Blood and Bondage

by Annalynne Russo

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2012 Annalynne Russo

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-119-0

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: JS Cook

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BLOOD AND BONDAGE

  Tales from the Vampire Scribe, 3

  Annalynne Russo

  Copyright © 2012

  Chapter One

  The Nuptials

  Oliver stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom. His nervous fingers fumbled with the bowtie he’d tried to fasten around his neck for the past ten minutes. Once he finally got it into place, he turned to the side to stare at his profile. In a few months’ time, he’d shed more than forty pounds and replaced it with lean, well-defined muscle. He had no choice. His best friend and colleague, Eva Sambucco, had ordered him to drop the dead weight.

  “If you want to walk me down the aisle, you’ll need to lose the doughboy center,” Eva had said, mocking him with a jab to the gut. The sassy vampire huntress pulled no punches when it came to her upcoming nuptials. In a scene straight out of one of those neurotic, ego-boosting reality shows, Eva had placed her hands on her hips and demanded that Oliver endure a total body makeover. A host of non-negotiables had to be met. Everything from a pair of new-fangled disposable contact lenses to a shopping spree to breathe life back into his outdated wardrobe was in order.

  Oliver had to admit, he looked pretty dapper in his brand new duds. But, he wondered, was the huntress really making him go through a complete metamorphosis simply to look fashionable for her wedding? Or was it an attempt to spiffy up her boss to help him land a bed partner? After all, once she and Andreas said their “I do”s Oliver would be left to fend for himself. Having worked together side by side for the past six years, Eva knew him better than most. She had first-hand knowledge when it came to his personal life. Truth be told, he hadn’t been on a date in years, let alone spent an evening in the arms of a willing woman.

  As the counsel general for the Bureau of Paranormal Affairs, or BPA as it was often referred to, Oliver Polinksi had no time for romance. Work was his life. He spent his days and nights leading a cadre of deadly assassins trained to vanquish evil from the streets and alleyways of the Big Apple. An international organization created to police supernatural beings, the emissaries of BPA hunted down and killed everything from ghosts and goblins to vampires and werewolves.

  Oliver wasn’t a killer; he was a commander who masterfully orchestrated his troops. They carried out a multitude of tasks that proved necessary in order to keep people safe from the bad guys. Believe it or not, New York City was crawling with creatures of the night. Vampires just happened to be the worst offenders, their proclivity for sucking life out of innocent, unassuming victims the least of their many indiscretions. Oliver’s job was to make sure bloodsuckers didn’t cross the line. The few that did ended up on the wrong end of a sharp wooden stake.

  Unfortunately, his number one assassin’s upcoming wedding to a vampire no less, had thrown a curve ball into his unwavering code of ethics. Vampires were predators, murdering members of the human race in exchange for their own selfish survival instinct. Or at least so he thought up until Eva had fallen head over heels for the head of the local coven. On top of that, she was three months pregnant with his spawn. At first, that fact had turned his stomach and made Oliver’s fingers itch to yank the son of a bitch’s heart from his chest. But once he’d gotten to know him, Andreas Kristopolous hadn’t turned out to be too bad of a fellow. As long as he treated Eva right and kept the city’s vampire population in check, the two men had no beef. If only he could convince the rest of his team to keep their cool. Needless to say, they weren’t happy about one of their own changing sides.

  Oliver scrubbed his fingers through his hair, and shook off the painful knot of nerves that had formed between his shoulder blades. He slipped on his loafers and headed down the stairs of the old Victorian house to the waiting taxi. Pulling up the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket, he read the time on his watch. Six thirty. He had exactly half an hour to get from Long Island to Manhattan in time for the ceremony scheduled for sunset.

  Shit! Eva will kill me if I’m late. The huntress had little family to speak of. They were a lot alike in that regard. Therefore, Oliver had no recourse but to show up on time.

  “Step on it, my good man,” Oliver said to the cab driver. “I’ll pay you double.”

  As soon as the car pulled up in front of the church, Oliver hopped out. He was already ten minutes late. He’d be lucky if Eva didn’t shoot him on sight for his lack of punctuality. He swung open the heavy wooden doors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and crossed the threshold; his shiny shoes reverberated against the lustrous marble floor. Oliver glanced up, taking in the scene for the briefest of moments. The walls were adorned with vibrant religious-inspired frescos painted in the renaissance style. Elaborate candlelit torches hung from the edge of the pews, surrounded by bunches of red and ivory roses.

  Andreas waited next to the altar, nervously tapping his fingers against his forearms. The frown on the groom’s face was proof enough that his bride was ready to tear her boss limb from limb. One of the ushers, a fellow BPA agent by the name of Adam Sapien, greeted him at the door and led them down a corridor to the left of the church’s main entrance.

  “Hurry up, boss,” Adam said. “Eva’s about to blow a gasket.”

  The minute Oliver rounded the corner, Eva turned to face him. It didn’t take a mind reader to discern the huntress’ mood. Disapproval marred her olive complexion, evident by the pouty lower lip and irritated scowl splashed across her face.

  “I’m sorry. I know I’m late. Blame it on the insufferable traffic,” he said, raising his palms to the air in a gesture of defeat. Eva stared at him from across the room as if scrutinizing his sincerity. Then, a grin spread across her perfectly-polished features. Oliver smiled back, and took in the woman’s breathtaking beauty. The fitted, mermaid-style wedding dress she wore clung to her curvaceous hips. It fanned out just above the ankles, and streamed behind her like a wave of luxurious white silk. Eva’s plentiful, yet demure bosom peeked over the edge of the gown’s crystal-embellished bodice. Tendrils of wispy, dark-brown hair cascaded over her shoulders and down the slender column of her throat. She glowed luminously with the roundness of her pregnant, yet barely noticeable belly.

  “Are you ready to proceed?” Oliver asked, the hint of his Eastern European accent impossible to miss.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, reaching out to wrap a wrist around her boss’ outstretched elbow.

  Arm in arm, they walked down the aisle. One side of the church appeared to be packed with a horde of the undead, while the other was brimming with an army of eager vampire vigilantes. Contrary to popular belief, supernatural beings had no problem stepping foot on holy ground. In fact, many of them were bred from Eastern European descent and had used the Orthodox Church as a refuge from their enemies.

  Still, the tension in the room was thick. It loomed above the crowd as if it were a cumulous cloud ready to release a torrential downpour. Father Mancini stood firm by the altar, his demeanor serious and somber, anticipating the imminent danger. Behind him the unsuspecting harpist sat on a cushiony stool strumming the chord
s of the Traditional Wedding March.

  Poor thing. She had no idea of the danger brewing in her midst.

  Suddenly, Oliver felt a pair of eyes trained on him; his highly-tuned sixth sense screamed in ominous warning. He scanned the pews in search of the culprit, but to no avail. Then, he heard a melodic feminine voice whisper in his ear. He’d grown accustomed to hearing soft murmurs in his head, but this one came through loud and clear. Its haunting soprano pitch made one side of his jaw twitch unexpectedly, a nervous habit.

  Who’s the George Clooney look-alike escorting Andreas’s bride? He’d make for a tasty midnight snack.

  Eva must have felt him stir. She cocked her head and glanced up at him, her eyebrows furrowed in a question. “What’s the matter?” she mouthed the words.

  Oliver shook his head, shrugging off the bitter taste that had risen up like bile from the pit of his stomach. Sometimes, his mind reading ability turned out to be a bloody nuisance.

  In fact, looking over his shoulder had become second nature to Oliver. Born in Poland to a Jewish father and gypsy mother shortly after the end of Hitler’s reign of terror, his family was used to being treated like second-class citizens. Many of them had perished at the hands of the Nazis. Even before that, his ancestors had been persecuted for far more than their religious beliefs.

  Oliver’s mother, Svetlana, came from a band of Romanian travelers endowed with strong psychic abilities. Sometimes, she could also foretell events that would come to pass in the future. Whether he liked it or not, Oliver Polinski inherited his mother’s talents. He was a gifted seer and telepath with an uncanny connection to the supernatural world.

  Whoever it was that had spoken to him was giving off some potent vibes. No doubt, she was an ancient and powerful vampire. Only a pureblood, or a direct descendent of one, possessed such a strong ability to project rambling thoughts. Luckily, most of the vamps he’d met weren’t able to hear his own inner dialogue. That phenomenon rarely occurred, and when it did, it often followed an exchange of blood.

  Oliver jerked his head in the direction of the sound of the voice, examining the expressions of each one of the wedding guests until he spotted the sensual siren whose words had been broadcast so clearly across the expanse of the chapel. This particular bloodsucker was more than just another pretty face; she was stunning. A mass of untamed curls the color of fire framed her high cheekbones and upturned, aristocratic nose. From across the rows of people, she appeared tall and thin, her body lithe and billowy. She had the subtle, yet sensual curves of a dancer, although it was her amber eyes that spoke volumes.

  For a moment, their gazes locked. But once they’d reached the altar, the woman’s focus turned to the bride and groom, her enigmatic stare glowing bright against the backdrop of the dim, candlelit sanctuary. Entranced by her captivating beauty, Oliver couldn’t look away. His throat went dry. He licked his lips and readjusted himself, feeling the slight bulge in his trousers.

  Eva cleared her throat, bringing Oliver back to the festivities at hand. After all, it was her wedding. She deserved to be the center of attention. With an extravagant reception to follow at the Four Seasons Hotel, he knew it would be a long night. From the look she’d shot him, the sexy, red-headed vampire in the crowd would not only preoccupy his thoughts for the next few hours, she’d soon make a hostile attempt to take control of his body. Raging hormones and all.

  Chapter Two

  Two to Tango

  In an instant, the bustling party guests grew quiet, lulled into silence by the impassioned undertones of a sensual samba. The long, drawn out notes of the trombone and the rich, melodic cadence of the saxophone had Anaïs swaying her hips from left to right. She couldn’t help herself. Music had been engrained in her soul and dancing was but an extension of her vibrant, colorful personality.

  As she watched husband and wife glide across the dance floor for the first time, their bodies entwined in a lascivious display of mutual admiration, Anaïs’s feet yearned to twist and twirl around the room. Although no matter how much her body screamed at her to take center stage and show every miserable bastard in the room how to truly dance the samba, she ignored the underlying impulse. Instead, her legs remained firmly planted to the shiny, wooden floors. Stubborn and spoiled, she was used to doing as she pleased, so maintaining her composure wasn’t as easy as it seemed. In fact, it proved damn near impossible.

  In order to bide her time and give the newlyweds their moment in the spotlight, Anaïs searched the room to find a willing dance partner: one who wouldn’t mind if she nibbled on his neck, or took a taste of his succulent, life-giving blood. Where was that hunky, well-aged beefcake she’d spotted earlier in the church? Truth be told, Anaïs had a thing for refined, older gentlemen. As a vampire, she’d preyed on their kind for centuries.

  God knows, I’ve got serious daddy issues. Nonetheless, Anaïs had always been drawn to mature men, even before she’d ripped her father’s still-beating heart from his sternum.

  A classically-trained ballerina born in the seventeenth century, Anaïs had been raised by strict, aristocratic parents during the French court of Louis XVI. Destined to dance with the famous Academie Royale de Danse troupe, her hopes had soon been dashed by a manipulating charlatan who stole her chance at stardom. As a result, Anaïs held a bit of a grudge against men, especially the ruthless, domineering type.

  On the eve of her sixteenth birthday, she had fallen victim to the greedy, sexual appetites of the Archduke of Auvergne, one of her father’s wealthy co-conspirators. Instead of defending his daughter’s honor, Anaïs’s father disowned her, leaving her to a life of servitude as a scullery maid under the king’s employ.

  Destitute and distraught, Anaïs had begged her closest friend, Christine Renoir, to whisk her away from Paris. The two girls had been practically attached at the hip since Anaïs’s family had arrived at court two years earlier. She had come to join the ranks of the Academie, yet her parents held other, less adventurous aspirations. After all, it was customary for families with daughters coming of age to take up residency in the French court in the hopes of securing a husband.

  Too bad I had other plans.

  Christine, on the contrary, had long desired to find true love. Engaged to one of the king’s cronies, a wealthy Greek merchant by the name of Aristotle Kristopolous, her friend planned to relocate to Athens, and Anaïs had every intention of accompanying the newly betrothed couple.

  “Before I agree to take you with me, I must tell you something,” Christine’s blonde hair and pale features had turned ashen as she spoke. She swallowed hard. Anaïs watched the other woman’s throat move as saliva slide down her esophagus. “What I’m about to admit, might make you change your mind.”

  “I highly doubt that. What could be worse than a life as a lowly servant?”

  Christine’s lips pursed together hesitantly; her expression had turned somber. “Anaïs, I’m a vampire. I know it sounds farfetched, but it’s true. Like my parents and their parents before them, I consume human blood in order to survive.”

  “Ha ha. Nice try, but you won’t scare me off so easily,” Anaïs had said, chuckling as she pivoted on her heels and paced the expanse of her bed chamber. “I’m going with you to Athens, come hell or high water.”

  When she finally spun back around, Anaïs couldn’t believe what she saw. Her friend’s face had changed, transformed into a twisted, disfigured mask of horror. Her elegant visage had morphed into that of a frightful, menacing beast with glaring red eyes. The edge of her upper lip curled up into a sneer, revealing a row of sharp, serrated teeth. She let out a growl, the sound like that of an angry, wounded wild animal.

  Anaïs reared back instinctively, the slender column of her spine pressed flush against the cool, stone wall of her sleeping quarters. Her mouth formed an “O” as her eyes sprang open in shock. “Oh dear Lord,” was all she could muster.

  After a few moments, Christine’s horrifying countenance had receded, her beautiful, waxen complexion r
eturning to its former glory. She frowned, then slipped an elegant finger into her mouth and chewed on the edge of a long, manicured nail.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. But it was the only way I could think of to get you to believe me.”

  Once Anaïs’s heart had sunk back into her chest, Christine shared her family’s secret. They were vampires, bred for a line of powerful purebloods. Unlike the whispered reports of humans that had been turned by the seductive lure of the undead, Christine had been born, not made; her parents spawned from one of the three original families that had offered up their souls to Lucifer in exchange for immortality.

  For Anaïs, the idea of living forever didn’t seem like much of a curse. Not only could she exact revenge of her despicable father, but she could spend eternity making ruthless, womanizing playboys pay for indiscretions with their very lives. She’d begged Christine to convert her, eager to retaliate against those who had done her wrong.

  Unfortunately, longevity came with a price. Along with eternal life, Anaïs inherited a deep-seeded propensity for hate and an uncanny ability to hide her emotions behind the ruse of a beguiling temptress.

  To Anaïs, control became an elixir more addictive than human blood. In particular, she relished her power over men. In her first few years as a vampire, she preyed on chauvinistic bastards who delighted in taking advantage of enamored young maidens. Nowadays, she preferred to spend her time wooing more cultured Lotharios. Perhaps because they reminded Anaïs of her father and how easily she’d been able to rob him of his miserable life.

  During the last century Anaïs had mostly kept to herself. She’d grown tired of the cat and mouse game that proved necessary to prolong her existence. Still, she found that she was drawn to older men and tended to search them out when the need for sustenance called. They seemed to succumb to her powers of persuasion quite easily, their fragile psyches eager to submit to her will. On top of that, the taste of their aged blood turned her on like nobody’s business. Tonight she had her sights set on the man who’d given away the bride, if only she could find him.