Eternal Bondage

by Vita Anne Hoffman

  "Some reliable sources claim that there's a possible turf war about to flare up. This ‘floater’ in the river might be the beginnings of something ugly. I don't have enough manpower for sufficient undercover work. Then, too, the quieter this is kept the better. That requires someone outside the force. We need an informant to unofficially infiltrate the favorite vampire environs, to try and get a lead on any renegades. To verify, one way or another, if this is one vampire gone bad...” he paused, then added grimly, “or an entire family."

  Traeger's words seemed to electrify the card. Instantly, I knew the identity of this reliable source and that I was being manipulated into this unofficial operation, but what really terrified me was I did not know why. My fertile imagination could easily contrive a million reasons, none of them pleasant.

  My voice went harder edged than steel. “Constantine is behind this. He's your source. Don't deny it.” Everyone in the city of Charleston knew that name. Knew what he was. A vampire. How powerful. Extremely. And how wealthy. Disgustingly. Nor was he a simple run-of-the-mill vampire. Constantine's legal status was that of a progenitor. He was old, perhaps of the first of his kind. His real history was a blank. If anybody had a clue, they weren't talking.

  There were real benefits to being recognized by the FBIC as a progenitor. Tax breaks for one thing. That explained why Constantine was so heavy into real estate. But more importantly, where other, younger vampires, those under one hundred years, could only legally sire a family, or clan, of ten members, Constantine fell under a grandfather clause that virtually placed no restrictions on the number of undead he could personally create, so long as he followed the legal FBIC mandated and sanctioned procedures, i.e. through marriage or court-granted change-of-status. This generous part of the law had been enacted because the United States government thought there were less than a hundred true progenitors in the world, and only a quarter of those ‘residing’ in the states. (I personally think the numbers are much, much higher.) Furthermore, because of his extraordinary powers, when each of Constantine's ‘issue’ sired their allotment of ten—which if he partook of and shared blood with—he effectively extended and controlled all those bearing his lineage. This type of power, over those of your bloodline and not strictly of your creation, was a mark of an ancient and powerful vampire. There seemed no way to regulate that.

  He was one scary son-of-a-bitch.

  It was his business card that I had ignored for over two weeks.

  I don't fraternize with his kind. Much. And, then, only as a member of the local FBIC-Citizens Review Board which infrequently met to hear preliminary complaints filed by vampires over unfair housing violations—some humans refused to sell or rent or renovate, as per the Reanimate Fair Housing laws, to the undead. And, once again, I had Pater Traeger to thank for my involvement on this Board. He liked to call it my civic duty. Oi! Sometimes at the beginning of these Board Hearings I would have the uncanny, and unwanted, ability to spot which were the complainants. In other words, I could often spot the vampires amidst the humans, although I had gotten pretty good at denying, at disregarding, at disbelieving this knack, rather than honing it.

  My real job, the purpose of De Facto Self Defense, was to help humans protect themselves from dark things. Of necessity, I had become a paranormal jack-of-all-trades but a master of none. I offered advice, dug up information, sought out experts, sold mystical charms, lectured, held an occasional séance, all to help PEOPLE, real, live, warm bodied people. Vampires were most definitely of the dark, and thus to be avoided. Therefore, over Ginny's objections, I had refused all overtures from Constantine, The Great, specifically the business card that so vividly in black-traced scarlet lettering, reminiscent of blood, proclaimed him proprietor of The Bete Noir Club and Escort Service.

  "Traeger.” I squinted my eyes shut tight and tried to block out the niggling mix of anger and fear my next question elicited. “Are you asking me to voluntarily go undercover at a vampire owned and operated brothel? Because, as far as I'm concerned, that's exactly what the Hotel Constantinople is, no matter how upscale and ritzy."

  "Don't necessarily focus on the Constantinople. Charleston has several nocturnal watering holes that could offer some good intelligence. Ask a few questions. Be nosy, but be careful. There's Pastiche, The Merry-Go-Round, Belay's Eternal Nite Club. Just steer clear of the seedier dives."

  I grinned, humorlessly. “Yeah, I know the ones. I wouldn't be caught dead, so-to-speak, in any of those places, especially the Smorgasbord on Route 60. But, Traeger, since this warning of a possible vampire war came from Constantine, it makes sense to start digging around his place, his people, first. Right? And however luxuriously you dress it up, the Constantinople is renowned for its excess, including a glorified escort service."

  "Look, Avna, for over two years now we have unsuccessfully tried to prove Bete Noir hired prostitutes. It's run by the books as an escort dating service. Every raid has failed. Either it's legitimate, or somebody tips them off."

  "All criminals can smell a cop, Traeger, not just the fanged ones.” Although, I inwardly admitted, vampires were well documented as having superior sight, smell, hearing, and strength. There was, however, a lot of debate between the so-called ‘experts’ on the degree of this superiority. Most, i.e. the Von Heslings and their stupid clinical trials, espoused the old truism that older vampires displayed greater physical senses and paranormal abilities. Duh!

  "What about trying to shut it down due to Health Department regulations?” How obviously was my vampire phobia showing?

  "The FBIC is still trying to go this route. Agent Zellden is persistent.” Traeger's phrasing forcefully revealed his distaste for these tactics. Using mandates for public health to try and close a minority owned business made him, I knew from our many debates, feel like a Nazi. The law specifically allowed that any business associated with the sale of food and drink, and the Bete Noir Club had a liquor license, and employed ‘reanimates’ of any kind could expect regular and/or spontaneous Health Department inspections. It was a valid safeguard to ensure that infectious pathogens were not being spread between the two populations, living and undead.

  "The monitors go in every week, sometimes twice a week, take the blood samples, check the premises.” In his evenhanded manner, Traeger added, “Constantine's people are always cooperative."

  "Weekly, huh?” I mused out loud, for that fact starkly revealed a truth of which I was already aware. The small metropolitan city of Charleston, capital of the state of West Virginia, had more than its fair share of true, dyed-in-the-wool Vampyraphobe zealots, plus many respected organizations that supported them, such as the Congregation for Integrity and Morality in Education, a fact to which I could personally attest. And, disappointingly but not surprisingly, Traeger's comment revealed that some of these vampyraphobe crusaders even struck at their undead enemies from within the FBIC, the very Bureau meant to protect and further vampire rights. For a while now, I had even suspected that the Senior West Virginia FBIC Agent, one Ezekiel Zellden, a single-browed Neanderthal who had somehow managed to earn a Bachelors degree in Occult Studies, numbered amongst them. Now I knew for sure. I detested the man. Therefore that old adage that the enemy of my enemy is my friend was bullshit.

  "It's a necessary evil, Traeger.” Then I hesitantly laughed. “How come you almost make me feel sorry for,” and I deepened my voice to mimic his, “trampling the basic Constitutional Rights of vampires?"

  His answer was totally serious, totally heartfelt. “Deep down you know I'm right, Avna."

  I did not have a glib answer for that, so, instead, I went back to the real issue at hand. “I do not want to walk into that viper pit.” Because it was full of vampires!

  "Who better than you, Avna? You're level-headed, observant, knowledgeable, and you have great instincts. You should have been a cop.” His voice had dropped to a disappointed mutter. None of his kids had followed in his footsteps, not even the conscripted one. “Just blend in at the club, at
tend a few of the Bete Noir private parties. Snoop around. You're not attached to the force. No one is likely to recognize you. Civilians tend to respond better to questions asked without a badge."

  "What if, heaven forbid, I get into some kind of trouble?"

  The telephone seemed to transmit the warmth of his smile, which he very seldom gave, and usually only when he had gotten something over on me. Pater Traeger had won this argument, and he knew it. “Nobody can handle that kinda trouble better than you, not even Zellden out of the Bureau. He has some pretty diplomas, but that's it. You've got the real stuff, Avna. I wouldn't send you if I felt it was too dangerous. Stick to the legitimate clubs that toe-the-line. Listen and look sharp."

  "Promise not to ever mention Agent Zellden to me again and I'll do it.” Zellden, with his expensive sheepskin, considered me a credential-less charlatan. I considered him a complete and utter jerk. Why? Mainly just on instinct. But, also, Zellden believed himself superior to EVERYBODY. I designated him a WASP plus M&M, which basically meant if you weren't a white Anglo-Saxon protestant mortal male, he despised you.

  "Besides, Detective, when you have that much faith in me, what's the worst thing that could happen?” But I wanted to retrieve those fatalistic words the minute they left my mouth. Instead, I had to settle with knocking on the wood of my desk. Oh, and, I crossed my fingers, too. Superstitions had their raison d'etre, and that was another De Facto Self Defense credo—never scoff at the supernatural. Because, nine times out of ten, it would turn around and bite you on the butt. With needle sharp teeth.

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  Chapter Two

  Knowingly Walking Into A Vampire's Lair

  Sundown had passed away a few hours ago. Now, it was ten thirty on a desultory May evening. Radiant heat seeped off of the hotel Constantinople's wide concrete sidewalk. I halted in a shadowed spot and watched the intriguing moonlit night still full of whizzing traffic on the one-way, three-laned, tree-lined street. Each passing car fanned unwary pedestrians, a group of carousing frat-boys, several clusters of bar-hopping friends, two or three rendezvousing couples, some shop-talking businessmen, a two-man City crew, replanting and mulching the massive trough-like planters of the small suburban garden on the opposite side of the street from where I hid in the shadows. Amidst this hustle and bustle of couples and groups, I was alone, solitary, isolated. The only other loner was a poor vagrant who squatted beside a hotel dumpster just barely within my sightline at the side of the building. And just like the vagrant, I began muttering to myself.

  "There's safety in numbers.” So, why, then, did I never take my own advice?

  In this case, time was the cause. Ginny had not shown up when I expected. She didn't know about this whole mess. And that, actually, made me glad. Why should I drag her into this investigation? Why endanger her as my backup? Not that she was totally defenseless. She had learned a clever thing or two from the best. Me. But she was an accountant, for pete's sake!

  I inhaled once more, very deeply, catching the scent of rich dirt and the sweeter one of honeysuckle, and strolled down the last few blocks fronting the magnificent hotel. Five-star, I believe. The entire thirteen stories gleamed and shone, an ultra-modern structure of glass and chrome. The aboveground floors comprised the hotel proper, an opulent, expensive place that, notwithstanding its ownership—pssst, the Constantinople is owned by a vampire progenitor, pass it on—came highly recommended by Charleston's tourist and convention consortium.

  There were also two underground floors, the first being occupied by the Bete Noir Club and the office of the Bete Noir Escort Service, the second being ostensibly reserved for Constantine's personal quarters as per the chapter on Dwellings and Habitations in the weighty, 25th edition of the authoritative Von Hesling Institute's Vampire Compendium. This resource categorically stated that all of the undead, and I hereby very closely paraphrase the work, ‘dwelt in crypts, graves, or other subterranean chambers due to their inherent nature and the added protection from the deadly rays of the sun'. God-only-knew-what protected Constantine's lair from intrusion. Vampires were notoriously ingenious about such things. In his case, if I had to hazard a guess, I'd have said that he probably cast dark warding spells. Or worse.

  And how, one might wonder, did a paranoid Vampyraphobe knowingly walk into a vampire's lair? Take it from me, on very shaky legs.

  I moved, nevertheless, without apparent hesitation through the automatic doors, leaving the heated night for the artificial cool of the Constantinople's plush lobby. Muted tawny shades dominated the airy Cathedral-like space. Octagonal tiles of beige and pink patterned the floor. Guests were offered a comfortable waiting area strategically situated just several feet from the sign-in desk, a refuge defined by massive camel-colored leather couches, a few coordinating plump wing chairs in earthy brown, plus small round oak accent tables. And, for good measure, dead center of the immense lobby, a gorgeous waterfall gently cascaded down into a basin filled with polished, rounded stones in matching hues of brown, tan, and salmon. An open-air balcony on the second floor overlooked the sumptuous lobby.

  Wow! Someone sure had good taste.

  I ceased gawking and aimed for the hotel's bank of elevators, all-the-while scanning any activity in the main lobby. Other than a few latecomers at the registration desk conversing with the manager on duty, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The elevator silently opened. I stepped in and immediately about-faced towards the front. My finger barely wavered over the buttons as I jabbed sub-floor one and descended into an unknown netherworld. I studiedly ignored the sub-sub-floor, the true basement of the hotel and the presumed underground sanctuary of a vampire progenitor. That level was most definitely off limits, or so maintained the Von Hesling Institute for Vampiric Studies, the world's oldest, most renowned authority in the field. And who was I to argue with the experts?

  The gleaming polished insides of the elevator shown bright as mirrors, somehow, magically, without a single smudge or fingerprint to mar the life-capturing reflections. For a single heartbeat, I was confronted by myself, yet someone I did not recognize. Then, after a quick motionless descent, the door slid back and I automatically stepped out, revealing to those few in the long corridor the same unsettling image that I had just been confronted with: a slim but curvy woman in a sleeveless midnight blue cocktail dress, carrying a dainty matching clutch, short dirty-blonde hair in stylish disarray, face glowing with the lightest hint of makeup. What they saw, what I had glimpsed with stunned disbelief, was a sexy prowler! I paused for an instant to get my bearings—and my composure—then began to move. One end of the corridor housed the Bete Noir Escort Service, while the Bete Noir Night Club was situated at the opposite end. It, the hottest, chicest vampire club in town, was my destination.

  Whereas the hotel lobby had been elegantly conservative, the long hallway which led to the Bete Noir was anything but. Sensuous thick black carpet rimmed on each side by blood-like red spatters contrasted with the stark white plaster walls. A few oil paintings of half-naked women, leering satyrs, and even more naked women decorated the lengthy corridor. Interestingly, at intervals down the hall were several closed doors, begging the question of exactly what was going on behind each? Other than this tiny bit of idle curiosity, I ignored these forbidden passageways, striding toward the far end, soon nearing enough to read a thin cloth banner hung over the portals to the Bete Noir Club. All Revelers Welcome. I smiled at the apparent undead in-joke. Vampires could not pass the threshold of a private residence, could not invade the sanctity of a home, without an invitation. But public places had no such limits, nor did other vampire dwellings. The banner poked fun at this.

  A few club patrons, sipping out of high-ball glasses, congregated at the entrance. I disregarded them but took extra stock of the two bullish musclemen, hulk-like bouncers, who flanked either side of the closed double doors. They returned the favor, especially the bald six footer on the left. His beady, close set eyes roved over me, practically groping
me.

  As I approached, those grouped at the door went inside, leaving me with the two no-necks. Mr. Baldy stepped directly in front of me, forcing me to halt while he continued his inspection, up-close-and-personal. He seemed particularly intrigued with my earrings, which were, of course, silver, a crescent moon in one ear, and an elongated, pointy star in the other. My stockings kept this same motif, dark blue hosiery with silver moon and stars sparkling over my legs. This whole outfit, including the uncomfortable spiked heels, hastily purchased from the mall only scant blocks away from the Constantinople, was going to be a business deduction, and I dared the Internal Revenue Service to dispute it as such!

  Judging from Mr. Baldy's reaction, I not only met, but exceeded, the Bete Noir requirements for sexiness. He reached out and stroked the star dangling from my ear lobe. Although my stomach churned, I stayed immobile, deceptively docile.

  His partner's eyes shimmied nervously before he spoke up. “You the new girl they been expecting?"

  "That's right.” It was as good an entrée as any. And as a cover story, it might prove useful, if distasteful.

  "Well, well, well,” Mr. Baldy drawled, unable to keep his fat mouth shut. “I can break you in, honey. It'd be my pleasure.” The hand with which he had fingered my jewelry slid down to my hip.

  "Just keep pawing me, and I'll break something all right."

  Mr. Baldy smacked his lips. “You like it rough. I can deliver."

  His cohort grew more visibly agitated. His bulging-eyed gaze darted everywhere. Perspiration dappled his upper lip. “Lewis, stop. The boss don't like us messing with his girls."

  "You frightened piss ant. Do ‘ya think he has eyes in the back of his head?"