Beloved Vampire (27 page)

But how about vampires other than them? Unbidden, Amara’s words came to her.
There were many lost that day who we
considered friends.
What if she joined a band of rogue hunters, and they decided to hunt Mason?

Oh, Jesus. What did it matter? As if she was in any position to be plotting out career plans. Tuning back in to her surroundings, she realized she was belowground now. Mason’s bedroom would be down here, but as vague as her memory was of the night he took her there, she remembered it had been at the other end of the vast estate, so this level was apparently a large complex. As with the protection of the automated windows and doors, it made sense for a vampire, having plenty of underground space. He probably even had escape tunnels going off the property. It wouldn’t do any harm to know where they were or where they went.

Of course, she didn’t really care for underground spaces. Farida’s tomb had been the exception of course, because of her reasons for being there, and because in her deluded mind, she hadn’t believed anything there could hurt her. Raithe liked taking her underground, to that terrible dungeon room where he’d toy with her endlessly, without the inconvenience of dawn.

Light switches still illuminated her way, but the fixtures were sconces embedded in the stone walls, holding electric lights similar to torches. Even so, shadows were gathering in her mind with her descent, as if she were traveling into the darkness of her psyche. As a hard tremor went through her, she realized she needed to stop, go back.

Go through one more door. Prove you can do that much.
Like Amara coaxing her into fifteen minutes more on the balcony, or Mason telling her to stretch out and run rather than letting her memories have her. Firming her chin, she faced the door ahead of her. It was heavy oak, like an English castle in truth, but the ornate doorknob turned easily enough. Switching on the light from the panel conveniently located to the left of it, she pulled the door open.

As she stepped over the threshold, her mind froze. Time had slipped away from her before, when pain or fear made something incomprehensible, so when the gears of her mind lurched into motion again, she had no idea how long she’d stood there.

Her idle explorations had not been idle at all. She suspected, in the subconscious way she marked her surroundings and escape routes, she’d been seeking proof to support or refute her confusing opinion of the vampire who’d supposedly rescued her. Perhaps her rising apprehension as she descended the winding staircase had been because she knew she was going to find it.

The short set of steps led down into a large dungeon chamber. An impressive and expensive St. Andrew’s cross, the adjustable straps dangling. The wood was so well-oiled it gleamed. Hazily she wondered which staff member was responsible for its upkeep.

Spanking benches. A wall of floggers, paddles, cuffs, gags. A rack for various spreaders, posture and yoke bars. She knew all of them, had experienced most of them. The adjustable metal pole anchored to the floor could be fitted with a pair of dildos at the top and impale the slave, the loops for ankle and calf cuffs securing hours of vulnerable, standing torment. It had been one of Raithe’s favorites. For a male, it could be fitted with a clamp around his balls, holding him fast at anus and testicles.

Blindfolds. Chastity belts fitted with painful phalluses to stretch the ass and cunt, make the slave move in that humble, shuffling walk she detested. Snug mittens, which, when pulled over the hands, could be locked at the wrist, so the fingers were immobilized.

All the best quality items for the master of the house and his visiting vampire guests. Everything for a vampire who wanted to indulge in torturing his servants. His slaves.

True to a dungeon, it was windowless. But the walls were hung with velvet tapestries, so it was warm, not drafty. A curved walnut bar in the corner held waiting wineglasses, ice bucket and cushioned stools so vampires could belly up to the bar while they observed. The glass sparkled. This room was used. There were no cobwebs. No dust.

Her breath caught in her throat, a sob she refused to let come out.
I am not like Raithe.
That was what he had said. But he was worse than Raithe, because, despite everything she’d been through, he’d been diabolically clever. He’d actually made her hope.

He’d said she could leave, eventually. She was an eternal fool. He’d third-marked her. There was no leaving that. Before her was proof they were all alike. Whether they seduced or forced a human to it, this was who they were, and what he would eventually want from her. Pummeling her about her nature, and yet denying his own. God, she wanted to hate him, but she couldn’t summon the energy for it. What was that absurd saying? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me . . .

The hoarse laugh that tore out of her throat might have been another sob. She didn’t know, didn’t care. Mindless calm settled on her limbs. She wasn’t even shaking, she realized, though she felt very, very cold. This time she wasn’t out of control, driven mad by fear or uncertainty. She was past all that. It had all gotten too tragic, too ironic. The world was some mad stage for insane gods, and she was ready to exit the theater. Maybe she would be lucky and escape their attention, an old, broken toy they didn’t care to play with anymore.

But they had one last joke to play on her. As she moved down the steps and her fingers touched the gleaming wood of the cross, the truth exploded in her chest, so violently it drove her to her knees. It wasn’t what she had or hadn’t believed that boiled from her heart, invading her brain like fire ants. Even suspecting the truth, she’d wanted him. Hell, knowing the truth now, she
still
wanted him.

There was no leaving the stage. She’d become a minion in Hell. Though Raithe was dead, he’d successfully turned her into one of his mindless drones who couldn’t stop craving a vampire’s mastery. Try as hard as she could to pretend otherwise, she was forever lost. Mason could bind her in these things, whip her flesh until it bled, and she would still want him in some sick, twisted way, would want to beg him for pain, for pleasure, to overpower and master her in all ways.

No.
She’d been an archaeology student, Jack’s fiancée, the daughter of Harry and Eleanor Tyson of Marion, Ohio. She’d been an honor student. Her ninth-grade history essay won a state contest. She . . . she was talking about someone she didn’t know, someone who was killed more than five years ago. Her face twisting in an ugly snarl, she forced herself to her feet, lunged for the oak door. It closed and bolted with an iron bar like in the movies.

Even if it was true, that a servant was bound to his or her vampire into eternity, she’d have some time before Mason died, right?

Maybe if she got to the afterlife first, she’d escape him. Though she fervently hoped there was no Heaven or Hell. Dust and oblivion suited her fine. Anything was better than this.

Lunging across the room, she ripped one of the knives from the pegs. The weapon was thin bladed, likely used to make blood lines, the sharp point useful for jabs into mortal flesh. Vampires did enjoy their knife play.

Aware she was sobbing outright now, her way-too-healthy body trembling, rebelling, she increased her grip on the knife. She didn’t want to die in a place like this, but like so many other things, she had no choice. Didn’t she?

No. There’s no other way. Thinking otherwise is part of the lie, too. Please, let me be free. Finally.

Gripping the knife in both hands, she positioned the tip between the two ribs she knew guarded the heart, and prepared to shove it in with all her strength.

021

After she left him, Mason walked the beach for a time by himself. Hoping to give her some space to unwind, he’d stayed out of her mind awhile, though part of it was that he didn’t want to increase the disturbance of his own thoughts with whatever was going through hers. When he at last made it back to the verandah, Amara told him Jessica had taken a shower and was exploring the house.

Mason nodded. “Ask Enrique to cut some of the new roses and put them in her room. The yellow and white ones.”

Amara raised her brow. “I thought you said you didn’t want the new bushes used for flower cuttings until they were more mature, my lord.”

Mason gave her a narrow look. “Do I look like I suffer from senility, Amara?”

“No, my lord,” she said demurely. “I’ll ask Enrique to take care of it.”

“And while you’re at it,” he added, “pen a correspondence to Gideon and remind him that next time his vampire hunters attack my estate, they could have the decency not to blow up expensive landscaping. My rosebushes were innocent of offense, unless he deems them guilty by association.”

“Yes, my lord.” Amara tucked her tongue in her cheek. “Anything else?”

“No. Yes.” He stopped in the doorway and looked back. “In my private reading room, there’s an onyx sculpture over the fireplace.”

“From the Rae collection?”

“Move that to her room, since she likes horses.” He continued toward his upstairs study, throwing the last instruction over his shoulder. “And Amara?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Stop being smug. It’s very annoying.”

Stepping into the study, Mason eyed the stack of invoices waiting there. He toyed with the idea of threatening to rip the roofing contractor’s throat out if he didn’t repair his shoddy work on the pool house, versus having to find a replacement for his crew, but then discarded the idea of dealing with it at all. He didn’t want to do this right now. He wanted to find Jessica, spend more time with her, even though that was probably the last thing either of them needed.

As he reached out to her, looking for her whereabouts, fear and distress flooded his mind. Terror. Her madness closing in, along with a terrifying resolve.

Cursing his inattention, Mason bolted out of the study, already knowing he would be too late.

022

She missed the first strike. She’d made it so determined and vicious, the blade punctured skin but hit the rib bone and skittered off, the blade going in at an angle. The pain was intense, but she jerked it out, blood spattering over her hands, and prepared to stab herself again.

Jessica, for the love of Allah. Don’t do this. Don’t let him win.

“He’s already won.” She snarled in frustration as the weapon slipped out of her grasp because of the blood on her hands, her despicable shaking. She’d crumpled on the ground beneath the weapons rack, so it fell in her lap, jabbing her thigh, creating another bright bloom of blood. She fumbled for it.

Talk to me, Jessica. Please talk to me.

“I’m broken, Mason. I want you . . . I want you to do the same things to me that made me kill him.” Though her desolate voice echoed in the empty chamber, mocking her, she spoke aloud because she couldn’t bear being in her own head. “You’re—I don’t know what you are, what you want, but I can’t go through it again. I’m too frightened, too weak . . .”

You are
not
weak. You are one of the strongest women I have ever met. You are strong enough to get through this.

“I don’t want to be strong anymore.” She screamed it, harsh fury splintering her words, tearing her throat raw. “I was a s-student. I was supposed to b-be m-married . . . travel around in a sailboat . . .” She cried now, her chest aching around the wound. “I wasn’t supposed to be anything special or different, or b-brave . . .”

Gripping the knife again, she fumbled to position it correctly this time. Her heart beat frantically, a bird pounding to get out of a cage before she took away all choices. As she’d beaten on the bars of her cage with Raithe, hoping for a choice. This choice.

Jessica. Hold on to my voice. Please.

She shook her head, but it was difficult to hold the blade steady. Dully, she realized the blood from the first puncture had soaked the front of her shirt. Had she gotten a lung after all? Her breathing was labored. She couldn’t talk anymore.

What will help, Jessica? What can I do or give you that will help? One thing. Think of one thing. Don’t give up on me.

She closed her eyes and leaned forward. The tip went in, an inch’s worth of pain.
What are you afraid of, Mason?