Eternal Bondage

by Vita Anne Hoffman

  Our chase continued down the narrow streets. Rasputin, his gait lumbering yet preternaturally fast, was almost on my heels. Any moment now Rasputin would fling me down in a ravening feast. He would rip open my throat and sup of that bloody geyser. Then, worse yet, he would infuse me with something of himself. He would gain me as a disciple. He would own me forever.

  Panic fueled me for a goodly stretch, but I was nearly drained. I glanced at several darkened doorways but decided not to trap myself in any unfamiliar surrounding. My exertion—and my terror, the pure unadulterated kind—nearly sledge hammered my brains out the top of my skull. As my body flagged, I couldn't even seem to coax any juice, any supernatural oomph or boost, from Constantine's signet ring. I had used up that paranormal reservoir. Its warmth had turned stone cold, but still I clutched it in my pumping fist.

  I was barely outrunning the gruesome thing behind me. Noises came from Rasputin. Mostly a hissing, sibilant laugh. And I knew I could not outpace him much further. When I sped by the salt depot, I re-scanned the lot for help or a place to hide. But, as I had expected, there was no guard on duty. The gate was padlocked. I kept running. Rasputin kept following.

  In that instant of ultimate grief, I heard a train's piercing whistle, alerting the night that it was thundering over a railroad crossing. I narrowed the distance enough to faintly hear its chug and clack, to see its rhythm and sway, to almost feel its roll and rumble over the ground. There WAS an escape for me! Hot tears poured down my cheek. I ran for the tracks, gasping for breath with every jarring step, intending to put myself beyond Rasputin's reach. He couldn't reanimate the dead, now, could he?

  When the smothering, diesel-fueled wash of the train, a many wheeled speeding juggernaut, gusted against me, Rasputin belatedly understood how close his prize was from slipping out of his grasp. He bellowed curses, throaty and deep, that assaulted me physically. I stumbled. My fist tightened around the golden talisman in my hand, and I recovered my stride.

  The train clickety-clacked louder the closer I came. The cross bars were down. Warning lights flashed red. I was almost there! Its roaring passage shook through my body. Cylindrical chemical cars were linked together in that furious procession, broken by a single car heaped with logs. Then at the rear came coal cars, all thundering past with a loud rhythmic metallic drumming. Chugga-chugg-chugg, Chugga-chugg-chugg. Chugga-chugg-chugg. But there were so few cars left! The freight train had almost passed beyond me. With a sob, I ran pell-mell for the last car, which, in this unromantic day and age was no longer a true caboose, just a simple black box car ... whose churning wheels, nevertheless, would do their job well. In a constant heated current, diesel scented air fanned me.

  I was so close that all I had to do was take one more giant leap.

  Rasputin's horrible, dagger-like claws curled over my shoulders.

  "NOOOOOOOO!!!” My shrill scream, a denial of him stronger even than the order which had made him choke on a mouthful of my blood, reverberated endlessly. Like a supernatural war cry, it empowered me, focused me, saved me. I whipped out of his hold, whirling around while dropping down on my haunches. I watched an overbalanced Rasputin fly in a slow-motion arc over my head and under the wheels of the freight train. I read the comprehension on his misshapen face as he realized that he was being propelled by his own momentum—and a slight mental push from me—to his grisly end.

  I turned my head away so as not to truly witness the sight, but there was no way to keep the awful bone-crushing, head-busting, blood-spurting sounds from my ears. Within that strange elasticity of time, they lasted a satisfactorily long while although the train soon vanished into dark nothingness.

  I stayed sprawled exhaustedly on the gravel next to the tracks. Too close to them for safety's sake, I realized. I rolled over a few times to put me a short distance from the oozing wet patches of goo and masses of fleshy gop spread over the shiny rails, the gray gravel, and the surrounding roadway. Try as I might, without even having witnessed the accident, I could still mentally picture the shattered, scattered bits of Rasputin with such clarity as to know that one clawed forearm rested on a railroad tie, a portion of torso decorated a sandy patch beside the rails, while his skull and brains were strewn widely over the entire area. I rolled over again onto my stomach and retched. I came to my hands and knees, shaky, sickened, weak.

  It took a long time to draw a steady nourishing breath, one which did not threaten to heave up my stomach. A footstep crunched on the gravels. Somehow, I was unafraid. Somehow, I knew it was Thomas. He favored his battered leg. I craned my neck up to watch his advance. He hobbled toward me, halting when he stood nearly atop me. The dark of night did not obscure his handsome features, for I still saw with vision akin to his vampire kind. But I could not fathom the strange look which he gave me. Was it concern? Worry? Fear?

  He reached out an elegantly slender arm which I accepted. Effortlessly, he lifted me to my feet.

  "Thanks,” I said very softly. I did have a surge of gratitude toward him. If not for his intervention, my poor excuse for a wedding would have proceeded as planned. I would even now be in thrall to Rasputin.

  Thomas, with his unruly black lock of hair falling over his eyes, suddenly seemed unwilling to return my gaze. Instead, he looked at the ugly spatterings left in the train's wake. “Don't thank me yet.” His own usually cultured voice sounded rough.

  "What do you mean? Rasputin's gone. Squashed. I'm safe. Thanks, in some part, to you.” I tried to understand his strange meaning. “Right?"

  His voice this time mocked me. We were standing nearly nose-to-nose, yet he still kept his eyes averted. “Safe. Right."

  As I stood rooted there, facing and confronting Thomas, still unconsciously gripping the gold signet ring which had at one point gone cold and lifeless, I once more heard the warning crunch of gravel, this time from behind me. At the sound of this new footfall, and the accompanying awareness that we were not alone, the ring throbbed in my fist. Terrified, I dropped it to the ground.

  Thomas’ eyes did, then, collide with mine. There was pain and anguish there. “Please, don't turn around.” He was begging. His hands gripped at my arms.

  I knew what he was trying to spare me before I smelled that awful smell, of a burned body, and heard that awful sound, of flesh crackling like burned parchment, as a second pair of hands—fire ravaged hands—grasped me from behind. I bit back the words of fear and loathing that sought to burst from me—words such as “Oh, my god! No! Don't touch me!"

  For it was Constantine, or, more properly, the severely burned and badly blistered shell that remained of Constantine, standing at my back. His essence felt fragile and stretched thin as a tungsten filament. I knew what he wanted, what he craved, what he needed to survive. Me. My blood. Yet, if I should shout aloud my fear and disgust and openly refuse him, he would not be able to act. I knew without a doubt that he could not partake of me should I voice a denial.

  But, even wanting to save him, how could I stand here passively and allow a vampire, a progenitor, supreme amongst his race and a master amongst mine, to feed off of me? Allow him, the most seductive of seducers, to drink god-alone-knew-how-much of my life's blood and with that intimate consumption gain an equally unknown amount of, in his own words, my mind, body, and soul? Could I, Soulsmith that I was, heal him? Did I dare risk trying? Before I could reach a decision, one of his blackened arms snaked around my rib cage, dragging me against his blistered peeling body. Constantine's poor hands, the most severely ruined expanse of skin upon him, crackled like pork rinds with every movement. I opened my mouth to let loose a scream, a rejection, and found myself far too late.

  Constantine struck. Fangs, long and piercing, claimed the vulnerable pulse at the side of my throat, sucking with a fierceness that dizzied me. The sensation was almost worse than that of Rasputin's bite, for there was absolutely no control, much less gentleness or tenderness, in the action. He gnawed, hard, deepening the punctures, trying to draw the entire side of my neck into his
mouth. I cried out against his harsh invasion, his brutal force, his unrelenting ferocity. My heart pounded an erratic, panicked beat inside my head. He coaxed that rapid pulse to increase by stroking at my breasts. As he feasted, my blood circulated harder, faster. It churned throughout me, eager to join him! Spots were in my eyes, causing the sight of Thomas to waver. I had suffered some blood loss even before this assault. And Constantine was working fast, siphoning with a ravenous unfettered appetite, diverting the flood of my life into himself.

  Thomas watched with avid attention, but there was shock in his eyes, and compassion upon his face. Yet, he did not stop the centuries old progenitor who greedily gulped down my blood. And I was too far gone to do, or say, anything. My throat had already constricted beyond the possibility of speech. I silently beseeched Constantine's newest servant to save me, afraid that it was already too late. My entire body was shuddering. Cold seeped into my bones. I was going into shock. My eyelids fluttered. I was so tired, and Constantine was still so hungry. One tiny disjointed thought consoled me: if he bled me dry, without exchanging blood—and I was in no condition to swallow anything—then at least I would not wake up one of the living dead. I gave a wistful smile. I was going to best him in the end.

  Constantine's mouth stopped working. He whispered brokenly, vocal cords husky and abraded, into my ear. “You'll not escape me so easily. Sleep, my love, sleep.” Instantly I did as he bid me. And the world was gone.

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  Chapter Twenty

  Magic Hemoglobin

  A nightmarish surge of adrenaline awoke me in a panic. My befuddled mind, pounding and straining, bereft of whether it was day or night, whether I was safe or in jeopardy, whether I was alive or undead, crashed awake as if from a turbulent, lengthy, horrendous fall. I jerked upright, sitting straight up in bed, knocking my head hard against ... the ceiling?

  "Ouch.” I rubbed at a fast rising knot. Realization, almost as swift as wakefulness, came to me. “Damn.” I knew, then, that I wasn't in my own home, in my own bed, nor had I cracked my forehead on my own ‘ceiling'. So, where was my completely disoriented self, exactly? Surprisingly, my scrambled mind knew, or sensed, that I was in Constantine's plush-cushioned, satin-lined, murkily-unlighted coffin. The other, cloudier questions of why and how I came to be here could wait to be investigated.

  First things first! Being so upsettingly clueless, I frantically scanned myself for injuries, for evidence, for inappropriate hickies. But, since the interior was dark, I had to mentally survey myself. Everything seemed okay. I had all ten fingers and toes. The rest of me also seemed to be in working order, so I broadened my senses beyond my own self, and I realized that there was fresh, crisp, almost pure oxygen being pumped into the coffin for me, but also, I supposed ... for Constantine's burns! My tangled memories were gradually unknotting! I vaguely remembered him being set afire by Snitch!

  Nor, as I closed my eyes and focused on fitting together the disparate pieces of my memory, I registered with a hard irregular breath, was I alone. I felt him lying beside me, stretched out full length upon his side. In an instant a multitude of terrors revisited me. I remembered my living nightmare. Of flames. Of pain. Of a marriage. Of rescue. Of Constantine ... and of me.

  His voice, as velvety and smooth as ever, came from out of the dark next to me. “Your wakefulness is unexpected.” There was also a touch of annoyance.

  "I'll just bet.” And I shuffled my behind as far from him as possible, which was mere inches considering that we were in a coffin, however spacious.

  He heaved a much-put-upon sigh. “Shield your eyes. There's a tap light overhead, installed just for you.” His cranky warning barely gave me time to react.

  I only just averted my head, squinted against the soft glow. I did not want to, nor did I, look at the prone form next to mine. I didn't want to see his scarred, blistered, peeling skin or, worst of all, the ruined flesh of his arms and hands. Presumably, evidenced by my presence HERE, in his coffin-for-two, I had nourished him back to some semblance of his former existence. But what of his spoiled beauty? The idea of a disfigured Constantine was ghastly.

  Even so my treacherous body hummed in response to him. I scrunched my eyes closed tighter, held my breath, both shuddered and cringed when his hand, that horribly blackened, crisped appendage, found its way to my hip and slowly roved up the length of my side to my rib cage and then higher where it cupped my breast. That nipple, indeed, my entire traitorously wanton self, reacted, blossomed, swelled.

  Shock made my eyes fly wide. It was appalling that I could be sexually aroused by a single grope from a vampire—even a progenitor who had once been as physically gorgeous, as exquisitely perfect as Constantine HAD BEEN. My crotch was throbbing and wet, my stomach clenched and constricted, my breath went ragged and raspy. I was repelled by my desire for his caress. Then, it dawned on me that the hand which so seductively touched me felt supple and warm. But weren't his hands ruined?

  Slowly, hopefully, I looked him full in the face. His were the same sculpted, masculine features as ever, the sinful mouth, the aristocratic nose and chin, the icy blue eyes framed by luxurious coal black waves of hair! Without thinking, I traced shaking fingers across his full bottom lip, reveling in the smooth soft skin, snatching them back when he began to suck them into his mouth.

  He remained motionless, watchful, while I unashamedly gazed down the whole of his perfect, nearly naked body. I traversed his broad muscled chest, his slim tapered waist, the huge bulge straining at his burgundy boxers, then roved appreciatively on to his thighs and calves and on to his sexy feet and toes. Having completed my lusty inventory, especially after a second lingering look at his crotch where I had a skanky, un-Avna-like urge to expose him—to bare him and to blow him!—I returned my gaze back to his face. He had likewise been studying my reactions.

  "You're healed?” All the blistered ravages were gone from him! All the raw, skinless patches were healed! So, too, the charred, blackened skin on his hands and arms! But I had to be sure. Trembling, I began to reach out to physically touch him again, to test this vision, but I stopped short of stroking his cheek in fear of destroying a mirage. Instead of touching HIM, I stroked at my own neck, wonderingly. I felt no marks! Surely, there should be some scab or sore? He had ripped into me like a starving man there beside the railroad tracks. And now ... he was restored. After having drunk very, very deeply from me.

  I couldn't help grinning, although I didn't want Constantine to see such happiness at his recovery. In response to my dopey smile, Constantine's hand squeezed my breast, proof that the lecher was undeniably improved. I huffed and slapped his hand away. It was then I discovered that I was, much to my embarrassment, now draped in a long gauzy see-thru dress of crinkled linen, my pink nipples and dark curls visible through the thin material as I sat upright in the fairly confined, dimly lit, cool space—hence the bump on the head, which I had knocked on the coffin's lid.

  "Exactly what the hell am I wearing?"

  He smirked. “Just a gown chosen to make you ... as comfortable as possible."

  "And to make me as exposed as possible,” I muttered.

  Constantine, lounging upon his side, slanting his head to flick a gaze up and down my body, merely answered with a rakish lift of one eyebrow.

  Defensively, I pulled my knees in tighter to my body, wrapped my arms around them, and noticed that there was bandaging on my inner arm. I began picking at it as a distraction from the thrill in my pussy.

  "What's this?"

  "Exactly what it looks like.” He drawled lazily. “Don't take it off or Haley will have my hide. As, indeed, would all my people if any harm were to now befall their Soulsmith. Your welfare is of great concern to all my clan."

  "'Sez you.” I scowled, peeling back a corner of the large band aid. “Why do I have it?"

  "Because, I needed to feed from you in a less ... aggressive ... manner. Haley drew blood for me. To control the amount. And the frequency.” A cre
ase of irritation marred his brow, and his jaw had a sudden tic. “The others, the twins, Thomas, even Josh Warner, had the insolence to insist I not feed in the conventional way. They feared another frenzy.” The small tic disappeared because he clenched his jaw, then added, “I am in control now, as I was not upon that night beside the railway crossing."

  "I'm glad somebody cared about my welfare. A good strategy, that, to keep you from accidentally drinking me dry.” Anger fairly oozed out of me.

  "I have no defense. Your taste, everything about you, is indescribable.” Those throaty words, the passion within his brilliant light blue eyes, spoke of more than just blood. Constantine angled his head to better ogle my outrageously clad, virtually naked, form.

  I reflexively pulled my knees tighter to my chest, and clasped my arms harder about them. I was keenly aware of the close quarters, our total privacy, his obvious erection.

  "Deviant.” Of course, that would put him in his place!

  He gave a soft snort, not a denial, more a laugh at my stating the obvious. “Guilty as charged, my little Soulsmith."

  "Look, Constantine, I'll ignore being kept naked as a jaybird if you tell me what happened. My memory is still pretty fragmented. I'm foggy on a lot of details. I've lost all track of time.” I wet my lips and asked the next question which I almost dreaded having answered. “How long have I been here?"

  "Just a short while.” Constantine's eyes, always so compelling over the course of our acquaintance, hooded.

  That made me suspicious. “A short while, huh? Can you be a little more specific. How many days? Three, five, seven?"

  "Time is relative.” He ran an index finger up and down the top of my bare foot, and focused on the repetitive motion. He was hoping that it would snare me, as well. “And it is also unimportant. I had a great need of you. I still do."

  "Is that why I'm so fuzzy in the memory department? Because you've kept me,” I searched for the proper phrase, “out of it? You kept me on tap, so to speak,” I gulped, “because you NEEDED me to heal. The first time we met you bragged about your amazing recuperative powers.” I propped my chin upon my folded knees and studied Constantine intently. “I didn't believe. Especially not about you being immune to fire."