Eternally Bound

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Tatiana screamed. She let go of the statue, falling straight back onto the stone floor as the bullet found its mark in her chest. Her elbows shifted to catch her weight, and she landed on them with a bruising thud. She ignored the pain. She panted wildly, rapidly blinking as she tried to make the images go away. Her hand clutched at her chest, shaking as she felt for blood. There was none.

  “What did you see?” a voice demanded.

  Tatiana did not recognize the haggard sound. The fog cleared completely. The accent was thick. It grated like coarse sand over her skin. It was a testament to the fact that the woman who spoke wasn’t born in France, but somewhere more to the east.

  From her place on the floor, Tatiana turned to see Marcello standing with an elderly woman. The woman’s wrinkled hands reached for her, only to hover from far away. They were long and bony, jutting strangely out from her thin frame. The woman looked like she was on the edge of death. Her robes were of mourning, black and plain. The severity of the color sucked the life from her already ashen, wrinkled features. Her graying hair was combed neatly onto the back of her head, pulled tight without any frills.

  Tatiana got the impression that the stranger tried to sense her. The woman’s light blue eyes were splotched with milky white, but Tatiana could tell that she saw her clearly. A chill went over her flesh, creeping along her spine in tingles. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach. She didn’t want this woman near her.

  Tatiana glanced at Marcello. He was again dressed like a gentleman in a black suit with a deep red waistcoat. A large red ruby glinted on his finger. As always he was breathtakingly handsome and perfectly adorned. His brooding mouth was set in a harsh line, but she could remember the texture of it against her lips. She wanted to kiss him again, but the woman’s presence by his side stopped her from trying.

  She turned her attention back to the old woman. Both of them stared intently at her. Suddenly, the woman lowered her hands.

  “You’re right, vampire, she is strong,” the old woman stated, her voice nearing a cackle. Tatiana flinched. The woman’s teeth were rotted and stained yellow. “The blood within her has been dormant too long. It seethes with the need to release. You did well to unite her to you. Her visions will be powerful, strong.”

  “Do you have the ability to bind her power, crone, or not?” Marcello asked, as if Tatiana wasn’t there before them, listening to them.

  “Bind it?” the woman repeated, nearing disbelief. Her eyes didn’t turn from Tatiana on the floor. “This witch will foresee many things. Give her to me, vampire, if you can’t control her. I will teach her how to use her gifts. Long have they been dormant and neglected. Can’t you smell it on her, the ancient blood of her ancestors? It was a strong breed that came before her. She is one of the old ones.”

  Marcello snarled. His eyes filled with red as he turned to the old woman. The crone seemed unconcerned with the vampire’s anger as if she’d been in the presence of many demons before him.

  “She is mine,” Marcello growled possessively.

  The witched laughed, lifting up her bony hands unconcerned. “It makes no difference to me, vampire.”

  Tatiana watched them from the floor. As their attention was drawn from her to each other, she began to edge back. Her elbows throbbed from her fall, but she didn’t care. Her robe parted at her movements, baring her legs. Marcello and the old woman turned back to her just as she covered her legs from view.

  “Give me your hand,” the crone said.

  Tatiana shook her head furiously. The closer the woman crept, the uneasier she felt. Her wide eyes turned to Marcello, pleading. He frowned, seeing her look, but said nothing.

  “My lord?” Tatiana insisted, staring at Marcello.

  “She will take those visions away,” he stated simply.

  Tatiana had to admit that it was a tempting offer. She didn’t relish the idea of getting her head lopped off by a knight’s sword or seeing Thomas with a gun pointed at her chest again. Still, as the woman came for her, she flinched.

  The crone began to mumble in her withered voice. A breeze swept up around the room, stirring her dress against her legs. Marcello stood still behind her, watching. His narrow eyes bore into Tatiana in concentration.

  Tatiana felt a chill washing over her skin. The nausea grew steadily worse, causing her to moan. She felt the old woman trying to sap the energy out of her. She felt the woman pulling. A feeling inside her snapped, and pain rolled over her limbs. Her mouth opened, letting loose a terrified scream.

  Marcello’s hands gripped into his arms as he watched. He saw Tatiana becoming pale, her lips edging with blue. Then, all of a sudden, her body flew upward until she was standing on her feet. Her eyes bore forward to meet the old witch he’d found to bind her strength. The jade orbs glimmered, and Tatiana mumbled back, fighting the curse. The old witch grew angry, raising her voice louder. Marcello felt the snap of electricity and fire in the room, igniting between them. The fireplace lurched with flames. Their clothing stirred with the wind.

  Unexpectedly, the witch fell back toward the ground, clutching at her chest as if she’d been kicked. Her mouth worked, a thin trail of blood coming from her withered, cracked lips. Marcello looked down at the crone and then to Tatiana. Tatiana still spoke, droning and low. He knew she was protecting herself from the woman’s magic.

  The old woman gasped, digging her fingers toward her heart. Her milky blue eyes turned to Marcello. Her words were accusing, as she gasped out, “You did not say she was guided by spirits, vampire.”

  Marcello glanced down at the witch. His eyes narrowed when he saw her face. She was dead.

  Tatiana’s words stopped. Marcello didn’t dare touch her. He felt the eerie cold swimming about the air of the chamber. It was the same sensation he got every time Tatiana felt threatened. He frowned. The crone was right. There was a spirit haunting his slave. Marcello was already dead and knew the ghost could do him no real harm, but the spirit could make a nuisance of itself if it so chose.

  “How dare you,” Tatiana cried. She ran angrily at Marcello. Her gaze shot out in livid sparks of fire. Before reaching him, her body stopped, as if running into an invisible wall. She stood, panting, glaring her hatred at him.

  “Bella mia,” Marcello said calmly, unafraid. He knew she couldn’t hurt him.

  Tatiana was startled by the soft sound of her name. Looking at the floor, she saw the old woman was dead. She quivered. When she turned back to Marcello, her eyes had lost their fire, and her lips trembled violently.

  “I killed her,” Tatiana whispered, before crumpling into a heap on the floor.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tatiana opened her eyes with a start. She’d been dreaming of Alice in the field of flowers. It was the same thing as before. When Alice touched her, the flower ring melted. And when the woman tried to speak, the words were muddled and insensible.

  Tatiana again lay on Marcello’s bed. The vampire count was next to her, stroking back her hair with his cool fingers as if it were the most important task in the world. His other arm draped possessively around her ribs, suspiciously close to the underside of her breasts. He appeared almost bored as he continued to stroke her as if she were his pet.

  Tatiana pushed up from the mattress. Marcello dropped onto his back to watch her, letting his fingers slither off her body. Her eyes automatically went to the floor. The body had disappeared.

  “I killed her,” Tatiana whispered.

  Marcello didn’t move. “Sì, it would appear so, bella mia.”

  “Don’t call me bella mia,” she cried. “I just killed that woman!”

  “She killed herself. She wasn’t strong enough to go up against you. She shouldn’t have tried.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand it,” Tatiana whispered in dejection. She looked down at her hands. They were shaking. She didn’t want this, any of it. She wanted her life back and, if she couldn’t have it, she wanted her life to end.

  “What is done is done, bell
a,” Marcello said. “The woman was old. It was her time to go.”

  “Is that how you justify taking a life every night, demon? By saying it was just their time?”

  Marcello’s eyes narrowed in outrage. He had not taken a life since meeting her and had rarely done so before her. He knew what she thought of him, could read it in her easily enough. He knew she believed him to be a devil. He knew she blamed herself for all that happened to her because she’d wantonly lain with the devil. He stubbornly refused to correct any of her misconceptions, pretending not to care what she thought of him.

  “Don’t blame yourself, bella,” Marcello whispered. His hand rose to stroke down her arm. He wanted to touch her, to feel her body against his once more. His patience was wearing thin.

  “I don’t,” Tatiana said to the count’s surprise. “I blame you. You are the one who brought her here. You’re the one who told her to bind me.”

  “I asked if she could,” Marcello corrected lightly, not raising his voice in anger to join hers. His lids dipped lazily over his eyes as he stared at the curve of her hip. Unable to resist, he touched her. “I did not tell her to do it.”

  To his disappointment, she stiffened.

  “Vieni qui e baciami,” he whispered gently, though the words sounded like a command. “Come here and kiss me. The night is young. Let us make love through it.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “Call it a request. One I know you want to fulfill.”

  “I don’t want you, my lord. I want nothing to do with you,” Tatiana lied. She wanted him desperately. Every time she was near him, she wanted him. The primal lust was getting more and more difficult to ignore. “And whatever has happened, or will happen between us, will never be called love.”

  Tatiana refused to look at him, but his anger was palpable. She felt it in their connection. There was a long moment of deadly silence. Only the sound of the fire could be heard in the chamber.

  “So be it,” came his cryptic answer. Marcello stood from the bed. He did not look at her as he crossed to his wardrobe. Reaching inside, he pulled something from within and slid it into his pocket.

  Tatiana flinched, but he did not come for her again. She watched him silently walk to the door, gliding gracefully over the old stone floor.

  “You are free to walk around my home, but don’t leave it.” Marcello opened the door and left her staring after him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Marcello’s catacomb home was the most beautiful, unique, and tasteful place Tatiana had ever seen. Past the bedroom door, which she hesitated in opening, was a long gothic styled chamber of gray stone. The old inlets along the walls were devoid of skeletal remains. She was secretly glad for it. In place of bones, there was a collection of fine vases, Fabergé eggs from Russia, exotic figurines of naked women, and even an old Italian wine bottle tucked in the corner. On the peeling, faded label, Tatiana made out the words ‘Spoleti’ and ‘Toscana’.

  She gasped, pulling back. Spoleti was Marcello’s family name and Tuscany was in Italy. It must have belonged to him in his human life. She wondered why he kept it. Then, it struck her how old he really was. She couldn’t read the year on the bottle, but could only imagine it was well over a century.

  In the middle of the chamber, a fireplace had been built along the wall. It was much like the fireplace in the bedroom, only wider. The even stone rose up on both sides in columns. In the center of the room was a dark dining table, carved with gothic patterns in the mahogany wood. The table was lined with stately rows of matching chairs, perfect for large dinner parties. Three unlit candelabras spread out over the gleaming wood surface.

  Above the fireplace was a portrait of the count, looking very formidable and brooding. He was painted in his customary black and red. She felt chills just looking at it. It was too lifelike, and it looked as if he would soon speak to scold her for staring.

  “Or ask me to kiss him again,” Tatiana whispered to herself. She stared a moment longer at his lips. Whoever the artist was, he’d captured the bend of them perfectly.

  Tatiana still wore the silk robe. Marcello had yet to supply her with suitable clothing. Part of her was afraid to ask him about it. Her bare feet landed soundlessly on the clean floor as she walked on.

  At the far end of the chamber were two large curtains, sweeping down from the high arch of the ceiling, separating the dining room from what she could only call the front hall. They were dark crimson with fine gold embroidery along the bottom.

  Past the curtain the fire did not shine as brightly, but she could still see in the dimness. The front hall was more of the same, only open and wide. A thick row of stone steps led up the side to a door. The floor was large enough to hold a ball. An elegant chandelier hung from the ceiling, with long tapered candles. More candelabras graced the sides of the room along the walls, with red and gold chaises and cushioned chairs near them, perfect for guests. Smaller sconces lined the walls in symmetrical patterns. Again, there were no gas lamps, just candles. She imagined that it would be quite beautiful to see them all lit.

  “How often would a vampire entertain guests?” Tatiana mused out loud. Oddly, the sound of her own voice, in a chamber devoid of anything alive, was comforting.

  Tatiana saw that there was another door beneath the stone steps. She moved forward, curiously. But, when she pulled on the latch, she found that it was locked. The fact annoyed her more than anything.

  Seeing movement, she jumped in fright. Then, recognizing the silent Cesare, she laughed nervously. The servitor ignored her as he came from another small door. It was on the side of the hall. She could only guess it was his bedroom and maybe a kitchen.

  “You scared me, Cesare,” she said, hoping for a flicker of acknowledgment from the man. She got nothing. She even tried to use her ‘magic’ to draw him out of his trance, concentrating on him as hard as she could. All she managed to get was a glance in her direction before he set about dusting a candelabrum. Marcello’s hold on him was too strong.

  Tatiana sat on the steps and watched Cesare clean. He worked without pausing. When the servitor started on his third large candelabrum, Tatiana sighed heavily and muttered in discontent, “I’m starving.”

  To her surprise, Cesare stopped cleaning, tucked his dust cloth into his waistband and left her. Within moments, he returned from the back rooms carrying a tray. He took it to the dining table, set out a bowl of soup and some bread, and pulled the chair from the table for her.

  Tatiana hesitated before sitting down. Cesare turned to leave, pulling the rag from his waistband. She watched him for a moment, before saying in a commanding voice, “Cesare, stop doing that, get yourself some soup, and eat with me.”

  The servitor disappeared behind the door and came back with his own tray. Tatiana stood, grabbing a seat next to her hand and pulling it back for him so that he wouldn’t go far. He dutifully sat and, without comment, began to eat. Tatiana sighed. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

  After their meal, Cesare cleaned up without being asked. Tatiana wandered her way back into the bedchamber. She was tired and wanted to sleep. Crawling into bed, she sighed. She watched the glow of flames dancing on the ceiling for a long time. Before finding her rest, she felt that Marcello had not come home.

  Marcello looked down at Tatiana sleeping in the middle of his bed. Her dark hair fanned beautifully over her rosy features. Pools of silk outlined her slender body. It hugged seductively to her curves, driving him mad with lust.

  He wanted to wake her, but he didn’t. Instead, he slowly undressed, laying his clothes neatly over a chair as he’d done almost every night for an endless century. His movements were more out of habit than thought. When he was naked, he motioned his hand at the fireplace. The flames instantly smothered, and darkness fell over the chamber, leaving them in complete and utter blackness. Marcello could still see Tatiana perfectly.

  Dawn was close, and he needed his rest. He crossed to the bed, climbing in beside his sleep
ing temptress. He sat next to her. His eyes stared at her as he listened to the hypnotic sound of her breathing. The strength of her blood, the smell of her, the sound of her heart, it all called to him. He wanted nothing more than to wake her up with his soft kisses and spend the day making love to her, touching her, holding her, listening to her breathe.

  “Stiamo freschi, bella mia?” he whispered. Marcello’s hand lifted, hovering over her dark hair. He knew if he touched it, her hair would be as soft as the silk she laid upon. And now what, my beauty?

  Her denial of him had been blatant. She did not want sex from him, and he couldn’t bring himself to take her by force. The seductive and erotic dreams she’d sent him during the years they were parted still lingered in his mind. And, as he lay down, he bitterly wondered why she’d tormented him with them, only to deny him now.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A week had passed since the death of the old woman. Tatiana’s nightmares and visions did not go away, though she’d not expected them to disappear. She was sure she was being punished for sleeping with the devil and for desiring him still. It shamed her to admit that, if Marcello were to touch her and ask her to kiss him, she would do so most willingly.

  Marcello kept his distance, hardly speaking to her other than with commands. She got used to his cold silence and his absences. She adopted his schedule, sleeping by his side during the daylight hours, staying awake at night.

  Cesare was her only friend, and she liked to think they were getting closer, for their type of relationship. He never spoke to her, and she talked to him as if he could hear, pretending that he listened. Regardless, she felt better when she was near him. They would eat together and afterward Tatiana would help him clean up. It wasn’t exciting, but it kept her busy.

  Sometimes, if she asked him, Cesare would fetch a portable bathing tub for her. She’d lie there for what felt like hours until the hot water cooled. Then, drying off, she would wrap into one of the several silk robes she’d found in Marcello’s wardrobe. They were all her size. Most were black and red, but there was one of emerald green—her favorite—and a soft creamy white.