Eternal Bondage

by Vita Anne Hoffman

  I scanned the banquet hall, mentally tallying the dead—at least three FBIC officers, and four of Donata's clan. That left one single-browed Neanderthal unaccounted for. “Where's Zellden?” I demanded, an awful sickness in the pit of my stomach.

  Traeger's gray eyes met and held my own. “He placed officers in the stairwells. He meant to catch the renegade vampires.” He then glanced to Constantine. “He wouldn't abide by your terms. He made this an actual extermination, not surveillance and reconnaissance."

  "The stupid SOB!” I clenched my fists, an impotent gesture in view of all the carnage. “He's dealing with a PROGENITOR, Traeger. It will be an even worse blood bath."

  Max pointed across the debris of the hall to a steel door marked Exit. “It already is."

  Zellden stumbled partially out of the fire exit, his large blue-suited frame propping open the heavy door. As if paralyzed, he stayed there.

  Up close, he was even more pathetic. Traeger hoisted him, bodily, to his feet. Zellden's square jaw was slack. His eyes were vacant and unfocused. On either side of his face were handprints imprinted with blood.

  Haley Davis spoke the obvious. “He's in shock."

  "Traeger,” I was afraid to ask, but I had to, “how many men did Zellden have stationed in the stairwells?"

  "At least ten more."

  I shuddered. Ten more slaughtered. I was sure of it. “We should check for survivors."

  Traeger contradicted me. “Not we, me."

  "You're not going alone."

  It was then that Key, cradling his broken arm, spoke up. His voice was surly. “Donata has gone."

  "Would he know?” Traeger asked.

  Reluctantly, Constantine answered him. “Some vampires can sense their sire, particularly if the bond is strong, say, as with a progenitor."

  "He could be lying.” Max intentionally jostled the slighter boy. Key did not cry out.

  My own words came out slow and soft and certain. “I don't think he's lying.” An uncomfortable hush descended. The entire group sensed a strange magnetic pull, a swirl of some unseen force prying into each by turns. I wasn't aware that it came from me. Key's delicate features lit from within. His eyes slowly blinked, owl-like.

  He made an admission that came from out his lips without conscious thought. “She reads me deeper than even Donata. Oh, Lady Soulsmith, you make my heart ache."

  Marc reacted first. “Shut up, filth.” He struck Key across the cheek, leaving a long welt. Josh, too, had seemed to take a menacing step in Key's direction.

  "Don't! He might be able to lead us to Rasputin.” But the light of truth within Key had been extinguished by Marc's merciless blow. He lowered his eyes, refusing to look anywhere near me, afraid that he could very easily be persuaded to divulge Donata's, and, thus, Rasputin's new hideout.

  "Come on, Traeger, let's check out the stairs.” I made a move toward the fire exit. That slight motion awakened Zellden.

  "No. You can't. They are all deeaaaddddd.” His voice dropped, lowered, afraid it might attract more monsters. “They rip you to shreds. Tear out your heart. They are ravenous.” He began shaking like a leaf within his once immaculate suit. He had been reduced to a blubbering, terrified lump.

  "Haley,” I glanced in her direction, “take care of him.” The nurse, also a vampire but unbeknownst to Zellden, gently lead him away. She used soft words and hypnotic suggestions to calm him, and her enhanced strength to accept and support his sagging weight. I watched their departure with a scowl of concentration.

  "And you, my dear little Soulsmith,” Constantine, lingering at my side, deliberately stepped into my field of vision, and he exerted his own seriously considerable physical and psychic aura, “must likewise allow me to take care of you. I would forbid you this undertaking if that were possible. You are weak, exhausted, wounded.” He was trying to influence me! I shook my head to disrupt the lethargy that his words imparted.

  "If there is anyone to be saved, we have to try.” The resolve of my words strengthened me.

  Constantine frowned, but said nothing more. He took the lead, entering the cool interior of the stairs, which were lit by the dull glow of fluorescents. I caught the merest glimpse of the gore within. Just inside the door were piled three entangled bodies, mangled, mutilated and stacked like grotesque cords of firewood.

  "Avert your eyes, little one,” Constantine commanded over his shoulder, while he blocked the scene with his broad torso. He did not bother to check for pulses. His very nature assessed, without a doubt, that they were dead. I knew it, too.

  I pressed as close to the wall as possible and shunted my gaze away. Eerily, however, I somehow almost visualized the horror that I passed but averted my eyes from, whether from my own vivid imagination or, more unsettlingly, from seeing through a progenitor's eyes? Constantine's footfalls echoed hollowly, emptily. He glided up the steps. I came next, then Traeger, the twins, and finally Josh. Our little parade wound up the concrete and metal steps in a file. The walls felt claustrophobic. I had to wonder how Constantine endured the sensation. All I could see of him was his wide, gray-shirted back, and his glorious glossy hair that fell in coal-colored waves about the nape of his neck.

  I began to notice, too, something much less pleasant. Long streaks had been smeared upon the walls. Blood, thick and stinking of copper, painted the stairwell like abstract graffiti. I gagged.

  "Come.” Constantine twisted halfway around. He imparted to me some of his fearlessness within a quick flash of his icy blue eyes, followed by a small touch of reassurance on my forehead, another on my chin. It was very calming.

  The wide, ground-floor landing that exited onto street level was now up ahead. I braced myself for greater horror. As I had feared, more bodies, brutalized and butchered, blocked it. The close space stank of an abattoir. Traeger circled around me and began to check for survivors. Constantine waded even further through the carnage, reaching the heavy door, pushing it open, allowing a fresh breeze to enter ... and me to run for an escape. I tripped through the corpses, brushed past Constantine, and practically dove outside in frantic terror. I scraped a knee as I came back to my feet. Instantly, I knew that I was not alone.

  A hulking dark shape sprouted from the side of the Constantinople. At first, I recognized the distorted figure as the pitifully ragged street person I had glimpsed several times on various downtown streets, hunkered in a doorway, reclined against a garbage bin, existing as a homeless vagrant. But, now, on the darkened dead end service entrance to the five star Hotel Constantinople, I knew I was confronted by Rasputin, the progenitor who was responsible for the deaths of so many ... Patrolman Richard Donovan, the sweethearts Dean Isen and Sally Cuthbert, vampire entrepreneur Calvin Hamilton, all of the FBIC agents who lay in mutilated piles just beyond me ... and he meant to extend his rampage across the entire Capitol City of Charleston, West Virginia.

  Rasputin, still shrouded in his black rags, slammed the fire exit closed. He used a steel crowbar to wedge it shut. Great muffled pounds boomed from the other side, but the door stayed fast! There was no immediate help coming from that direction, although which each successive, hollow blow I could feel Constantine's all-consuming anger spill from around the edges of the jammed door. For one hopeful instant, that strong emotion caused the door to bulge, but a glare from Rasputin reinforced the metal. Constantine would eventually rip through the steel exit. But, alas, not soon enough. Unconsciously, I made a fluttery motion with my hand to aid Constantine's efforts. That impotent gesture amused Rasputin.

  With a grating, rattling laugh, Rasputin rounded upon me, virtually unfolded until his full height and breadth, a massive bulk some seven feet tall, filled my entire world, blotted out the very earth and sky. He was grotesque with sallow yellow skin, sagging and peeling, covering his huge round head. Brown age spots showed on his diseased scalp through sparse patches of string-like hair. His eyes were watery brown holes. He lacked a fully formed nose. When he smiled malevolently, the teeth in his mouth shown like
long filed knives. By nightmarish contrast, the voice that issued from him was undeniably, frighteningly melodic.

  "You cringe and shrink away, but in the end, you will gladly come to me, Soulsmith.” He stretched out a gigantic beckoning hand. The nails on those fingers were scabrous, caked with ages of dirt and gore, petrified into weapons perfect to pierce the softness of humans, their flesh, muscle, bones, and tendons. To rip and rend and tear. “I have desired you ever since the night at the river when I savaged that policeman. I watched you. Wanted you. Bespoke you. Now, soon, you will be mine. The power of a Soulsmith has come unto me at last."

  I began to tremble, harder. Dread shook every inch of me, body and soul. I was at the mercy of the merciless, another weak victim to be added to his death count. How many men, women, and children, I crazily wondered, had been sacrificed to his hunger, to his diet of blood and fear? I blocked out the answer to that question, for Rasputin had been of the undead so long that the number would be staggering. He was utterly repellent, except for that voice, wrapping around me, stealing my will power, ensnaring me. The sound seeped into my very marrow and pulled at me. It called like some undeniable force of nature, the instinct for survival in reverse—to answer his lure was to accept a living death from a hideous inhuman master. But his call seemed impossible to deny.

  I crammed my hands against my ears. I had to block the reverberations of his desire out of my mind. “Go away. Leave me be.” I made childish whimpers, unable to do anything else. My eyes, too, were shut tight, tears trickling out to scald my face. But I knew he drew near. I tried to be deaf and blind to his approach, but I could see him in my mind, that enormous black blot upon the world. And I smelled him. It was a hellish reek of rot and decay. It engulfed me. It overpowered me. It encircled me. Rasputin, it seemed, was going to have me for an eternity!

  I threw back my head and screamed and screamed, one long cry of defiance, of denial, of desperation that would never end....

  Nor did it even when Constantine had somehow pulled the steel fire door from its reinforced hinges, slamming it down with a loud concussive thoom. I was still screaming when he came to me and forcefully took me in his arms. I was still screaming when he held me fast, rubbing my back, whispering in my ear, crushing me to his chest, forcing me to accept his touch, his embrace.

  "Hush, hush, hush.” I finally did quiet, mostly because my voice was in shreds. I was panting. Each ragged breath seared my lungs. And then Constantine swept me into his arms. He carried me out of the cul-de-sac, up the front walk of his hotel, through the lobby, and into a waiting elevator. I clung to him for dear life. My limbs trembled so violently that I feared breaking into pieces.

  "Pick a floor.” When I could not rouse myself to answer, he gently rested his cheek against the top of my head. I clenched my arms tighter about his neck. Some of the tremors left me. “Lucky seven?” He quietly suggested.

  I nodded my head against his shoulder. He selected that floor, and we rose in a gentle rush. Once arrived, he stepped out into the corridor. He stalked down the lushly carpeted hallway, passed rooms 701 through 708, seemed to feel occupants inside each, until he came to 709.

  He stood before the beige colored door with its large brass room numbers and he concentrated on the handle. He gripped me tighter, and I felt tension—like undisciplined energy—being siphoned from me. It relaxed me greatly. It also allowed Constantine to command the locked door, which swung open of its own accord. With gentle ease, he toted me across the threshold into a sumptuous suite. The immense bed was covered in satiny lavender. A deeper orchid carpeted the floor. The walls were papered in a rich complementary eggplant.

  Constantine strolled to the bed and eased me upon it. I was unable to untwine my arms from about him. “Don't leave me."

  "I won't.” He tenderly untangled my arms from around his neck and made a great show of brushing a kiss across each knuckle before placing my hands at my sides. “I need to make you more comfortable by removing the jacket, and your sandals.” His bright blue eyes radiated nothing but warmth and caring, almost a subliminal tranquilizer. I nodded agreement, weakly aided his efforts to pull off the suede jacket, let the plain sandals drop to the floor. He covered me with a fold of the lavender comforter, tucking it around me snugly. He remained perched there.

  "Close your eyes.” Before I did so, I noticed an ornate sun-shaped clock on the far wall. The time was three o'clock. It would soon be sunrise. I looked then to the floor-to-ceiling orchid and gray patterned drapes. Could light seep underneath those heavy swagged curtains?

  My eyes asked him that question, because I was afraid that if I spoke it would come out a scream. Evil had nearly swallowed me whole. I hadn't recovered, not by half.

  "Do not worry. I am safe.” I heard him in my mind acknowledge—you are safe, as well.

  And waddaya know, just like that, I yawned, closed my eyes, and went to dreamless sleep.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tall, Dark, And Handsome ... And He Just Happens To Be A Vampire

  Sleep. Black, velvety, rejuvenating. It was exactly what the Doctor ordered. Only once, at mid afternoon, did I groggily come to wakefulness in the closed-curtained, artificially-darkened room. I was still safely tucked in the king-sized bed. Constantine, statue-like, sat propped against it, his knees drawn to his chest, his head slightly bowed, one arm stretched across the edge of the mattress, as if he had been reaching for me before deep sleep had also overtaken him.

  An emotional pang stabbed me to see his inert figure, frozen there like a vigilant guardian. I wanted very much to stroke the coal colored waves of his glorious hair. To enjoy the texture of it, to explore its thickness. But fear held me back. Locked within that slumbering form was heat and passion, ready to be enflamed with a single touch. I could not risk releasing—could not risk awakening—his beast. If we were growing increasingly attuned to one another, it would be a huge mistake to disturb him. Deliberately, I turned my head away and was immediately weighed down by sleep.

  When next I awoke, it was with a sharp start just after nightfall. I had recuperated for an entire day. Constantine was no longer by my bedside. In fact, he was no longer in the room. But there was, I noted with a scowl, a table set for two. I slid out of bed to inspect the setup. A golden lace tablecloth covered an intimately small table. There were unlit metallic-gold tapers, long stemmed crystal goblets, place settings with clear china, and golden-toned tableware. Nearby, on a graceful stand, a bottle of champagne awaited, chilling in a bucket of ice. I squinted at the French label and guessed the vintage to be impossibly old and undoubtedly rare. I clenched my fists and took a distancing step backwards. Last night Constantine had been a true gentleman, chivalrous. Heroic and tender. But, now, his hands-off policy had obviously switched to hands-on.

  "How sweet,” I murmured sarcastically, eyeing the romantic arrangement with disgust. “Dinner for two. When only one of us actually needs to eat ... food.” I uncharitably suspected Constantine was at that very moment nibbling on some not-so-innocent-soul as an appetizer. I, of course, was being saved for the main entrée.

  To complete this seduction, Constantine had provided me with his idea of appropriate attire, laid out on the foot of the king-sized bed, side-by-side with another offering, some of the contents of my lost purse, my car keys, a lipstick, and some breath mints. I held the dress up to my scantily clad self. Disturbingly, there was no evidence whatsoever of my snakebites. Not so much as a pimple. Shouldn't there be bruises, or punctures, or discolored skin? I swallowed a rising bit of hysteria and, instead, concentrated on Constantine's gift. It was a plum-colored, thin-strapped, sequin-covered little number that ended mid-thigh. I loved it, and I hated that I loved it. But, seeing as I had nothing to wear, not even Marcus’ suede jacket, I had no choice but to put it on. I had to get out of there before Constantine returned.

  So, without so much as washing my face, finger-combing my hair, or rinsing my mouth—although I d
id search out the luxurious, fancy-shmancy saffron and daffodil hued bathroom to relieve myself—I slid the silk-lined dress over my burgundy undies. It fit like a second skin. Everything was accentuated, the curve of my breasts, the narrowness of my waist, the roundness of my hips. More of me was exposed than I, the ultimate conservative, was comfortable with, from pale shapely arms, to long lean legs, and an appealing amount of cleavage. I felt uncharacteristically sexy. That feeling, of unadulterated sexiness, surged, rising from without me rather than within.

  I absolutely had to get out of that room! Now!

  In a panic, I scuffed my feet under the flounced, lavender bed skirt in search of my low-heeled sandals. I slid them on then grabbed up my car keys. They went in the only spot available, nestled in my bra! I hightailed it for the doorway.

  Naturally, with my brand of luck, Constantine appeared there, halting to stare at me, seeming to taste of me with his vampire eyes. And that hungry intense gaze echoed in me, caused an agitated pulse to beat in my throat. That beat, hard and insistent, spread lower. To between my legs. I gulped down a mouthful of air, because my breathing had become very shallow. I totally blamed him for my unwanted reaction. He was incredibly beautiful poised there in sleek dark trousers with a matching ruffled shirt, two buttons carelessly undone to reveal a bit of his own strong throat. From the crown of his coal black hair to the soles of his hand-made Italian leather shoes, he was male. Passionate. Virile. Sexy. And, without a doubt, he had not, repeat NOT, already fed this evening. His craving permeated the very air. My body responded with a tiny tremor. Reflexively, my arms crossed before my chest.

  His answering smile was predatory. The points of his teeth flashed. Even that was hot! My response to him, the tremble, the defensive gesture, redoubled his interest. Unconsciously, in accordance to his wishes, I uncurled my arms from about my body. His ice-blue gaze roved over me with ardor, enjoying the slinky dress, the abundance of skin, the tight fit. “Quite adequate,” he decided, the words soft and slurred. “Indeed, far more than adequate."