Forsaken Fae: The Complete Series, Books 1-3 (Last Vampire World)

by Steffan, R. A.

  Zorah choked on a snort of laughter. Albigard jerked back physically from the insult, though Len could have sworn his pupils dilated even as his lips curled into a snarl.

  “Filthy creature. One need look no further to see that this world is a cesspool of deviance and corruption,” he bit out. “We should have ceded it to the demons at the end of the last war.”

  Rans shrugged easily. “Couldn’t agree more, mate. On the last part, at least.”

  Zorah raised an eyebrow. “Yeah... or you could’ve, I dunno, left it to the humans since it’s our freaking planet.”

  Albigard met her gaze with a hard stare of his own. “And a lovely job you’ve been doing with it so far.”

  It was a sore point, and not just for the two vampires. Demons and Fae had been enemies since before Homo sapiens started banging rocks together to make tools. It was humanity’s bad luck that the Earth happened to be smack in the middle between the Demon realm of Hell and the Fae realm of Dhuinne, with gateways leading to each. Humans hadn’t stood a chance, and had ended up as part of the spoils when the Fae had come out on top a couple of hundred years ago.

  Up until recently, the Fae had been content to influence things from behind the scenes. That seemed to be changing... hence the mess with the dying political leaders and deadly magical battles at Stonehenge. But Albigard’s reaction to Len was more than his species’ general disdain for humanity. It was personal. It was also getting on Len’s last nerve right now.

  He sighed. “All right, Blondie. I’m sure I’ll regret this... but I’ll bite. I know why I hate your guts. After all, the first time we met, you tried to control my mind. But I’m less clear on whatever it was I originally did to piss on your cornflakes. Up until the punching incident, I was actually trying to be polite.”

  Green eyes fell on him, lifting gooseflesh on his neck and arms.

  “You reek of death,” said the Fae. “It’s repulsive to me.”

  Len’s breath caught, a chill washing over him as the two vampires looked between them curiously. He fought off the unwelcome feeling and firmed his jaw.

  “Yeah, okay. Death. I’m pretty sure that’s actually Drakkar Noir, but whatever you say, bro.” Then, to the others, “Are we going, then? And before we do, is there any aspirin or ibuprofen in this place? My left eyeball feels like it’s about to pound its way straight out of the socket. Can’t imagine why.”

  Rans shot him a vaguely sympathetic look. “Yes, we’re going, and it’s probably easier to stop at a drugstore along the way than to paw through this mausoleum of a house searching.”

  Len nodded. “Just so you realize you’ll be fronting me the cash for it, since I have no wallet, no phone, and no ID with me.”

  “It’s our treat,” Zorah said quickly. “We can stop by a fast food place or something, too, if you want.”

  Len did want, since he’d been busy making dinner when the soul-sucking monster from the Endless Void had interrupted things. “Deal. Dinner for three; two liquid diets.”

  “Quite so,” Rans said. “Alby, invite the nice human into the wards before we leave. It’s only polite.”

  Albigard sighed, looking deeply put-upon. “What is the creature’s full name?”

  Len tilted his head, poker-faced. “The creature’s name is Len Grayson, asshole. And I’m really starting to wonder why you cultivate this level of offensiveness with people who are supposed to be on your side.” He backtracked quickly. “Not to imply that I’m on your side. I meant them, obviously.” He pointed at the others.

  The Fae’s lips twitched with irritation. “Len Grayson, you are welcome in this house,” he bit out, sounding anything but welcoming. “You will now be able to see past the wards, should you need to gain entrance again.”

  “Awesome,” Len told him. “Be still my heart.”

  “I think that’s my line,” Rans murmured, never one to pass up a bad vampire joke. “Come along. Let’s go see about getting the pimpmobile out of mothballs.”

  THREE

  LEN RAN HIS HAND over the chipping red paint on the 1978 Lincoln Continental as he walked around it, giving it a critical onceover.

  “Not a single bullet hole in it that wasn’t there before—I promise,” Rans told him. “It ran like a dream during the earlier trip from St. Louis, by the way—though you might want to schedule an oil change before too long.”

  Len shot him a dark look. “Don’t make fun of my car’s bullet holes, okay? They—”

  “—add character,” Zorah chimed in with him. “We know. Now let’s get going. I’m starving, and I feel like shit.”

  Len could relate to that, but Rans apparently had more to say on the subject of Zorah’s woes.

  “This is what happens when you accept a gift from a Fae,” he said. “I did try to warn you.”

  Zorah glared at him. “You might have tried warning me before the fact, rather than after the fact. But as long as you find me a nice sex club full of perverts I can feed from, I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

  Rans shrugged and opened the passenger-side door for her. “As you wish.”

  Len gave them a look. “I hope you two truly appreciate how weird you both are.”

  “Says the man with bondage rigging stored under his car seat,” Rans retorted without missing a beat as he let himself into the back seat. “Go on, then. Keys are in the ignition.”

  Len opened the driver’s door and confirmed that, yes, they were—fuzzy dice on the key ring and all. “You abandoned my car in Chicago, unlocked... and left the keys in it?”

  “The entire property’s invisible,” Zorah said. “As home security systems go, it’s a pretty good one.”

  He shook his head in disbelief as he settled into the seat, sliding it back and adjusting the mirrors to accommodate his taller frame. Holding his breath, he turned the key, giving the car a bit of gas at the same time. The engine turned over and started purring happily, just like always.

  Len let his breath out. “Okay, good. I concede that you didn’t trash my car. Thanks for that, at least.”

  “Give me a bit of credit,” Rans said in a tone of offense. “It would be a crime to damage a vehicle with this much...”

  “Character?” Zorah offered, deadpan.

  “I was going to say history,” Rans replied.

  “It was cheap, okay? I’m not made of money, unlike some people,” Len muttered. He let the engine warm up, listening with half an ear for the idle speed to drop as the carburetor choke opened. “Where am I going, anyway? Someone’s going to have to play navigator; it’s been ages since I was in Chicago.”

  “We’re in Homer Glen,” Zorah told him. “The house backs up to the Messenger Woods Nature Preserve. It’s not far from Interstate 80. If we get on the highway, we’ll find a fast food place along the way and probably an adult video store. Then Rans and I can mesmerize the porn shop employees and customers until we find someone who knows where the underground scene is downtown.”

  “Gee. It’s almost like you two have had practice at this,” Len said, as he put the Lincoln in gear and carefully backed out of the garage. “Imagine that.”

  * * *

  One skeevy porn store, a double cheeseburger, and a large order of greasy fries later, they were driving into one of the less savory areas of downtown Chicago. The city had always struck Len as a larger version of St. Louis, only with somewhat better tourist infrastructure—but the grungy parts were every bit as grungy as in his home town. And, of course, everything was worse after the panic of the past week, with the world’s leaders dying mysteriously every morning, like clockwork.

  Last Len had checked, the Secretary of Defense had been in charge of the country, after the Secretary of the Treasury resigned, rather than be sworn in as President and risk dropping dead the next day. Most of the major cities had rioting going on, at least to some degree. Chicago was no exception. That being said, people weren’t burning and looting the slums and red light districts. Why would they, when there were perfectly good
business districts they could burn and loot instead?

  Len suspected there was a curfew in place—certainly, there was one in St. Louis—but finding enough police officers to enforce it outside of the hot zones of social unrest was something else entirely.

  It took a bit of detouring around blockades and road closures, but they eventually ended up where they needed to be. Len couldn’t help noticing that his car began to fit in better with the surrounding vibe the closer they got to the purported location of the Booby Trap—a sex club name which was either utterly brilliant, or a red flag so big you could use it to rally Stalin’s army.

  Either way, this wasn’t going to be the sort of club that catered to Len’s personal tastes; that much was clear. However, since he was here on business rather than pleasure, it hardly mattered. As long as it was open, it would work for their purposes tonight.

  Before Zorah, he’d never tied up a woman. Since Zorah, he’d tied up a few. Len was as gay as they came—a solid six on the Kinsey Scale. He could appreciate aesthetics, though. And he could really appreciate flexibility; something a large percentage of the guys he’d tied up could use some serious help with.

  The Booby Trap fell rather unexpectedly on the ‘pleasant surprise’ end of the sex-club spectrum. It was discreet—if not for the small group of suggestively dressed people waiting outside the unmarked door, Len would have been hard-pressed to know if they were in the right place.

  The bouncer stationed at the entrance looked like the kind of guy who could enforce the rules—physically, if need be—without even breaking a sweat. Personally, Len found that fact reassuring rather than worrying. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was here with a pair of vampires—to be honest, that took all the challenge out of getting through the door.

  Rans and Zorah probably would have passed muster on looks alone. ‘Night-creature chic’ wasn’t a thousand miles away from ‘sex-club chic,’ since both involved black leather and looking like a badass. When the bouncer eyed Len up and down from his six-inch advantage in height, however, the outcome was not so certain. The baggy jeans and white tank top Len had been wearing around the house before he’d been Fae-napped didn’t exactly constitute club-wear, and a glance in the pimpmobile’s rearview mirror earlier had confirmed that his blue fauxhawk was not at its best right now.

  A frown furrowed the bouncer’s heavy brows, and he drew breath to speak. Rans caught his gaze, blue eyes flaring with a hint of inner light. “Our mate here is just the sort of bloke your boss would approve of,” he said easily. “You want to let him in.”

  The guy blinked, his face smoothing. “You can all go on in.”

  “Thanks!” Zorah chirped, shooting him a winning smile without a hint of fang showing.

  Len rolled his eyes at her, and tried not to be hopelessly creeped out by the exchange as he followed them inside.

  A female receptionist wearing a dress made of strategically placed leather straps and not much else stood behind a rich wood-paneled counter in the foyer. She smiled politely at them as they approached.

  “Good evening, and welcome to the Booby Trap. Cover charge is thirty-five dollars per person, and I’ll need to run over the house rules before you go in, since I don’t recognize you. It’s fairly straightforward—genitals and female nipples must remain covered at all times in the front of the house. There are private rooms available for an additional fee, where nudity is allowed. However, there is no sex allowed anywhere in the venue. That’s defined as genital penetration of any orifice, clothed or unclothed masturbation, or exchange of any bodily fluids other than saliva.”

  “That’s all fine,” Zorah said.

  “Additionally,” the woman continued, “there’s no alcohol on the premises. And the most important rule is consent. No means no, and anyone failing to respect the boundaries of another patron will be immediately escorted out.”

  “As it should be,” Rans said, and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted out enough to cover their entry and passed it over. In turn, the receptionist stamped the backs of their hands with a purple infinity symbol, two dots placed suggestively inside the twin loops to suggest nipples.

  Len stared at the inked mark, and shot Zorah a wry look. “You realize that if any of my gay friends see this thing, I’ll never live it down.”

  Her cheeks dimpled as she hid a smile.

  Inside, the club was clean and well kept—as much as such places ever were, anyway. Happily, the clientele seemed to be serious lifestyle folks, not sad incels paying to watch sadder women making out with each other and dancing around poles. Len felt himself relax into the atmosphere of the place, recognizing his kind of people.

  “Kinksters of the world unite,” he said under his breath.

  There didn’t appear to be anything too extreme going on—mostly leather and vinyl gear, with the occasional partner being paraded around on a leash. But Rans and Zorah disappeared into a back room to speak with whoever was running the place, and when they emerged, it was with permission to stage a shibari scene that anyone could watch if they wanted to.

  Len felt another flash of self-consciousness about his casual dress and disastrous hair as people began to wander up to see what was going on, but he quashed it. Fortunately, the crowd’s attention wouldn’t be on him for long.

  He’d been a bit worried by the no-nudity rule, not sure how effective this scene was likely to be if Zorah was sporting white cotton granny panties from Target. However, being a vampire-succubus hybrid apparently meant that you wore red lacy underwear to a supernatural battle in the ruins of Stonehenge. At least, Len assumed Zorah wouldn’t have had a chance to change clothes while dragging Albigard’s unconscious ass around in the aftermath.

  Whatever the case, the red bra and bikini briefs she was wearing would look good against the natural jute rope Len preferred for shibari, and there was a small stage at one end of the room where he could work. It appeared to be set up for burlesque shows, and even had rigging for raising and lowering props and scenery. Normally, Len wouldn’t trust a bondage sub to suspension rigging he hadn’t personally tested for safety, but the woman running the place easily rattled off the specs and weight ratings.

  More importantly, and not to put too fine a point on it—Zorah was functionally immortal. A little thing like falling a couple of feet because a pulley broke wouldn’t even leave a bruise on her. In fact, it was equally likely she’d avoid the fall altogether by transforming into a cloud of mist and swirling away before she hit the floor. Whoosh—and the bondage scene becomes an instant magic act.

  That would wow the crowd, no doubt about it.

  As a vampire, Zorah would only stay tied up in Len’s ropes if she wanted to stay tied up—and while that took some of the pressure off him from a safety standpoint, it was still an odd dynamic for someone used to sexually restraining garden-variety humans for fun and profit.

  After a brief consultation with the two vampires, Len eyed the area he had to work with, visualizing the possibilities. He’d become fascinated recently with using rope to outline the negative space around a person’s body, as part of the overall visual design of the tie. The concept was technically outside of the realm of ‘bondage for erotic stimulation,’ veering more into performance art.

  But... Zorah was an excellent subject for something like that, and as long as the end result looked sexually appealing to a decent percentage of the straight, bi, or lesbian members of the crowd, she’d be able to feed from their lust for her. Len made an executive decision to take advantage of the opportunity, making the most of what had otherwise been an entirely shitty day.

  He directed her to lie on her side on the stage, which she did after Rans gallantly laid down his long leather coat on the dusty surface for her. Len took a final look at the pulley and eyebolt he intended to use as anchor points, then started measuring out rope by the arm’s length.

  Forty minutes later, he double-checked the tension and placement of the various rope columns looping around Zorah’s bod
y, paying special attention to the chest harness and stomach wraps. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Oh, more than,” Rans replied in a voice that was nearly a purr.

  “I think he was asking me, lover,” Zorah told him. “Go for it, Len. Like I said, I’m hungry.”

  “Okay, tense your stomach muscles,” Len warned her. “Let’s see if this looks as awesome in real life as it did in my head.”

  He carefully took up the slack in the rope threaded through the overhead pulley. The other end of the suspension was already hard-tied at shoulder height. Most of the crowd had wandered off while Len was setting up the scene, but several appreciative whistles sounded as Zorah was hoisted into the air, drawing many of them back to see the finished product.

  Her left leg was frog-tied, bent double at the knee, hanging beneath her as she dangled face down. She appeared to be suspended by her right ankle—that leg having been pulled up and back in a dancer’s arc—along with her bound wrists, stretched over her head toward the pulley. In fact, most of her weight hung from the harness and wraps around her torso. The free ends of the torso support ropes were woven into a simple web above her, the upper edge defined by the arc of rope running from the eye bolt, to her right ankle, to her wrists, and finally to the pulley. The overall effect was the suggestion of butterfly wings stretching above her back as she hovered in midair.

  Len tied off the pulley rope with a slipknot and stood back to assess the wider picture. The crowd was silent for a moment before someone in the audience said, “Damn, dude. That is hot.” Several mutterings of agreement followed, along with the scattered sound of clapping.

  Zorah shivered, presumably as the wave of arousal rolling through the onlookers hit her. “That’s what I’m talking about,” she murmured, a bit breathlessly.