Eternal Bondage

by Vita Anne Hoffman

  "Oh-ho, so now it's a relationship. Explain to me, then, why none of Gerard's little love nips are fresh.” I could not resist taking a pot shot at the ex-District Attorney, he of the superb mind control. This could be the perfect wedge between the two. I didn't want to see her hurt, especially not by one of them. “Maybe he's dining elsewhere?"

  That made her livid. “How dare you! As a matter of fact, Constantine has forbidden Gerard to take ANY sustenance for four days. That's FOUR days, Avna. He'll practically lose his mind.” She was about ready to cry again. “I don't know where he is. He said it would be too dangerous to be around him."

  "Whoa. Back up a bit. You lost me somewhere.” I braced myself against the desk's edge, continuing to block her from the sightline of the street. “Constantine is punishing Gerard.... Over what?"

  "Because he failed to discover Rasputin's lair at the Tattoo Emporium.” Ginny looked away, then leveled her gaze directly at me, like a double barreled shotgun. “Because that jeopardized you."

  "Holy shit.” Agitatedly, I tousled a hand through the mop of my hair. “Gerard couldn't have known. Constantine didn't even sense the presence of not one but two progenitors. An immature vampire like Gerard certainly could not have known."

  "Tell that to Constantine.” Ginny's expression pleaded. “Literally, Avna. He would rescind the order, if you asked him. Gerard might not be able to survive. He could become bloodthirsty, uncontrollable. That's why he left me."

  "Ginny, I can't. It's not good for me to be around Constantine. He's playing games with my mind. The less contact with him the better.” I avoided the lurid details, such as last night's near sex romp with an invisible man, er, vampire.

  "You're too strong for that, Avna. That is what he finds so appealing, so fascinating. You are a challenge. Marc told me how you broke from Constantine's hypnotic control. Help me, Avna. Save Gerard."

  "I'll call him, but I can't go back to the Constantinople.” The thought of facing the master vampire made my mouth go dry. My heart pitter pattered. I feared for my mortal self.

  Ginny's slender shoulders drooped. “A phone call. That's what my friendship is worth."

  "Ginny, try and understand.” Honesty was the best policy. “I'm scared of Constantine. Of whatever it is he wants from me. I don't want to be as he is."

  Ginny stood with such force that the wheeled office chair crashed backward onto the floor. It cracked like a truck's backfire, but I plainly heard Ginny's softly spoken harshly meant words. “And I wouldn't want to be what you are. Afraid of love, afraid of commitment, just plain afraid."

  She stormed past me, flinging wide the front door, loosing the mob from the street into the shady interior of De Facto Self Defense. She was gone, and I was stuck in the deluge of customers. The guy in the ball cap got in my face. He demanded that I sell him ‘the works'. It sounded like he was placing an order at a fast food drive-thru. Actually what he, and the dozen or so others, wanted was to vampire proof their homes, families, and selves.

  I spent the day reassuring people that vampires were not insane killers. And, get this, I actually believed those assurances! I repeatedly, patiently explained that the best protection was simply to not invite strangers into their homes. Nor should they go out after dark ALONE. I calmed a lot of peoples’ fears, but I still made a killing on crosses, patented strands of garlic, various good luck charms, mostly horse shoes and giant floral arrangements of synthetic four leaf clovers, and lots of run-of-the-mill protection wards.

  My till overflowed with blood money. By closing time, I had had more customers in one day than I had ever had in an entire month. I would much rather stay impoverished.

  I inventoried my on hand stock, then called in a rush order to a supplier in Belpre Ohio, Paranormals Plus. The merchandise, I was told, would arrive by Friday. I hung up, staring out the huge plate glass window, judging that the light outside would last another three hours or so. I did not want the sun to go down. Too many threatening things crawled out from under cover. Dangerous things. Fanged things. Sexy things. I shivered, imagining Constantine. Or, perhaps, it was not merely imagined? I distinctly felt him, even though, if I concentrated, I similarly felt he was lustily asleep—the horny bastard.

  I gripped at the desk and mentally clamped shut on such contact, not wanting to be dragged into any more shared long-distance sexcapades. All traces of him were gone, disconnected. Very much relieved, I unlocked my hands from the desktop and breathed more freely. He couldn't seduce me if I didn't let him. My own will, plus the dream catchers, would see to that. His claims that I summoned him, that I channeled him, were lies!

  I went upstairs, dug through my cupboard in search of some dinner, then decided to walk to the mall for some fast food, the unhealthy kind with lots of fat, and sodium, and calories. I had plenty of time to eat, window shop, then return home before nightfall. I only wished that Ginny and I weren't fighting, if, for that matter, we were still even friends, so that I could invite her for a girls-only-evening.

  I grabbed up a shoulder bag, frayed and worn, and left. The evening was perfect, not too hot, not too humid, balmy and pleasant. The walk was relaxing. The crowds at the mall were sparse. I took the escalator to the third floor food court and I ate Chinese, an enormous portion of General Tso's chicken, a couple of egg rolls with duck sauce, and a crunchy fortune cookie, which I automatically cracked open without a second thought. I unfolded the tiny slip and read it. The future comes with mixed blessings, wealth and poverty, love and hate, life and death. Whoever wrote these things should be shot. I threw the remnants of my dinner in the garbage.

  The cookie's fortune was just so many shreds of paper, fluttering into the receptacle.

  Try as I might, however, I could not as easily rid myself of those foreboding words. Nothing in the mall lifted my spirits, not even a short browse through the book store where I unhappily encountered a Von Hesling Primer on Vampires, a basic introduction for the general public into the habits, powers, mythology, and arcana of the undead. Its cover, straight off a romantic bodice ripper that reinforced and played-off stereotypes, nevertheless echoed my own encounters with Constantine to the point where I hastily dropped the book back onto its display table, jostling the mass of other vampire themed titles, and sprinted out of the store. In fact, I left the mall entirely.

  Returned back home just prior to dusk, I locked up the downstairs with extra care, then ascended the corkscrew stairs to my apartment. I turned on the CD player with some Celtic music, a local group, and tried to relax. With no such luck. The apartment felt oppressive, cage-like. I paced its length, halting at intervals by the curtained French window, pulling an end back to watch the street below, and willing the sun not to set. Of course, it did anyway. Daylight reigned, weakly, for another quarter of an hour before dying away in crimson glory, shades of pink and red streaking over the skyline then slowly fading into starry half-mooned night.

  I braced myself for any push of awareness that might come from Constantine upon his rising. None did. Yet, then, perversely, I was left to worry if I had denied him access or if he had not bothered to reach out to me? Surely, I would have felt something, some faint twinge of his ire if I had thwarted him. I eased off the mental barriers, and still felt nothing but my own strange frustrations. To soothe myself, I played more of my favorite Irish-Celtic artists. And I paced some more.

  I decided to place a call to the Bete Noire Night Club. But not to Constantine, rather to Josh Warner. I wanted to hear a friendly voice, and, more importantly, to make sure he had healed from his injuries of the other night. I dug out the phone book from a drawer of the bedside nightstand, made myself comfortable upon the bed, and dialed. My fingers trembled.

  After several rings, a polite woman's voice answered. Her professional, reedy voice verified that I had reached ‘Charleston's premiere night spot, The Bete Noir, located within the Constantinople Hotel, at the juncture of Main And Central'. The voice paused. “How may I help you?"

  "I need t
o speak with an employee, one of the bartenders, Josh Warner.” So far, so good.

  The woman paused once more. “I'm sorry, The Club's policy forbids personal calls on work time unless of an emergency nature."

  In lieu of lying, I made a perfectly reasonable compromise. “Then, can you possibly give him a message, have him call me on his break?"

  The dreaded pause came once again. “That wouldn't be possible. I can't leave the switchboard.” She hesitated one second. “I could connect you with the manager on duty. Would that be of some help?"

  I began to smell a rat. Although the operator couldn't see me, I scowled at her through the receiver. “Just exactly who is the manager on duty?"

  Another short pause. “The club's owner, Constantine."

  "Put him on.” Somehow I knew I wouldn't have to wait long.

  Almost instantly, Constantine's voice, low and velvety, came to me. “Good evening, Miss Soulsmith.” I shivered. His words were alive, curling around my body like a purring feline.

  "Cut the crap, Constantine. I didn't call for you. And you know it."

  "You cut me to the quick. Didn't our last encounter thaw you just a little? It was rather heated, no?"

  "If that's the way you bed women, when they're asleep and vulnerable, I wouldn't brag. Even I can be manipulated."

  He laughed. “Shall I manipulate you some more, little Soulsmith?"

  I gritted my teeth. “This is pointless. I want to talk to Josh Warner."

  Asking for Josh did make him mad, whereas a slur on his love-making technique had not. “Impossible.” I heard his irritation.

  "Why impossible? You're the owner. You can bend company policy.” I chose my next words precisely. “I WANT JOSH."

  Constantine turned things to his own advantage. “He is unavailable for phone calls. However, if you come in person, you might be able to speak with him.” There was a subtle inflection in his voice that really said under no circumstances would he allow me to see, speak, or get near Josh Warner. Macho vampires, it would appear, are as susceptible as regular men to the green eyed monster. However, in this case, I did not want Constantine to take out his anger on Josh.

  And I said so. “You had better not give Josh or any of your clan a hard time on my account. I heard another of your people was being disciplined because of me. Ginny told me about Gerard. I don't approve. Not in the least."

  "Come to me. Persuade me otherwise.” Constantine definitely had a one track mind.

  "I won't be coming back to the hotel."

  "Very well, then Miss Soulsmith. If that is how you feel, it appears our dealings are at an end. Expect payment for services rendered for your assistance. The matter, which is even more dangerous than the newspaper accounts indicate, now rightly stands with the police. And myself."

  He was about to hang up on me! “Wait ... Has there been any progress in locating Tanya?"

  "None. On her behalf, I thank you for the concern. Now, please excuse me, I have matters to attend to. Good evening."

  I muttered my own good bye, but just before the lines clicked dead, I had a flash, maybe from him, maybe from my own subconscious, of his urgent business—a buxom brunette, with a tremendous amount of cleavage but a scant amount of inhibitions.

  Apparently, the green eyed monster was having one helluva good night. It had even gotten to me. I pretended unconcern over his dinner partner. Instead, I seethed over the gist of our short conversation.

  He had fired me! After involving me in this nightmare, he was, in effect, giving me my walking papers. I was stunned.

  "Fine.” I irritably snapped at the telephone. I didn't want to be a part of that underworld, anyway. His dismissal was a relief. At least, it should have been. That night I slept fitfully. I tossed and turned. There were no nocturnal, astral visits from Constantine. No dreams. No nightmares. No out-of-body overtures of any kind. The dream catchers filtered out that particular invader. Yet, something disturbed me. Something helpless, and lost, and afraid, a desolation of the most profound kind. Something that seeped into the back of my mind, begging for help, crying for release. Something that permeated everything about me, my pillow, my bed, the air I breathed.

  In the wee hours of morning, I sat bolt upright, having lost the fight to clear away that awful clinging presence. It was Tanya. She was haunting me. From somewhere in the city, I could feel her pain, her anguish, her despair. She was trapped. In her own body. And each minute of existence was agony.

  Unlike Constantine's assaults, which were prurient and selfish, Tanya's could not as easily be combated. I spent the day in misery, dragging through a routine of breakfast, dressing, opening the shop, and waiting on customers in a fog of distress and hopelessness. When I walked, I shuffled. When I sat, I slumped. When I spoke, I slurred. Finally, during a lull in business, caused, no doubt, by my seeming incoherence, I tried to trace my thoughts back to her. When, amazingly I succeeded, my head split with her raging screams! I could only just muffle her. I closed the shop early and went upstairs to lie down. That was a mistake. It only brought her surging forward, for she, too, wherever she was, lay prone, stiff and unmoving and powerless.

  And I had to partake of her suffering. In desperation, she had reached out and found me and I knew I had to rescue her or go mad, as well. There was no respite from her tormented spirit. Every effort to shut her out failed. Nor could I try to repeat another direct contact with her. Her screaming was unendurable.

  The day wore away. Night, quiet and humid, fell over the city. As with the previous night, this one offered no sleep, no rest. I feared to lay down, to close my eyes. She would be there waiting to suffocate me with her pain. So, I walked. First in the apartment. Then through the streets of my beloved city. I wandered almost sightless through alleys and back streets and narrow cul-de-sacs. I stubbornly refused to be led, guided, controlled by her so that I picked my own meandering path. My muscles were close to collapse, my emotions no less so. Finally, close to daybreak, I acknowledged where she wanted to direct me, the city block of the Hotel Constantinople. The one place in all the world that I wanted to avoid.

  "All right. I'll go there. Tonight.” Upon making that vow, Tanya released me. I dropped, exhausted, to the ground. Freedom. Release. It was heavenly! And I had to give it to Tanya. I had to find her and free her. Or, next time, she might not let me go from her horrible tortured grip. I would not survive another such night.

  I somehow managed to return home. I slept like a log and even opened the shop for my regular business hours. Traffic remained brisk because The Killer Vampire, Rasputin, was still on the loose, although, thankfully, no more victims had been discovered. I received my rush order from Paranormals Plus out of Belpre Ohio, replenished my shelves, waited on customers and watched the progress of the clock. This evening I had a mission to fulfill, or literally die trying.

  I intended on going to the Constantinople in the guise of Charity. After all, I, she, had agreed on being one of the hostesses for a private Friday night party. If I was careful, and kept my mind shielded, Constantine might never know I was there. Then, again, my odds probably weren't as good as a snowball's chance in hell.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twelve

  "What Brings You To The Constantinople? Business Or Pleasure?"

  As Charity, one of the Bete Noir Escort Service girls, I had a certain image to project, cheap and easy. So, I dug into my closet, ignoring the triple-stacked totes full of memories and photographs, and tried to pull together an appropriate ensemble. The pickings were slim. Most of my wardrobe consisted of jeans, shirts, and a few sweaters. In a sack on the floor, I found a bunch of discards, stuff which I had forgotten to donate to Good Will. Poking through the contents, I dredged up an ankle length skirt in an outdated paisley print, lime green upon black, and a scoop necked black polyester blouse entirely too snug through the chest.

  I tried the pieces on in front of the small medicine cabinet mirror. It worked! Charity was officially on the
job, uniformed in a tight, form-fitting top and a loud easy to hike up skirt. I sprayed on an atrocious amount of perfume, aptly called toilet water, went heavy on the green eye shadow, peach blush, and stark red lip stick, then put on a gaudy pair of turquoise ear rings that dangled against my jaw-line. My bowl-shaped short haircut added a contrasting girlish innocence. It revealed my vulnerabilities, and that added a strange sort of appeal. Underneath I wore my one and only matching bra and panty set, save for my forget-me-knot sleepwear camisole. Someone should feel privileged.

  I slipped into a pair of flat soled sandals, sans pantyhose, and prepared to leave. Dusk had already deepened to near dark. I grabbed up my shoulder bag, throwing in the usual mix of a tiny wooden cross, a plastic bottle of holy water, and a few garlic cloves out of sheer habit. If nothing else, the contents, including a heavy change purse, might stun a mugger.

  I left De Facto Self Defense with much misgiving. But I really had no choice. Tanya was out there, waiting, suffering, monitoring. She would not hesitate to link up again and share a dose of living hell with me. So, I went. The streets, regardless of the fear hanging over the beleaguered city, were busy. It was a Friday in May and people were ready to party. I parked on a street some few blocks from the Hotel. I got out of the car, shutting the door, locking it. A small shiver, like an icy hand, ran up my spine. I guessed that to be Tanya. When no other contact occurred, I moved to the nearest crosswalk and scrambled across the street. I scanned the area, watching other pedestrians, passing cars, keeping to well lit areas of sidewalk. My pace slowed. I was nearing The Constantinople. I walked past the small well tended suburban garden on my side of the street, the hotel on the opposite now plainly in view. The tall modern building glowed with light and excitement, and, for me, the slight buzz in my teeth that indicated vampires.

  This sudden spurt of awareness, of alertness, made me weak kneed, but I forged onward, strolling by the night shadowed park, smelling a mixture of grass, compost, and flowers, chiefly the last of the wild honeysuckle. I did not regain my entire strength until I had crossed the street at the stately colonnaded entrance to barge through the automated glass doors as if I owned the place.