Eternal Bondage

by Vita Anne Hoffman

  All joking aside, I had to go through with this, but I was scared at the idea of trying to spy on Rasputin. Perhaps I could enlist Gerard's help, so long as he promised not to involve Constantine? Preoccupied, I got back into the elevator, crinkling the paper as I stuffed it into a pocket, wondering why I felt so jittery. My mission had gone perfectly. Madam Waken had set me up on a date—which I didn't intend on keeping—with the last client ever booked for the missing vampire fledgling, Tanya. I might be on to the best clue as to her whereabouts, so why had my stomach seemingly dropped into my feet where it refused to budge?

  I selected the button for the lobby. I wanted, no, I needed to get out of the Constantinople. Immediately. The elevator rose. My stomach grew nauseous. My legs felt rubbery. The elevator passed the ground floor, although it was lit, indicating it should have stopped to let me out. I angrily pressed the first floor, thinking to take the stairs back down. The elevator continued smoothly upward. Crossly, I jabbed every other number on the panel, excluding the superstitiously unnumbered thirteenth.

  The elevator did not stop on any floor. Instead, it continued its silent eerie, ascent.

  The breath caught in my throat. I backed myself completely against the rear of the car. I was trapped, with nowhere to go but up. To the thirteenth floor. To Constantine's chambers! He didn't, as the Von Heslings contended, occupy the sub-sub-basement of the hotel. Rather, he slept in the penthouse! And, against all commonly held wisdom, he was wide awake, when he should have been absolutely at rest. His mind shimmered like a new penny on the edges of my perception.

  And, holy shit, he was impatiently waiting for me.

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  Chapter Seven

  An Offer Much In The Way of Hospitality

  As I was being swept to the top of the high rise, I fought for calm. I had only just become aware of Constantine. Did that mean he had likewise only just become aware of me? Or, far more likely, had he known from the instant I had stepped inside the building? This train of thought slightly derailed when I realized that I was now whooshing past the ninth floor!

  Don't panic, I commanded myself, closing my eyes, breathing with forced regularity, trying not to hyperventilate. But, again, I wondered, how much of my emotions, of my mind, could he sense? It was a major disadvantage. So, I tentatively tested my own awareness of him. I mentally strove to reach out, to see him, to read him. Nothing came back to me except the surety that he was awake. And he was waiting.

  The eleventh floor came and went. I still cowered in the rear of the elevator.

  I resorted to punching the emergency stop. “No escape there,” I mumbled. Constantine controlled the elevator, either by some electronic override or by sheer force of his will. I much preferred the former. Who wants to confront an ageless vampire with super-duper psycho-kinetic powers? Not me.

  But whether or not he was telekinetic, I was, indeed, about to face him. I slid past the twelfth floor. I trembled. My entire body was fluttery and weak.

  "Get a grip, Avna.” What's the worst that could happen? Well, for starters, he could humiliate you. And beyond a little ego-bruising humiliation? He could completely subjugate you, body and soul. Huh, ‘wanna bet? That shut up my internal dialogue real quick.

  I squared my shoulders, straightened my spine, and prepared to do battle.

  The elevator halted on lucky, but superstitiously unnumbered, thirteen. The doors automatically opened. I stepped out without hesitation. The elevator closed, descended, and abandoned me to my fate.

  I looked around me and was amazed. Constantine's ‘room’ was the entire penthouse. It was stark, virtually empty, yet airy, almost like being outdoors. The vast area was somehow lit with a smoky gray effect, similar to a 1960's type black-light, but not as harsh and resembling twilight. It felt like being inside of a gray tinted fish bowl. Constantine, the son-of-a-gun, had fashioned a bit of near daylight. This revelation, that a progenitor craved something of humanity, was poignant. But right now I had no time to shed crocodile tears. I took another shaky step into his dwelling.

  Since there were no rooms, hence no walls, there were numerous visible support columns, painted shiny white, but tinged the same soft gray as the strange lighting. They rose tree-like, invitingly, perfect for a game of hide-n-seek. Only I wasn't in the mood for games. Besides which, as far as I could tell, Constantine was a cheater. He did not like, or follow, rules.

  I moved further into the vampire's den. Underfoot, sumptuous carpet in a faded shade of black—or more accurately a charcoal hue—threatened to suck me down like a quagmire, because the pile was so thick and soft and luxurious. It reminded me of walking across an antique feather bed, only the floor was more stable, but it was definitely comfy enough to lie upon, to sink your body into its plush depths, to stretch out upon with abandon. The entire floor was perfect for trysting.

  With that thought, an unbidden image blasted into my mind. Of two bodies, male and female, twined, writhing, coupling upon this very same carpet. It was a fragmentary flash, just a minute shred of erotica, jammed into my mind's eye so painfully, so overpoweringly that I staggered backwards, nearly collapsing. My breathing was ragged, not in response to the sexual rhythm of the two lovers, which under normal cable channel reception would have had me on fire, but because of the physical stress of receiving such an intense unlooked for vision.

  I recovered. Slightly. The couple, like a ghostly burned-in-image on a computer screen, stayed for a moment in my mind. He, Constantine, was atop her, suspended in a thrust worthy of a pile driver. I could not see his face, but the glory of that glossy, curly, longish hair, plus the magnificence of that broad male back, tapering down to a perfect backside then muscular legs, could only belong to one soulless man—Constantine. I now completely understood and agreed with the added appellation of Constantine, The Great.

  But as my concentration riveted upon Constantine, I had no idea of the woman's identity, her face and body being obscured by him. Only her knees were visible, bent up and around his hips, cradling him. Nor did I care to know her. She was nameless, and faceless. And, as they faded, I hoped to never have to find out whom it was that Constantine had so ardently conquered. He was a lecherous pig, and the mystery woman was one of thousands ... amend that to tens of thousands. No wonder she had been blotted out by him. To Constantine, one female was as good as another.

  That made me angry. And anger tended to stiffen my backbone, especially when mixed with righteous indignation. I wanted this confrontation over and done. Regardless of the outcome.

  Punch drunk but determined, I unsteadily pushed onward a few more feet into the tomb-like silence of the enormous penthouse. Where was he? He had to know I had arrived by any of a dozen means. Such as the ‘ding’ of the traitorous elevator when it had delivered me into his clutches. Or what about his vaunted vampire senses? Surely in this cavernous silence he could hear the hammering of my heart. It pounded tom-tom-like, beating for the both of us, since his did not need to throb or circulate blood ... or feel love. Worse yet, he doubtless could smell me. All the adrenaline. All the sweaty fear. All the feminine secretions. The vision had left me horny. And, to be blunt, I was throbbing and wet. Without so much as exchanging any words, Constantine had already humiliated me. I felt reduced to his lecherous level, at the total mercy of my appetites, not caring about dignity, or pride, or morals. Just about the urge to get laid. He had to have done this to me. I did not normally go around in an uncomfortable state of arousal. There was a time and a place for everything.

  Then again, if there was a perfect place other than my own bedroom in which to get all hot and bothered, maybe it was a vampire progenitor's boudoir? After all, what did I care what he thought about me, one way or the other?

  "Constantine.” I did not shout or raise my voice.

  There came no reply.

  I paced still further into his domain. Surprisingly, there was a grouping of velvety sectional couches, oddly arranged in a triangular pattern, cov
ered in metallic pewter. Next came an even more incongruous item, a baby grand piano, its sleek cabinetry glossy white. I rounded one of the support columns and I finally saw his coffin. It sat atop a five-foot high platform, which resembled a miniature ziggurat with stairs running up its sides. The coffin must have been a custom job. I had never seen or heard of such a thing. It was both deep and wide enough for two people, offering plenty of room for a pair of restless sleepers. Like the baby grand, it was pristine white, and, impressively, it had a hinged gull-wing door which just happened to be open.

  I lost my bravado when I saw fingers, elegant and artistic, but equally strong and purposeful, grasp the coffin's splendid side. Fingers had to be attached to a body. In this case Constantine's. He had already gotten me randy with very little effort. When he sat up inside his coffin, I knew I was right to be worried. He was bare-chested, possessing slabs of well-defined muscle. His bright blue eyes unerringly trained upon me. With a liquid, inhuman grace of sinew and bone, he began to stand up. I could not tear my own gaze away. His beauty, the arrogant attractive face, the superb, symmetrical body, was dumb-founding.

  My mouth went cottony. I licked my lips, regretting the action because it had made Constantine smile, a lush sleepy eyed smile. Porn stars licked their lips like that, but not Avna Soulsmith, damn him! Yet, fascinated, I kept watching, even while feeling degraded by him. I had already seen his beautifully formed posterior, if only in a vision. Any second I would get another eyeful of the flipside! I was afraid to blink.

  Constantine disappointed me. He rose to his feet with athletic ease, and, get this, he was wearing a pair of knit burgundy boxer briefs. Very sexy, but not quite revealing enough. Darn! As some small consolation, he did surpass any underwear model that had ever lived and breathed, although he, himself, no longer did. His skin, from this distance, shown flawless and impossibly tanned, covering that perfect form, carved and cut, delicious and defined, beautiful and balanced. His pectorals were fantastic, solid, substantial, sexy. And let's not forget his flat, ripped abdominals down which an inviting trail of hair disappeared into the band of his boxers. Here was Playgirl's next centerfold, if only vampires could be photographed! Of course, that too might be erroneous, just another inaccurate myth promulgated by the Von Hesling Institute of Vampiric Studies.

  He was utterly, physically irresistible. Yet, I had to resist. The temptations he offered cost too high a price. In fact, they were incalculable.

  Constantine bent down to retrieve a black-on-burgundy patterned silk robe which he shrugged on even as he fluidly stepped from his coffin to descend the stair-like sides of the platform. Never once did his gaze waver from me.

  Talk about a god-like entrance!

  It was as if he moved in slow motion. Small inconsequential details became important. Like the way his unfastened robe fluttered about him, showcasing his broad chest and bare legs. The soft, seductive padding of his feet. The utter stillness of his hands. As before the middle finger of his right hand bore the heavy golden signet ring, its intricate initial winking at me, hypnotically. I gave myself a mental shake.

  Constantine reached the bottom step and without breaking his long stride he came towards me. His pale blue eyes remained focused, laser-like, on me. Their intensity—their very brilliance—increased, sweeping over me from head-to-toe, taking in the unruly mop of my dirty blonde hair, the flattering romantic blouse with crisp white ruffles that offered the slightest peek of collarbone, and the skintight dark denim jeans, where he lingered on the curves and hollows of waist, hips, and pelvis. Madam Waken's cursory inspection had made me feel naked. His made me feel not only exposed but invaded.

  Under his powerful gaze, I felt nailed to the floor. Not that I necessarily wanted to run away, but it's always nice to have that option. Since I felt paralyzed, whether or not I actually was, I stood, seemingly passive, as he neared me, closer and closer, until his robe slightly brushed my fingers. He circled me, the silken garment touching me twice more, on my right hip and then my left arm. He glided like a shark drawn to blood. He stopped at my side, a hair's breadth from me.

  With a soothing murmur, he reached out to gently clasp my wrist. He then, bowing like a regal coal-haired courtier, slowly raised it. He kissed me there on the soft inner side. On the pounding pulse point. Blood seemed to gather there, scorching and energized, drawn by the summons of his sinful, supple lips. Yearning after that warm pool below my skin, Constantine touched that vulnerable spot with the tip of his tongue which he ran enticingly, incitingly over the heel of my hand, coming to rest in my semi-curled palm. He then straightened, releasing my arm.

  I weaved a tiny bit on the balls of my feet.

  "You disturbed my rest.” He spoke first. His voice, like a deep resonant purr, gave me chills.

  I almost felt incapable of putting two words together, until he broke his own spell. He made an exaggerated show of inhaling my scent. His eyes hooded over as if savoring some small sexual frission. That really pissed me off.

  I very significantly stepped away from him. “Just returning the favor."

  A scowl suddenly marred his brow. He did not quite have the upper hand and it annoyed him.

  I pressed on while I had a slight advantage, discovering the more I concentrated on speaking the weaker his hold on me became. “I don't want any part of your vampire head games. Stop them."

  "Head games?” He repeated, feigning innocence, while making the simple words sound obscene.

  "Whatever it is your doing to me, stop. Must I spell it out for you? No more sleeping when you sleep, waking when you wake. No more sensitivity to direct sunlight.” I pulled the obnoxious sunglasses from where I had clipped them to my jeans and shook them at him. “And no more invading my dreams."

  At that last admission, I knew that I had let something crucial slip.

  Constantine smiled triumphantly. His extra pearly whites glinted at me. “Ahh, my dear little Soulsmith, how exceptional! You are quite the sensitive, as, indeed, your untutored aura, your intrinsic essence, attests. Few are so gifted as to unconsciously establish an empathic dream state. This effortless psychic rapport pleases me. As for the rest,” he waved his elegant hand in a negligent, dismissive way, “you attribute far too much power to me."

  "You're lying.” My chest heaved with deep ragged breaths. I didn't connect with him! I didn't bring him into my unconscious! It was the reverse! He infiltrated my dreaming, my mind. He lied. He lied. He lied. Didn't he? In that most unhappy instant, I would have given anything to read his thoughts, dangerous as that would doubtless prove. The muscles of my face tightened angrily. “And, believe you me, Constantine, I don't overestimate your powers. I cannot begin to conceive the things you're capable of."

  He flashed a devilish smile, beguiling, entrancing, leering. “A demonstration of a few of the more unseemly seems in order. Shall I?"

  He made no move towards me, but I quickly side-stepped even further from him, afraid he would start groping. “Get your mind out of the gutter."

  "If I must.” He shrugged his broad shoulders in a defeated, world weary fashion. “I merely offered to ... umm ... ease your tensions."

  "Sex is not why I came here.” Although I felt as if I had engaged in it. Several times already. Truth to tell, his little tongue exercise upon my wrist and palm had left me weak in the knees. Not to mention that my nipples had hardened. Thank goodness that they didn't show through my blouse. Much.

  "I could be a gentleman and not contradict you, but you are most obviously suffering from a state of arousal. With which, in a most gentlemanly fashion, I do offer my services.” He grinned, a radiant you-cannot-possibly-resist-me grin.

  "If I were horny, which I am not, it's because of the psychic pornography you threw at me!"

  "Psychic pornography.... “Constantine rolled the words over his tongue, quite taken with the idea, and doing a superb imitation of someone never having heard of the concept. “An interesting novelty, no doubt. Perhaps you could provide me with on
e or more?” He raised a curious eyebrow.

  "I'm not the one whose penthouse reeks from innumerable sexual exploits."

  "Here, again, I must contradict.” He was absolutely serious. “No mortal—until now—has ever entered here. Of my people, other than Gerard Lamphere and the twins, none has unrestricted access.” His shiny blue gaze fastened upon me like a vise. “Perhaps, you had a premonition?"

  I did not like that suggestion. “I never have had.” And that was the end of that, as far as I was concerned. He was totally wrong. I never saw into the future.

  All at once, Constantine dropped his seductive playfulness. “If you haven't come to engage in a tryst, why then have you come here, Miss Soulsmith?"

  "To get information about Tanya. Pure and simple. Madam Waken wasn't very helpful, I'm afraid.” So I told a white lie. Sue me. “If you hadn't hi-jacked the elevator, we wouldn't be having this, or any, conversation. I want to help Tanya. After which, I want nothing more to do with you or your kind."

  "So I gather.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his satiny black-on-burgundy robe shifting with the movement, proving a bit of a distraction. “You declined my offer to reside here at the Constantinople. I make the offer again. Your safety is paramount.” He paused, then added, “We both know who killed Officer Donovan. Let me protect you."

  "I'm touched. Really. There certainly couldn't be some ulterior motive in all your concern for my well being, now, could there?” Sarcasm dripped from each syllable thicker than maple syrup. “But not on your life—or mine—would I ever shelter under the same roof as you."

  "I can extend much in the way of hospitality.” His pale blue eyes were riveted upon my face. He sought to ensnare my will, to gain control of me. His voice was equally beguiling, soft, reasonable, cajoling, somehow whispering beneath his spoken words of steamy enjoyable nights, and long languorous days. He offered pleasure of unknown magnitude. “There is nothing I would not do for your comfort. Simply ask. Ask for anything and it shall be yours."