The Last Vampire- Complete series Box Set

by R. A. Steffan

  He and I still had an unresolved argument about who was going to tell Guthrie the reason why the box of cornstarch from his immaculately stocked kitchen was missing.

  “It’s better than using lube to get this dress on you,” Rans had insisted. “And it will help absorb the sweat later on.”

  I gave him my best unimpressed glare. “Charming. It really says something about you that you’ve apparently done detailed studies on this subject. I’m not sure what it says, mind you. But it definitely says something.”

  His answering leer almost broke through my determination to keep the scowl on my face. So... tonight I was Latex Girl, my ensemble topped off with my best attempt at pornstar makeup, along with a hairstyle inspired by Mad Max. Nineteen-eighties Mad Max.

  Tina Turner, eat your heart out.

  We had a plan, sort of. I’d stood my ground regarding my intention to play the big bad Domme during our little expedition on the wild side, but I now understood what it must feel like to have a man-eating tiger on the end of a leash. Literally on a leash, mind you. There was a dangerous edge to Rans’ aura of deceptive submissiveness, and I suspected it was playing into the other patrons’ obvious fascination with us.

  If I could successfully play my part tonight, we were going to have a whole lot of interested eyeballs on us. Of course, that was the entire point of the exercise. Rans was fairly certain I would only be able to draw on sexual energy that was specifically aimed in my direction. So the goal was to get as many people hot for me as possible.

  The part of me that had believed myself human for twenty-six years insisted I should be a mass of nerves, and possibly offended as well. The succubus in me was licking her lips in anticipation.

  “I don’t recognize you two,” said the bouncer, eyeing us up and down as we reached the front of the queue.

  Rans’ eyes flashed. “Sure you do, mate. We’re Daniel’s new sponsees. He’s here already, right?”

  The bouncer’s expression grew glazed. “Yeah. Yeah... okay. He’s here already. You should go on inside.”

  I shot Rans a sidelong glance, still freaked out by that little party trick. But I was supposed to be the one in charge here, so I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin imperiously. “Thanks. Come on, slave—follow me.”

  I brushed past Rans and headed into the old house, hoping my stiletto-heeled stride looked sexy and confident, rather than overly careful as I strove not to end the night with a catastrophic ankle twist before it had properly begun. Honestly, whoever designed these boots must have been a man—and not one with experience in cross-dressing. The only plus side was that the extra six inches put me almost at eye level with my pretend slave—Rans might have been a pretty tall guy in the thirteen-hundreds, but in the twenty-first century, his height was close to average.

  The leash I was holding still felt foreign. I could feel Rans’ continued amusement against my back like the warmth from a fireplace, and the idea that he might make me pay in kind for my little power trip at some unspecified future date was enough to make me squirm.

  As we made our way into the mansion, I looked around with interest. A glance over my shoulder showed Rans with his head bowed, much of his expression hidden by his unruly fringe of black hair. Even so, I would have laid odds that he was smirking at me, on the inside at least.

  The ground floor boasted a grand staircase. People of all shapes, sizes, and ages milled about in the open area. The place appeared to be laid out in a symmetrical floor plan, with rooms off either side of the main area. Signs with suggestive but cryptic names like ‘Peewee Playroom’ and ‘WAM Fam’ pointed in various directions, presumably guiding those in the know toward their kinks of choice.

  The people fascinated me. I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d expected, but the reality included everything from fresh-faced college students to portly grandmas in tight leather corsets. Except for the outrageous clothing, the main area resembled nothing so much as a cocktail mixer without the cocktails. The atmosphere was genial, people chatting and laughing as they gathered in small groups.

  I gathered that the scandalous stuff was happening in the side rooms and on the other floors. Still feeling completely out of my depth, I led Rans to the edge of the large space, out of everyone’s way.

  “I want to see what’s happening in some of the rooms,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Get more of an idea of how it all works, you know?”

  When no answer came, I shot my eyes sideways to my companion. He was looking at me through his fringe, a glint of amusement in his eyes. And, yeah—I’d been right earlier. He was definitely smirking at me.

  I sighed, realizing my mistake. “You may speak, slave.”

  Rans lifted his chin, breaking character. “Thanks ever so much, Mistress.”

  “Dick,” I muttered.

  “Only if you order me very nicely,” he shot back, the corners of his lips still curled up. Then he seemed to shake off his air of devilish mirth at my expense. “Shall we make our way downstairs to the dungeon, in that case? I’m afraid we’re not really dressed for ageplay or mashing cream pies in each others’ faces.”

  I... didn’t even want to know.

  “Dungeon it is,” I said gamely.

  Back in character, we made our way to the basement. In distinct contrast to his current veiled amusement, Rans had asked me very seriously yesterday whether I thought the play-acting version of a torture room would bother me after my experience at Caspian’s hands. Since I couldn’t know the answer to that without trying it first, I’d promised to tell him immediately if I started feeling panicky.

  In reality, though, SL2’s nod to a medieval dungeon bore no resemblance whatsoever to the hollowed-out tree cell where the Fae had tried to yank the succubus magic out of my body by the roots. Instead, it was—in a word—cheesy.

  Mind you, a lot of what was going on in said dungeon was not cheesy. Some of it was, in fact, kind of disturbing... at least until I took in the figures wearing black ‘Staff & Security’ t-shirts, scattered around the space and obviously keeping an eagle eye on everything that was happening. My tense shoulders relaxed.

  It’s about that safest place you can be while still being surrounded by a crowd of randy people lusting after you, Rans had said, and I understood now what he’d meant by that. SL2 could only make this business model work by flying under the cultural radar. All it would take was one disgruntled member taking to Twitter with a horror story, and a legal firestorm would rain down on the organizers. It was very much in their interest to make sure that didn’t happen.

  Rans shot me a questioning look.

  “I’m good,” I promised him. “Let’s go.”

  The dungeon was informally broken up into various areas, usually with some kind of a centerpiece in each area, like a whipping post or a cage or an oddly shaped piece of furniture with shackles attached. Some were empty of people, while others were in use. Spectators gathered around whatever scene interested them most, staying respectfully out of the way of the players. The audience spoke in low voices, if at all, making the place surprisingly quiet except for the rhythmic sound of leather on flesh and the occasional groan or cry from a submissive partner.

  An odd itchiness took up residence under my skin at the combination of pain and pleasure behind those intermittent noises. It wasn’t... unpleasant, precisely—not like the feeling of invisible spider legs crawling on me when I was too close to Fae magic. It was more like restlessness, as though there were currents wafting through this converted basement that I could almost see, but not quite. I thought if I could just look a little harder...

  “Still doing all right?” The words were uttered so quietly that no one besides me would be able to hear them.

  I nodded absently. “Yeah. Just feeling a bit weird. It’s like... I can almost sense some of the energy flying around this place, but I can’t quite...” My words trailed off.

  “Grasp hold of it?” Rans suggested.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “That’s it, ex
actly. Still, it’s got to be a good sign that I’m aware of it at all, right?”

  For lack of any better idea, I led the way toward the biggest crowd and found a spot where we could see what was going on. Then I had to force myself not to stare open-mouthed at Rans as he silently folded himself into a kneeling position at my side, wrapping an arm around my leg and resting his hand high up on the inside of my thigh.

  Holy. Shit.

  My heart sped up; fresh beads of sweat popped out beneath my ridiculous latex dress. His thumb caressed the sensitive skin, and if he wasn’t careful, there was going to be a different kind of wetness soaking my thighs before long. Especially since he’d insisted earlier that wearing underwear would ruin the line of the skintight rubber clothing, using an innocent tone I should have known better than to trust.

  Bastard.

  I buried my fingers in his unruly dark hair and gave a warning tug. His thumb stilled its maddening little circles, at which point I made an attempt to drag my attention outward, where it belonged.

  C’mon, Zorah. Focus on the naked girl hanging from the ceiling by ropes, not on the fact that if Rans slid his hand up another few inches, he’d be fingering you in plain sight of at least fifty people.

  It... sort of worked.

  Now that I was paying attention, it was pretty obvious why such a large crowd had gathered here. A pretty Asian woman in a red leather catsuit was tightening the final knots in a beautifully crafted web of ropes that held a pixie-like blonde girl suspended from a heavy ring in the ceiling. It looked like the sort of thing you might hang a heavy chandelier from.

  The naked girl was trussed artfully into position with her arms and legs bound in a suggestion of graceful flight. She must be flexible as hell, I couldn’t help thinking. I shivered a bit as I noticed the ropes wrapped around her breasts and between her thighs—not to mention the hard knot placed strategically over her clit.

  Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick.

  But that wasn’t the end of it. Apparently happy with her work, the woman in the catsuit straightened from the last knot. Immediately, my gaze was drawn to the red strap-on dildo buckled around her hips. My eyes widened as she murmured something to her bound captive, cupping the blonde’s chin and swiping her thumb across the girl’s ruby-red lips.

  Within moments, she’d positioned herself so that same cupid’s-bow mouth brushed the tip of the strap-on, and... yeah. Things went about the way you might expect, members of the crowd making appreciative noises as the bound girl went to town on her captor’s fake dick. It might have disturbed me more, if not for the look of rapt ecstasy on the sub’s face as she swung forward and back in a shallow arc, the ropes creaking as she moved.

  As it was, between the explicit floorshow and the cool hand resting on my thigh, I was feeling decidedly squirmy. Trying not to be too obvious about the effect the situation was having on me, I let my gaze wander over the assembled crowd. Meanwhile, I silently contemplated the idea of being the center of attention in the same way the two women currently were.

  My gaze caught on a shock of purple hair teased into gelled spikes above a familiar, sharp-featured face with silver piercings glinting in the nose, eyebrow and lip. Familiar gray eyes pinned mine, and I realized with a jolt that I hadn’t been wrong. Len Grayson’s jaw dropped in disbelief, and he mouthed, ‘Zorah?’ before grabbing the guy standing next to him and heading in our direction.

  EIGHT

  I FROZE, BARELY stopping myself from shouting Len’s name across the distance separating us. I swallowed back the surprised exclamation just in time, since people who frequented sex clubs were understandably a bit gun-shy about having their names yelled out in front of all and sundry.

  Instead, I tugged lightly on Rans’ hair again. “Erm... something unexpected just came up,” I whispered. He looked up, following my gaze to the pair of guys approaching us.

  Len was making sharp, follow-me gestures with his chin as he steered his companion toward a quiet corner away from the spectators. Rans rose smoothly, breaking character. I practically shoved the stupid leash at him, and he took the leather strap with aplomb, unclipping it from the collar and stuffing it in a pocket of his long coat.

  “Someone you know, I take it?” he asked, running an assessing gaze over the pair.

  “Ex-coworker. He protected me more than once, before you stepped in and took over the job,” I said quietly.

  Rans flickered an eyebrow. “Is that so? Hmm. I like him already. Shall we, then?”

  He gestured after Len and I nodded, slipping away from the crowd in a mild daze. Len was still staring at me like he wasn’t quite sure he believed what he was seeing, while the man next to him just looked confused. Maybe this was his boyfriend—the chef from Le Grand Concours?

  “Len!” I said, once we were close enough that I didn’t have to speak obnoxiously loudly. “Oh, my god—I don’t believe this!”

  With that, I half-fell into the poor guy’s arms, suddenly overcome at this unexpected reconnection with someone from my former life. Len put his hands on my back with a touch of awkwardness, but he did give a little squeeze before grasping my shoulders and easing me back so he could see my face.

  “Zorah? Don’t take this the wrong way, girl, but what in the seven hells are you doing here?” His eyes flickered from me to Rans, and he let me go completely.

  I took a deep breath, trying to shove down all the feelings bubbling up in my chest.

  “Long story,” I said. “Such a long story. Is there someplace private we can talk?”

  Len nodded. He still looked a bit wide-eyed, even with his usual bad-boy exterior enhanced by the black tank top and dark jeans hung with chains he was wearing. He cut a glance toward his companion.

  “You mind, Tris?” he asked.

  The other guy shrugged agreeably, still watching the proceedings with obvious curiosity. I gave him a surreptitious onceover as we followed Len toward the back. Tris was a vibrant redhead, and he wore it well. Freckles, blue eyes a few shades darker than Rans’, a pleasant face, and a body that said he worked out regularly. I wondered if Len had passed on my message to him, that afternoon he’d walked me to the bus stop and ridden with me to my neighborhood, to make sure I got home safe.

  We ended up outside the door of a room off the back hall. Another security person stopped us. She was a couple of inches shorter than me—at least with the ridiculous boots I was wearing—and she wore a tight ponytail along with a no-nonsense expression.

  “Everyone coming back here voluntarily?” she asked.

  We all nodded, and I thought I caught a glint of power behind Rans’ gaze as he said, “Very much so. We’re merely in need of some privacy. Will we find it here?”

  The woman blinked rapidly. “Y-yes. There’s no recording equipment allowed in the venue, for obvious reasons.”

  Rans smiled his shark’s smile. “Perfect.”

  A moment later, the four of us were alone in the room, which boasted a sofa, a low table, and—rather awkwardly—a king-sized bed with handcuffs dangling from the bedposts. On the positive side, it did at least appear to be clean.

  Len closed the door and turned to me. “Okay, Zorah. As much of a relief as it is to see you safe and sound... what the actual hell?”

  I glanced at Rans. “Um... how about some quick introductions first? Rans, this is my friend Len from the restaurant. In addition to grilling the best steaks of any cook at AJ’s, he also made sure I got home safely the day Caspian first showed up and started harassing me. Len, this is Rans. He makes a decent sandwich, and he helped me escape when Caspian tried to kidnap me a couple of days after he came into the restaurant.”

  There. That was fairly succinct, wasn’t it?

  Len stared at me like I was a few cards short of a full deck—which probably wasn’t a stretch at this point. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Tristan, this is Zorah, one of the waitresses from AJ’s. Zorah, Tristan.”

  I shook Tristan’s hand despite his clear bemusement,
and dredged up a limp smile for him. “Hi. In case Len didn’t pass on my message before, you’re one lucky dude. Your boyfriend is awesome.”

  Rans made a noise that might have been stifled amusement. I kicked sideways at his shin, remembering at the last moment to keep the boot’s vicious stiletto heel angled away.

  “Nice to... er, meet you both,” Tristan said, looking very much like someone who hadn’t expected to meet his boyfriend’s crazy ex-coworker at a BDSM club. I supposed I couldn’t exactly blame him for that.

  Len’s attention was back on me, though. “All right. Enough with the introductions. The last time I heard from you, police were staking out your house and interrogating everyone at the restaurant about you, Zorah. What the fuck happened?”

  Rans shot me a sidelong look, and I was positive there was a warning behind it. I took a deep breath, aware that even though I liked Len and considered him one of the very few people I could call a friend, it would be the height of stupidity to start blabbing about vampires and demons and faeries.

  “Okay...” I began uncertainly. “I warned you it was a long story. So, you remember Creepy Ponytail Guy from the restaurant?”

  “I’m hardly likely to forget him,” Len said, still looking at me like he thought a straightjacket might be necessary at some point. Lucky for him, there was probably one available somewhere in this place.

  “Well, the part you don’t know is that he was after me because of... because of my mother,” I continued, stumbling over the words. “My mom was Sasha Bright, which might or might not mean anything to you. But she was running for US Senate twenty years ago when she was assassinated during a campaign speech.”

  Len looked blank.

  “You were just a kid,” I hurried on. “I mean, I was just a kid, too—so there’s no reason you would have heard about it.”