Blood and Bondage (4 page)

The gut-wrenching spectacle caused Anaïs to
double over into a ball on the floor, overcome with nausea and utter disgust. Sure,
she’d killed victims in the heat of the moment, but nothing quite like this. If
she’d feasted earlier, the contents of her stomach would no doubt cover the rug
in a blanket of blood.

Unable to control her emotions, Anaïs tossed the
photograph on the bed and threw herself onto the mattress in a heap. She sobbed
into her trembling hands. Blood-streaked tears streamed down her cheeks and
stained her red satin gown. All alone in a strange town, she felt lost. The
only people she trusted were Andreas and his father, Aristotle, one of whom was
likely on an airplane halfway across the globe. She had to tell them that a
madman had somehow gained access to her room. But first, she needed to stop and
think. Who could be responsible for such masochistic cruelty? And why?

Anaïs only knew one man sick enough to mutilate
and torture a female with such callous precision. It was the same man who’d stalked
her on and off for more than a century. Did he have the audacity to follow her
across the
Atlantic
? She sure as hell wouldn’t
put it past him. The psycho had done everything from sending her bouquets of
dead, wilted flowers to decapitating a kitten and leaving its severed head on her
front porch. But generally, he left a calling card, some way of letting her
know that he was close. Anaïs stood up and searched the bed. Then, she snatched
the photograph hidden between the sheets, and turned it over to find a messy,
handwritten inscription on the back.

Having fun in
New York City
, I see.

Behave or there’s more where this came from.
 

P.G.

Over the years, Pierre Gaucher had proven to be
quite the cunning adversary. He’d begun to court her at the end of the
nineteenth century, during
France
’s
Belle Époque, a time of great peace and prosperity in her homeland. The
economic success that had resulted from the invention of steam-powered ships
and railways caused a social and cultural explosion, especially in the
forward-thinking capital of
Paris
.
The arts once again flourished, which had turned out to be the perfect moment for
a classically-trained ballerina like Anaïs to jump back into the limelight.

Taking advantage of her talent and skill as a
dancer, Anaïs soon became one of the principal courtesans at Moulin Rouge, a
well-known cabaret in
the
Parisian district of
Pigalle
on Boulevard de Clichy. Each evening at sundown, she’d
pretty herself up, walk out onto the stage in costume, and put on an elaborate
circus-like extravaganza for the crowd. Her most famous role had been that of
Cleopatra in the Bal de Quat’zarts, a number in which she was surrounded by a
harem of young, naked women. At the time, it had incited quite the scandal, and
Anaïs had relished every minute of it
.

Pierre
lived in a lavish mansion on the
outskirts of
Paris
.
Bred from old European stock, he was fabulously wealthy and arrogant as the
devil himself. Like most men of royal lineage, his title had afforded him both
the means and opportunity to do anything he damn well pleased. Soon after their
courtship commenced,
Anaïs became aware of each and
every one of her lover’s vices. He gambled like crazy, drank more than his
share of alcohol, and dabbled in opium and other hallucinogenic drugs. He was a
self-professed wild child. In fact,
Pierre
reminded her quite a bit of her younger self.

In need of company after living alone for nearly
two centuries, Anaïs chose to disregard the seedier side of
Pierre
. Evil was inherent in him, obvious by
his dark, obsidian eyes and the wicked grin he’d sport as he watched Anaïs feed
off helpless human inhabitants. He was a voyeur and loved it when she’d pick up
handsome men, get them off, and then drain them dry. It seemed to thrill him. Before
long, he’d duped her into turning him into a vampire with some sob story about
the two of them living happily ever after.

Big mistake!

Other than her father, Anaïs had never met a
more conniving bastard in her life. Realizing her error in judgment, the two of
them had parted ways a short time after the conversion. Ever since, she’d done
her best to steer clear of
Pierre
.
The way Anaïs saw it, she had two choices. She could either end his life or
avoid him entirely, and quite frankly,
Pierre
wasn’t worth the time or energy it would take her to kill him.

Anaïs harbored no fear when it came to
Pierre
; he simply gave
her the creeps. After they broke up, she mostly kept to herself. She’d lost her
patience when it came to men.

But like the plague,
Pierre
was hard to elude, especially when they both still had roots in the City of
Lights
. A shiver shot
down Anaïs’s spine as she thought about all the brutal murders he’d committed
over the years.

Not wanting to lose her nerve, she picked up the
phone and dialed Aristotle’s telephone number. Dawn would soon approach and she
prayed he hadn’t gone to bed already. Luckily, he answered on the first ring.
He didn’t sleep much just as she’d remembered.

“Good morning my dear,” his frail voice came
through the receiver. At nearly a thousand years old, the offspring of one of
the original vampire families was considered ancient. Anaïs knew the old man didn’t
have much time left, especially after suffering a broken heart as a result of
his wife’s untimely death. “I see you’re still awake.”

“Sorry to disturb you.
Something’s happened,” she said, trying to keep her pitch calm. “Can you loan
me a few of your security people?”

“Why? What seems to be
the problem?”

Anaïs closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then
proceeded to explain the events that had unfolded after she returned to her
suite. It was hard, considering she was used to fending for herself. Her initial
instinct had been to catch the first flight to
Paris
. She hated having to rely on the clout
of the Kristopolous family to protect her from a perverse stalker. Yet without knowing
the terrain or having access to connections from back home, she had nowhere
else to turn. She realized that Aristotle’s first move would be to contact his
son. It didn’t matter that he was on his honeymoon. As the head of the
New York City
coven,
Andreas had a right to full disclosure.

Anaïs hung up the phone and continued to tidy up
the disheveled room. A few minutes later, her cell phone chimed, letting her
know a call was coming through.

Fuck! It’s Andreas.

Before she could even say ‘hello,’ he shouted in
her ear. Through the static of his satellite phone, she could hear the
barely-leashed anger loud and clear. “Listen. I know this is the last thing you
want to hear right now, but I’m sending some BPA muscle your way. If a vampire
is responsible for this threat, I want all the ammunition we can get. Do I make
myself clear?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me! You want a vampire
assassin to protect me? They’re our enemies, or have you forgotten?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten. But Eva’s friends have
got skill and firepower on their side. They’ll be able to track down the son of
a bitch quicker than my men could. And this one’s got a helluva lot of balls
coming after my family,” Andreas said. Half a second later, the phone
connection was severed.

****

As soon as he received
word from Eva, Oliver jumped to his feet. She’d gotten a call from her
father-in-law about a rogue vampire on the loose, a cold, calculating killer who
took it upon himself to slice and dice his own kind. Grabbing his coat off the
rack by the door, he rushed out of the house and hopped into the passenger side
of the black Range Rover. Adam Sapien, one of his most reliable agents, sat
behind the wheel.
 

One thing was for certain
– Oliver wasn’t looking forward to coming face to face with
Anaïs again. Not after the whale of a slap she landed on his cheek
the night before. But true to form, Oliver was a sucker for a damsel in
distress, even if said damsel turned out to be a beautiful bloodsucker.

“Boss, we’ve got a tail. A dark blue sedan about
four cars behind ours,” Adam said as he revved the car’s engine.

“Easy on the gas pedal,” Oliver told him,
placing a firm hand on the steering wheel. “We don’t want to tip him off. Put
in a call to central command and give them our coordinates and a description of
the vehicle. They’ll take it from there.”

“Sure thing.”

By the time the Range Rover pulled into the
underground parking structure of the hotel, the blue sedan that had been following
them had disappeared. Exiting the car, they took the service elevator to the
thirteenth floor. It led them straight to Anaïs’s room.

Oliver had hoped she’d left the crime scene
intact, but when they arrived on her doorstep, it seemed as if she’d been hard
at work putting things back into their original locations.

Of course! Once she heard I was headed to her
hotel room, I’m not surprised she tried her best to screw up the investigation.

“I told Andreas not to call you,” she said,
ushering them in with a reluctant wave of her hand. “It’s best if the coven
handle this privately.”

“Adam, get started. Give me a complete forensic
work up of the room. I want to know everything about this guy, including his
shoe size and what type of aftershave he wears.” Oliver ignored her comment,
his eyes searching the suite for clues. “Where’s the photograph?”

Anaïs pointed to one of the dresser drawers.
“It’s in there.”

Slapping on a pair of rubber gloves, he gently pried
open the drawer and pulled out the picture. He held the image up to the light
and stared at it, then turned it over and read the intimate message inscribed on
the back. Suddenly, his eyes widened in acknowledgment.

“You know this guy?”

“Yes, we’re fairly well acquainted,” she said,
wringing her hands together as if nervous. “Although it’s been years since I’ve
seen him. At least five, I’d say. But that’s not surprising considering I don’t
leave my apartment much, unless in search of food. Even then, I stay close to
home.”

Oliver scrubbed his hand over his five o’clock
shadow. He was tired. He hadn’t had a wink of sleep, let alone made time to
shave. “Tell me everything you know about him.”

“His name is Pierre Gaucher and he lives just
outside of
Paris
,”
she said pacing the confines of the room. “We used to be an item. Years ago.
Long before either of you were born.”

“Do you have any idea why he’s stalking you now?
Have you done something recently to provoke his rage?” he asked, interrogating
her with question after question. He knew that giving Anaïs the third degree
would surely piss her off. Workplace casualty, he couldn’t help it.

“Of course not! Do you think me mad?” she
shouted, then grabbed a piece of stationery off the end table by the bed and
scribbled something on it. “I’ll write down his last known address for you, but
that’s it. My personal life is none of your concern.”

“But Adam’s not finished collecting the forensic
data.”

“Call me when you’re done. I’ll be down at the
hotel bar,” she stomped out of the room and slammed the door.

Frustrated as hell, Oliver rubbed the stiff
muscles on the back of his neck. What was I thinking? Although he’d only known
Anaïs for a short time, he sensed that backing her into a corner by way of
interrogation would force her to unsheathe her claws. Her instinctual reaction
reminded him of that phrase, ‘You get more bees with honey than vinegar.’ In
order to extract any valuable information to help find the killer, he’d have to
use kinder, gentler tactics. Mind reading might do the trick. But in Anaïs’s
case, seduction seemed to be the best course of action. Besides, Oliver
couldn’t deny his attraction to her. He had an overwhelming urge to take the
voluptuous vampire to bed.

By any means necessary, Oliver chuckled to
himself.

Chapter Five

La Bohème

By the time Oliver had called to inform her that his work was complete,
at least for the night,
Anaïs could barely keep her
eyes open. Looking out the tinted glass windows of the hotel bar, she watched as
tiny rays of sunlight danced across the pavement. Nearly transfixed by the
sight, she shook her head, then plied herself of the bar stool. She dragged
herself through the lobby to the elevator. The BPA agent who’d accompanied
Oliver remained posted outside her suite. Once inside, her listless body
collapsed on top of the comfortable, king-sized bed. Dead to the world.