Eveillez: Deny Your Blood Lust

by C. D. Hussey

  "You're on in an hour. Where are you?"

  The molasses was slowly draining from her ears and the gears in her brain were finally starting to turn. "Jason," she said his name to give the gears a little push. Jason was the owner of Velvet. The gears spun faster. "What time is it?"

  "Nine-thirty. You comin' in?"

  Pushing aside the covers, she clicked on the lamp and glanced at the alarm clock. He was right. "Yes, of course. I'm on my way now."

  She checked her messages. Nothing from Hail. He spent so much time begging for her attention, she was surprised he hadn't called her back. Setting the phone back on the nightstand, she attempted to jump out of bed. The best she managed was a fast rise. Her body felt foreign. Nothing responded the way it should, including her thoughts.

  It had been a long time since she'd ignored her Craving enough to actually become symptomatic. Fatigue was already setting up house in her bones, and the way her skull seemed to be slightly too small for her brain was warning of the migraine soon to come. There wasn't time to worry about it now though. She'd have to suffer through them long enough to get through her show and then she could swing by Luxure and get what her body needed. A shot of blood would only postpone the symptoms a few more hours, but it would give her time to try and arrange a Donor.

  Actually consuming enough of the bagged blood to eliminate the Craving entirely would make her physically sick. Besides, it might even drain the reserves and she couldn't do that. It wasn't fair to other Sangs who also needed it.

  There were people in the Community who would happily help her. Kindle, sweet, teddy bear Kindle, was one. And there were members of her coven who would gladly lend a vein… But taking blood from Kindle would only be leading him on, and he didn't deserve that. Her coven members … well, she could probably work something out with them.

  It would be more of the same, though. More empty relationships.

  She wasn't sure why her string of empty relationship was bothering her now. Admittedly, it had bothered her for a while. Maybe even for the last year or so. It didn't make much sense. She'd come to terms with her role a long time ago. She maintained a position of power and influence that happened to keep people at arm's length. It was exactly how she'd wanted it.

  After her mother kicked her out at seventeen, she spent a few years working at strip clubs. Sometimes as a dancer, sometimes as a waitress, always as someone's toy. She'd figured out her blood lust at an early age, so she used as much as she was used. She'd never gotten into drugs, for which she was thankful, but the situation had been nauseating nonetheless.

  When she met Lohr at a Manhattan club ten years ago, he introduced her to a different path. He capitalized on his vampire image in a way that seemed respectful, the same way a rock musician might, or a horror writer. He also hired her to work his private club in New York where she became the bar Mistress, a Vampire hostess of sorts. It got her out of the strip clubs and into a new life. One where she was in control.

  Lohr's scene was only slightly less nauseating than the strip scene, though. When she met Armand at a modeling shoot a few years later, she followed him to New Orleans. Besides performing and managing entertainment at Lohr's functions, she'd never looked back.

  So, what was causing her so much dissatisfaction? Was she just tired on being on all the time? Every single day—perfect makeup, perfect clothes, perfect manners…

  Unfortunately, that wasn't it at all. That would be too easy to fix. She enjoyed her role. It was exhausting sometimes, but that didn't mean she didn't enjoy it. Plus with the studio and her coven, she was able to truly help people. And she loved that.

  There'd be time to worry about it later. Right now, she needed to focus on getting dressed and getting down to Velvet.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Julia wasn't nervous until they parked the Jag on a quiet street and walked up to an even quieter house. She glanced at Armand in question.

  "Private club, remember?"

  "I'm not going to lie," she said as he punched a code into the lock on the front gate. "That doesn't make it more reassuring." The gate opened to a dark, lifeless alley. "Be honest, Armand, you brought me here to kill me, didn't you?"

  "No. I was saving that for our twentieth anniversary," he replied and began to lead her down the narrow drive.

  "Good to know."

  The house looked vacant. No light seeped through the windows and she couldn't hear any music. Since fetishists and Vampires weren't exactly enemies (more like best friends) she wasn't a stranger to the fetish community, but she was a little concerned about what a private club entailed.

  Her hand firmly in his, Armand knocked on the back door. A bouncer rivaling Slade in muscled bulk opened the door. Nodding to Armand, he opened the door fully for them.

  Like many houses in New Orleans, this one was much larger than it looked from the street, being four times as long as it was wide. It had also had some serious remodeling. There were virtually no interior walls on the first floor. What might have been a living room, dining room and kitchen were now a dance floor, bar, and stage where a man was being whipped with canes by a girl with electrical tape Xs over her nipples.

  There wasn't a single window to be seen and Julia realized why neither light nor sound escaped. It looked like they'd sheet-rocked over the exterior walls, probably with a layer of sound proofing in between.

  Some people danced, but most of the leather, PVC, fishnet, buckled and strapped patrons on the dance floor were watching the stage show. The caning victim's back was now bright red and the girl was squeezing a lemon over his raw bleeding flesh, much to the audience's delight. Bending forward, the woman proceeded to rub her breasts over his back.

  Fair enough.

  "Do you want a drink?" Armand asked over his shoulder.

  "That would be a huge yes."

  They passed several couples groping each other and a few Julia was pretty sure were having sex before stepping up to the bar. "What would you like?"

  "Get me a shot of tequila." She glanced around the club and then at the woman on the barstool next to her who had a man's hand up her skirt. "Make that a double."

  With a faint smile, Armand repeated her order to the bartender who was wearing a body harness and booty shorts.

  "You aren't drinking?" she asked as he handed her the glass of clear liquor.

  "Maybe later. Lime?" He held out a fruit wedge.

  She'd already downed the shot. "I'm good," she replied in a hoarse whisper. "Wait. Yes." She plucked the fruit from his fingers and sucked the tart juice from it. Tossing the rind into her glass she looked up at him. "What now?"

  "I only have one thing on my mind," he said quietly into her ear. The words sent tingles down her spine and she remembered all the hours they spent tangled in the sheets on their honeymoon, the relentless way he pursued her pleasure, the focus he had when he was feeling amorous and she was his prey. "But we can relax down here for a little bit." His words snatched her from the memories and she reluctantly refocused. "Take in the ambience…"

  She scanned the crowd. She hadn't noticed the stations before, but opposite the stage were a whipping cross, a spanking booth, and a guy hanging from ropes while being teased with a riding crop.

  "…dance…"

  She did like this song.

  Armand was leaning against the bar, both hands folded tightly on the padded edge. While he looked calm enough, his shoulders were bunched up to his ears and tension oozed from his pores like the smell of curry after eating at an Indian buffet. "I wouldn't mind dancing for a second," she said resting her hand on his, "and then…" Her fingers brushed across something rough and moist. Shocked, she pulled her hand away.

  "Why are your knuckles bleeding?"

  His expression was flat, his shrug small and barely perceptible.

  "Would I find your blood on the weight room punching bag or someone's face?"

  "The punching bag."

  "Right." She glanced around the club. "You said you had a
room?" He nodded. "Let's go." If Armand needed her to knock him around or poke him with a cattle prod, so be it. Anything to keep him from breaking his knuckles on the wall, exercising until his heart exploded, or kicking some stranger's ass and going to jail. She really hoped helping him manage his temper wouldn't require her to physically hurt him or go full Dom on him … or vice versa—Julia wasn't keen on being the cattle prod pokee any more than she was interested in being the poker—but if that was what he required, it was what she would do.

  * * * *

  Sirens blared all around him, their piercing screams adding to the feeling of toothpicks being shoved into his brain. Kevin struggled to his feet, staggering when he got there. His hands were no longer bleeding, but it looked like he'd been making mud pies with red dirt. The cuts on his palms throbbed and ached as much as the back of his head, which he also assumed was crusted in dried blood. Gingerly, he touched it with the tips of his fingers. He was sporting a huge goose egg.

  It only took a few seconds of scanning to realize he was the only one in the courtyard. He could hear people milling about outside and tried to call to them. His voice came out raspy and useless.

  After fishing his gun from the bushes, he stumbled to the place where Lohr had collapsed after being shot. A puddle of congealed blood clung to the bricks, a trail of red leading around the corner.

  Judging by the state of the blood on the ground Kevin had been unconscious for fifteen minutes or more. With the humidity in the air, hours could have passed and the blood would still be moist. But the sirens were probably an indication someone had heard the gunshot and called the police.

  Gingerly, he retrieved his phone from the leather case attached to his belt, careful not to reopen the sealed cuts on his hands. After calling Johnson and giving him a quick run-down of the situation, he checked the time.

  "Shit," he groaned, sliding the phone back into its holster. He'd been out for at least thirty minutes. The NOPD were obviously not the fastest responders…

  Lohr was long gone. Or dead. There was only one way to find out.

  He followed the trail of blood for a dozen feet until it abruptly disappeared. He stared at the last, lonely droplet in disbelief. There was nothing there but brick. Any exit was thirty feet away: stairs, gates, doors… He glanced up. The balcony rail was the only thing nearby but it was fifteen feet off the ground. Unless Lohr suddenly sprouted wings or had springs in his shoes, there was no way he made it to the balcony.

  He still had to check. Spinning on his heel, he was prepared to knock down every door on the balcony to get to Lohr, but the world didn't stop spinning just because he had. Nearly pitching forward as he lost his balance, he had to pinwheel his arms to steady his body.

  The throbbing in his head intensified and he realized Lohr would have to wait. The officers on patrol must've gotten the update from Johnson and were working on breaking into the courtyard. It wouldn't be long before they joined him.

  He staggered to a wrought iron patio chair and fell into it. Hopefully, he could stay conscious long enough to welcome them. He'd also rather not puke, though with the way his head and stomach were doing somersaults, it was a definite possibility.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Julia was grateful for Armand's size and presence as he led her through the fetish club and up the stairs to the second floor. She was also thankful he kept her hand in his. Luxure and its deviants were familiar and comfortable. These scantily clad, oversexed strangers were a different story. Luxure's patrons didn't ogle so openly, nor did they randomly stroke her arm as she passed or innocently grab her ass.

  The room was one of many in a long hallway. It wasn't until the door was firmly shut and locked behind them that Armand released her hand. He switched on the lights and then promptly dimmed them. It wasn't dark by any means and there was enough light she could clearly see the plethora of sexual apparatuses—a swing, restraints, whips of all sizes, something that looked suspiciously like a defibrillator with nipple clamps instead of paddles—packed into the small room, but it wasn't bright enough to highlight any less than desirable traits.

  "Don't worry, it's clean," Armand said. She looked at him. "Well, as clean as the average hotel room."

  "On Bourbon or off?"

  "All of the above."

  "Hmm." She lapped the room, taking it in. None of the toys were meant to be inserted into a person, which was reassuring, and everything appeared to be made of leather or vinyl or metal and could be easily washed and disinfected. The room also smelled of cleaner. It wasn't overpowering and was distinctively lavender. She paused at the whips.

  She turned to Armand who was watching her. "What is it that you want? I'm not sure I can seriously hurt you…" She put emphasis on seriously. The riding crop looked easy enough to handle, the electrical thingamabob did not.

  "It isn't about pain," he told her. "It's about control."

  "Control?"

  "Is an illusion. I know it; I need you to remind me of it. Strip every ounce of it away." He moved to the intricate restraining system in the center of the room. "When things are out of my control, it makes me crazy. You know that." Bending, he nonchalantly strapped his ankles into the shackles attached to the floor, pulling the leather tight before buckling it. "This helps me center. To remember I can't control everything." Reaching up, he grabbed a wrist restraint and secured his left wrist. The upper restraints were attached to ropes rigged to a pulley system. It appeared not only could a person be restrained, they could be stretched. Interesting.

  "And that not being in control isn't always a bad thing." He nodded toward his right hand. "You mind?"

  "So, you want me to take away your control?" she asked as she threaded the leather tongue of the wrist restraint through its corresponding buckle.

  "Please. Use whatever means you deem fit."

  "Should we establish a safe word or something?" She moved to secure the ropes to the ring on the wall.

  "I don't want one."

  "Um, is that a good idea?" Not that she thought she was going to get carried away or anything, but not having a safe word seemed irresponsible.

  "A safe word would give me control. Exactly what I don't want."

  "I don't know if I'm comfortable proceeding without one."

  "Fine. Giraffe."

  Imagining Armand in the throes of passion and screaming giraffe made her choke on a giggle. "Giraffe? Seriously?"

  "If you don't like my safe word…"

  "No. It's fine. It's just—"

  "Julia, you can do this."

  He said the words like he was issuing a challenge. Grabbing the loose ropes, she pulled hard. His arms flew up and he grunted. "I know," she said. He grinned and she let out little slack and then tied the ropes off. When she turned to face him, his eyes were closed and he was rolling his head on his shoulders in tension releasing circles.

  She sauntered toward him. He looked good all tied up and she could think of a dozen things she'd like to do to him. She hoped she could manage to give him what he needed.

  "Control, eh?" she purred.

  His eyes crept open and focused on her with the gripping intensity that always made her heart do cartwheels. "Take it away."

  Standing before him she placed a hand on the front on his shoulder. In her heels, she was at least five-foot-eleven and didn't have to crane her neck much to look him in the eye. Caressing his lower lip with hers, she ran her tongue over his labret and then scraped her teeth across his lip. "Are you sure you can trust me?"

  "I trust you fully, completely."

  "Good answer." She circled behind him and pressed her body against his backside. Reaching both arms around and starting with his pecs, she slid her hands down his chest, over his stomach and into the pockets of his pants. "Hmm, what do we have in here?" Her fingers searched the inside of his pockets, no easy feat considering how tight his pants were. One hand skimmed his balls, the other his growing cock. "Nice, but not quite what I'm looking for." Her fingers brushed cold s
teel. "Ah."

  Pulling the small knife from his pocket, she moved to face him, holding up the weapon. "Armand, whatever did you have planned for me?" She flipped open the blade.

  He licked his lips. "I'm all Boy Scout, baby."

  "With your kinks, they'd never let you into the Boy Scouts." Pulling the shirt away from his body, she stuck the blade through it. "First things first," she said, slicing the shirt from hem to neckline. "I'm getting rid of this." The ripped fishnet flipped open.

  "You don't like my shirt?"

  She cut one sleeve free. "Nope." She moved to the other arm, where the fishnet now hung in tattered ribbons. "Too 1996."

  He laughed as she tore the final piece off. She very deliberately closed the blade and slipped the knife back into his pocket. "Now," she raked her nails up his bare chest. "Where should I start?" Her tongue flicked over one nipple, teasing, tasting. She pulled it into her mouth and clamped her teeth down with enough pressure to cause a little pain.

  He moaned in response.

  So it would be that kind of game. She wondered if she had the courage to use a whip on him. If it was what he wanted … she thought of the stage act and knew there was no way she could go that far. She just didn't have it in her. Maybe a few love taps, but there was no way she could draw blood. Not with a whip anyway.

  She moved up his chest, locking her fingers in his hair and using it like a handle to tilt his head back and expose his neck. She ran her tongue up the side of his neck, spent a little time with his earlobe and then made her way back down to the joining of his neck and shoulder where there was enough skin for her to bite. Armand loved many things, but biting was near the top.

  He pulled against the restraints and she grinned. Teasing was fun.

  Releasing his hair, she turned his head and kissed him softly. He leaned forward for more and she stepped back, just out of his reach.

  He growled. A light sheen of sweat covered his skin and it glistened in the dim light. His breathing was rushed, nearly a pant, and his hazel eyes were locked on her like an animal sizing up its prey. With his golden green eyes he reminded her of a tiger.