by Jory Strong
Chapter One
Israel viewed the wonderland that was Las Vegas through the limousine windows. It was bright and extravagant and glittering, its brilliance hiding the darkness and shambles it made of lives. Tourists crowded The Strip, prey not just for the casinos but for the vampires drawn there like sharks to chum-reddened ocean.
And I’m any different?
Not that his descent into slavery had started in Vegas. It had started in Los Angeles, in a misguided attempt to gain another man’s attention by demonstrating that he wasn’t strictly gay.
He’d chosen the wrong woman for that display. Then he’d compounded that mistake by ingesting far too much vampire blood in too short a period of time without understanding that vampire intention shaped the nature of the bond.
It’d been too late by the time he figured it out. By then he was like any other junkie, willing to surrender a piece of his soul to get his fix.
Disgust. Regret. What was the point now?
And regardless of what he might feel, given their destination and his belief that Estelle waited for him there, his cock stiffened, a physical reaction, not one born in his heart. Though once he’d thought himself in love with her.
To Estelle, he was a novelty that had faded years ago. Except for the relief he gained by his own hand, or what mindless pleasure he managed with the vampires she’d allowed to take him in exchange for supplying their blood to sustain him, she hadn’t touched him sexually.
He turned from the window, the movement making him aware again of butter-soft leather seats, of his silent companion, Karen, of the perfumed scent of Estelle—both on Karen and in the car’s interior.
His cock throbbed when he would have preferred it to wither.
And what good would that do?
Blood and sex were now intimately entwined for him.
He was bound to Estelle, not by a companion bond, but one of slavery. Though in her defense, she didn’t treat her blood slaves like cattle, as dumb animals maintained in a herd and brought forth only to feed from. She didn’t treat them as toys to break and cast aside.
It was Karen who had Estelle’s attention, who fed directly from her vein, who pleasured Estelle and was pleasured in return, and had been for years, though she wasn’t the woman who’d been the first to replace him.
His gaze skimmed her lush figure, the full breasts he couldn’t compete with, the bronzed skin of a body far more exposed than his own, though the tights he’d been told to wear molded to his cock and emphasized muscled legs. His lack of a shirt meant the bars he wore in his nipples were visible temptation, even as the slave bands at his throat and wrists warned others against taking liberties.
Karen wore bands too, a safeguard necessary when out in public, and especially in clubs like Wyldfyres, where vampires gathered to fuck and feed, to indulge themselves in a wide variety of pleasure and excess.
The limousine turned then slowed. Every pounding beat of his heart announced his anticipation.
The driver double-parked abreast expensive cars but didn’t emerge to open their doors. Like them, he was a slave.
Israel exited the car, waiting for Karen to walk around and join him. They were of equal height, of similar coloring, her hair like his, cascading in black waves to the middle of her back, giving them the appearance of being a matched pair.
He opened the wrought iron gate and they proceeded along a walkway lined with night-blooming flowers. He found their scent cloying, stirring memories of visiting the funeral home as a child when his grandfather died.
The club’s entrance was hidden from the street, with good reason. Two vampires stood on either side of the doorway, fledglings he guessed, possibly being punished given their lack of clothing, or perhaps they found pleasure in being displayed.
A wide, tight cock ring stretched the male guard’s penis, while slim chains tethered to nipple rings and strung taut kept his cock head lifted. It bobbed with Israel’s glance, the hole in its tip glistening like a tear leaking from an eye.
He looked away.
The female at the other side of the door was similarly outfitted, though instead of piercings and cock ring, she wore clamps on her nipples and clit, the thin chains connecting them adorned with weights.
“We’re expected,” Karen said.
As a pair, the vampires opened the doors to reveal an elegant, tiled foyer, its walls decorated with graphically erotic paintings and photographs.
Moans of pleasure escaped into the night air. They were followed by the slap of flesh against flesh.
Inside, the scent of sex replaced the smell of flowers. Israel glanced to the right, halted, turning fully to watch as those who wished to have their activities whet the appetites of the newly arrived, or were merely too lazy or enthralled to venture deeper into the club, had stopped to play.
A male companion gripped the back of a chair. The pendant identifying and protecting him swayed, glinting in the light as he was taken from behind by a man as dark as the companion was white.
Various scenes played out in the room, male and female vampires being serviced with mouths on their genitals while others fed at necks and breasts and at the insides of thighs. But it was the male vampire and his companion who held Israel’s attention and had him fighting against grasping his cock as their faces contorted in ecstasy, the human partner’s semen jetting when his vampire lover came.
Dark hands left pale hips, moving upward and around. The companion’s slick back was pulled against a solid, ebony chest. Vampire lips sought and found tender neck, fangs emerging, piercing.
Israel’s throat closed. Longing shuddered through him. He looked away, not wanting to contemplate unfulfilled dreams, unfulfilled hopes, the unfulfilled life that had become his sentence for ignorance and failure.
Female cries drew his attention. A willowy redhead without either slave bands or companion pendant writhed in the throes of pleasure while a male vampire drank from her femoral artery.
Israel’s cock leaked. Once the sight of a woman’s pleasure wouldn’t have aroused him but now it did.
Vampires—a cure for homosexuality. Who’d have guessed?
His lips kicked up.
Only to turn downward when the woman’s cries became moans. Then the silence of someone who’d moved beyond ecstasy and onto the road leading to death.
Her hands flopped like weak, beached fish struggling to get back to the ocean.
Israel took a step forward.
Karen’s hand gripped his upper arm. Crimson-tipped nails dug into his flesh. “Not your business.”
He jerked his arm free. He still had his humanity. He wouldn’t stand by and watch someone die.
She grabbed him again. The scent of Estelle’s perfume assailed him.
The vampire lifted his head, signaling an end to the feeding. With lithe grace he stood and walked away.
Israel ducked his head to avoid eye contact, only breathing again when the vampire passed and the barest whimper said the human remained alive. Karen’s nails dug into his bare forearm as if she feared he’d delay them further by going to the woman. “Tell someone inside if you must.”
He allowed her to pull him from the foyer, going through a door on the left rather than traveling down a wide hallway that ended at a staircase guarded by vampires far different than the ones at the club’s entrance, though they were all lethal.
A human slave in a minuscule dress was stationed to collect clothing. “There’s a woman in the foyer—”
“I’ll have her seen to.”
It was the best he could do.
He and Karen moved deeper into the club, past couches, loveseats and chairs, all of them occupied by couples or multiples, all of the furniture wide and heavy, all of the furnitu
re sporting openings or rings for tethering, all of it slick with sweat and blood, semen and lubrication.
Music pulsed through the air, beating against his skin and through the soles of his feet, a frenetic dark cadence his heart followed then tried to flee. This wasn’t his scene. This wasn’t where he wanted to be. This was hell garishly masquerading as heaven.
They entered a room that could have been an extravagantly themed nightclub in any one of the casino hotels. Color danced off rounded columns reminiscent of those in Greek and Roman temples. It struck and was reflected in golden collars worn by slaves, many of them naked.
The scent of alcohol and sex and blood permeated air that vibrated with pleasure overlaid onto heady, aphrodisiac-inducing fear.
Life and death could both be had in this place, laced with ecstasy.
He shuddered. Better to be ignored by Estelle than to be part of the entertainment, where the driving beat of song was like vulgar maestro or manic ringmaster in a carnal circus, snuffing out reason and overriding inhibition.
Habit drew his gaze to the bar where the man behind it created a fiery drink for an appreciative audience. The sight caught him in memory, taking him back to the life he’d had before Estelle, before he understood vampires were reality rather than myth, before he became a slave. To Terach and the attraction that had driven him to prove he could handle a relationship with a partner who was also attracted to women—who was more attracted to women than to men.
He and Terach had never been lovers though their conversations had moved well beyond the superficial. Lust had surged between them, full of fiery heat made more so by Terach’s reluctance to act on it.
From the moment Terach had first stepped up to the bar to order a drink, he’d believed they were meant for each other. He’d believed in destiny, fate.
Or I was delusional. Searching for love in a stranger’s eyes.
And look where that had landed him.
Would he go back to ignorance if he could? Knowing as he did now that Terach was a vampire?
Pointless. There’s no going back.
He twisted a nipple bar, embracing the pain. There was only going forward, somehow clinging to his humanity and the hope that ultimately this path would take him to the thing he had always wanted, the committed relationship of marriage in the everyday world that was defined in this one by the title of companion.
“I don’t see her,” he said, scanning the area, refusing to use the term Mistress when he didn’t have to, permission to use Estelle’s name revoked with the ejection from her bed.
Karen shrugged, her hand locked around the slave bracelet at her wrist.
Israel’s gaze returned to the bar. He battled against a swell of helplessness at having no money, no way of buying a drink to eradicate the dryness in his mouth and throat. Pride kept him from saying anything to Karen. Caution kept him at her side rather than mingling with others and risking Estelle’s anger now that he’d apparently regained her favor.
Time moved to the beat of the music, fast and slow, then fast again. Despite the desire to be elsewhere, his body reacted, need pooling in his testicles, his cock throbbing in the presence of the dancing, the sex, the feeding.
Two women wearing slave bands arrived. The blonde had one blue eye and one green. She said, “Master Amadeus sent us. We’ll escort him now.”
“Estelle just wants him?” Karen asked, an edge of panic in her voice that her status had just plummeted.
The brunette slave glanced at Karen. “You’re to leave the club now. Those are the instructions we were given.”
Karen turned and left without a word. He nearly pitied her until he caught that same look directed at him but quickly masked by the brunette.
His pulse surged. He chilled.
The blonde said, “Come with us.”
The two of them sandwiched him, guiding him toward an open doorway set in a column next to the disc jockey’s booth. His breathing grew shallow, his skin slick with sweat at gaining the sudden attention of the vampires they passed.
They stared at him. Some with hungry gazes. Others with speculative anticipation.
He tried to force his heartbeat into a slow cadence but it was impossible. His cock softened, becoming flaccid.
Dread iced his skin when he caught the stare of the male vampire who’d left his food limp and near dead in the foyer. His uneasiness deepened when that vampire’s hand dropped to the crop clipped onto a belt loop.
They passed through the opening in the column and into a narrow hallway marked by closed rooms leaking menace. He slowed but the blonde’s closeness at his back drove him forward like a herding dog at the heels of livestock.
The brunette stopped, impeding forward movement and effectively ushering him into a tiny dressing room. She blocked the doorway, allowing the blonde enough room to pass behind her, then return holding a small circular tray with a golden key in its center.
“Your mistress has surrendered you to Wyldfyres,” the blonde said.
His heart tripped into a faster beat. He swayed on his feet, hand darting out to brace against the wall. His eyes and throat and chest burned, a scorching heat that became a battle against the shakes, a battle for breath, a battle not to drop to the floor and pray it opened for a quick, six-foot descent into the grave.
“Why?” he asked, pushing the words out, though in the end they were irrelevant.
“I overheard Master Amadeus tell someone else that she’s going to Europe for an extended stay and wants to travel with a smaller entourage.” The blonde shrugged. “Be glad she cared enough to send you here rather than just turn you out in the street. With your looks, you’ll be claimed by someone.”
Bitterness came like oily sludge, a dark wash of it that nearly choked him. “Claimed how?”
The brunette answered, “You’ll exit through the column door when it’s your turn. There’s a performance area marked by a change in floor color. You must remain in it until whatever song has been selected to designate your entry is finished. Dance or do nothing. The choice is yours. It’s up to you to entice a vampire’s interest.”
He couldn’t suppress the shudder that came with thoughts of the vampire who’d stroked the crop.
The blonde extended her arm so the tray she held was inches from his chest. “You can remove the bands or we’ll do it.”
He picked up the key, struggled to keep his hand steady. The collar’s lock clicked open, sounding loud in the crypt-like space. He placed the band on the tray then did the same to the thick bracelets around his wrists.
He fought a sudden lightheadedness as the sigil-etched gold that symbolized his nightmare became an anchor to safety he’d been wrenched from in bloody, predator-filled waters.
The blonde handed the jewelry-laden tray to her companion. “Your clothing next.”
He stripped out of the tights he’d detested putting on but now hated to part with.
She took them from him.
His heart sped again. Icy talons raked through his belly. “And if I’m not claimed?”
“Then you’re considered free.”
He laughed, a harsh, nearly wild sound. There was no true freedom for someone like him. The slave-bond and the need for vampire blood continued to exist. In proximity to Estelle, others could serve in her stead, but separated by an ocean…
The blonde glanced past him at blank walls as if unwilling to look at him and consider that his fate might one day be hers. Fingering the collar on her neck, she said, “If you haven’t been claimed, you’re welcome to remain at Wyldfyres until the club closes so you can attempt to gain a master or mistress.”
“And the rules that apply to me?”
“If you stay, you’ll be subject to the same ones that govern any human who enters without protection.”
Pity flickered in the brunette’s eyes. “If you’d prefer to leave, signal one of us and we’ll return your clothing and escort you out.”
They left, closing and locking the door behind the
m. His skin pebbled and his heart stuttered before beating frantically. The acrid smell of fear stung his nostrils. The room shrunk as if he were a discarded pet left unwanted at a shelter and placed in a tiny cage.
If not claimed, he had no rights here, not even to life. If cast out of the club at the end of the night and left to wander, the empty void of the bond with its howling, never-ending need for connection and blood would drive him insane.
He shuddered. He’d seen slaves allowed to go mad, some of them left to wander the street, others chained to walls, barking like crazed dogs.
Taking his cock in hand, he did what survival instinct demanded. He worked at becoming aroused so that he might capture a vampire’s attention and avoid a fate worse than death.
* * *
Terach lurked beyond the street lights creating an illusion of safety in the rough area surrounding the homeless shelter. The scent of unwashed humans and their evening meal drifted out through an open window.
If he strained, he could hear Cia beneath the sound of a colicky baby and the never-ending drone of a television. For him, everything about her had become an irresistible draw, like an offered neck or a heated fist grasping his cock to guide it home.
Night air caressed his skin. Moonlight beat down on him with the incessant call to hunt.
He struggled to keep his fangs sheathed. He’d long since given up trying to control his cock. It had been in a constant state of throbbing hardness from the moment Detective Cia Caldwell had arrived at his sire’s club on police business.
His only relief from the constant ache of unfulfilled desire came during the day when his heart ceased beating. He’d been alive for centuries, but now each night passed with the slow crawl of eternity—thanks to his sire’s command that he court the woman he’d already claimed.
Terach didn’t need Gian’s edict. He knew what it was like to be owned by another, to have no free choice at all. To be a slave passed around at a drunken party or one sent to a visitor’s tent to be used in whatever manner appealed to his owner’s guest.
In his human life he’d gone without food until he became little more than a stick figure. He’d gone without the touch of any, save those who reviled or owned him.
