Eternal Bondage

by Vita Anne Hoffman

  While the one-sided battle wound down, I remained at the head of Tanya's grave. Her piteous remains held a glimmer of strength—all focused on me. I wanted to help her, to free her, especially when Sylvana sidled nearer to me. She leaned in closer to examine the remains, grinning a nasty, toothy grin. Shroud-like, her strange white hair cascaded over Tanya's prone form. “She was a tasty little bit."

  Again, Tanya's rage flooded through me, shared with me a small portion of the depraved indignities she had suffered directly from Sylvana. My hands moved of their own volition to tear the plastic away from Tanya's face. It seemed to keep me from breathing. My hands, my wrists, worked the plastic away. I was very close to the girl who lay in the concrete trough. My supple skin touched hers of parchment. Tanya was finally free of the suffocating indignity!

  Constantine, dropping a third unmoving body to the ground, whipped his head towards me. He knew even before Tanya's teeth sank into the inner part of my wrist what was happening. He made a strange groan that mingled with my own startled cry. Tanya fed upon me. She sucked the blood so furiously hard that my entire arm went numb. I felt tipsy and disoriented. At this astonishing rate, she could drain me dry in a matter of heart beats. But she drank for only a moment and then she released me. I pressed the opposite hand to the shallow place she had bitten and was amazed that although driven by starvation she had not torn at my wrist, had not gnawed or gorged on the vulnerable spot.

  Somehow what she had taken was sufficient. She rose, a skeletal figure in a tattered sundress, her long blonde hair matted and tangled, her eyes a shiny blood red. Her cheekbones protruded from her nearly skinless face. She grinned vengeance at Sylvana and snatched up the shovel which leaned against her concrete prison. Tanya skewered the long wooden handle clean through Sylvana with a pulpy, fleshy thud. Then, Tanya snapped the shovel in two. She left half the handle embedded in Sylvana. The other half, with the shovel's shiny head, she repeatedly drove into Sylvana's lower torso until she had cleaved her in two. Both severed parts fell to the ground in opposite directions with a heavy wet kerplop.

  All-the-while Donata screamed like a banshee. Before I could move, Donata, in a blur of fast forward motion, was at the concrete planter. Her scarlet painted claws rent Tanya's emaciated form to shreds in a matter of seconds. The girl sighed and sank back into the waiting hole, now to be her permanent resting place. Her silent ‘thank you’ reverberated in my mind. She had avenged herself upon Sylvana, whose death also visited a small revenge upon Donata.

  But now I stood face-to-face with Donata. Weaponless. Unable to match her vampire strength. And knowing that no matter how fast Constantine could react, he could not prevent her first killing blow. So, he did the next best thing, instantaneously, riding in upon a blinding flash of white, he inhabited my body, raising my right arm to block hers. Each successive blow he anticipated, met, and deflected.

  Donata snarled at us, a hideous flashing of slavering fangs that revealed the truth behind her beautifully structured face. With all of her little ineffectual minions dispatched, Donata had no alternative but to turn and run. She disappeared like a puff of wind, using every ounce of progenitor's power to conceal her passing. Constantine physically came to me. His psyche was partially in both of us. It was a curious sensation, looking into that gorgeous face which looked back into mine, mixing what each felt and thought into a confusing tangle, hate, fear, desire, revulsion, distrust, and, the biggy, LUST.

  For a second, I vicariously experienced his thrill at being a part of me, at possibly influencing me. Could he have found a better way to corrupt me than from within? I dreaded a battle with him for control of my own self. I squared off towards him. “Get out of my head."

  "Are you sure you would not like to expand this experience? Enjoy such bonding? Further explore each other?” These euphemisms alone disguised what he wanted from me ... what his hands and mouth and body longed to do, what positions, what locations, what fantasies. They were all there for me to view, if I would but turn my mind's eye in that naughty direction. I could not help but sneak a peek. And that was more than enough!

  I clamped down on his X-rated tendencies. No easy task, given that, as he was now part of me, I shared his overpoweringly erotic nature. I had a strong urge to throw him down—atop Sylvana, even—and ravage him then and there. I mentally white-washed such thoughts, hearing him ‘tsk-tsk’ in my mind. “No, thank you, I'll pass."

  He scowled. “In this age of promiscuity, you would have to be a prude."

  "Deal with it.” I suddenly felt faint, and my head hurt, overcrowded with two personalities within it, one a sex maniac, the other a born-again-virgin. A thick trickle of blood oozed from one nostril down and over my upper lip. Unconsciously, I tasted of it, using the tip of my tongue. The gesture nearly drove Constantine crazy. Inside my mind, he commanded me to taste more, to wipe my entire upper lip clean, to drink every last little drop. I just stared at him, and tried not to capitulate. After all, with him half in control, struggling to take TOTAL control, it was mighty tasty stuff.

  While we battled, my insides began to dissolve. He could feel how his presence was actually destroying me. Concern was emblazoned on his face. However, for one instant, it was displaced by hunger. His hand stretched out toward me. His intent was to smear my blood onto his fingers then suck each one dry. I convulsed sharply. The beats of my heart slowed, pulsing harder with each labored pump. It was about to stop. Defiantly, I wiped the back of my hand across my face, removing all traces of the nosebleed.

  Constantine uttered a major blasphemy. I thought I saw sparks accompany each word from his mouth, punishing him for such sacrilege.

  "I suppose,” Constantine's petulance washed through me, “I must separate from you.” He had no choice. We both felt that other organs within me were imminently close to hemorrhaging. He turned his back to me, and I braced against a wrenching, ice-pick-like pain in my brain as he yanked out of me. I nearly accused him of purposely using such force to hurt me. But I knew that it had been as blindingly painful for him. That was why he had turned his back, to try and hide it. But I had felt it, the same hot migraine, knifing through our skulls, carving us apart.

  It was Max who offered me an arm when I listed to one side. I drew several breaths as I leaned against him. I did not look directly at him when I spoke. “I am sorry Tanya is not with us."

  His answer came after a pause. “I know.” He spoke again, very softly. “I loved her."

  I bobbed my head in a sad repetitive nod. I had always known the depths of his feelings.

  "Allow Marc and me to take you home."

  "But what about Josh? I want to make sure he's all right.” I could sense Josh's restlessness, bound in a body not his to command.

  Marc flashed a cell phone. “Not to worry. I'll call Nurse Nightingale at the club. She can round up a couple of Bete Noir Ladies and give Joshua a jump start. A little plasma, a dash of hemoglobin, some TLC, and he'll be good as new."

  I heard the gist of the quick phone call. Marc snapped the cell phone shut. “She'll be here soon.” He added in his cheerful nonchalant way, “With a few donors."

  I nodded my agreement. Haley Davis was capable and, surprisingly, for me, trustworthy. On-the-other-hand, Constantine was not. Josh Warner belonged to Constantine's clan, but did the progenitor believe him a rival? I threw out a challenge. “I expect Josh to be fully recovered.” I received silence for an answer. When he half turned to me, Constantine's usually bright eyes were semi-closed. I felt a ripple of jealousy from him.

  The twins took up a position on either side of me. The silence stretched. Constantine, shielded by the shadowed night, stared at us, at me. His own people seemed ready to defy him. Thank goodness there came the sounds of a hurried approach. Scuffing footsteps. A nervous laugh, or two. Then I saw Haley, dressed casually in a bright red peasant blouse and skirt, her medium-length sandy hair bouncing as she walked. With her came two slightly inebriated women, a pair of plump platinum blondes, whom I
had, indeed, seen in the office of the escort service.

  Marc covered his attraction to Haley behind a bad joke. “Dinner delivered in five minutes or less. ‘Ya done good."

  The laughter from the two mortal women ended, abruptly. At Marcus’ frightening humor, they cowered together and took in the grisly scene, the dead bodies scattered around, the fact that they were in the company of vampires. Haley scowled at Marc, but she spoke to the women, using a soft hypnotic cadence. “Don't be afraid. No one is going to hurt you. There's nothing to fear. You are perfectly safe.” Her words ensorcelled the pair. They immediately became glassy-eyed with vacant smiles. In their profound stupor, they leaned against one another, no longer fearful. They waited patiently for their next command.

  Haley nodded at me. “Miss Soulsmith."

  "Please, call me Avna.” It was a little dig at Constantine, whom I still had not given like permission to use my given name. “Josh is there.” I pointed to the second massive concrete planter.

  Of the first planter, Haley intuitively knew and guessed aloud, “That must be.... “Where Tanya had been confined, had died. She gave it a wide berth.

  "Yes,” I solemnly acknowledged.

  The situation dimmed some of Haley's perkiness but did not diminish her competence. Haley herded the women to where Josh lay. At the thought of the process needed to revive him, my stomach lurched. I knew the necessity of what was to happen. I just didn't want to see it, to have to remember Josh drinking from these mesmerized women.

  "He'll be all right, Avna.” Haley's eyes swept over the two women. “So will they. I promise."

  I turned to Max. My voice came out slightly shaky. “Take me home, please."

  Max tucked my arm into his and began to lead me away. Until now not so much as a word had been exchanged with Constantine. As we neared him, he canted his head to exaggeratedly observe my approach. We drew abreast of him.

  He spoke, and his sultry voice made my steps falter. “You will not get far without these, no?” And he made a foreshortened wave of his arm. My car keys, that had so recently been secreted in my bra, dangled from his fingers. He unerringly tossed them to Max, who caught them with an equally flawless ease. Damn vampires!

  "Thanks.” Max continued walking. Marcus fell into step behind his brother. Numbly, I moved beside Max, but I shot one parting scowl at Constantine, angry that he had taken my keys off of me, aroused by the idea of what else those magic fingers could do.

  Constantine mutely watched our departure, a brooding shadow amongst a garden full of fallen vampires. The authorities would have to be notified. Constantine would have to deal with the macabre scene that I was leaving behind. Only, by tacit agreement, we all realized that Tanya, an unauthorized, illegally transformed vampire, would have to remain where she rested, in a place unmarked but never unmourned. I heard dirt being shoveled back into her grave, and I shivered, knowing that Constantine himself was re-interring her. That bone-deep chill did not leave me even after retrieving my car and arriving safely home to change out of the plum-colored shiny-sequined dress and into a pair of worn-out flannel pajamas. The discarded dress was a reminder of how I had very nearly surrendered myself to Constantine's potent desires. I crawled, alone, into my bed and cried myself to sleep.

  * * * *

  When I awoke, it was Sunday afternoon. I had had a doozie of a weekend, and the events were freshly imprinted on my brain. Every bit of it: beginning with Constantine's private party in parlor B, the entrance of Donata and Sylvana, the horrible confrontation with Rasputin, my near seduction in Room 709, the metaphysical cunnilingus in the elevator, the release, if not rescue, of Tanya, the halving of Sylvana, and ending with Constantine's inhabiting my body. I had nearly died from that union. But how could I entirely fault him for it? If he hadn't acted, I would have been dead from Donata's wrath.

  So, it was now the Sabbath, and I was still alive, able to read the extra large Sunday edition of the Kanawha Gazetteer and learn some of the fall out from Friday night's bloodbath at the Constantinople. The front page article offered some interesting reading. Senior FBIC Agent Zellden had been suspended from active duty, pending an official investigation into the deaths of ten D.C. based agents under his command. The article, not written by Patrice Blanchard, was accurate. There were several quotes by Detective Traeger. First off, he reminded the public that no ‘civilian casualties had occurred during the failed capture of the suspects'. And, furthermore, ‘the Hotel Constantinople had cooperated fully in all official efforts to arrest the suspected individuals'. Traeger, bless his fair-minded little heart, was trying to do damage control for Constantine's business, trying to reassure the public that Charleston's premier five-star hotel was safe and secure. All the blame for the deaths, or so the article inferred, lay with Zellden, who had ordered the arrest and capture of the suspects, while not properly securing the area nor fully arming the FBIC team. No silver ammunition had been distributed as the assault force had been under orders to capture, not kill.

  "The bastard.” The paper rattled in my tense hands. Zellden had led those men to the slaughter. Why? I had no real clue, only speculations. To foment panic? To ratchet Charleston's hysteria level? To direct all that anger and fear at Constantine? Maybe. Or, maybe, Zellden was simply an incompetent SOB, anticipating a promotion, who had not realized the danger of trying to imprison a vampire progenitor.

  At least there had been no more deaths, other than the FBIC agents, all of whom had been brought in from the Washington DC area. I threw the paper down and called Trager's office. I left a message that I would be at the station around six that evening. But first, I wanted to stop at Ginny's. I hadn't seen or heard from her since our argument earlier in the week.

  After a quick brunch of toast and a cheese omelet, I threw on some jeans with a brown cotton shirt and drove to her place. I parked in the driveway. One of her neighbors, Mrs. Graves, a sweet grandmotherly woman, dressed in olive Bermudas and tan blouse, shaded with a wide-brimmed bonnet, a set of pruning shears in her gloved hands, waved me over.

  "Hallooo, Miss Soulsmith.” She plucked at a few dandelions and stoutly walked to the adjoining property line. “I've been keeping an eye on Ginny's place, too. She's not expected back from her mysterious trip for another day, at the least.” Mrs. Graves obviously wanted to know exactly where Ginny had gone. So would I. Her spontaneous trip was news to me.

  "I'm just checking in on the place, Mrs. Graves.” I smiled, wondering where the woman's pair of lethal chocolate brown poodles were hiding. Normally, when their owner was not looking, they surreptitiously attacked anyone in the vicinity of Ginny's yard. The postman had complained about them and even I had taken a bad bite on the ankle. However, oddly enough, they never attacked within view of Mrs. Graves. I cast a wary glance around the area, but the canine piranhas were no where to be seen on this warm and pleasant day. It definitely felt good to be outside. In sunshine. In daylight. And, it definitely felt good not to be assaulted by anything toothy, whether two or four legged.

  I walked across the stepping stones of Ginny's patch of lawn, noticing that the grass was getting a little long and weedy. Then I passed her barn-shaped mailbox. Its door was ajar. I saw a pile of mail in the box. I made out a few bills, a TV Guide, and sundry junk ... at least several days worth of accumulation. Casually, I gathered it up. Sharp-eyed Mrs. Graves still watched.

  I shivered. The summer warmth had faded. I hurried to Ginny's pretty Tudor house, used her spare key, the one she permanently left with me just as I always left keys for De Facto Self Defense with her, and I barged inside.

  "Ginny.” There was no answer. The silence closed upon me like a malevolent presence. I moved further into her comfortable, cramped living room with the black and white sectional couch. The room was dim. The blinds were all down. I cautiously moved forward. Everything was tidy. Nothing out of place. Yet, a knot of anxiety formed in my throat. The house, usually full of Ginny's energy, was quiet. Empty. Desolate. And, yet, not! A weird pre
sence echoed here.

  "Ginny?” I tried again, the quaver in my voice unnerving. I stepped closer to the couch and finally saw a rusty-colored spot on the immaculate upholstery. I examined the spot, recognizing it for a small pool of dried blood, shuddering at the implications. There was more of it, too. Drops and spots that marked a path either to or from Ginny's bedroom. The lump in my throat grew harder to swallow and the sense that something bad had happened in Ginny's pretty Tudor house grew harder to ignore.

  I followed the dried up, days old trail to the bedroom. Whatever ‘bad’ that had happened here had occurred inside. I stood in the hall for many, many fearful moments. Feeling off kilter, lightheaded, I did a vertical pushup against the closed door and I tiredly rested my face against the wood. When I mustered the courage to enter, I crossed an invisible barrier that raised football-sized gooseflesh on my arms, revved my heart beat, and made me feel very faint, like my immune system was fighting off a nasty invading virus.

  The room was empty. The bed, its sheets and pillows and comforter all rumpled, was smeared with more blood. I was trembling all over. I wavered unsteadily while something cold filtered through me, possibly a psychic imprint of the evil committed here. I had never before experienced such a flood of negativity. But, I speculated, was it from the horror of my discovery or from the malicious psychic aura, that imprint of evil, trapped in this place? Or something else entirely?

  "Buck up, Avna, this is no time to space out.” I forced myself further into the room regardless of the sickly impressions seeping into me. Little-by-little, as I searched Ginny's wardrobe, her vanity, her writing desk, I felt more like myself, queasy and off-kilter but more normal. It took nearly two hours and a half for me to drag myself throughout the entire house. I blamed the lengthy amount of time on being meticulous, but there was no denying that on my search I hauled around extra mental baggage with me, fear and worry and anxiety. My head was overstuffed, pounding.