The two rushed into the room and gazed down at Carlos. “He is beautiful, is he not?”
one whispered, dropping to his knees alongside Carlos’ body. With his forefinger, he traced the musculature of Carlos’ chest, circling each nipple before teasing them with his teeth.
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J. P. Bowie
9
“Hurry and drink,” the other hissed. “The scent of his blood is driving me mad.”
“Patience. We are not always fortunate enough to have such beauty laid before us.” The vampire breathed in Carlos’ masculine scent, licked his muscular torso, nuzzled at the head of his spent cock. His fangs bit deeply into the artery that pulsed beneath the skin covering Carlos’ thigh. A shudder of delight ran through the vampire’s body as he gulped at the rich, sweet blood that flowed over his tongue. Impatiently, the second vampire pushed his friend out of the way, eager to slake his thirst and savour the lifeblood of their victim.
Carlos awoke, his mind dull, his vision still foggy and unfocused. He groaned as he tried to sit up. It was as though every vestige of his strength had been taken from him, and there was a deep throbbing ache in his neck and thigh. He rolled over onto this side, trying to remember where he was and what had taken place. After a few moments, he managed to sit up and realised he was naked, his clothes lying beside him in a crumpled heap. Groggily, he reached for his shirt and, with difficulty, slipped it over his head. He encountered stickiness, and gasped as he stared at the blood coating his fingers.
What had happened
? Slowly, he began to remember. Sir Aubrey—the two of them here, kissing, making love—and then…? He recoiled in horror at the realisation. The man had bitten his neck. Sir Aubrey was a vampire—and the others? He struggled to his feet and, with a supreme effort, pulled on the rest of his clothes. He staggered to the door, what little remained of his strength beginning to fade. There was no one in the drawing room, the house seemed deserted. A gentle whinny greeted him as he exited the front door. His horse, Samson, still tethered, pawed the ground impatiently. He put one foot in the stirrup, but could not find the power to hoist himself into the saddle. He had to lead Samson to the steps so that he could mount him using the top step as leverage.
How he managed to stay astride his horse all the way to his cousin Andorra’s mansion was something neither of them could believe. Andorra, on seeing the wound on his neck and his skin devoid of all colour, knew it was too late to simply imbue him with her blood. Carlos was dying and would not last the night without her taking extreme measures. Still, she would not do it without his permission. Her revelation caused Carlos to stare up at her with BOUND IN BLOOD
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shock, his dark eyes reflecting the sudden fear her words had brought him. She held his hand as she explained what she could do to save him.
“You will die, my dear Carlos, but you will be reborn. I will be with you when you awaken to guide you into this new life.” She kissed his forehead tenderly. “Do not be afraid, Carlos, just tell me if I should proceed. I would not do this against your will.”
Carlos’ grip tightened on the small, cool hand that held his. His body was failing, his mind slipping into darkness.
“Now Carlos…” Andorra’s urgent whisper close to his ear, seemed to come from far away. Tears filled her eyes as she listened to his weak, almost inaudible consent then she did what had to be done in order that he might survive this night of horror.
“Close your eyes, my dear cousin,” she murmured gently—and then, she struck.
BOUND IN BLOOD
J. P. Bowie
11
Los Angeles, USA, Present day
Chris Jeffries knew he was being followed. Ever since he’d left the warm interior of the Xtasy Club he had been aware of the long, dark shadow that would sometimes fall against the wall just ahead of him and the soft pad of footsteps behind him. He didn’t dare look around. Instead, he slipped his hand into his pocket and palmed the vial of pepper spray he kept there for just such an occasion as this. At the first touch of a hand on him, he’d be ready to give the bastard a face-full of pain. Chris wasn’t tall. He worked out regularly and figured he could probably defend himself in a fight, but why chance getting beaten up and subsequently out of work when pepper spray and a hasty retreat was a much better plan?
He’d only been working at the Xtasy Club a week. He’d been hired to take care of the bookkeeping by Lonnie Zielowski, the owner. Lonnie had thought at first when Chris showed up at the club that he’d come to audition as one of the go-go boys he’d advertised for along with the bookkeeping situation.
“Sweetheart,” Lonnie had told him, taking in Chris’ shaggy blond hair, blue-eyed gaze, and tight, slender body, his pectoral muscles nicely defined under the chest-hugging T-shirt he was wearing. “You could make a helluva lot more money dancin’ here. What d’ya say?”
Chris had said no thanks but asked if the bookkeeping position was still available.
“It’s available, and it’s yours,” Lonnie had replied, rolling his eyes in disbelief that his offer to make more money had been refused.
Chris had feared the worst, bracing himself for all the innuendo and ball-grabs he was sure his new boss was bound to try and wondering if he could stand it. But to his surprise, Lonnie had so far shown him only polite indifference—and piles of back-dated work for him to upload into the computer.
He’d experienced some lewd remarks from the patrons as he passed through the club on his way to the office, things like “Nice ass, bring it over here” but that he could live with, and besides, some of the guys who frequented the club were cute.
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But none as cute as the guy he’d noticed earlier in the evening. Only ‘cute’ was entirely the wrong word to describe him. To say he would stand out in a crowd was putting it mildly.
He was beautiful—
beyond
beautiful—yet in a totally masculine way. Tall, wide shouldered, with a mane of thick, black hair that had Chris’ fingers itching to run through it, and a brooding gaze from eyes so dark and mysterious they had taken Chris’ breath away. Eyes that had swept over his face and body with a quiet intensity, making him shiver and feel a hot hardening between his legs. Even later, he would experience that same heat when he thought of the man and wondered how it would feel to be locked in his arms, how he would taste and smell. Chris knew without a doubt that the man would haunt his dreams this night—and maybe many more nights.
Would he have the nerve to approach the guy if he showed up in the bar again?
Probably not, he’d thought ruefully. The man was in a league of his own, and not likely to be enthralled with Chris’ admiration, even from a distance.
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as once more an elongated shadow was cast on the wall ahead of him. He cursed himself now for not accepting Randy, the maintenance guy’s, offer to drive him home. But Randy was a moron—a moron who called him ‘Blondie’
and had bad breath and sticky palms…
ugh.
Chris had given the creep the brush off on more than one occasion, and getting in a car with him would have been tantamount to stupidity.
Just a hundred yards or so more and he’d be out on the main street and could hail a cab.
Of course, he berated himself, if he’d used the brain he’d been born with, he would have called the cab and had it pick him up at the club door. With any luck, he’d have his own car back from the repair shop in a couple of days. For now, all he could do was keep walking and pray that whoever was tagging behind him was just some dude minding his own business and not someone who’d been lurking outside the gay club—someone intent on grabbing and beating the shit out of him in this long, dark alleyway.
Wait, if that was really his intention, wouldn’t he have made his move by now?
Chris was almost at the end of the alley. He heard the sound of traffic and people’s voices. His breathing calmed a little, and he found himself quickening his pace, almost running the last few yards that would take him out into the well-lit street where he would be surrounded by the late-night crowds thronging the sidewalks.
Only a few yards more, and he’d be safe.
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Then
they
came out of the shadows in front of him. Three large, formidable figures that made Chris stop dead in his tracks. Fast as he could be on his feet, he knew there was no way around them in this narrow alley. They had spaced themselves across, forming a barrier of muscle and bone—and hatred.
“Hi, there…” The cold sneer in the voice brought up the short hairs on the back of Chris’ neck. “What’s a pretty little faggot like you doing out here so late?” The speaker, tall and bulky with thick shoulders, tapped the palm of one hand with the baseball bat he held in the other. “Lookin’ to get a blow-job or somethin’?”
“I work at the Xtasy Club back there,” Chris said, trying to keep the tremor of fear from his voice. “I’m just on my way home. I’m not looking for any trouble.”
“Funny…” The guy with the baseball bat giggled, a sinister, unpleasant sound that made Chris’ skin crawl. “’Cause trouble’s lookin’ for you.” The other two men added quiet, insidious sniggers of their own at their friend’s attempt at humour. “When we’re done rearranging your pretty face, no one’s gonna want a blow-job from you,
faggot
.”
Chris’ fingers, inside his pocket, flipped the top off the pepper-spray vial. They were going to hurt him without a doubt, but he’d go down with the satisfaction that at least one of them wouldn’t be able to see for a while. He backed up a little, wondering if he could make it back to the safety of the club, where Joe the security guard could call the cops. No, he decided, he’d never make it. They’d be on him in a flash, beating the crap out of him with their fists, feet and that baseball bat. He shuddered as he imagined the pain these creeps were about to inflict on him.
On second thought, maybe running was definitely worth a try. He turned, ready to sprint as fast as he could towards the club, but before he’d gone more than three or four steps, he ran straight into a tall man’s hard chest.
“Oof—” Chris staggered back until strong hands on his shoulders steadied him.
Four
of them—oh
shit
. And this one was even taller than the others. Chris pulled the pepper spray from his pocket, ready to squirt the man’s face. His hand was taken in a firm but gentle grip. His fingers were closed around the vial then he was lifted off his feet as if he weighed nothing at all and set down to one side. He peered up, trying to see the man’s face, but the only nearby light shone behind the man’s head and obscured Chris’ vision.
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“Gentlemen…” The man’s slightly accented voice was soft and husky. “I suggest you put aside all thoughts of harming this young man and go about your business elsewhere.”
All three thugs laughed raucously. “Oh, do you now?” The leader stepped forward, baseball bat raised, while the other two sidled up on either side of the tall man. “What if we take you, along with your faggot friend?”
“I would advise against trying that,” the man said in that same calm, husky voice. “I will give you but one chance to leave here unhurt. Take this chance now or suffer the consequences.”
“Fuck you!” The thug with the baseball bat lunged forward, bat raised to strike. The tall man’s left hand shot out, gripping his assailant’s wrist. Chris flinched as he heard the sound of snapping bone and a scream that was suddenly cut off. The thug slumped to the ground, laid out by a blow from the tall man’s fist. The other two hesitated, stunned at seeing their friend put down so easily. Then, with an ugly snarl, one of them swung a punch at the man’s head. With what looked to Chris like lightning speed, the man ducked and grabbed the second thug’s fist in his own. Chris heard the sound of several bones breaking as the thug’s arm was twisted into an extremely unnatural position. His scream too was cut short by a well-placed chop to the back of his neck.
The third, a skinny guy with a shock of carrot-red hair, obviously aware he had no chance against his taller opponent, made a dive for Chris—and into a stream of liquid pepper that burned his eyes and throat and sent him reeling back against the wall, gagging and trying to scream at the same time. Chris kicked him in the balls—hard. Choking and wheezing, the thug fell to his knees then keeled over, writhing in agony at Chris’ feet.
“Thank you.” Chris could barely get the words out. The adrenaline rush he’d experienced during the fight had evaporated, leaving him drained and shaken. He started to take a step towards the tall man, but instead he stumbled forward and would have fallen if the man had not caught him and pulled him into a strong embrace. For a moment, he was content to rest his face on the hard chest he was pressed to while he willed himself to stop shaking. He looked up at his protector, his face now illuminated by the light above them.
Chris recognised him immediately—the strong features, the mane of black hair, those dark brooding eyes.
“You…you were in the bar earlier.”
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“Yes.” The tall man gently brushed back the blond locks of hair that had spilled over Chris’ forehead. “I saw you leave and wanted to make sure you would be safe.
I…um…
anticipated
that you might have some trouble.”
Chris stepped back a little and took the man’s hand in his. “Uh…I’m Chris, by the way.”
“I know.” He smiled, showing white, even teeth. “I asked the bartender your name. I am Carlos Galeano.”
“I’m very glad it was you following me.” Chris smiled up at Carlos. “Although you gave me a nasty turn when I ran into you—literally.” He looked down at the thugs who groaned with pain at their feet. “What do we do with these jerks?”