Soul Bound (12 page)

I watch in the dark shadows as a scantily dressed woman stumbles into the alleyway, her fingers grasping a bottle wrapped in brown paper. Hunger surges at the sight of her. If I could just take one sip… I know it would soothe me. Take the edge off the unbearable pain that smothers me like a heavy blanket. Just one sip—she wouldn’t even miss it. She wouldn’t even remember the next morning that I’d come to her, in the dead of night, seducing her with my vampire scent before indulging in her essence.

After all, why should I be so empty, when she is so full?

I take a step forward and my nose catches a whiff of her scent. Sweat mixed with alcohol and spicy perfume. But it doesn’t matter. Her blood will be sweet. Sweet and soothing.

“Hello,” I say, stepping into the glow of a nearby streetlight after wiping away my blood tears. My voice sounds strange, after having not spoken for so long and I know I must look a mess. But it doesn’t matter. I could be the Crypt Keeper himself and she’d still only see a beautiful, immortal she can’t help fall in love with.

Sure enough, her eyes widen and she clumsily falls to her knees, looking up at me with a hollow face full of rapture. “Are you an angel?” she whispers. “Have you come to save me?”

Guilt knots in my stomach at her questions. An angel. Sunny was the angel. A perfect creature of light with feathery wings and a beautiful soul. I’m more like a dark demon, set upon the
world to cause pain and suffering to those who dare try to love me.

“Sure, yeah, an angel. You should have seen my wings,” I mutter, forcing the guilt back down inside. After all, there’s plenty of time to worry about regret later—after my meal. I lower myself to the ground, pulling her close to me and cradling her in my arms, stroking her hair. As she closes her eyes, my fangs slide easily from my mouth and I lower my head to take that first juicy bite of her.

But before I can make the puncture, my eyes fall upon the tattoo seared into her shoulder. More precisely, a tattoo of Race Jameson, vampire rock star.

My cohort in rehab.

I shove her away and she goes flying across the alleyway, her bony body taking the brunt of my horror. What am I doing? I’m not this person anymore. I went through the twelve steps—I’m clean. I’m sober. I can’t go back to what I used to be: a blood-hungry monster who stole Corbin’s mortal life and forced him to live a nightmare, so I could have a mid-afternoon snack.

It takes three attempts to wrestle my phone from my pocket, my hands are shaking so badly. But somehow, eventually, I manage to do it. To call the number I was given on the day I left rehab. The number they promised would give me help if and when I needed it.

And, oh boy do I need it now!

“Please!” the woman begs, crawling back toward me, blood dripping from a cut on her forehead. “I beg of you. Don’t leave me.”

My stomach roils at her pleas even as it growls at the sight of her thick, syrupy blood. I force myself to avert my eyes, disgusted at my weakness. “Please, just go away,” I beg her, reaching into my pocket and thrusting a wad of bills in her direction. “Go find yourself something to eat or something. Leave me alone.”

But she doesn’t. She’s too sucked in to my vampire scent. She just sits there, quavering before me, crying her eyes out, begging me to take her, to give her my eternal kiss.

I’ve never felt so low in all my life.

“Hello?” the English-accented voice chimes from the other end of the phone.

Thank God. I let out a sigh of relief. “Race? It’s Rayne McDonald. I need your help.”

I
t’s very lucky for me that Race is currently in town for a concert at Madison Square Garden and not halfway around the world. But even so, it seems like an eternity waiting for him to show up in his limo. In the meantime, it’s not easy fending off the advances of the woman in the alley, who’s begging and sobbing without relent. I do my best to keep my distance, to act like an upstanding member of Blood Coven society, but I feel like a drunk in a bar with a fistful of hundred dollar bills. I could sate my hunger in an instant, but could I live with myself in the morning?

“One day at a time,” I whisper, over and over again until a shadow looms in the alleyway and the woman looks away from me for the first time since I vampire scented her.

“Race? Race Jameson?” she cries, her eyes widening. “Oh
my God. You’re really here. I’ve got all your albums! Well, I mean, I did. Once upon a time, before my mom kicked me out of the house.”

I cringe. In the haze of my bloodlust she looked old and wrecked, but now, as the limo’s light shines into the alleyway, I see she’s probably not even seventeen. What did I almost do?

Race smiles his rock star smile, leaning down to kiss her softly on the forehead. “Thanks for the support, luv,” he says, taking her hand in his own. His bodyguard hands him a Sharpie and he scribbles his name up her dirt-caked arm.

“Oh my God!” she cries, looking down at her arm, then up at her idol. “I’ll never wash this arm again.”

As if she would have anyway…

Race gives her another charming, devil-may-care grin then drops her hand. “I hope not,” he replies, his hot purple eyes burning into her. “Now why don’t you run along, luv, and let me have a little chat with Rayne here?”

The girl nods, bowing before him before scrambling to her feet and running down the alleyway, fast as her skinny legs can carry her. Race shakes his head, watching her go. Then he turns to me.

“Lunching on my fans,” he says, giving me a scolding
tsk
,
tsk
. “For shame. After all, you know as well as I do, most people don’t tend to buy records—or download iTunes for that matter—once they’re dead. And I really need
Blood on the Wind
to go platinum so I can beat out that Justin Bieber bastard. That freaking mortal thinks he’s God’s gift to music. And everyone who’s anyone knows that title should always belong to me.”

I try to pull myself to my feet but my legs refuse to work properly. Race catches me as I start to tumble back to the ground, holding me with strong, steady hands.

“You okay?” he asks, dropping his teasing tone.

“I didn’t bite her,” I manage to spit out.

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter if you did—I was only joking. Hell, if I had a dime for every Race Jameson fan I drained dry, I wouldn’t need platinum records to become a billionaire.” He chuckles. “Of course, that was in the good old days. Now I’m painfully reformed, like you, taking it one day at a time.”

I attempt to nod, but it takes a lot of effort. I still feel like I’m this close to passing out. Race gives me a critical once-over.

“So, I don’t want to be rude or anything,” he starts, “but, darling, your perfume is saying
eau de raw sewage
right about now. So how about you come back with me to the tour bus and we’ll get you all cleaned up? I’ve got a nice, pleasantly plump groupie who’s signed all the blood donor consent forms and I’d be happy to share her if you’re so inclined.”

My mouth waters involuntarily at the suggestion and I find myself following him out of the alleyway and into the limo. Ten minutes later we’re boarding the tour bus, and I’m standing in the shower, letting the hot water stream over me, ridding me of blood and filth.

“There she is!” Race cries as I emerge about twenty minutes later. He’s sitting on a plush purple velvet couch and has changed into an orange silk bathrobe. He hands me a large wine goblet, filled to the brim with red liquid. “O-positive,” he pronounces. “From what I remember in rehab, that’s your favorite.”

I take the glass from him with shaky hands, trying not to spill any as I bring it to my lips. I start to gulp it down, but Race holds up a hand to stop me.

“From the looks of you, you haven’t drunk in days,” he says. “Take it slowly, so you won’t throw it up.”

I do as he says, though it’s painful. Eventually I manage to drain the glass dry. Setting it down on the table in front of me, I suck in a long, deep breath, trying to regain my senses. Already the blood is doing its magic—warming my insides and soothing my mind.

“Thank you,” I murmur, then cringe as more details of the night start flooding back to me. I can’t believe I let Race see me like that—at my ultimate worst. But then, I remember, he’s been there. He, of all people, should understand.

He waves me off. “Don’t fret about it for a moment,” he says. “You should have seen the scrapes I got myself into before that third trip to rehab. Hell, VH1’s
Behind the Music
stopped filming me at some point because the producer couldn’t stop throwing up when viewing the daily footage.”

I give him a wan smile, not knowing whether to be relieved or horrified.

“But enough about boring, little old me,” Race says, reaching over to pour another glass of blood. He fills my goblet after his own. “What about you? You always struck me as much more sophisticated than that. What made you go down that long, dark alleyway road? I mean, sure, I know you’re supposed to be the bad twin and all, but still! Doesn’t seem like your style.” He pauses, then adds, “And speaking of your better half,
where is she? Where is that delectable fairy tale morsel—that Sunshine of my life?”

At Sunny’s name, I burst into tears.

“What? What did I say?” Race asks, his mocking tone gone and his face full of confusion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make any insinuations about your dear, sweet sister. You know I’d never touch a single blond hair on her pretty little head. Well, not unless she gave me permission, of course.” He grins wickedly. “Then I’d make a vow to touch nothing else, as long as we both shall live.”

I don’t want to tell him. But at the same time I don’t want to keep it inside anymore. I’ve been wandering around for God knows how long, trying to keep from exploding with guilt and grief. Maybe talking about it will help somehow.

And so I tell him the whole story, ending with Jareth pushing me away. “Why is it that every time I try to do something right, it ends up so horribly wrong?” I ask as I finish my sordid tale. “I am such an idiot.”

“No you’re not,” Race scolds, swapping couches to come sit next to me, putting an arm around my shoulder and hugging me close. I know I should pull away—I’ve heard too much about his past with women, after all—but, I find, today his embrace feels nothing more than brotherly. And so I allow myself to collapse a little, leaning in and soaking up the strength he offers me, since I have none left of my own.

“It’s obvious you had the best of intentions,” he soothes, stroking my hair. “You did everything you could to save her.”

“But instead, I killed her.”

“No. Slayer Inc. killed her. Or that dreadful Pyrus,” Race corrects. “And he would have found a way to do so anyway, whether involving you or not.” He frowns. “Trust me, those bloody bastards don’t stop at anything when they’re on a mission. If it wasn’t now, it would be later. And there would have been nothing you could do to stop them.”

“That doesn’t change anything. Sunny’s gone and she’s not coming back. I’ve lost my sister forever.”

Race seems to consider this for a moment, pursing his lips. Then he releases me from his hold and rises to his feet, heading to the back of the tour bus. At first I wonder if he’s just picked a really inopportune time to go to the bathroom. But then I remember vampires don’t have to pee. A moment later he returns, accompanied by a tall, thin older man, dressed in skinny jeans and a leather vest.

“Rayne,” he says, “this is my drummer, the Prim Reaper.”

I look up at the gaunt giant, looming above me. “Don’t you mean the Grim Reaper?” I find myself asking. As if it matters at a time like this.

“No, he means Prim,” the man corrects in a haughty tone. “You’re thinking of my brother. He’s the grim one. I’m actually quite jolly most of the time, I’ll have you know. Well, at least at times when my beauty rest is not being so rudely interrupted by a certain self-centered immortal singer who likes to stay up all night and bug me.”

Race rolls his eyes.

“Oh.” I take in the information. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there were two of you.”

He sighs dramatically. “No one ever does,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “That’s why I decided to retire from the whole ‘Death’ gig and fulfill my lifelong dream of joining a band.” He shrugs. “It was getting far too messy anyway.”

“Messy?”

“Have
you
ever tried to drag someone down to Hell?” He fans his face. “Let me tell you—it’s murder on one’s manicure.” He flashes me a set of perfectly French manicured nails, then shakes his head in disgust.

“Well, it’s… nice to meet you,” I reply, not sure what else to say. I mean, hello? Grieving vampire here? Not really in the mood for the old meet-and-greet.

“Listen, Prim,” Race says to his drummer, his eyes suddenly shining with enthusiasm. “This girl has a twin sister—a fairy twin sister—and she was murdered the other day.”

“You don’t have to sound so freaking excited about it,” I mutter, wishing the two of them would leave me alone with the bottle of blood.

“So?” Prim asks, stifling a yawn. “Should I alert the media?”

“So,” Race continues, ignoring his jab. “Remember that time a few years ago when I hooked up with that Dark Court fae and accidentally drained her dry?” He throws me an apologetic look. “Pre-rehab,” he qualifies before turning back to Prim. “You told me that fairies and other otherworld creatures don’t go to the same Heaven and Hell that mortals do, right?”

I sit up in my seat, suddenly intrigued as to where this is going.

“That’s correct,” Prim replies, still sounding bored and put out.
“The souls of the fae and vampires and others are sent to a much more classic Underworld.”

“Classic Underworld? What the hell does that mean?” I demand.

Prim rolls his eyes. “Let me guess: You flunked out of Greek mythology.”

“I got a D-minus, I’ll have you know. Which is a totally passable grade.”

He pats me on the head. “Of course it is, darling. In any case, the Underworld was most accurately described back in the day by the ancient Greeks. It’s run by the god Hades, who’s not such a bad fellow, when it comes down to it all. Certainly more reasonable than that beast, Lucifer, who rules the human Hell. Why, I remember one time I worked forty-eight hours straight after a big shipwreck off the coast of Boston. I’m talking grueling work—icy waters and dragging bloated bodies for miles on end. But did Lucifer give me time and half for my troubles? Even when I agreed to work through Memorial Day weekend? Um, that would be a no.”