Eternal Bondage

by Vita Anne Hoffman

  "He'll know. He knew about Tony. Now Tony's not around anymore."

  Mr. Baldy sulked, considered the other man's words, then decided to act smarter than he looked. “Go on in.... “Or, maybe, he was even dumber than he looked? “...you sweet piece of tail."

  Normally, I avoided trouble, at least this early in the evening, but I couldn't resist a bit of revenge right before I swept through the entrance. “I'll be sure to tell Constantine about your warm welcome, Lewis.” I added his name for good spiteful measure. No point in telling the big goon that I did not, nor had the slightest inclination, to know Constantine, The Great. But, I'm ashamed to admit, that I got a sadistic kick out of seeing Mr. Baldy nearly swallow his tongue with fear.

  However, as the heavy doors swung to behind me with a powerful whoosh of air, removing the poor grunt from my sight, I experienced my own tremor of profound dread. It swarmed every atom of my being. I had, after all, crossed the portal from light into dark, entered a carnal, precarious, unfamiliar territory. I stopped, swayed slightly, then concentrated on diminishing the darkened interior's strange impact upon me. Physical sensation, from the jarring textured noises, the talking, the laughter, the brash undercurrent of music, to the heady scents, stale air-conditioning, primal musk, excited sweat, excessive perfumes, overburdened me like dead weight. I grappled with this metaphysical load and managed to more comfortably balance it.

  The Bete Noir Night Club, I asserted to myself on a long calming inhale, was nothing more and nothing less than any other den of iniquity. Like most such places, it was poorly lit, crowded, reeked of bodies and alcohol, and buzzed with countless bits of conversation. The potency of the Bete Noir had nothing whatsoever to do with the supernatural! With this affirmation, my eyes adjusted immediately, distinguishing the Club's layout within the murkiness. The center of the large room offered patrons a dozen or so round pedestal tables and the best view of a short stage. Right then a girl of incredible proportions was entertaining the boisterous crowd. She wore gold body paint and a matching string bikini. Her long hair was also dyed the same golden color. If being limber qualified as an Olympic sport, she was a surefire gold medalist. I blushed at her nearly naked athletics and continued to scan the place.

  Recessed alcoves were built into the perimeter of the Club, affording a deceptive measure of privacy. Nothing obscured the occupants, except distance and the poor lighting. Still, it would be easy to get close to any one of those fascinating cubbyholes and get an eye or ear full to learn what those intriguing intimate shadows were actually doing, a voyeur's ultimate wet dream.

  I catalogued all this activity then zoned in on the bar at the back corner. I definitely needed a drink. Too bad I was a teetotaler. A spot there, I decided, afforded the best and safest place to watch the room. I threaded my way through several groups of dancers, some merely swaying in a stoned stupor, others more energetically humping and bumping at each other. One man with salt-n-pepper hair, his arms twined around a very limp partner, caught my eye. I smiled rather vaguely at him but kept on moving. Someone else reached out and stroked my bare arm. Another, a man in nauseatingly tight pleather pants, dropped to his knees and managed to lick the back of my hand. I felt like I was running a gauntlet through an orgy in progress. And, why, I fretted, did they seem so determined to include me?

  Relatively unmolested, I finally reached the bar, a huge black lacquered affair, accented with the ubiquitous blood red trim. Not being a barfly, or strip club habitué, hence the earlier blush at the well endowed entertainment, I studied the array of liquor, the endless bottles colored in amber, green, brown, in unusual shapes and sizes that whispered of exotic places, Greece, France, Bora-Bora. Blenders whirred and whined, concocting strange drink-after-drink. Manhattans, Long Island Iced Teas, Harvey Wall Bangers, and, yes, even Pina Coladas. I most definitely caught a disconcerting, incongruous whiff of cocoanuts. Vampires and fruity liqueurs are not the most obvious of combinations. No, indeedy.

  The action behind the bar equally fascinated me. All six bartenders, two of whom were women, wore identical, snazzy black tuxes. Their ruffled shirts were scarlet, their cufflinks giant ruby studs. And, as I negligently plunked my dark blue clutch on the bar and appropriated one of the few empty barstools, working excessively hard to do so in a ladylike fashion because of my unaccustomed heels, I could not help but watch them and wonder ... which were undead? Which were forever tied to Constantine, their master, creator, and employer? I analyzed their efficient movements for any telltale signs, noted their interaction with each person at the bar, yet I didn't, as I had done once or twice in the past, experience a single buzz, didn't feel the least tremor or shiver or tingle over who was alive and who was not. That sense of mystery and of danger probably increased the Club's business. It offered a big rush. Some people just liked to play with fire. Not me. I didn't like getting burned.

  Suddenly, I noticed a waitress beside me, a Marilyn look-a-like, accepting a tray of margaritas and daiquiris from the nearest bartender. I scanned further down the bar and saw another impersonator picking up a similar tray. The Madonna look-a-like, I assumed, just had to be around somewhere, and I spotted her (him) taking orders amid the crowded tables in the center of the room.

  Before Marilyn pushed away from the bar, she winked at me. She, then, nodded toward the closest bartender, whose broad back was to us. “Dearie, you do have flawless taste. Enjoy.” The bartender, as if summoned, politely turned to me. My quick once over turned into a prolonged stare. What a specimen! His exceptional good looks included shoulder length brown hair, hazel eyes, and a dimpled killer smile. He casually leaned over the counter. “Name your poison.” He seemed very amused with himself.

  I smiled back, feeling slightly giddy. I couldn't help thinking that his corny come-on was amusing, too. “Ginger ale, please."

  "Haven't you heard the requisite drink around here, especially for employees, is a Bloody Mary?” He spoke as flirtatiously as before, but his euphemistic phrasing innocuously inquired as to my status, living or undead? I guess it wasn't polite to outright ask someone, are you a vampire? Improper etiquette and all. Emily Post would know.

  "Not my drink.” I wrinkled my nose, declaring myself a mere mortal.

  He seemed to smile the wider. His dimples slashed sharply at the corners of his mouth. “I'm Josh Warner.” He offered his name by way of introduction. “Glad to know you.” There was, or so I believed, obvious relief in Josh to have heard me deny being of the vampire persuasion. That's the real disadvantage in fighting vampires. They did not look like vampires. Although, sometimes, according to some of the literature I had read and the few personal encounters I had actually had, you could feel one, if they were too weak to hide their hunger or too powerful to block out their incredibly strong auras. Then, again, someone, I forget who, probably Pater Traeger just to get my goat, had suggested that I was unusually sensitive to that kind of emanation, whereas most mortals were not. Naturally, I had scoffed at the idea. Me, read the vibes off a vampire? Ridiculous.

  Josh, however, ‘felt’ okay so I took a chance and told him my real name, rather than a fake one. “I'm Avna Soulsmith.” Offering a vampire leave to use your full name, both your surname, your family's last name, and your given or Christian name, posed a danger. It gave a bloodsucker a bit of control over his prey. A name offered up was like handing over a piece of yourself. At least, that was a tiny, little known part of the poorly documented vampire mythos. Who knew if it was fact or fiction? Certainly not I, having gone to great lengths to ward off their kind. That was my profession and my preference.

  "One ginger ale, coming right up.” Josh set about getting my drink. I tried not to gawk at him. He presented me a heavy crystal glass, allowing his fingers to brush mine. He again flashed that beautiful, dimpled smile, a hundred watts if not more! Something deep down inside of me trembled.

  "By-the-way, exactly how did you know I was a new employee? I could just be another patron.” Keeping up the charade, I masked the h
umiliation I felt at admitting to being one of the new Bete Noir call girls, even though Traeger had said that such had never been proven.

  "I wasn't a hundred percent sure. But I have explicit instructions to be on the lookout for a woman, a non-vamp, fitting your description. Your own words confirmed you were not one of us. Avna.” Josh purred my name with relish. His gorgeous smile now gleamed that much more with inch long fangs.

  A golf ball sized lump stuck in my throat. I could hardly speak. “I didn't have a clue about you.” I felt lousy.

  "Naturally you wouldn't. The boss is shielding me."

  I felt relieved, yet not. I didn't want to possess a built-in vampire detection system, but if I did, indeed, have one, it was good to know it wasn't broken, merely faulty. On the other hand, I had just gotten majorly screwed. And hormones were to blame.

  "They should make you guys were name tags, or something.” I stared unhappily at him.

  "Such as, ‘Hello, My Name is Alucard'.” Josh expected a laugh from me. After all, as every classic horror movie fan knows, Alucard spelled Dracula backwards. He was back to being friendly and flirtatious.

  I was being pissy and refused to oblige. I actually glowered at him.

  "We are not that different. And we don't bite unless invited, Miss Soulsmith.” He tried to make amends by addressing me formally, by using my last name.

  Of course, I wouldn't have any of it. “Speak for yourself,” I muttered. It's difficult to overcome a decade old prejudice, brought into being by an assault on a college campus when a vampire jumps you from behind with the intention of ripping out your throat.

  I slid off of the high stool, tucking the small clutch under my arm. “Where can I find Constantine? He must be nearby if he's shielding you.” I wiped all emotion off my face, but anger, and disappointment, seeped out of me. Josh's trick seemed spiteful and mean, both contrary to my first impression of him.

  "On the far side, in the Blue Room.” Josh pointed across the distance at one of the semi-private alcoves, the only one I had failed to notice earlier, screened by a bead curtain. “It was nice to meet you, Avna. Really. I'm just sorry about the circumstances. And the deception. Your paranoid attitude, about vampires, I mean, annoyed me. So I thought I'd yank your chain a bit. Don't worry about the name thing too much."

  "Then names don't add to your power of compulsion?” I couldn't believe my own ears. Here I stood, an apparently fearless and independent woman, or else why enter the notorious Bete Noir Club dressed-to-kill, begging eagerly for reassurance from a vampire, a reanimate, a thing I loathed.

  Josh's smile returned, wider and brighter than before, and without a trace of malice or fangs. “Not exactly. Most of the legends about us are bullshit. Others have a shred of truth. Like this one. A very powerful vampire, say like a progenitor,” and Josh looked across the crowded room to the place where Constantine, The Great, awaited me, “might very well use that piece of your identity against you. But, in your case, Avna, I doubt anyone could make you do anything against your will."

  So far tonight, my instincts had failed miserably. Why, then, was I buying every single word Josh was selling? Because of the hormone thing, again? He was sharp all right, with his incredible smile, warm hazel eyes, and other positive attributes well accentuated beneath his tux and best not dwelled on too closely.

  "Apology accepted?” Joshed held out his large hand.

  My own palm itched. I ignored it, reached out and clasped his hand, and sighed at the feel of that unexpected contact. His skin was warm, not clammy, not cold, not life-like clay.

  "See ‘ya ‘round, Avna."

  "Yeah.” I gave him a sheepish, self-conscious smile, adding just under my breath, “I hope so.” Then I headed for my unlooked for meeting with the vampire Constantine. I steered in and around the tables, glad that here, at least, all attention was focused on the golden gymnast, who continued to perform her backbend walkovers, splits, and cartwheels with gusto but without her bikini top. I thankfully reached the curtained area before the bottoms came off, as well.

  As if on cue, an arm pulled back the noisy beads, ushering me in to the blue room, so named, of course, because of the pastel sky blue paint on the walls and ceiling, and because of the many glowing blue lava lamps displayed on wooden pedestals around the circumference of the room, eerily illuminating those gathered therein—a small ring of vampires. And their master.

  Constantine.

  He was everything I had conjured, and much, much more. Totally devastating. The epitome of a GQ cover.

  After one sharp instant of awareness about the room and those in it, seeing but not registering the two beautiful women lounging at his feet, and the identical twins, young attractive men, seated not far from them on big cushions, everything—EVERYTHING—receded to one focal point. Him. Constantine.

  He was dark-headed and deadly, negligently sprawled on a Papasan chair, seductively clothed in an expensive tailor-made suit of steel gray, the complementary pearlescent shirt underneath, collar unbuttoned and open, of dove gray. Not a single wrinkle showed. Nothing detracted from his perfect proportions. He literally had a body to die for and a face to match. Whereas Josh Warner could melt a woman's insides, Constantine, undoubtedly, could vaporize them.

  His magnificent features, very male and very arrogant, were seared into my mind. His face was chiseled, as if by Michelangelo, attractive and irresistible, strong jaw, planed cheekbones, sensuous mouth, all framed by a thick, wavy mass of hair, so black as to resemble a seam of coal. But most memorable of all were the eyes. Extraordinarily pale. His irises were very near the color of the room, only an even lighter, brighter shade of blue. Luminescent, able to see in the dark. And hypnotic, able to see into your mind. And once there to control it. His eyes held me prisoner, never once blinking, never wavering. Suddenly, the pulse in my carotid artery beat, hard, fast, insistent. Unconsciously my hand went to that throbbing place and rubbed, trying to soothe that awful tension.

  As if suddenly bored with this unchallenging little game, Constantine returned his attention to the more ardent of the two women at his feet, the one practically wrapped around his leg, while the other just sat in a blissful, drooling daze. He had been absentmindedly stroking her hair during that whole ‘I have you under my spell routine', and it angered me. The least the chauvinistic son-of-a-bitch could do was give me his undivided attention. The woman responded to his caresses by rubbing her face up-and-down his muscular thigh, resembling a dog humping someone's leg. Talk about cheap.

  He continued to massage her scalp, and I watched with repulsed fascination as his fingers pulled and tugged both playfully and painfully at her long brown hair, nearly bringing her to orgasm by the simple act of stroking her hair. It was then, as I witnessed this erotic demonstration and suppressed my own twinge of envy, that I first noticed the burnished signet ring of heavy gold upon his right hand, embossed with the letter ‘C’ for Constantine. He seemed so entirely engrossed with his hands working in her hair, that I wondered if centuries old vampires were prone to ADD? Had he dismissed me from his mind? Did he even know that I was there? I nearly jumped when he spoke, gripping a little tighter at my clutch.

  "Come in, Miss Soulsmith.” Constantine's rich silky voice surrounded me, commanding and demanding obedience, which, of course, did not sit well with me. His lazily dismissive attitude had infuriated me, negating any aftereffects of his hypnotic stare. What was I anyway, standing there in my head turning outfit of midnight blue and silver, chopped liver?

  I rebelled. “No, thank you. I'm fine right here."

  Those bright blue eyes instantly retargeted me. And if I only imagined a crease of annoyance above his brow, there was no denying the look of disbelief that passed between the twins. They shared a sly grin, then waited for a bit more entertainment.

  Constantine, who had not once shifted from his reclined position in the depths of the cushy Papasan, slowly raised upward, a leisurely but threatening movement. “You will surely be more comf
ortable seated.” His elegant hand gestured to a nearby stool, which, being spindly and backless, looked anything but comfortable. “With some refreshment.” He snapped a finger at the little sex-pot, and she immediately jumped up to obey.

  "Don't bother. I had a drink at the bar. The service here, I must say, is more than adequate.” I offered the slightest, most insincere of smiles to Constantine's eager servant, now returned to her spot at the foot of her master. “Josh took good care of me."

  This time there was no doubt that Constantine was irked. “None of my people were to approach you. Just direct you to me."

  I backtracked, not wanting to get Josh in trouble. “That's all he did. Besides serve me a ginger ale."

  The twins exchanged another of their glances, simultaneously mouthing the words “Ginger ale?” Apparently not a popular beverage at the Bete Noir Club.

  "Have no fear. Josh will not be punished.” But Constantine's tight smile said otherwise.

  "I have your word on that?” I could hear the proverbial pin drop, even over the erratic thumping of my heart.

  "So have I said, so it will be.” Constantine relaxed back into the depths of his padded, scoop-like chair, but the room felt stifled and close. His icy blue eyes bored into me. “Before we get down to business, allow me to introduce Maximillian and Marcus."

  "I prefer Max,” said the first brother.

  "I prefer Marc,” said the other, identical in every respect, right down to the inflection of their voices. Marc and Max, lean, tall, and attractive, were in their late twenties, sporting shaggy platinum blonde haircuts, sport jackets over casual jeans, and tongue piercings. Ouch!

  And, if I wasn't mistaken, I would have sworn that they smelled of pot, which meant the Von Heslings had gotten another bit of vampire mythology wrong. Again. Apparently, some vampires liked a good buzz. If they partook of marijuana, then, one would presume, vampires could ingest other food and drink? Did that mean they got the munchies, too?