The Vampire's Bond

by Martha Woods

  “There has to be something you’re not telling me,” Rick says.

  I consider blurting the truth. I’ve thought about it before, been so close to telling him about all of the things I’ve seen in the past year, about the existence of the supernatural. I consider telling him that I’m a witch, that Vivienne was a witch – a powerful one – and that she was part of a dark plot. That she chose to end her own life rather than share information with me.

  I settle for: “Rick, there are things in this world that you would not understand.”

  “What?” he asks, almost mockingly. “Girl things? I wouldn’t understand that women can be cruel to one another?”

  I sit forward abruptly. “You’re going to make this about women? Women’s drama? Women being bullies?”

  He lifts a shoulder in response.

  I laugh out loud, a bitter bark of a sound. “That’s rich. I have never thought of you as sexist, but that’s one of the most sexist things I have ever heard. What? I didn’t like that she was mean to me, so instead of pulling her hair, I, what? Killed her?”

  “I would love to say that the scenario you just presented wasn’t plausible,” he says. “There was a time I would never have thought it possible, Amy, not out of you anyway. You have always been my rock, my best, my smartest. But you’re not you anymore. You haven’t been you in a long time.”

  “Well, I didn’t kill Vivienne,” I say. “That’s for damn sure. No matter what else you think, you need to at least know that.”

  “What. Happened.” Rick repeats.

  “She felt sick at lunch and got up to run to the restroom. She looked like she might vomit. I followed a few minutes later. She had collapsed.” I fold my arms over my chest and sit back, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

  “So let’s go back to this statement you made about there being things in the world I wouldn’t understand. Could you clarify that statement?”

  “I just mean that there are bigger forces at work, sometimes. That if you knew some of the crazy things that affect my work, touch my work, lately, your hair would curl.”

  “There is nothing you have seen in your work that I haven’t seen five times over, Amy,” he says. “Be specific. Are you talking about God, Amy? A higher power? I thought you were an atheist.”

  “I am a scientist, Rick. No, I am not talking about God,” I say. “But beyond that, I…can’t. I can’t say. You wouldn’t believe it anyway.”

  He breathes in, out, through his nostrils. “I’m so disappointed in you, Amy.”

  This breaks my heart. Rick is not just my boss, he is my mentor. He is my friend. He is a father figure. Disappointing him hurts. I meet his eyes, trying to convey my innocence, to tell him to believe me. He shakes his head.

  “Your vague references to something bigger and something I won’t understand are giving me heartburn, Amy,” he says. “Either you tell me what the hell is going on, or I put you on thirty-day leave of absence while we sort out just what happened to young Vivienne.”

  “You can’t put me on leave,” I say. “People are dying. People will continue to die. You need me on the Centerfold cases.”

  “People die every day,” he says, weary. “It’s called job security, unfortunately.”

  “That’s cynical,” I say. “And stupid. I’m very close to cracking this case.”

  “Thirty days,” he says. “Go see a shrink, get your head sorted out. Don’t come back until you’re whole again.”

  He gets up, walks out, and leaves the door open. I guess I am done being questioned. I guess I am free to go. But I don’t. I just sit there for a long while.

  Finally, an officer comes in and touches my elbow. He gives me a sympathetic smile and ushers me out of the room, saying they need it for an interrogation. He walks me to the front door.

  I don’t know how to process this. I have been on thin ice with Rick before, but not like this. He said he doesn’t know me anymore.

  I have to crack this case and get back in his good graces. I need to tap into my powers. I need to use every tool at my disposal, magic specifically.

  I know just where to go.

  Chapter 11

  “I do not wallow. I do not wallow.”

  I have been telling myself this the whole drive from the precinct to the vampires’ mansion. The sun hasn’t quite gone down, which is good because Los Angeles traffic is crap as usual, so I am stuck on the 405 with nothing but my thoughts to keep me occupied. And unfortunately, my thoughts are not a good place to be right now.

  I feel sick to my stomach, like a person who has just watched her house go up in flames. Damon is gone. My job is precariously hanging by the tiniest string. The answer to these murders is so close, but I just can’t put my fingers on the breakthrough I need.

  My hands shake as I try to breathe through the feelings that are overwhelming me right now. I am not great with emotion. I suppose it is a byproduct of my upbringing. I never felt particularly close to my parents. I do not have siblings. I have always had friends, but I limit my time with them, for the most part, because I need time to decompress and recharge. I am a true introvert, in that way. And, as everyone in my life knows, I have never (ever) cried over a relationship. Never. Until Damon.

  My job is about compartmentalizing the emotions, though. If I were an emotional wreck all the time, there is no way I could do my job. Seeing gruesome crime scenes is not for someone who falls apart easily. So the fact that I am not over-emotional is a good thing from a work perspective.

  So what happens when a woman who is introverted, non-emotional, scientific, and a bit of a workaholic gets put on leave from the job that is her overarching identity? What happens when she loses the one guy she’s ever cried over losing? When her dog is murdered and her orderly, scientific world is set upon its head while she discovers a vast, supernatural world that seemed possible only in books and movies?

  Well, she sure as hell doesn’t wallow.

  As I near the modern castle, I steel myself. This is research. I need to know what I can do, what abilities lay dormant, waiting to be unleashed. If I can figure this out, get my powers under control, then I can use them to crack this case, to fight this warlock, to stop a supernatural war.

  When I pull in front of the house, the door swings open. The dead-eyed young man is there.

  “My masters will be pleased to see you,” he says, stoic. “Please wait in the foyer. An associate will escort you to the salon for proper attire.”

  I look down at my wardrobe choice of the day. Black boots, black dress pants, green blouse. It’s nothing exciting, as I was at work, but it is certainly not offensive. Though, I guess, I am visiting a bunch of vampires who wear full ball gowns around the house. It’s like the set of a nineteen-eighties nighttime soap opera up in here.

  A perky young woman appears. She’s a witch but…maybe something else as well? The strands of her power reach out to me, stroke my face in the way a blind person might touch someone to understand his or her features. It is an interesting feeling, not at all threatening.

  “I’m Ilsa,” she says in a musical voice. Her long hair is bright red and fiery. Her eyes are an unearthly shade of green, swirling with purple. “The masters have dinner prepared and would like for you to join them. Let’s get you dressed.”

  She walks off and I follow. We head up a set of stairs and into a large dressing room, full of dresses in every style and color. There is a large vanity and mirror in the center of the circular room, laid out with makeup and hair accessories.

  “You are quite fit,” Ilsa comments. “And you have great bone structure. Nice lips. Your hair is lackluster but we can do something about that.”

  “I just…I just came to speak to Joseph, Mika, and Ivanka,” I say. “I don’t need a whole makeover.”

  “Yes, you do.” She says firmly. “I can see that you are facing many changes in your life, that you are at a bit of a crossroads and reeling from loss. Beyond that the masters require this of you, I can see tha
t it will be good for you. Trust me.”

  I look around the room and feel a little light-headed. This has the feel of being dressed up and paraded around for Olivia’s party. I cannot be the main course tonight.

  “Relax,” Ilsa says softly, her magic wrapping me in a cocoon that is comforting, like a warm blanket. “Sit. Let me do the work. No harm will come to you here. The masters revere others with magic.”

  “Like you?” I ask. “You’re, what, some kind of pet?”

  “Something like that, perhaps,” she says. “I am a refugee. The masters took me in, protected me, when no one else would. I am at their disposal.”

  The woman tucks her hair behind one pointed ear. Pointed ears. I gasp.

  “Are you a fairy?” I ask, astonished.

  She gives a soft smile. “We prefer to be called the Fae or Fair Folk. The word fairy implies something much more innocent than what my people are. It is a human term.”

  “You said you were a refugee,” I say. “From what?”

  “From whom, is the better question,” she says. Near a millennia ago, there was an unseating of the main houses of our kingdom. Two courts stood, Seelie and Unseelie. I was one of six heirs to the Seelie throne and my father was king. In the Unseelie court, there was a queen. She has three sons. A dark demon came and ravaged our courts, killed very many of us, and settled in our realm. I was one of few who escaped to the human lands. My power here is weaker, now, the longer I stay, but it was strong when I crossed over. Out of control, really. I was hunted for a long time before Joseph found me. He trained me, helped me control my abilities. I am in his debt.”

  I can feel how wide my eyes are, hearing that my world has now further expanded. Not just werewolves and ghosts and vampires. Fair Folk, Fae…whole other realms of beings.

  It is beyond my capability of comprehension.

  “Will you ever…could you ever go back?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “Our home is scorched. There is little left to which we could return, and very few of us left to live there.”

  “I am sorry,” I say.

  “As am I,” she answers. “Now, I think a midnight blue would look lovely on you. Are you opposed to blue?”

  “No,” I say.

  First, she says she wants to work on my hair. I assume this means combing it, or putting into some elaborate up-do, but no. She actually pulls me into an adjoining room, where she does a whole cut and color process, her magic subtly soothing me so that I don’t die of anxiety. I protest a few times, but she assures me it will be amazing when she’s done.

  Ilsa doesn’t let me see myself before she ushers me into the salon again, sitting me with my back to the mirror as she puts makeup on my face, focusing for a long while on my eyes.

  “There you are, you gorgeous thing,” Ilsa says, a satisfied smile on her face. “I’ve found you.”

  She has me slip on a gorgeous gown, midnight blue as promised, heavy and covered in thousands of glittering crystals. I have never worn something so elegant. It fits my muscular form well. With it, she pairs soft, flat slippers in the same dark blue. Easy to walk in. I want to kiss her for this small gift. I hate heels.

  Finally, she lets me see myself. As I turn, I do not recognize the woman staring back. Her hair is in a sleek, sharp bob that curls just under the chin. It’s been dyed to a dark brown with tones of red. It is chic and shiny. And she’s given me bangs – straight cut across the front, hanging just into my eyebrows. It is a very sophisticated look, not one I would ever have considered for myself.

  My eyes are striking with this new look, rimmed in kohl and painted with deep silvers and greys. A natural, shiny lip color allows the focus to go to my eyes.

  “You look just lovely,” Ilsa says.

  “Thank you,” I say, still taking it all in. “I feel…”

  “Beautiful,” says a voice from the doorway. It’s Ivanka, her long, blonde hair in a thick, floor-length braid that is made of thousands of smaller braids. She wears white this evening – a strapless dress that is very simple, with a deep, sweetheart neckline, a pencil skirt, and a glittery silver belt at her tiny waist. She wears sky-high, glittery shoes and her makeup is spare but for blood-red lipstick.

  “You look quite beautiful yourself,” I find myself saying.

  She struts over and puts a hand on my cheek. Her touch is cool. “Ilsa is such an artist, is she not?”

  “She is very talented, yes,” I say.

  I want to ask if they feed on her, but I keep my mouth shut. She seems happy, uncompelled. Is it possible that a being could be happy living here with these three vampires? That these people in their service could be happy to stay? Happy to serve?

  I look at Ilsa, and there is genuine love in her eyes as she takes in the blindingly beautiful Ivanka. Olivia’s human consort loved her, too, but she was bitter and jealous and hateful.

  Ivanka’s hand falls to her side as she steps around me, taking Ilsa’s hand, and pressing a kiss to it. “You are nothing short of extraordinary,” she says to the Fae woman. “It is my great luck that Joseph found you for us.”

  “I feel the same, my lady,” Ilsa says, blushing.

  Ivanka leans in and kisses Ilsa on the lips. It’s quite chaste, really, but it lingers. When she pulls away, it is with a look that promises more to come.

  Clapping her hands, Ivanka says, “A lovely meal awaits you, Amy. Let us head down to see what chef has prepared in your honor.”

  I turn back and wave at Ilsa, who is still mooning and blushing. She curtsies in return and I follow Ivanka back down the hallway.

  My stomach roils. What will I have to endure tonight? Dinner probably means some naked human laying on a table, chained, with the vampires taking turns making him or her orgasm while they feed.

  We make our way down a series of hallways to a small stairwell, a servant’s corridor, if I had to guess. Ivanka tells me to watch my step, as the stairwell is narrow as we spiral downward. When we emerge into a kitchen, I am overwhelmed by the smell of food. Real food that makes my stomach growl loudly.

  “I wanted to bring you this way so that you could see that there is a real chef and a real dinner planned,” Ivanka says. “I know your last experience like this was…unpleasant.”

  “That is very kind,” I say, and I mean it.

  “We are not brutes, as Vincent would have you believe,” she says. She stops at a set of double doors, her hand ready to push but stopping just short as she looks back at me. “We do not coerce; we welcome. Those who are here are on their own compulsion. They stay for different reasons. Love, sex, training, safety. Sometimes our relationships with them are violent, but only if that is what they require to be whole and happy. Do you understand? If they wish to be left in peace, then they are.”

  “I…think I understand,” I say.

  “Good, then know that no one will make you stay. If you wish to leave, you may leave. Always.”

  I nod and she pushes through the door. We enter a sizable but cozy-feeling dining room. Joseph stands as I enter, a hand out. He cuts a handsome figure in his black tuxedo.

  “Welcome, Amy,” he says warmly. “So wonderful to see you again.”

  I walk over and take his hand. He kisses it and turns to the cast of characters around the table. “My friends, this is Amy McCartney. Investigator, Witch, Brave Soul.”

  At the “brave soul” part, some around the table laugh lightly. I wonder what this means, frowning. Joseph’s eyes are alight with mischief, and he pats my hand upon seeing my frown.

  “Oh, you look very fine, tonight,” he says. “The new haircut is very elegant.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I was unsure when Ilsa began her work, but I am pleased with it.”

  “Well, have a seat here at my left, please,” he says. I sit and Joseph takes his seat once more, holding court. “Of course you know Mika.”

  I nod at Mika, who looks like a black-widow spider about to attack someone in a black dress, ruby jewelry, and the same blo
od-red lip color as Ivanka wears. When Ivanka sits beside her, they are a study in opposites, one all in white with platinum hair. The other all in black with short, black hair. Both gorgeous.

  Joseph introduces three witches, triplets by the looks of them. They can’t be much older than teenagers – two boys and one girl, each with brown hair and blue eyes. They are nice-looking with high, sharp cheekbones, straight, Roman noses and slightly full lips. I would call them regal-looking, as they sit in their finery, seemingly as comfortable as the oldest vampires in the room.

  “Beau, Adina, Thomas,” Joseph says, pointing at them. Tossed from their own home at only fourteen. They used their magic to torment a tormentor. We have provided training and asylum ever since.”

  “I’ll bet there is quite a story there,” I say to the three.

  “Our father was a drunk,” Beau says. “He beat us and our mother. When we fought back, she chose him, called us freaks.”

  Adina’s lips turn down distastefully. “It is no matter. We are appreciated here.”

  “How old are you?” I ask. “If you don’t mind the question?”

  “Eighteen,” Thomas says.

  “Do you…” I don’t know how to ask the question I want to ask.

  Adina’s look is almost predatory. “Do we fuck the vampires? Fuck each other?” she asks.

  I feel my cheeks go hot. “I was going to say feed. You are of age, though, so other…activities…I suppose…” I just stop talking because, really, what can I say? This is a very odd situation.

  “Such a cop,” Thomas says with a bitter laugh. “To focus on such a minor thing, when we just told you we were abused.”

  My skin crawls as I watch them with each other. They seem older than their years, and I don’t sense that they have been compelled in any way. I just wonder what years of abuse have done to them. Taken their innocence, clearly. Now they live in a house of vampires, barely adults yet.

  “They are very powerful,” Joseph says quietly. “They will be strong allies and weapons if war comes.”