Eternal Bondage

by Vita Anne Hoffman

  Zellden scowled at me. His one eyebrow lowered ominously.

  "Take a chair.” Traeger, gruff as the drill sergeant he resembled, managed an occasional bit of politeness, although his offer sounded more like an effort to get me on the hot seat. He had brought me into a murder investigation that had escalated into an apparent serial killing spree.

  "I don't need a seat, thanks. I shouldn't be here that long. I just wanted to fill you in on the Donovan murder. See if you had any questions. I gave a thorough account to the officers on scene. There's not a lot I can add.” I pointedly directed myself to Traeger, ignoring the Neanderthal in the opposing corner.

  Zellden, the buffoon, executed a creditable sneer. “You're not even staying long enough to take off your sunglasses?” Granted, Ezekiel Zellden wasn't totally stone age. He had managed very nicely to embarrass me. Celebrities might wear their sunglasses indoors, but not the rest of us nobodies. I hadn't even realized that I still wore them!

  I nonchalantly slipped them off, flinching a little under the fluorescents, keeping the glasses clutched in my hand as a security blanket if the light should prove too hurtful. Maybe I wasn't getting enough vitamin B in my diet making me light-sensitive? Nah, if that were the case, I'd have scurvy by now. This was something more sinister, some insidious influence of Constantine's. I promised myself to research this phenomenon. I owned lots of resource material, manuals, trade journals, various university and private organization reports, most prominent among these being a large portion of the Von Hesling catalogue. They dominated the field. Then, too, there was always the internet, if you had the time to dig through most of the worthless trash to find the rare bits of gold.

  Traeger grabbed up some papers from off his avalanche of a desk—he somehow always kept a clear corner for a gilt-framed family photo with his wife and five kids! He flapped the stack in my direction. “Here's Officer Penton's report. Read through it. Corroborate the contents. Sign it.” He scowled, wiped a beefy hand across his face, then added, “The media's going to be in a feeding frenzy. The FBIC,” Traeger's eyes cut sharply toward Zellden, “is trying to keep these murders from being sensationalized."

  "That would have been easier had certain unqualified parties not been involved,” Zellden grumbled, trying to get a rise out of me. What he failed to realize was that I hadn't the type of ego, sensitive and overdeveloped, to be bruised by the Cro-Magnon Man likes of him.

  I accepted the pages and began to check out Penton's written account of my statement. The details were so accurate that I trembled, remembering the horror of seeing Donovan and knowing his killer was only yards away, watching me, toying with me, and, for some reason, coveting me.

  Traeger waited while I finished before he asked his first question. “What about this Rasputin? What else did you learn about him?” Traeger barely hesitated before adding a question that put his department in a bad light by touching upon Tanya's theft from the morgue. “The first and second murders, the Jane Doe from the river and now Patrolman Donovan, are definitely connected? It's not some macabre coincidence."

  "Yes, they are. As to what I managed to learn at the Bete Noir Club.... Not much, other than Rasputin seems to have followed Constantine to Charleston to take over his territory. One master vampire can effectively dominate another's clan, family, kin, what-have-you, after killing the other. But it's more than just a turf war. Rasputin is mad. He killed Donovan for fun. He has to be stopped, or else he will spawn more of the same."

  Zellden, naturally, began to be argumentative. “According to your statement you did not actually witness the killing of Officer Donovan. You claimed to have been on the lower embankment. So, how can you identify the killer, who is supposedly no less than a progenitor? A master vampire, by the way, that no one in the entire occult field has ever so much as heard of or referenced, except for you and Constantine, The Great.” Zellden's antipathy nearly bulged his eyes. His fat lips puckered. “I did some thorough checking on the Bureau's registry, plus had a few agents run other less formal queries. No written records exist with the single mention of a Rasputin."

  How, I debated, should I defend myself against Zellden's implications that I was lying? I could not bring myself to reveal—not then to Officer Penton, nor now to Detective Traeger—that after the grisly murder I had very deeply sensed, I had actually linked to, Rasputin. He had had a thousand and one perverted reasons for killing Donovan, uppermost being as a calling card, an introduction, specifically to me. How did one speak aloud such a frightening admission? What was it about me that Rasputin so obviously craved? Better for my mental health that I ignore my new classification as vampire bait.

  "Put me on a witness stand and I WILL convince a jury that I can psychically identify the killer, Rasputin. My federal designation as a recognized ‘spiritualist’ makes me a quasi expert in this type of paranormal case. Such psychic evidence has been entered in lots of prosecutions, as you well know. Hopefully, we won't even have to go to trial.” Murderous vampires didn't always get a day in court.

  "And another thing, Zellden, with your credentials, you know better than most that a progenitor endlessly recreates his identity. They hide their past, shroud every detail of their origins, switch personas at the drop of a hat. The only way the government even recognizes a claim of a progenitor is the new DNA testing that can, for want of a better term, carbon date and corroborate their age. It's far too dangerous for their real selves to be known.” I thought about Max and Tanya, how they had flouted the legally mandated FBIC registration of new vampires, and I added, “Even the young ones don't want to be part of a vampire registry. By what right does the government track a minority group as if they were a threat?"

  Zellden spluttered. His ruddy complexion splotched. Even Traeger, one reddish eyebrow quirked upward, was surprised that I happened to be on his side of the fence for a change.

  Since I was revved up, I kept right on talking. “Speaking of DNA, what exactly was recovered from Donovan's body?” I didn't bat an eyelash, even though I was asking about what forensic evidence had been retrievable from the policeman's decapitating neck wound.

  "The lab work, a part of which was shipped out to the Virginia FBIC laboratory, is currently incomplete,” Traeger answered, leaning forward, bracing an arm on his paper littered desk, “but there are definite saliva traces. Possibly a hair sample. A single strand was found. And maybe even some skin samples, as if the killer was shedding."

  Uugghh. Rasputin most likely had major skin problems. Some older vampires, the ones who liked dark, dank, dingy habitats, often contracted vile skin conditions, the kind where things pussed or oozed or fell off.

  Zellden, scowling beneath his beetling unibrow, suddenly got on his favorite soapbox. In his zealotry, he wanted to turn Charleston, WV, into his own little FBIC empire. “We shouldn't have to rely on Virginia. Charleston merits its own facilities. This city, this bureau site, should be the national clearinghouse for FBIC DNA testing."

  I ignored his familiar rant and spoke directly to Traeger. “With that much physical evidence, all we need to do now is track Rasputin down. And stake ‘im. Behead ‘im. And burn ‘im."

  Traeger glanced from me to Zellden, putting an unspoken request to West Virginia's Senior Agent of the Federal Bureau of Interspecies Coexistence, the only one in the room with the authority to issue a permit for the ‘immediate and extremely prejudicial elimination’ of a vampire. It circumvented the need to have a trial by jury. It was an unconstitutional power being contested in the courts at that very moment. I didn't like Zellden being the one to have such authority, to allow him to be judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one demented prejudicial package. Except in this case. I wanted Rasputin destroyed.

  A muscle in his square jaw jumped. His beady eyes clamped onto my face with detestation. He wanted to refuse just to spite me. However, with more lives at stake, he couldn't. Zellden even managed to sound semi-professional. “I'll get the paper work started and an exterminating team ac
tivated. Once the lair is located and the killer positively identified, we'll perform the termination."

  I exhaled with relief. The experts, one of whom I was not, were now in charge. That got me off the hook. Or so I thought.

  Traeger turned once more to me. He jerked his chin toward the door. “See what else you can come up with on Rasputin's whereabouts, Soulsmith. The sooner the better.” Nightfall was several hours away, but the clock seemed to tick faster in a crisis. “The city already knows its under siege. So watch yourself.” Our eyes met briefly, his steady and clear, full of confidence in my abilities, mine wavering, much less sure.

  I quickly signed the papers and left, offering a gruff goodbye to Traeger and a simple nod to Zellden.

  Then, with a growing sense of trepidation, I drove myself to the Constantinople, the last real lead I had in the hope of tracking Rasputin. As on my first visit, I parked a block over from the hotel. My pulse skittered as I neared the building. Feigning confidence, I entered the automatic doors and retraced my path to the Bete Noir Club, crossing the gorgeous calm hotel lobby, admiring the soft splash of the intricate waterfall, and once again taking the shiny chrome-like elevator. I gingerly selected the proper floor, acutely aware of the button for the second basement level which nothing on the face of the earth could get me to depress. It would lead, according to all the scholars, to the daytime resting place of Constantine, The Great. Chills suddenly ran down my spine at the thought of being anywhere near his dwelling, especially since I had vowed to never again be in his presence. But I couldn't allow my apprehension to stop me, for I had also vowed to help save Tanya, Max's kidnapped fledgling.

  Before stepping from the elevator, I reflexively clutched at the cross hidden underneath my crisp white blouse. My reflection in the shiny doors aped the gesture. I tried to be reassured by the warm weighted metal resting against my breast bone, the sharpened tip actually lying in the hollow between my breasts. The only true comfort I had was that vampires slept during the day. Plus no alarms rang inside of me, no funny buzzing in my back teeth, no clenching in my stomach, no uncomfortable migraine. All the little—and the big—vampires were fast asleep. Of this, I was absolutely positive. I would only have to deal with mortals. Humans. Non-blood-drinking individuals.

  Outwardly calm, I left the elevator under the watchful eyes of a different pair of massive body guards who patrolled between the Bete Noir Club and the Escort Service. I followed the long cool hallway toward the business door flamboyantly designated as the Bete Noir Escort Service. I marshaled my nerves and entered. It wasn't everyday a girl applied for a position with a glorified escort service.

  I thought of Tanya, of her interminable suffering should I fail to rescue her, and I determinedly pasted on a brilliant smile. Immediately a wash of cheap, generic perfumes, like some toxic cloud of musk and rose and vanilla, bombarded my nose. A small crew of women, some dressed in proper business attire, a few in elegant evening wear, and still others in considerably less, such as skimpy halters and ultra-miniskirts, the kind that left almost nothing to the imagination, lounged on the room's odd collection of overstuffed settees and futons. This mix revealed a varied clientele, with tastes ranging from class to crass. Yet each woman was striking, statuesque, voluptuous.

  The entire room monitored my entrance and approach to the woman in charge, a startling creature mostly hidden behind a computer terminal, her great girth draped in a garish orange, yellow, and green Hawaiian patterned muumuu. In spite of the varying degrees of interest, curiosity, and outright hostility directed at me, I kept the Toothpaste White smile on my lips as I crossed the room to where she sat, a beehive-hairdoed matron with an unlit foreign cigarillo dangling from her scarlet lips, and a hands-free phone headset tangled in the colossal beehive. Her makeup had been applied with a trowel, orangey rouge, thick blue eye shadow, raccoon-like eyeliner. A nameplate on top of her monitor proclaimed her as ‘Madam Waken'.

  Her fingers clack-clacked quickly over the computer's keyboard, presumably setting appointments for clients. “Helga,” she barked at a beautiful Scandinavian-type with milky white skin, amply displayed by a low peasant blouse and a high pushup bra, whose girlish corn-silk braids hinted at a wholesomeness much at odds with the vast amount of exposed cleavage. “You are set for five o'clock. Room sixteen of the Brookside Motel. The address is on the printout.” Madam Waken suddenly looked up at me, smiling around the cigarillo, speaking euphemistically for my benefit. “The client wants his customary massage."

  Helga beamed. Her teeth gapped rather adorably in the middle. “Ja, Madam Waken. He get good, good massage.” She plucked a sheet from the nearby printer and left, still grinning her gap toothed grin, jiggling her amply displayed breasts. Given her obvious attributes, she would most certainly excel at her job as a masseuse. She appeared capable of twisting a man into a pretzel and making him enjoy it.

  I felt suddenly inadequate in the Swedish massage department. I was a mere neophyte by comparison. I had to suppress a dejected sigh.

  Madam Waken, her brown penciled brows arching wildly, studied me, debating if I were a new recruit or a police plant. Or, possibly, a client?

  "What can I do ya for?” Her voice, deep and low and scratchy, resembled a Brooklyn truck driver.

  I jumped feet first ... into some very deep water. “I'm Charity.” My enthusiastic smile never wavered. “Constantine sent me. He said you were looking for a few additions."

  "Maybe.” Madam Waken took a further inventory of me. She scrutinized my hair, my height, my hips, and my other vital statistics—my breasts and butt. It felt like being stripped naked, and I hated it. I liked her next words, given in a satisfied knowing chuckle, even less. “The boss knows how to pick'em, right enough.” It was a shock to learn that Constantine apparently did recruit for his establishment. Pedaling flesh was bad enough, but that he hand picked his stable was infuriating. How far did he go in his recruitment? Was there some warped quality control? Did he try out the merchandise?

  "The Escort Service is hosting a private party this coming Friday. A very discreet gathering in Parlor B, just down the hall. We cater. Food. Drinks. Companions. We can always use an extra hostess, even if you're not on the books. It could be a one shot deal.” Madam Waken's heavily penciled brows formed a question mark. “Interested?"

  "What's the going rate?” I did not want to appear too eager, or too naïve. Mercenary, however, would do nicely.

  "A hundred dollars for the evening, plus whatever gratuities the guests might offer. I imagine that you could triple that, easy."

  I gulped. At least Constantine paid well. “I'll be there. With bells on.” Except I had no intention of attending this private party. This charade was to get information, not to join a prostitution ring. So, I started pumping for it, as subtly as possible. “I really came as a temporary fill in for a friend, for Tanya. I usually freelance, but maybe you could arrange a few under the table jobs for me, now and then. Just for some extra, fast cash. Tanya always bragged about the escort service.” I held my breath, waiting to see how Madam Waken would react.

  "Ahhh.” Madam Waken purred happily. Her cigarillo danced when she made the cheerful sound. “She was a real trooper. Nothing was too exotic for her. A few of the girls, the living ones,” the Madam started to whisper, leaning toward me like a multi-colored haystack, getting caught up in shop talk even though I was a total stranger, “don't necessarily want to deal with our vampire clientele. Not so our little Tanya, and that was before she, herself, was turned. In fact, I believe one of her last dates was with a vampire. He was so pleased with the service he requested another one of our girls for this evening."

  She licked her thumb to better flip through the pages on a clipboard. “Yes, he has a hire scheduled for tonight. But, due to his, er, special proclivities, I haven't, as yet, assigned any one of my girls. We do strive for customer satisfaction.” She chirped the motto with gusto, then jutted her cigarette directly at me. “Are you interested, Charity? The dead on
es can be the most satisfying to handle. Like you said, you could be a free agent for awhile. To see if we suit each other. The only drawback is you have to give Constantine twenty percent of whatever you negotiate with your client. If you were actually with the Bete Noir Service, a legit employee, you would get a salary, bonuses, and benefits."

  She paused in her recruitment and repeated her question about my accepting tonight's date. “Do you want this appointment?"

  Behind me, from the comfort of a long couch, I heard grumbling from a trio of well-endowed women, harsh unhappy sounds that a ‘bleeping-bleep’ had just been offered a lucrative job before them. Their language could put a sailor to shame. I ignored the resentment.

  "I'd be happy to go since I did come as a favor to Tanya. Twenty percent sounds like a steep cut, but I'll do it."

  "Perfect. Take the printout.” Madam Waken keyed in a noisy flurry of data. “It gives the pertinent details. Your date is with a Mr. Calvin Hamilton. He runs a tattoo shop on the other side of town. Welcome aboard, Charity. And,” Madam turned all business, terse and firm, “remember, the Bete Noir gets a full twenty percent, due within fourteen days of the service or services having been rendered. Just a word of caution, dearie. Don't ever try and cheat a progenitor."

  "Thanks, Madam Waken.” My smile cracked a little bit. “I'll be in touch with Constantine's cut ... all of it ... within the week. If things work out, I just might sign on fulltime.” I retrieved the slip from her printer, eyeing the address of the appointed rendezvous, feeling light-headed as I left the office. I had a date with a vampire, perhaps, with Rasputin. I was gambling that this was how he had lured Tanya into his clutches. If so, and he was this Hamilton, hiding out as the owner of The Tattoo Emporium, then I was meant to be his next victim. Only I wasn't going to get that close. I planned on staking out Hamilton's place from a safe distance to see if my theory was right or wrong.