the middle of the night on a case. I came home this morning, took a bath, and stayed under the covers for the rest of the day.”

  “Hey, I had a thought,” Cara says. “Why don’t I make us an appointment for a spa day? We can get massages, pedicures, get our hair and makeup done?”

  “You know that’s not my thing,” I say.

  “I know, but maybe if you got made over, spruced up…”

  “What? I’ll attract a man?” I ask, sounding more bitter than I intend.

  “Maybe that would be a good thing,” she says. “I hate to have to tell you this, but you look like shit, Amy. I mean, you’re in great shape, but you have big bags under your eyes. Your hair is limp. Even your eyes are dull.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” I mutter as the bartender puts two shots in front of us, with two white wine spritzers for after. I do my shot right away, signaling for another. He pours it, I toss it back, and he pours a third.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Cara says, holding up a hand to the bartender so he won’t pour a fourth. “Have you eaten today?”

  I think on this. “No,” I say.

  “Can we get an appetizer sampler?” she says. He nods and heads off to place the order. Turning to me, she says, “Amy, what the hell?”

  “I think this case is getting the better of me,” I admit. “Four women murdered. Four individual perpetrators but Cara, the scenes are always the same. There is no way that four women who work at the same place were murdered in the exact same way just by coincidence. No way. But I can’t figure out who is connecting them, and why, and how.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Cara says. “You always do.”

  I sigh heavily. “I don’t know, Cara. I have been so out of sorts lately. This has been a weird year.”

 
“For you and me both, sister,” she says. “Hey, I’m seeing someone now.”

  “Oh really?” I ask, eyes wide. “The new attorney at the firm?”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I just met him out one night. He’s a producer and screenwriter. Really witty, fun. I like him a lot.”

  “That’s really great,” I say. “I’m happy to hear it.”

  “What about you?” she asks. “Heard from Damon at all?”

  “No, he’s gone.”

  “Why did he go? What happened?” Cara asks. “I mean, all you told me was that he left. And don’t lie. I’ll know if you lie. So tell me, why did he leave?”

  I open my mouth ready to blow off the question, but Cara and I have been through so much. I feel like she deserves the truth – or least what I can safely share of the truth.

  “He…hurt me,” I finally say. I can’t meet her eyes.

  She sucks in a shocked breath. “What? What do you mean, he hurt you?”

  I bite my bottom lip. “It wasn’t…him…not really. He wasn’t in there. But he…stabbed me. He stabbed me several times in the stomach.”

  “Holy shit, Amy!” Cara yells. Several people look at us and she slaps her hand over her mouth. She shuts her eyes, takes a few calming breaths. When she opens her eyes again, they shine with tears. “Why didn’t you tell me this? Were you in the hospital? Are you okay?”

  “I am okay. I really am. I had great care. I still go for treatment. I probably won’t be able to have children. That is really why he left. He…didn’t remember the attack. Like I said…it was like he was possessed. He wasn’t himself, and when he realized what he had done, he couldn’t live with it.”

  “He should be in prison, Amy,” Cara says. “Why didn’t you press charges?”

  “Because he would never have hurt me, not on purpose.”

  “From one woman who survived an abusive relationship to another…” Cara starts.

  I put up a hand. “I was not in an abusive relationship.”

  “Okay, but he nearly killed you. How can you stand up for him?”

  “Because I know him,” I say.

  “You are deluding yourself if you think that he wouldn’t hurt you again. I am glad he is gone, then. You don’t need to be in a relationship with someone who hurt you like that.”

  I think on her last relationship, when she was in thrall to the vampire Charlie. It makes me sick to think of how thin she got, how she was nude every time I saw her, sexualized for him, merely around to feed him and cater to his violent whims.

  She is obviously thinking of him too, as she starts when the bartender sits our food in front of us. She gives me a look and I grab a chicken tender, shoving it in my mouth, barely tasting it.

  “I have been remembering some things,” Cara says. “I think.”

  I look sharply at her. Her eyes are narrow and intense. “I think that there was more to my relationship with Charlie than met the eye. I can’t quite piece it all together, but I keep having what I think are flashbacks. It’s like my mind shut out the really bad things and now that I am healed, it is letting me remember.”

  “It was a bad scene,” I admit. “He was a bad dude.”

  Cara doesn’t say anything else about her memories of Charlie, but it concerns me if she is having flashback memories. We compelled those memories away, leaving her only with vague memories of an abusive relationship. She should not even be able to truly remember what he looked like.

  I change the subject, bringing her back to her new relationship. His name is Tony. She rattles off some of the films he has worked on and there are some I know. She really enjoys talking with him, as she has never dated anyone in entertainment, despite the fact that we live in Los Angeles.

  Even though we share the food, we both still get pretty drunk. She calls Tony to pick her up, and when he arrives, I am thrilled to know he is not a vampire. I think I even say something to that effect. Cara laughs it off, thankfully, and Tony says he assumes I mean the Hollywood variety. I tell him to take care of my girl and Cara pulls me in for a fierce hug.

  “Forget that guy,” she says, slurring her words a little. “You deserve better. Good, amazing things. And a makeover. Soon.”

  Tony wraps an arm around her shoulders and leads her out. I sit back at the bar, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

  Chapter 5

  I send a mental plea for help to Vincent as I sit on my bar stool wishing I hadn’t done that third – or was it fourth – shot.

  When a muscled pair of arms lifts me and carries me out, my vision is totally blurry. I know the feel of him, though, and I nuzzle into his chiseled chest as he carries me out to my car and deposits me in the passenger seat. He digs my car keys from my pocket and then shuts the door. I am only vaguely aware when he gets in on the driver’s side, and I must pass out, because the next thing I know, I am in my own apartment, on my own couch, and he is sitting beside me, watching television.

  I sit up, bleary-eyed and still tipsy. “What time is it?”

  “I believe it is around one in the morning,” he says. “I feel less intelligent for watching these television shows.”

  “Not a T.V. guy,” I say. “Noted.”

  “Why are you so inebriated, Amy?”

  “Where to begin, Vincent? Um, I still haven’t figured out who this warlock is and another girl is dead. I nearly had a panic attack in the morgue. My best friend thinks Damon was an abuser. And…I miss him. I miss him and I wish he would come back home.”

  Tears are falling down my cheeks. I do not cry. I am not a crier. It must be the alcohol, because as I blubber and cry, I crawl into the crook of Vincent’s arm and lay my head on his chest. He’s stiff as a board, though, not consoling me in any way.

  Once I have let it all out, I sit back up. “You couldn’t pat me on the back or hug me or anything?” I ask accusingly.

  “I am uncomfortable with human emotion,” he says. “It has been a very long time since I was human. Those memories and feelings fade with time. I did hug you after your injury.”

  “Yes, you did, and it was both uncomfortable and unexpectedly sweet,” I say. I am quiet for a moment before I ask, “Did you feel anything when I said I thought I was in love with you?”

  “You know that it is different for vampires,” he says.

  “Don’t dismiss my question like that,” I say. “I know that you experience things differently than humans – don’t forget that I have been in your head, a lot. I’m asking you, did you feel anything?”

  “I feel something for you, yes,” he says. “I feel protective of you. I feel attracted to you and sexually aroused by you. I love the taste of your blood more than any other human from which I feed. I enjoy being around you. You do make me feel more…human. Sometimes. But love? In the human sense? I do not believe I can feel those feelings anymore.”

  “Good to know,” I say, salty. I stand up, frustrated and inexplicably embarrassed. I feel rejected, even though my rational mind knows that he is just being his honest self. That he is saying he cares for me in whatever ways a vampire could ever care for a human. I am more than food to him, yes, but I am still food.

  I start to march toward my bedroom, pulling my t-shirt off and throwing it to the floor. I step clumsily out of my jeans, letting them fall to the floor as well. I am about to dive back into the safe cocoon of my covers when Vincent catches me by the waist, pulling me toward him.

  “I can sense that you feel rejection,” he says, his lips very close to mine. “I assure that was not my intent.”

  “I know,” I say, trying to push him away. He is too strong, though, and I am too drunk.

  “I want you, always,” he says.

  “I…I want you too,” I admit.

  He doesn’t wait any longer. His lips are on mine in an instant, his fangs pricking at my bottom lip, his tongue tasting the blood there.

  “Will you get drunk from drinking my blood?” I ask.

  “Possibly,” he says,
picking me up, his hands large on my back as he walks the few steps to my bed, laying me down gently. He takes off this shirt and twirls it, turning it into a thick rope, which he uses to tie my hands to the headboard. I squirm a bit, blood rushing to my sensitive core.

  Vincent undresses slowly, his eyes never leaving mine as I take in the sight of him. He must have been modeled from clay; his body is so perfect. I have seen it before, but it never ceases to amaze me. I lift my hips in invitation and he gives me a sly smile.

  “So eager, Amy,” he says. “Good.”

  He crawls along side of me, his teeth nipping along my side, at the top of my breast, in the sensitive underside of my arm. He licks each small wound, tasting me. When his lips meet mine again, they taste coppery. I love it. My hips buck again, my core pulsating with want.

  He rips my bra and panties from my body as if they were made of paper. The cool air hits those delicate parts. My nipples turn to hard pebbles, my pussy clenches, dripping with juices.

  Vincent puts one finger inside of me, pulling back out, tasting my arousal. “Delicious,” he murmurs. “Almost as good as your blood.”

  “More,” I beg. “Please. Please, Vincent.”

  He kisses my stomach, bites at my pelvic bones. He stops for a moment to look at the scars that dot my abdomen. He kisses each spot gently before he growls, burying his face between my legs as he uses his hands to spread me wide.

  My legs are so far apart and I would crack myself in half if it meant giving him further access to my dripping, aching cunt. He licks and nips, his fingers and tongue and teeth working me to a frenzy. I needed this. I need this. I want to come. I need to come.

  It’s a mantra, all I can think as I feel it build and build. I am nearly angry when I can’t quite push over the edge and into oblivion.

  Finally, Vincent lifts up, puts his lips on my neck, and bites down, just as he shoves his massive cock inside of me, pumping in and out as if he will break me in two. I love it. The harder the better as I push up to meet him, so ready, so ready.

  Then, finally, I crash. The waves roll and roll as my orgasm takes my breath away, the feeling of lust and war and bonding rolling through me as my body shakes with the force of my orgasm. I swear it is ten minutes long, or ten days. I don’t know, but it just doesn’t end.