Eternal Bondage

by Vita Anne Hoffman

  "No.” The word croaked from out of my dry throat. I actually regretted saying no. How sick is that?

  Constantine's silky façade vanished. Fury replaced it. His anger, invisible but tangible, lashed out, nearly blinding me.

  I flinched in reaction to a burning pain in my head. Constantine saw and suddenly leashed his anger. My pain dulled almost immediately.

  "Some host you would make.” I glanced at him with revulsion. “If I should defy you over anything, you'd kill me with an aneurysm."

  "Not intentionally.” His words were clipped. And sincere. He had not meant to direct his angry frustration at me, or perhaps, until now, he had not even known it was possible. No one else, I'd bet, made a habit of challenging him, while I, on the other hand, seemed intent on nothing else.

  "That's reassuring.” I rubbed at my temple. “But dead is still dead."

  "Unless one is undead.” His unspoken, underlying proposal—to make me as he was—came through loud and clear. “Consider shedding this frail mortality."

  "Don't even go there. Sharing eternity with you would be no bed of roses.” However, try as I might to deny it, the idea of sharing a bed of any sort with him held a great, lurid appeal. That traitorous realization made me very glad that a few feet separated us, although his power permeated that space. The idea of ‘turning’ me was ‘turning’ him on! His sexual tension pulsed in my veins. To diminish its affect, I insulted him with a derogatory phrase coined and used by Vampyrophobes. “I'm not into stiffs."

  I barely saw Constantine move before he was right in my face. At such close proximity, I felt a stinging near my chest. I suspected this to be another of his twisted sexual overtures.

  He smiled, revealing to me for the first time the full awful extension of his fangs. It wasn't as repellant as I would wish. “You are smoldering, Miss Soulsmith."

  A denial formed on my lips. How dare he keep propositioning me! If he kept at it, he might be able to wear me down and take advantage of me.

  His wicked smile widened. “More precisely, your cross is smoldering."

  I could feel the cross growing hot in reaction to the progenitor's nearness. I glanced down and saw it's scorch-marked shape outlined on my blouse where it lay in the hollow of my breasts.

  I jerked at the long silver chain, trying to pull it away from me. Its intense heat not only burned the fabric of my blouse but my skin, as well. I couldn't work it loose.

  "Back away,” I snarled.

  Constantine did, but not very far. The cross cooled somewhat, but the spot still smarted. I very much wanted to remove my blouse and inspect the burn. Unfortunately, I had an audience of one who would be more than thrilled to watch. So, I did the next best thing. I undid the top two buttons and used the edges to fan myself. With the buttons undone, I was able to pull the cross from inside of my frilly top to let it dangle down my shirtfront.

  Constantine cocked his head to one side. “On occupational hazard, I presume."

  A minor profanity sprung from my lips. I never—make that seldom—used the major one. “Screw you."

  "Is that an invitation?” He did not laugh. At least, not out loud.

  "Just try it and see."

  "Not unless you take off your necklace. Otherwise, we would both probably instantaneously combust."

  "I think I'll leave it just where it is.” My next words were thoughtless and flippant. But they also reflected how I truly felt. “So long as it can keep you at bay."

  His playfulness ceased. “You place your safety in that trinket, yet you refuse my offer of protection. That cross cannot stop the likes of Rasputin. Or me.” With unnatural, almost-blurred-beyond-vision speed, Constantine ripped the silver chain from about my neck, flinging it away with the same motion, sending it spiraling while the chain's molten links rained in all directions.

  He physically towered over me. He psychically smothered me.

  But I couldn't let him intimidate me, although I was basically at his mercy. “How safe a refuge have you to offer? The Constantinople? A five star hotel, which you own. The whole world knows that you rest here, some of the time, if not all. Even a psychopathic progenitor can figure this one out. The only security measure I have seen is that you don't occupy the sub-basement level, as tradition,” and I cursed the Von Heslings for promoting more inaccuracies, “would dictate.” I scowled, still wondering about his unique lair, the entire penthouse level, aboveground rather than below.

  "There ARE,” Constantine's voice deepened, “other protections.” His gorgeous frame leaned into me. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on anything other than the contact of his groin against my stomach. But I persevered.

  "I suppose it unlikely that anyone would suspect you lived on the thirteenth floor.” I admitted grudgingly. “But it still seems too dangerous, too much possibility of exposure to the sun. Why risk it?"

  "I enjoy an occasional risk.” And his eyes scanned over me, pretending to measure then dismiss me as a threat. “Nor should my defenses be minimized simply because they are unseen.” To emphasize this boast, Constantine's pale blue eyes shimmered, and for one long second, I felt surrounded by something ... supernatural. Magic guarded him. “Besides which, I can oftentimes sense others’ approach, not just yours, little Soulsmith.” Constantine pressed that much closer to me.

  I refused to be distracted, even by the prodigious, and flattering, length of his ‘distraction’ presently gouging into my ribs. How was it possible that he could awaken at the approach of an intruder? Vampires were supposed to sleep the sleep of the dead. Most likely it resulted from being a progenitor, but I wasn't persuaded. “No, not this much risk, not without a good reason."

  He gave a snappish reply. “Such risks are non-existent, and only in your way of thinking. My species is not bloodthirsty or crazed. We don't prey upon ourselves. ‘Tis the hatred of mortals that poses a danger."

  "But why the penthouse? It doesn't make sense. Vampires historically dwell underground. “Unless, of course, the entire field of vampire experts, first and foremost being the Von Heslings, had gotten this factoid wrong? This was a distinct possibility.

  He sighed at my dogged refusal to change the subject. “My coffin is itself a safeguard. It is more like an impregnable vault, fireproof, waterproof, airtight.” With each adjective Constantine used, his dislike of them became palpable. The coffin imprisoned him.

  I absorbed his strange comments. “I supposed that you had commissioned it made big enough to hold two, for a partner.” I gulped a knot of corresponding fear, sharing his revulsion of the box to which he must surrender himself during the light of day, and I was frightened anew, of him, of his monstrous side, because I had stumbled onto his secret, which I could not hold back. I breathed it aloud. “You're claustrophobic."

  He paused long enough for my heart, pressed against his steel-like body, to make one rapid, terrified beat. How could he let me live, knowing what I knew, knowing the particular vulnerability of a progenitor? Tired lines seemed to form around his beautiful ice-blue eyes. “More accurate to say I suffer from insomnia brought on by mild claustrophobia, especially,” and here he smiled down at me, still snuggled up against the VERY hard-bodied length of him, a position that I would never have dreamed of in a million years, “when there is something I find particularly troublesome, or annoying, or disturbing. Pity me, little Soulsmith, that I find you to be all three."

  I did feel a sliver of pity for him. To spend half of eternity—the daylight portion—locked in a coffin, a place so confining and terrible that you could barely stand to close your eyes and sleep. Even a vampire such as Constantine, whose major flaw seemed to be a predilection for sin and vice, deserved better. He was not a brutal killer like Rasputin, who preyed upon both vampire and humankind alike. But I could not let Constantine know that I had the slightest of soft spots where he was concerned.

  "I have none to spare for your kind."

  "That's not true.” He bent his head down so that his lovely mouth was
close to my ear ... and, thus, my throat. I strove not to pull away, braving that peril as proof of my own strength. “You pity Tanya enough to enter my world."

  I shut my eyes tight, expecting a strike to my exposed neck. “For Tanya's sake alone.” But nothing happened, no bite, no rip, no nibble. I fought, but lost, the urge to steal a quick, shielded glance at him.

  His own eyes were now half-shut, as if drowsy. “I feel I must soon retire. But can I not persuade you to join me, Miss Soulsmith? Can I not entice you? Can I not tempt you?” Yearning poured over me. His murmur, soft and soothing, turned my limbs leaden, my mind mushy. My lids sunk closed, the better to FEEL rather than see. Automatically my head tipped back. The cords of my neck stretched, extended ... solely for his delectation.

  Constantine nuzzled there, languidly. For one lovely second, his lips sucked, his tongue teased, then he trailed those sips downward to the hollow of my throat. While his mouth tasted that tender skin, his hands, I dimly realized, were pulling the tail of my crisp white blouse from the waistband of my jeans.

  "What ... what are you doing?” My query was breathless, confused.

  "Nothing.” Constantine, using the diversion of his seductive mouth against my throat, gently tugged my shirt free. Its dainty buttons popped open one-by-one with his deft assistance. I scarcely noticed that my tummy, then my ribs, then my brassiere were now partially bared. He folded back the halves of my shirt to claim even more.

  My breath sped up from fear and arousal. My eyes remained closed, my thoughts muddled. Only my flesh under his caresses was alert. “I don't think ... you should ... stop.... “Befuddlement strung my words of protest together incorrectly, incoherently.

  "Trust me, I won't.” Constantine's lips traced further down my chest. When he neared the hollow of my breasts where the cross had burned me, he hesitated, then ever so gently, ever so thoroughly laved at the spot with his warm, wet tongue. All my pain eased, and I slumped into him in relief.

  "Oh,” I wheezed out, blindly standing there reveling in the surcease of that small hurt, in the lulling, constant, provocative sweep of his tongue, “that feels good. That feels so incredibly good."

  He grunted. “It just gets better from here.” Constantine tweaked each of my nipples through the thin material of my bra. Nor did he let up that touch. He rolled and pinched those peaked nubs, then soothed them with swirls from the pads of his fingers.

  I inhaled sharply. His pinches, slight yet stimulating, excitedly shot through my nerves. In reaction, my closed lids fluttered, as did the muscles of my vagina.

  "Oh, shit,” I gritted out the obscenity. The thrilled sexual rush had the side-effect of rousing, somewhat, my common sense. I should demand he stop! But I didn't. I couldn't. Haziness still clouded much of my thinking.

  "I know exactly how you feel,” Constantine growled. “Let me show you."

  He cupped a hand around one of my own and dragged it along the firmness of his belly. Dragged it downward over sharp cut muscle and sparse but rough hair. Forced it under the tight elastic of his boxers. “Here. Feel me. Learn my need. Ease my hunger."

  And he wrapped my fingers around his erection, big, throbbing, feverish. We both moaned. His in satisfaction of that sinful clasp, mine in appreciation of his perfect length, his huge girth, his eager pulse.

  "Constantine.... “I tearfully whispered his name, because I, shocked back into full control of my actions, had to make a choice—either have sex with him or refuse him. I had too much self respect to engage in an act under the pretense that he was in control. If I acquiesced, I would have to live with the consequences, the regrets, of having casual sex when I never ever had done so before. I believed in deep, committed relationships. For me, sex came last, not first. So decided, I forced my eyes open to look him in the face. The bliss on his features changed as he sensed that he had lost his hold upon me.

  But he didn't accept defeat gracefully. “Stroke me."

  "No.” But, lord help me, I wanted to! I wanted, very much, to fully appreciate the velvety hardness so hot and turgid within my palm! Instead, I unclasped my fingers from about him and snaked my hand out of his briefs.

  "I could make you ... do anything.” He barely contained his wrath. “I could have you kneel and suck me into your mouth. I could bend you over a couch and take you in the ass. Or I could put you against the wall and plow for as long as I wished."

  Carnal images of just such kinky acts besieged me, and I almost begged that he command me to perform each. But overshadowing—ruining—the idea of sex was this implied threat of violence. Unable to withstand his anger, I dropped my gaze down to watch as I calmly re-buttoned my shirt.

  "There's no doubt you could make me do ... almost ... anything,” I said quietly, “but I don't think you will. That's not your style. You might beguile, but you don't force. You might entrance, but you don't rape. Right?” I suddenly met and challenged him with an intense stare.

  "Yes, you are right.” But his jaw clenched around his frustration. Then, right before my eyes, he suppressed that emotion. The tight lines around his eyes, the clench of his mouth vanished. He became charming. “Prove that there are no hard feelings? Come and tuck me in to bed?” He was lecherous to the bitter end.

  "Sorry, no.” My smile was pensive. “Even half asleep you would prove too much a handful."

  "Then, goodnight, my little Soulsmith."

  Behind me, as if on cue, I heard the bell-like ‘ding’ of the returning elevator. I marveled that Constantine was going to release me. I was free to go.

  He had already turned back towards the astonishing ziggurat-styled platform which held his coffin. I watched his elegant silk robed back, his beautiful derriere, his finely muscled legs. It was a long look, as I vowed it was to be the last. Constantine, I decided, was a danger to me on a par with Rasputin. They would both tear my soul apart, if given the opportunity. Which I did not intend to do. Therefore, it was not a simple good night that I exchanged with Constantine.

  "Good bye,” I said, and good bye was exactly what I meant as I headed for the elevator without a single glance back. Did I have the slightest regret as I left the penthouse? Sure, I was leaving a twenty five hundred dollar cross, now seared and blackened with carbon scoring, behind.

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  Chapter Eight

  I-Told-You-So Was Written On My Face

  I managed to drive myself home, feeling like a limp dishrag. I was exhausted, but I could not tell if it was my own genuine fatigue, or a residual feeling from Constantine. He had succumbed to the power of the sun almost in the same instant that I had gotten onto the elevator to escape his penthouse lair.

  After having parked my car in the spot behind my shop, I cut through the narrow gap between my building and my next-door-neighbor's, which just happened to be the best bakery in the city. I inhaled the scent of breads, cakes, and pies without my usual relish, another indicator that I was not quite myself. I normally had a giant sweet tooth.

  I entered De Facto Self Defense, setting the old-fashioned bell to ringing as I did so, causing Ginny, who sat slouched over a pile of bills scattered across my desk, to glance up at me. She kept the store's books on a rather forlorn computer situated in a back corner cubbyhole just underneath the wrought iron staircase. I paused in the doorway and reversed the ‘Come in We're Open’ sign. It was almost five o'clock.

  "Christ, Avna, what happened to you?” Ginny gaped, referring to the cross-shaped burn on my beautiful frilly blouse.

  My face screwed up as if I had bitten into a lemon. How should I answer without revealing too much about Constantine's ‘mild case of insomnia’ and the fact that he had been awake and frisky? Best stick with the truth. “I had a small run in with Constantine. Seems a progenitor isn't necessarily as vulnerable to the power of the sun as is the rest of his kind. These marks are a souvenir."

  "Wow,” Ginny murmured, suitably impressed. “Nothing can rouse Gerard once the sun has risen. I should know. I've tried ever
ything."

  I stared at her wordlessly, chastisingly, and she had the grace to blush. “What took you to the Constantinople, anyway? You've made it very plain that you don't want anything to do with ... vampires."

  "That's true. But what was done to Tanya is so inhumane that I can't ignore it. I've got to help.” Self doubt crept into my voice, so that I just managed a whisper, “If I can."

  Ginny nodded. “What did you come up with? Anything?"

  "Other than an unexpected encounter with a prince of darkness?” I laughed ruefully, sliding myself into the chair kept for clients, propping my feet onto my desk. I rubbed at my eyes and stifled a yawn. “Not much. It seems Tanya still worked for the Escort Service, even after having been turned by Max. I guess a vampire has to earn a living like everybody else, even if ostensibly through the world's oldest profession. Madam Waken spoke of her very highly."

  Ginny became defensive. Her shoulder-length coppery-red hair shifted on her shoulders as she mutinously tossed her head. “It is not a prostitution ring, Avna, although,” her self righteous anger slipped a bit, “some of the girls do accommodate their dates with some of their more exotic requests. But the Escort Service does not solicit that sort of business!"

  "Glad to hear it. Since I'm now an employee. On a temporary basis, of course."

  Ginny nearly exploded. “Have you lost your mind?"

  "What's wrong, if it's so legitimate? It's my only lead to Tanya. One of her dates, or perhaps one of the other girls, knows something."

  "Don't you think that the girls were questioned? That her last appointment was checked out?"

  "By whom?"

  "Gerard and Maxamillian. They discreetly investigated at the Club, at the Escort Service, even her last several clients, especially a Mr. Hamilton. They came up empty handed. That's when Constantine wanted the authorities—and you—brought in."

  "Not to disparage either Max or Gerard, but maybe I can ferret out what they couldn't. I'm an unknown quantity, not one of Constantine's very own henchmen."